Healer (16 page)

Faith, now she couldn’t even see Ronan’s face as he pledged that gone hence were his ancient ways, replaced by his devotion to her and only her … with all himself, his being, his heart and worldly store—his
life
till death take him was hers … because it was she that gave it back to him.

“May this kiss press my words into thy heart, for you art flesh of mine own flesh from this moment hence.”

She couldn’t even see her hand through the veil of tears as he took it and pressed it to his lips. But she felt her swelling heart branded by the innocent contact. Suddenly, she was aware of another presence wedging between them. Faol.

Instinctively, she started to shove the wolf aside. “Nay, darling, not—”

“Let him be,
a stór,
” Ronan interrupted. He patted the wolf’s head. “I owe my life to him as well as for bringing us together. His presence seems only fitting.”

Brenna hardly thought her heart could grow even fonder of this man, yet it did.

Later that afternoon, Ronan could not take his eyes off Brenna as she busied herself with dishing up the stew she’d prepared for their wedding feast. There were no secrets between Ronan and Brenna now. No lies to threaten their love.

A shudder ran through Ronan at just how close he’d come to entering into this marriage on a lie. Martin had been a godsend, rather than the threat Ronan had first thought. Doing the right thing, even though it might cost him Brenna, made the union between them real, not the sham Ronan had been willing to accept.

Thank You, Heavenly Father, for saving me from myself.

“What’s that you’re sprinkling on?” he asked as Brenna stirred in some dried seasoning.

She glanced up, beaming with a saucy smile. “Nothing you should worry about,
Husband
.”

Husband.
Desire coiled within him. Her trickery had run its course.

“Just a touch of tarragon to enhance the taste.”

Food was the last thing on his mind. Thank Heaven theirs was a simple, private ceremony with no formalities to endure. Just the two of them, doing what they wished in their own time. Even Faol had followed Martin down the hillside. And this time Ronan hoped the wolf would stay away for a while.

“I wish you didn’t have to return to Glenarden.”

The comment took Ronan by surprise. From the moment he’d heard about Alyn’s being taken as hostage, he’d been planning that, but he’d not mentioned it to Brenna.

“I have to let them know I’m alive. I’m the reason the feud reignited and my brother was sent to the Gowrys.”

Brenna put a wooden plate on the table. Steam rose from the contents. “And what will
I
do?”

“You’ll go with me.” At the hike of her brow, Ronan added, “After I’ve had the chance to prepare my family for your arrival, of course.” He’d never think of taking Brenna into that den of wolves without making sure she’d be accepted. “I gave my word to Martin that I’d take care of this, let them know I’m alive.”

Brenna eased next to him at the table. “So, when will you go?” Resignation tainted her question.

“Three days from now.”

With a look that tore at his heart, Brenna reached for his hand and bowed her head. “Father God, we thank You for this bounty and for the grace You have extended to us in Your love. May we be nourished by both to serve You and each other, whatever betide. Amen.”

Instead of letting her hand go, Ronan raised it and pressed it to his lips. “Amen.”

Brenna couldn’t imagine leving her home. What would Faol do? He was half wild. Even if she could adapt to living with the same people who’d hunted her for so many years in order to kill her, could he? Leaving was not in her plan. Living with the O’Byrnes was certainly not. Was this part of her mother’s prophecy?

Next to her, Ronan wolfed down his stew and oatcake, while she mostly moved hers around the dish, her stomach knotted. Not even the honey mead Brother Martin had brought them could relax the tension building within.

“You’ve hardly eaten a bird’s share.”

Brenna lowered her head at Ronan’s gentle observation. “I cannot. I—”

“Don’t tell me you are just now becoming the nervous bride. Most maids would be surrounded by others, being pampered from head to toe, whilst you, Brenna of the Hallowed Hills, trapped and skinned a rabbit this morning, prepared the bridal feast and bed, and forgave this undeserving groom for his treachery. If anyone should be nervous, it should be me.”

Ronan shoved the plates aside. Taking her hands in his, he drew her from the crude bench and into his lap. “Do you fear me so much, Brenna?”

“Nay.” Brenna curled against his chest, welcoming his embrace. “I love you, Ronan, with all that I am. It is the future I fear. Would that we could stay here forever, where only love lives. I am not accustomed to others, nor is Faol. What will become of us?”

“I will protect you with my life,” Ronan whispered against the top of her head. He nuzzled her hair, his embrace tightening about her as if to make her part of him. “And your wolf.”

“Our
wolf,” she corrected.

She felt her hair part at her neck and the warmth of the kiss Ronan planted against her skin. Frissons of awareness shot through her, scorching the fingers of anxiety winding about her thoughts. Resistance never crossed her mind as Ronan turned her and those lips found hers.

“But why do you fret about tomorrow,
a stór,
when we have the night yet ahead to pass?”

Brenna didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not when Ronan’s kiss sealed her lips with promises that set her head to spinning. And through the blur, she could see and feel them fulfilled. They snatched her breath away and made her pulse leap and bound like a brook in spring flood.

“Do you trust me, Brenna?” Ronan whispered raggedly, drawing his lips along the taper of her jaw and down to the pulse point drumming in her neck.

