Elphame's Choice (29 page)

Reluctantly, Elphame left his arms. She didn’t look back as she climbed down into the tunnel, but she felt him behind her, watching as she left him. The torch sputtered and cast a feeble light that reflected her sadness. Wearily, she reentered her chamber and closed the secret door. As she curled into the thick comforter she could still smell her husband’s scent where it lingered on her skin like a fleeting caress.

Before sleep enfolded her, Elphame sent a heartfelt prayer to her Goddess.
Please, Epona, help them to see the man and not the demon
.

BRENNA TOLD HERSELF
sternly that it was perfectly natural that she would want to check on her unusual new patient so early. It didn’t matter that the gray of predawn was just beginning to lighten, and that the night’s mist still hung across the castle ground like a slate-colored curtain. The wolf cub was young and had been through a terrible ordeal. Actually, she should not have left the small creature alone with Cuchulainn. What did the warrior know about caring for something so fragile? That was why her sleep had been so troubled. She was worried about the cub. It was not because Cuchulainn haunted her mind.

His tent was silent, but she could see the flickering shadows thrown against the canvas sides by a lighted candle.

“Cuchulainn?” Brenna hesitated, her hand on the tent flap.

No answer.

“Hello? Cuchulainn?” she said a little louder and thought
she heard a muffled sound in response. She pushed aside the flap and ducked into the tent.

Brenna wrinkled her noise. The lumpy form on the narrow bed moved, drawing Brenna’s eyes. Cuchulainn lay on his back, sleeping soundly with a blanket thrown haphazardly across his lower body. His tunic gaped, so that the candlelight caught the deep auburn hair that gleamed on his chest. The sight of it intrigued Brenna, which she knew was ridiculous. She’d seen men’s bare chests before—many times. Of course none of those men had been Cuchulainn, and not one of them had ever looked at her like he had, blatantly proclaiming that it was the scarred Healer he was interested in, and not the beautiful, willing cook. Brenna’s stomach fluttered at the memory. Then a movement caught her eye. The cub made a mewing, puppyish noise. It was wrapped around the warrior’s neck like a filthy scarf. One of Cuchulainn’s hands dangled from the side of the bed, the other rested on the cub’s body.

Brenna tried not to smile at the sight, and failed miserably.

She tiptoed over to the table, frowning at the mess. Cheesecloth lay in scattered, milky heaps. She picked up a linen rag and sniffed it suspiciously, grimacing at its urine-soaked odor. She’d have to come back later with a scrub bucket. How could one man and one small wolf make such a mess? Brenna planted her hands on her hips, shook her head, and wondered if all the milk was gone because he’d gotten it inside the cub, or because he’d spilled it all over the tent. She glanced at his sleeping form. All over the tent
and
himself, she amended silently.

The cub stirred and Brenna sighed. She’d fetch more milk from the kitchen—and have a fresh pitcher of water brought to the tent with clean linens. The cub was bound to wake her surrogate parent soon, and, since she was obviously still very much alive, she would be hungry. Brenna smiled. The surro
gate would, no doubt, be hungry, too. She gathered some of the filthy rags. Bringing him something to eat would be no different than bringing the cub milk. She was simply looking after her responsibilities as the clan’s Healer. It was only logical that the health of her Chieftain’s brother should be important to her. As if they had a will of their own, her eyes slid to the bed.

He was awake and watching her with a boyish half smile.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

She wiped her hands nervously on her apron and marched purposefully to him, ignoring his sleepy state of tousled undress, ignoring the unique turquoise color of his eyes, ignoring how his smile made her feel dizzy and off balance.

“Good. Now that you’re awake I can examine the cub and—”

Catching hold of her wrist he stopped her words.

“Let Fand sleep,” he said softly.

Brenna lowered her voice to match his. “You named her Fand?” As if answering for him, the cub nosed Cu’s neck and grunted before settling back into sleep.

“Yes, she was, after all, my legendary namesake’s fairy wife.” His eyes sparkled. “After the intimate night she and I just spent together, I thought it appropriate.”

Brenna had to smile at him. His fingers slipped down her wrist so that he was holding her hand.

