Haunting Warrior (21 page)

“It’s done,” he said, and this time he nailed the accent. With Saraid’s hand clasped tightly in his own, he faced the room. “She is my wife and will be treated with respect or you will answer to me.”

The threat and wording of it came instinctively, and he suspected the line was from some old movie he’d seen, but they didn’t know that, and he saw that he’d captured the essence of their customs and delivered something that met their expectations. There followed a brief moment of uncertainty in the room, and then two men went down on bended knee in a gesture of submission. Like copycats in a game of Simon Says, others soon followed. Not all, though. The larger men gathered at one side of the room just watched with bright eyes and interest. If Rory had his history right, he’d guess those were Vikings, and they bowed to no one. The biggest of them bore a strong resemblance to Cathán’s wife. Something else to file away.

Still acting on instinct, Rory said, “I will drink now.”

Like magic, a woman appeared at his side with a tray and a cup. He took the mug, catching himself before the automatic thank you escaped. The woman hovered there for a moment, her expression one of terror. At first he thought it was him—the Bloodletter—that had her looking like a frightened mouse, but then he saw her watching Saraid and realized for whatever reason, the servant feared his new wife.

Wishing he had the time to unravel all of the strange undercurrents and emotions surging through this room, he turned away. He lifted his cup first to his father, then to the waiting men and women.

“To my bride,” he said and took a drink. The contents of the cup were dark, the color vile, and the smell sweet and cloying. The taste wasn’t much better. He swallowed and handed the cup to Saraid.

She stared at him in surprise, but quickly recovered. “To my husband,” she said in a clear and steady voice. “May he be blessed with long life and prosperity.” She put the cup to her lips and he found himself momentarily distracted as he watched her drink.

Then Cathán lifted his cup and the woman beside him did the same. The signal sent a rumble of relief through the gathering. Others toasted the happy couple and in the corner of the room the man with the fiddle began another lively tune. Someone else joined in with a song, and the gathering once again became the loud rumble of drinking and merriment that had accompanied Rory and Saraid earlier in their strange rite of marriage. Yet Rory felt the fine thread of tension that held the entire gala together, invisible shackles stringing ankle to ankle, man to weapon.

Beneath the laughter and song, they were watching. Waiting. But for what? What did they know and what had they merely surmised? Was it dread or anticipation he tasted in the air?

Before his father could say another word, Rory pulled Saraid from the dais and toward the blazing fire against the far wall. He stopped in front of it and gave her a nod when he saw the startled question in her eyes. Her brows came together and she cast an uncertain look back at his father and stepmother, but then with a gleam of defiance he recognized from the countless nights she’d haunted his dreams, she tossed the sheets into the flames. He heard his stepmother gasp and assumed sheets in whatever time period he’d entered were not so easily come by as a quick trip to the mall. Burning them was a direct offense to the hostess.

He smiled for the first time since stepping out from behind the curtain.

Back straight, shoulders squared, and gaze level, he moved Saraid through the room, picking out bits and pieces of the conversation, gathering names and committing them to memory. He’d always been good at that.

He met a man called Gormán with a hulking mass of wild hair and too many chins to count. He had eyes Rory didn’t trust. The string bean at his side answered to Albert. Rory sized him up and thought him the type of man who followed the leader—whatever leader had the best chance of surviving. Someone who might be swayed from one side to another. And so it went as they made their way through the room. They stopped occasionally to accept congratulations and blessings from those brave enough to speak, which fortunately, were few. Several times he intercepted strange looks directed at Saraid—once again, there was fear. He even caught one man making a covert hand sign with middle fingers down and pointer and pinky up. Wasn’t that what they did to ward off evil?

It confused him, but there was no way to ask about it, so he added it to his mental file and moved them both through the room. All the while, Rory kept his attention divided between his father, who tracked them with the flat glitter of his gaze, and Saraid’s brothers, who stood in front of Cathán’s table waiting for their sister to complete her circle of the room and come to them.