“Y-yes.”

He rose, scooping her up like a child in his arms. “Then love me now, Wife, and let us face the future when it comes.”

Chapter Fourteen

The forested hills were decked in a haze of spring green as Caden and his party made their way into their leafy depths. Hounds yelped, eager for the hunt.

Give me the feel of a good horse beneath me, good companions about me, and the lay of my own land before me any day over the tedious administration of Glenarden,
Caden thought. With winter’s last breath expelled, farm, hall, and village came to life with work to be done—ground to be plowed and planted, calves and piglets to be delivered, and whey, buttermilk, butter, and cheese to be made to replace the winter stores. But the simple peasantry couldn’t seem to work out their differences without the lord’s interference. It was small wonder his brother Ronan had little sense of humor, given the petty complaints brought before him.

Then there were Rhianon’s preparations for the Pascal celebration and her family’s visit. With luck, fresh venison would accompany the lamb on the feasting tables. Or boar. Perhaps both. Meanwhile the steward, Vychan, had put out the word to local fisherman for salmon and trout to complement the meal. Aye, this freedom of the outdoors was the sort of pursuit Caden preferred.

A glimpse of something white flashed against the green of the forest. Something large as a deer, but white. The dogs saw it too. The nature of their yelp changed from playful and excited to on-the-hunt. A woman couldn’t tell the difference, but a huntsman and houndsman knew. Caden licked his lips, anticipation surging through his veins, and nudged Ballach into a run. The day was off to a fine start.

Brenna sat on a gorse-dotted crannog overlooking the pass through which Ronan had disappeared a little after daybreak. Though bathed in the rays of the midday sun, she was cold, lost without his nearness. How quickly the three glorious days they’d spent together as husband and wife had flown. With Ronan, her fear of the future fled, but now that he’d left to prepare his family to receive his bride, it was back in manifold force.

How had she spent her days before Ronan came into her life? Sure, she couldn’t remember. Yet she’d been diligent, always busy hunting or gathering, preparing for the Long Dark or for trading at the Leafbud and Sun Season fairs. The blue flowers of rosemary were in bloom, and white-blossomed wild garlic awaited in the shady damp of the forested streambeds. Perhaps she should go back for her basket and digging stick—

Brenna cocked her head, listening. In the distance, the faint sound of hounds in pursuit echoed from the forest below her perch. Her pulse quickened. A hunt, and here she was an hour’s climb from her home in a dress that stood out like the sun in a clear sky. Her hand flew to her waist. And she was weaponless. Ronan had made her forget what she
was
as well.
Hunted
.

Brenna hastened up the steep mountainside, following deer paths easily overlooked, unless one knew where they were. Overhead, a breeze whispered through the canopy of oak and hazel, carrying the sound of the hunt. The dogs were closer now, spurring her into as much of a run as the uneven ground would allow. She heard the thundering of horses’ hooves … and their riders’ shouts.

“It went this way!”

This way
seemed to be the same route Brenna pursued. For every change in direction she took, the hunters followed, though they were still a distance behind. Briars picked at her skirt and skin as she stumbled uphill, tripping on her hem. In braccae, she would have been able to move as easily as Faol in the forest.

Faol.
Brenna had last seen the wolf following Ronan through the pass, keeping to the edge of the trees as he always did. A terrible foreboding seized her. Grabbing the trunk of a hazel, she paused, gasping for air.

“I think I hit it,” a loud voice called.

It
. A dizzying wave washed over Brenna. She had to get back to the cave. If Faol was in trouble, he’d head there. Brenna plunged ahead, but a hurried climb up uneven ground spotted with slippery moss and lichen-covered rock was impossible without risking a broken neck. She’d never make it to the safety of her cave. And neither would Faol, if he was the target of the hunt. A white wolf pelt would bring a handsome purse for any man.

Above her, pine thinned to a ledge notched by time into the side of the mountain. From it spilled a stream, forming a waterfall that pooled on a wooded plateau that dropped off sharply beyond. The pool was a favorite, shaded spot to spend time and find wild garlic.

If she could make it there, Brenna might call Faol to her. They could hide behind the icy water spray. It wasn’t that far. Underbrush of heather and juniper and bramble shredded her stockings and skin as she made for the pool.

Dare she call for Faol? If he was safely watching the hunt …

Sodden winter leaves gave way beneath her foot, and down she went with a startled cry.
The baby.
Brenna crawled to her knees and forced herself up. She had to think about the baby she knew she carried. She’d known the moment the child was conceived. She’d seen the newborn squirming in her arms in the midst of passion’s dizzying storm and knew.

The fall of water splashing upon a rock bed penetrated Brenna’s dazed thoughts, turning memories of bliss into present horror. Faol bolted up the hill toward her, limping. She couldn’t see the hounds on his trail, but she could hear them—and the excited shouts of the hunters.

She stepped out into the wolf’s path. “Come on, laddie, let’s go.”