“I was dreaming about you,” Cuchulainn said.

“Stop—”

He kept talking as if she hadn’t tried to speak.

“We were old. Your hair was all white and I was stooped and lame.” He grinned. “You will age better than I. But it is of little matter. We were surrounded by our children and our children’s children. And playing in and amongst them all were dozens of wolf cubs.” He stifled his laughter when Fand
growled. “Fand is a jealous girl,” he whispered, and winked at Brenna.

“Cuchulainn, please stop playing—”

This time when he interrupted her, his eyes flashed and all teasing humor had fled his expressive face.

“Do not say that I am playing games with you!”

He dropped her hand and gently scooped the sleeping cub from his chest, nesting her in the pillow that was still warm from his body. When he stood, he reclaimed Brenna’s hand and pulled her out of the tent. The misty morning was dark and quiet, and Cuchulainn pitched his voice low, so that he would not wake those workers who still slept in the surrounding tents.

“What have I done to lead you to believe that I am the kind of man who has so little honor that he would use a maiden as a plaything?”

“Th-the other night. The dancing…” she stuttered.

“I apologized for that,” he said through teeth clenched in frustration. “My behavior was stupid and insensitive, but it was
not
my typical behavior. I am a warrior whose reputation is known throughout Partholon. When has it been said that I am without honor?”

“It hasn’t,” she said quickly. “Your honor has never been in question.”

“Hasn’t it?” he exploded. Cuchulainn flung his hands up. “You say I’m playing with your feelings, using you, pretending to want you. How is that not questioning my honor?” With an effort he brought his voice under control. “I don’t mean to shout at you. I don’t want to drive you away from me. By the Goddess! Where you’re concerned I seem to have lost the ability for rational conversation or thought.” He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed, effectively anchoring her in front of him. “Brenna, I would like to court you. Officially.
If you tell me how to contact your father, I will formally ask his permission to do so.”

“My father is dead,” Brenna said through numbed lips.

Cuchulainn’s face softened. “Your mother then. I will ask her.”

“She is dead, too. I have no family.”

Cuchulainn bowed his head as a tide of feeling engulfed him. What terrible pain must fill her past. No more, he promised himself. He would never let anything hurt her again. When he raised his head, his eyes were bright with the depth of his emotions.

“Then your family is our Clan. The MacCallan and I have already discussed my intentions, and, though I don’t believe she thinks I deserve you, I am sure she will grant me permission to court you.”

“Elphame knows? You talked about me with her?”

“Of course. She’s my sister.”

“No! This can’t be—this isn’t possible.” Brenna blinked rapidly, like she was having trouble focusing.

Cuchulainn could feel her body trembling under his hands, and suddenly he had a terrible, sick feeling in his gut. What if her reluctance wasn’t about her scars or her shyness? What if she really didn’t want him?

“Brenna, I would not force my love on you, not if you do not desire me in return. If you do not desire me, all you need do is to tell me, and I give you my word that though it will pain me, I will leave you in peace.”

She stared at him. “Love? Look at me, Cuchulainn! I’m damaged. And it doesn’t end at my face.” She passed her hand from her scarred neck, over her breast, and down to her waist, clearly showing him the wide path of her scars.

Moving carefully, he lifted one hand from her shoulder. With a featherlike caress, he traced the path her hand had just traveled. Slowly, he touched the puckered scars that covered
the right side of her face. When she made no move to stop him, he let his fingertips move over her neck, softly skim the material that covered her breast, and, finally, come to rest on the curve of her hip.

“How could you believe that you are undesirable? When I look at you I see the first woman to ever befriend my sister. I see the Healer, who has the heart of a warrior. And I see the delicate beauty of the maiden who fills my waking thoughts with desire for her, and my dreams with visions of our future.”

“Cuchulainn, there has been so much loss in my life. I don’t know if I can risk any more.”

“That’s all it is?” Relief flooded Cuchulainn. “It’s not that you don’t want me?”

“I want you.”

Her voice was not that of a shy maiden. Once more, she was the Healer. Her words were strong and sure. Cu smiled and started to pull her into his arms, but her command stopped him short.