Saraid was no longer trembling, but he could feel the apprehension rising in her. It hummed over her skin and gripped him tight. Several times he caught her staring intently at her oldest brother, who stood as alert as a cop patrolling a dark alley in the middle of the night. It seemed some silent communication went through them both, but Rory couldn’t be sure. Certainly he and his own sister Danni had been able to talk without words, but was it crazy to think Saraid and her brother could do the same?

He leaned in, putting his mouth near the silky skin of her ear. “What are you up to?” he asked softly.

She startled, but didn’t pull away, and for reasons he didn’t want to explore, that filled him with a fierce satisfaction. But she didn’t answer him, either, and he couldn’t press without drawing attention.

The great hall was not only filled with Cathán’s men and the people who lived nearby. As the conversations surged, he learned others had traveled days to get there. He thought of Brian Boru and his campaign to become the one King of Ireland. And that wasn’t even the most bizarre thing he’d learned today. Hilarious if the situation had not been so terrifying. Were some of them here to witness the ceremony? He glanced back at the dais and caught his stepsister gazing at Saraid’s brother again. It was obvious she had a thing for him. Why hadn’t this marriage been between those two? Why Rory and Saraid, when it was obvious Saraid had no such feelings for him?

Saraid squeezed his arm where her hand rested lightly at the crook as she stopped in front of her brothers. She embraced the two younger ones under the spotlight of attention, and a rush of possessiveness washed over Rory as other men in the room turned to watch her. The feeling was Neanderthal in intensity. It made him want to spin in rage and snarl until they lowered their eyes. Christ, had being around all these barbarians turned him into one? He needed to keep his head in the game. Get himself, Saraid, and her brothers out of here and then he’d be on his way. However he’d come to be in this place, his goal had not changed—it had only become more imperative. The Book of Fennore. Somehow it was the reason he’d come to this place. He had to believe it was his ticket out as well.

Saraid spoke each brother’s name as she embraced him, and Rory added them to the running list in his head, playing word associations in an attempt to keep them straight even as he tried to follow every nuance of what went on in the room. The tension had reached a screaming pitch, though Rory had yet to discern the source.

The brother with the dark hair and bright blue eyes was Eamonn. Next to him, with burnished red curls and freckles, was Michael. The last brother, the giant, was Tiarnan. Rory smelled Tiarnan’s fear as he watched the room. Knew without looking that Cathán did as well.

Saraid stepped back and returned to Rory’s side. Despite his intentions not to, Rory took her hand and curled her fingers around his arm, once more anchoring her to him. All three brothers watched the small, telling gesture with narrowed eyes.

“It is done, Tiarnan,” she said, and the simple statement seemed to have so many meanings. “Ruairi is my husband now. We’ve given proof.”

Her husband.
In a million years, Rory never thought he’d be married. And he wasn’t now, he reminded himself. Yes, he had a hard-on the size of Texas every time he touched Saraid, but that didn’t make him her husband.

“Proof,” Tiarnan spat. “Y’ had a fooking audience.”

Rory watched Saraid fight a wave of shame that crept up her chest to her face and he wanted to step forward and back Tiarnan down. Without being told, he knew that Tiarnan was responsible for Saraid’s being here at all. That his own guilt made him want to punish her for it. Saraid went on in a calm and soothing voice before Rory could react to that bit of insight, but it did crystallize something else. Though Saraid might not be leader of her tribe, she was the voice of reason that moved them.

“That may be so, Tiarnan,” she said, speaking as if Cathán were not there to hear every word. “But there can be no doubt now that we are joined.”

Joined.
Fused together by the heat between them . . .

Cathán shifted in his seat and made a small noise of irritation. “I’ve not seen the treaty yet,” Tiarnan said. Then, turning to Cathán, “Y’ have yer proof. I’ll have our agreement now.”

“You are one to rush things, aren’t you, boy?” Cathán replied mildly. “I have told you already, I want witnesses and not just my own. I’ve been betrayed by your kind in the past. I won’t stand for it again.”

Tiarnan looked like he might jump across the table and rip Cathán’s head from his shoulders, but once more, Saraid calmed with a touch.

“We understand yer terms, Father,” she said in a sweet voice. The casual “Father” tightened the corners of Cathán’s mouth and made his wife flinch. Rory knew speaking it left a bitter taste on Saraid’s tongue.