As if understanding her intent, Faol passed her, moving toward the fall. Brenna fell into a staggering run behind him. They could make it. There was still time. The dogs would lose their scent in the water. It would be freezing cold, but the fall was large enough to hide them until the party gave up. When it was safe, she and Faol could return to their home, where she’d see to the arrow lodged in Faol’s hindquarter and heal it.

Father God, let it be so.

How could she have been so foolish? Faol limped ahead of her, and while she had nothing but scratches, her legs grew heavier with each step she took. Blood pounded in her ears so loud it seemed to shake the ground beneath her. But she could see the waterfall now. See Faol stop and turn.

The hair on the wolf’s body stood straight up, making him look half again his size. And she could count every tooth in his head, bared as they were. He hunched, the way he always did when he was about to attack—

“Well, what have we here?”

Brenna spun so abruptly at the man’s voice that she nearly lost her footing. Fingers of iron clasped her arm, preventing her fall. She looked at them, her gaze skimming up a well-muscled arm to broad shoulders swathed in the colors of an O’Byrne. A fair-haired giant of one.

“Spare my wolf. He’s a gentle—”

A gray wolfhound shot through the periphery of her vision, followed by another.

“No!” she screamed.

The wolf and hounds clashed in a fury of snarls and snaps.

And Brenna’s heart was at the center. “Stop them, sir. I beg you. I’ve raised him from a pup.
Please
.”

Caden O’Byrne looked deep into the wide blue gaze turned up at him, tugging at him with a power that left him unsettled. There could be no doubt who this was. So why he felt compelled to help her was a mystery.

“Gillis, leash the hounds.” Had she bewitched him already, to make him believe a wolf such as this could be tamed?

“There’s no stopping them now, milord,” the hounds master said, breathless, as he caught up with Caden. “That wolf’d chew a man up as soon as them. Them, too, in the middle of a fight.”

“Then give me the leashes,” the woman pleaded.
“I’ll
put them on. He’ll not harm me.”

Caden didn’t know whether to trust her or not. Comely and convincing as she was, who was to say she’d not shift into a she-wolf and take on the other dog? Yet he saw no conniving in her gaze. Only fear. Stark fear and pleading.

Curiosity to see what she might do got the better of him. “Give her the leashes.”

In a flash, the woman seized them and raced straight into the fray. Quick as lightning, she slipped a leather noose about the dog circling the embattled two and tossed it in Gillis’s direction. The hounds master grabbed it and, with the help of a second man, hauled the straining, startled wolfhound away.

She had courage, Caden would give her that. Or she was as mad as a swineherd.

But as she reached the wolf and second wolfhound, the sickening snapping of bone stopped her still. The gray and bloodied wolfhound went limp, its last breath escaping in a strangled whine through the clench of the white wolf’s powerful jaws about its neck. The wolf held it a moment, looking beyond the woman, as if she were no threat, at the other dog being hauled away.

“Faol.” She sank to her knees, weak with relief. “Father God be praised.”

Behind Caden, servants led Ballach and the other mounts up the hillside. The forest had become too thick and the hillside too steep to risk a misstep with the horses, so they’d been left behind and the hunt taken up afoot.

“Come, Faol,” the witchwoman said, opening her arms to the wounded, bloodied wolf.

The wolf hunkered down, growling at Caden and his companions, never moving.

“Husharoo, my love.”

She sang to the savage creature as though to a babe. Mesmerized, Caden waited along with the others, some with ready spears, others with axes or knives, all poised for what might happen next. The scene and all in it grew still as a tomb.

Until sunlight beaming through the canopy of leaves caught and danced off the woman’s extended hand, drawing Caden’s attention to the gold ring adorning her thumb. His body tightened, cold with recognition. It was Ronan’s. By his father’s aching bones, now he knew what had become of his brother.

“Cursed Gowrys!” Caden started for the woman.

It was all the provocation the wolf needed. Instinctively, Caden drew his knife. He heard the woman’s “No, Faol!” Saw relief turn to horror as she rose too late to stop the beast. Watched as the white fury seemingly took flight, coming straight at him. There was no time to think. Only to drive the dagger deep into the animal’s throat. Its running leap took Caden down. As he fell, his sense of place and motion slowed, giving him plenty of time to jerk the knife, making certain the wolf’s lifeline had been severed. But no chance to brace himself. He struck the ground with a bone-jarring thud. The beast’s hot blood spurted over him, its last growl filling Caden’s nostrils with feral breath.

But it was the anguished wail from the woman that seized his senses. Before Caden could throw the animal off him, she pulled it away.

Hysterical, sobbing and mumbling, she held the wolf’s head, oblivious to the blood ruining her tattered blue gown.

“My fault,” she groaned, rocking back and forth. “Oh, Faol … m-my fault.”

So much for the shape-shifting legend. She was just a madwoman who’d made a pet of a wolf. A madwoman who’d killed his brother. The woman his father had hunted all these years. Maybe, at last, she would be the key to Tarlach’s approval.

“Seize her,” Caden ordered, climbing to his feet. “And skin the wolf. ’Twill make a fine trophy.”

His order penetrated the captive’s fit of grief. “Nay,” she sobbed, swatting at the men who reluctantly approached her.

More superstitious fools.

“L—” She forced steel into her voice. “Leave us be.”