“No, I’m not finished. I admit that I want you, but I don’t know if I’m willing to let you into my heart. If I do, and then lose you, I fear it would leave a wound from which I might never recover.”

His mind raced around in panic. What could he say? What could he do to reassure her? Drawing a deep breath, he held open his hands.

“I can only pledge my word to you. If you do not trust it to be enough, then nothing I ever do or say would be enough to reassure you of my love. You must choose to believe in me, Brenna.”

She studied the warrior. It was her choice—was she strong enough to make it? Her eyes widened. That really was her answer; the one thing she knew beyond doubt about herself
was that she could trust her strength. She had been tested by fire and had triumphed.

“I choose to believe in you, Cuchulainn,” she said slowly and distinctly. And then she smiled her lopsided smile at his stunned look.

Cuchulainn whooped and lifted her into his arms. “I am going to be sure that you never lose me.”

He set her on her feet, but kept his arms around her. It felt so indescribably good just to stand there, holding her body against his. No woman had ever felt so right in his arms. He hadn’t even kissed her yet, and Brenna had already given him more than any of the beautiful young women with whom he had frittered away so much of his time.

When he felt her shoulders shaking, he thought his heart would break. Didn’t she believe him? Couldn’t she see that he would never hurt her?

“What is it, love?” He leaned back just enough so that he could see her face, and was surprised to see her eyes sparkling with the laughter that was soundlessly shaking her body.

“Oh, Cu,” she said through giggles. “You smell like puppy urine and old milk.”

Cuchulainn scowled at her with pretended severity. “Fand is not a puppy. She’s a wolf.”

As if to second his words, there came from inside the tent a whimpering that almost instantly changed into a youthful version of the mournful howl of a wolf.

“Did I mention that you will have to share me with Fand?” Cuchulainn said.

The pitiful howl increased in volume.

“I’ll get more milk.” Brenna was already turning away, but Cuchulainn wasn’t ready to relinquish his grip on her shoulders.

“You will return?”

She looked into the eyes that would eternally remind her of Epona’s altar and the magic of second chances.

“Yes, Cuchulainn. I will return.”

He dropped his hands from her shoulders so that she could hurry away, but she felt him watch her as she disappeared into the pre-morning mist.

“Soon!” he called after her, the urgency in his voice punctuated by the pitiful howls echoing from his tent.

The castle was quiet, but as Brenna rushed through the Great Hall and into the cook’s entrance to the kitchen, she was quickly surrounded by the sounds and scents of an awakening castle. The kitchen was a hub of activity and smelled deliciously of freshly baked bread. Trying to stay out of the way, Brenna helped herself to a pitcher from the neatly arranged cupboard and dunked it in the barrel of fresh milk.

“Good morn to ye, Healer,” Wynne called. Several of her assistants nodded friendly welcomes.

“Good—good morning,” Brenna said a little breathlessly. She hadn’t forgotten Wynne’s beauty, but seeing her there, with her fiery hair pulled up into a mass of curls that spilled around her perfect face, Brenna’s heart faltered.

How could Cu choose her over this vivacious young woman?

“Are ye gettin’ milk for the warrior’s beastie?”

“Yes.” Brenna snapped the word. She hadn’t meant to speak so sharply, but the memory of Wynne’s body pressed against Cuchulainn’s as they moved together to the beat of the drums suddenly had her feeling sick and uncertain. And, worse, she could feel the cook’s sharp gaze studying her knowingly.

“There be fresh bread and a nice hunk of cheese if the two of ye have mind to break yer fast after feedin’ the creature.”

“Thank you, I’ll add it to the tray,” Brenna said quickly, wanting only to get out of the kitchen. Wynne’s assistants, the
same women who had been in the garden the day before, had paused in their work to watch the exchange between them.

“I’ll aid ye,” Wynne said, suddenly appearing at Brenna’s side. With precise, industrious movements, the cook filled a basket with a loaf of still warm bread, a wedge of fragrant yellow cheese and several slices of cold meat. All of which she loaded onto Brenna’s tray after rustling through a pantry and adding a wineskin to the meal.