Claiming Her

There was only one reason why Aodh would be calling her to a council meeting with his rebel forces today: to prove herself. Not to him, but to them. He had taken a risk and set her free, but that did not come without a cost. Yesterday had been a reprieve. Today, the payment came due.

She could not be here, at Rardove, in they’re midst, standing against them. Standing against Aodh. She might not have to marry him, but she did have to join him. In a manner the others could see and recognize.

The men pushed back their chairs and rose as she entered the council room. She tread lightly into the room, the way you might if passing through the meadow bog all around the castle, which would be a foolish and fatal thing to do, unless you knew precisely where to lay down your boot.

She walked to Aodh through the silence. He nodded to the seat beside him, and when she sat, so did everyone else.

“We were speaking of Wingotten,” Aodh said without preamble. “Did you not say his wife is the one we ought to deal with?” His gaze was direct and firm. He expected a reply.

The room was silent as the men waited to see precisely who, and what, she was.

She nodded. “When he is drinking, yes. And he is always drinking.”

“Tell them what you told me.”

She turned to the tableful of men and told them everything she knew. There was no other way.

When she was done, she pulled her chair back slightly, putting herself just outside their circle. Aodh did not touch her, but he did hold her in a long gaze, then gave a single, approving nod.

She’d done well in his eyes, and just now, nothing else mattered. She breathed the first easy breath she’d had in some long time, a breath of relief. Such things did not come easily out here on the marches.

Furthermore, she felt safe. Ensconced in a castle with rebels all around and an army marching for them. Safe because Aodh approved of her. She’d made her choice, met his expectations, and now she was…his.

It was a very definite thing.

He had vowed to protect her, and made her think he might actually prevail. Hope he might.

Quite simply, he made her hope.

And that, she saw now, was the deepest layer of Aodh’s danger. When there was clearly no hope at all, still, one believed.

The council resumed its talk, slowly at first, then, perhaps forgetting she was present, more openly. She listened in surprise to how much they knew. They had gathered intelligence, and a lot of it. What they needed were allies.

Which she should not care about at all.

What an odd sort of holding place her home had become.

She became aware they were talking of sending a messenger—Bran—to the Rathbourne clan, deep in the mountains. They planned to send him by the coastal path, the Glencoe, a twisting, treacherous way. A faster way to reach the hidden trail that led into the mountains, indeed. If one survived.

Unable to help herself, she tipped forward. “The Glencoe path will have washed away by now.”

They all turned to her.

“It happens every spring. It is impassible after winter. Bran will need to take the high road. ’Tis longer, but he will get through with his life.”

A shuffling moved through the room, then more silence. More suspicion.

“Well, after all, I do not want him to die, do I?” She sat back and folded her hands over her belly. “Additionally, he should take a gift. Something sweet. MacErrogh has a fearsome sweet tooth. Let me see, we have honey in the cellars…”

Every eyebrow had lifted, every finger which had been drumming with repressed emotion, stilled, and more than a few gazes narrowed suspiciously at her.

One of Aodh’s men laid a hairy forearm across the table. “The high road will add a day to his travels, lady.”

“The straight path will add a lifetime, for he will never return.”

The men exchanged wary glances.

“I tell you, the road appears solid, but horses and ponies and men have been sliding off into the surf since Yule.” More silence met this. “As for the sweets… MacErrogh has cut off the heads of emissaries and messengers before if they did not come with proper respect as well as good news. Since I do not know whether he will consider your news good—that the Queen of England is about to send an army marching through his lands en route to Rardove—you should ensure your messenger has something he does consider good: honey. Trust in me, I have exploited MacErrogh’s sweet tooth before. And there is a great deal of honey in the cellars.”