Behind Cathán two men built like matching brick houses waited for a command. Throughout the crowded room, Cathán’s men appeared to be drunk and happy, but mixed with the genuinely buzzed, there were eyes that watched, sober and alert. Those men were poised, each an arrow nocked and ready to fly. It was clear Saraid’s brothers would not be strolling out the front door. And how long before someone decided to look for Stephen?

Tiarnan cleared his throat and stepped forward as if he’d been nudged, though no one had moved. “Yer right, Cathán,” he said in a commanding voice that probably fooled no one. “Ye’ve proven yer honor. Now I will do the like. My brothers and I would ride out to bring the others to the feast.”

Cathán’s eyes narrowed. “Leave?”

“We are not free to do so?” Tiarnan asked calmly, and though Rory was still pissed at the way he’d embarrassed Saraid, he felt a hint of admiration at his composure. The man had stones.

“Yes, you’re free to come and go as you please,” Cathán said with a merry snort of laughter. “But it’s a celebration of the happy joining of our two beloved families.”

“And like y’, I would want more than my brothers to enjoy yer hospitality.”

“I’ll send a runner,” Cathán offered. A wave of his hand and a man was ready to do his bidding. “He can deliver your message and guide your fair folk safely to our door.”

“It must be me who goes. Our people have been hunted by yers for too long to trust yer man.”

Cathán nodded slowly, obviously knowing this was true. After a long moment, he said, “I see your point, Tiarnan. Since this is the case, you may go, then. But alone. Your brothers will await you here.”

Tiarnan’s mouth twitched, as if he’d found humor in that idea. “Nay. We three go together or not at all.”

“Perhaps you plan not to return?” Cathán’s wife said, her tone snarky, her face red. Cathán gave her an irritated glance.

“My sister will remain here waiting,” Tiarnan said, still keeping his cool, but Rory could see his hold on it slipping. “We’d never abandon her.”

At that, Cathán’s eyes became lasers, inspecting Tiarnan like an engineer looking for the fissures in a dam. Knowing somewhere there must be a crack, knowing just the right tap with just the right tool would be all it took to bring the whole thing down.

“Of course you’d never betray your sister,” Cathán said with a wry smile. “Not you, Tiarnan the Good . . . at least the Good’s son.”

Rory frowned, trying to put that comment into context and failing. Then he remembered. Saraid’s father had been called Bain the Good.

“You three may go and retrieve your faithful people. But your youngest brother, he will stay and keep your sister company. What is his name?”

“Liam,” Tiarnan supplied helpfully. “But he is not here.”

This brought a scowl that Cathán couldn’t hide. He scanned the faces in the room, apparently stunned that he had not noticed the absence before. “Where is he?”

Tiarnan raised his brows. “It was not a sure thing, this union, and all of us know it. Liam was left to send word—good or bad—when the deed was done.”

“Left where?” Cathán asked.

“What does that matter, Father?” Rory said, stepping in, hoping to bring the game of bait and trap to an end. “They will bring him back with the others.” He turned to Tiarnan. “Isn’t that right?”

Tiarnan shot him a poisonous look, but Rory didn’t flinch. He owed these people nothing, he reminded himself. He was here for the Book, not to save Saraid’s arrogant brother.

“If you like,” Rory continued, “Saraid and I will accompany them.”

Cathán’s brows came down on a black scowl. “No, I don’t like. You will stay.”

Rory had known he’d get that response. Waltzing out the door with Saraid and her brothers was too easy. But it was worth the try.

“Our people will not believe it is safe unless they see me and both of my brothers,” Tiarnan said.

“And why is that?”

“Because y’ might easily be holding the others captive, or murdered. It wouldn’t be the first time such a ploy has been used to draw out the unwary.”

Tiarnan smiled then, an easy smile that fooled most of the men in the room. Most, but not all. Not Rory and not his father. Still considering that smile, Rory watched Tiarnan give another pause that struck him as dramatic. What was he up to?

“An escort would be a fine gesture on yer part,” Tiarnan said.