“I did hear ofyerdesire for such a joining, but I did not hear Diarmuid announce any such thing.”
“There was not enough time for the announcement before he left.”
The woman lied. Marcán exhaled slowly, struggling against the desire to allow his ire to erupt. He would know satisfaction in the end, no matter what Beibhinn was plotting.
“Ye are claiming there is a betrothal between Astrid and Pádraig?”
“His father and I discussed it even before he passed.” Beibhinn shrugged. “And it was her father’s wish as well. Kane would be quite pleased.”
Marcán couldn’t help turning his astonished gaze to Astrid. She had spoken of her father but never mentioned any such agreement. On the contrary, she’d said her father had left her without prospects. Beibhinn’s lies had grown bolder.
“’Tis an agreement between us, as he is soon to beri túaithefor his clan. Ye would do well to keep yer distance from her henceforth.”
And that fact was no doubt what was making Beibhinn so giddy at the prospect of Astrid wedding Pádraig. Astrid’s sudden paleness was making it difficult for Marcán to take a breath. He wished she would find the couragenowto reject her mother’s words and stand up to these lies. Surely she realized he would support her.
Despite the near panic crawling across his body like a thousand spiders, Marcán crossed his arms about his chest and gave Beibhinn a speculative look. “Have ye no care for yer daughter? That man is a most vile creature.”
“Yer opinions will matter very little to either of us once we are happily reunited with my clan.”
“Ye mean onceyeare reunited. ’Twould not be reuniting for Astrid, as she is not a Meic Murchadha.”
“Not yet!” Beibhinn countered.
“Not ever!” Marcán’s temper flared and his words came out louder than intended. Astrid’s small hand on his arm brought his gaze back to her. When she shook her head in silent resignation, he felt the floor shift beneath him.
“Ye are agreeing to this?” He regretted the question as soon as he spoke it.
It gave power to Beibhinn’s words and put Astrid on the defensive. That her chin trembled against her tears confirmed his worst fears. She would allow her mother to continue to bully her. When he moved toward her, intent on comforting her and giving her the strength she needed, Beibhinn got between them.
“See to yer duties,” Beibhinn said. “Iwill see to my daughter.”
He had more to say. Much more. If this woman cared for her daughter at all, it was a well-hidden affection. The look of fear on Astrid’s face made him hold his tongue. Stiffly, he gave them his back, keeping his eyes focused on the door to the outside. Forcing one foot in front of the other, Marcán made it out of the roundhouse, but his mind was in a fog, uncertainty nipping at his heals like an irritating mutt.
“Marcán.”
Someone called his name and he turned toward the sound without thinking. His mind awhirl with events and sights, he struggled to decide how best to proceed. Two men had come up alongside him, but Marcán’s mind refused to recognize them. He was certain he could no longer feel his own breath in his body.
“Murdoch?” It was Ian who spoke, he realized, and through the haze in his mind, the lad’s concerned expression struck a nerve.
When Ian turned toward the older man at his side, Marcán tightened his resolve to focus.
“I have spoken to ye of Marcán, son of Colmán,” Ian said.
Both sets of eyes turned toward Marcán, but he was again feeling the touch of Astrid’s hand on his arm, seeing the defeated look in her eyes when she had shaken her head and told him no.
“Ah, yes, Marcán. My name is Murdoch, son of Alastar. Happy I am to see ye again. I remember yer father well, Marcán,” said the older man with snowy white hair and a matching beard. “A fine man indeed, and I hear the same of ye.”
Marcán made no response, and the man glanced toward Ian, a questioning expression. The men serving on the council changed depending on who was available, and this was not a man Marcán recognized. His thoughts drifted. Why would Astrid agree to a betrothal to Pádraig?
“We do not wish to impose on ye, but were wondering if ye could offer yer assistance,” Murdoch said. “With Diarmuid away and my brother ill, the councilis short. We’re in a bind and there are pressing matters that cannot await his return.”
Marcán’s thoughts turned to his father. He had served on the council for many years, wearing his long, fur-lined robes, the gold circle brooch prominently displayed. The symbol of their council. He’d worn the mantle with pride, and his mother’s delight in him had been undeniable.
“Ye are truly needed, Marcán.” Ian’s voice was stern, more stern than Marcán had ever heard the boy, and that fact pressed through his disturbed meanderings. “The final decision of who will lead our clan comes before them.”
The choice of the Meic Murchadha’sriwas the pressing matter? Marcán’s eyes focused on Ian, the boy’s eyes widening with meaning and his body taut as a bow. The older man was saying more, but Marcán had stopped listening as his brain churned over the implications of participating in this meeting of thederb fineat this particular time—just as the great Pádraig Meic Murchadha was about to come before them for their blessing.
The flat line of Marcán’s lips loosened just a bit. Ian watched him, his eyes narrowing as if attempting to puzzle out his thoughts. Marcán let the smile lighten his face and acknowledged the answering relief on Ian’s face with a pat on the lad’s back.
