Page 38 of Bound By Deception

“You’re frowning?” Concern laced Mirren’s voice. “Don’t you like it?”

Bree shook herself out of her reverie and turned to meet her handmaid’s gaze. She then flashed her a reassuring smile. “Aye, I love what you’ve done.”

Nonetheless, Mirren still looked unconvinced, and Bree huffed a sigh. “Don’t mind me … I’m a little out of sorts today, that’s all.”

A groove etched between Mirren’s brows. “Why? It’s Bealtunn … and the sun is shining.”

Bree’s mouth quirked. Her handmaid’s cheerful disposition had been a balm since her arrival at Duncrag. Despite that Mirren was an indentured servant and could lack confidence at times, she had a remarkably positive approach to life.

And of course, like most of the women in the broch, the lass was excited about Bealtunn.

“You’re right,” Bree replied with a shrug. “I’ve no reason to frown.” She then focused on her handmaid, running a critical eye over her curly mop of peat-brown hair. “You’ll be attending this eve too?”

Mirren nodded, her sky-blue eyes gleaming with quiet excitement.

“Well then, since you’ve spent so long pinning my hair up, the least I can do is braid yours.”

Her handmaid’s cheeks flushed before a delighted smile stretched her lips. “You would?”

“Aye.” Bree rose to her feet and gestured to the stool she’d been sitting on. “Come … let me get to work.”

Mirren did as bid, eagerly settling herself onto the stool, while Bree took a bone comb and carefully brushed out her maid’s thick hair. She then divided Mirren’s unruly curls into sections, fastening them with pins, before she started to weave long thin braids.

Braiding was something she was good at, for, back in Sheehallion, she usually wore her hair plaited, especially when she was working.

Nonetheless, as she braided Mirren’s wayward mane, Bree found herself pursing her lips. She was pleased to do something for Mirren, for she enjoyed the lass’s company, but there was part of her that couldn’t believe she—the Raven Queen’s assassin—was plaiting another woman’s hair.

Shades, what have I become?

“Will the chief-enforcer accompany you from the broch this eve?” Mirren asked, intruding upon her brooding. “Or will he meet us at the bonfire?”

Bree pulled a face, glad that Mirren couldn’t see her expression. She’d tried asking mac Brochan the same question that morning, but he’d been evasive. “I’m not sure.” She hesitated then before adding. “In truth, I’m not sure he’ll join me at all.”

Her handmaid sucked in a breath. “But hemust… it wouldn’t be right for the chief-enforcer’s wife to attend Bealtunn on her own.”

Bree frowned. Iron bite her, she was tired of trying to soften up her husband. She’d have more luck molding a lump of granite.

Mirren was right though. Bree would cause whispers if she attended Bealtunn without him—and mac Brochan was the only reason she’d asked Mirren to put up her hair and help her dress in her most becoming tunic: emerald with a plunging neckline. She’d made this effort for him, but if he wouldn’t grace her with his presence this evening, she’d miss another, crucial, opportunity to get close to him.

It wouldn’t do. If playing the part of the dutiful wife wasn’t going to sway him, she’d have to employ a different, slightly riskier tactic.

“You’re right,” Bree replied after a pause. “I will seek him out after I’ve done your hair … andensurehe joins me.”

Silence followed her comment, and when Mirren finally replied, her voice held an awed note to it. “The chief-enforcer doesn’t scare you, Fia?”

Bree snorted. “No.”

Aye, he was an intimidating bastard, but that wasn’t why she minded herself around him these days. She wasn’t afraid of standing up to him when necessary either—she just had to be careful not to compromise her position here.

“Well … he cows everyone else,” Mirren replied, oblivious to her mistress’s thoughts. “Although I must admit, he’s scarier than ever of late.”

Of course, he is, Bree thought bitterly.He’s got a wife he doesn’t want.

Later, Bree found her husband in the yard before the broch, talking to three of his enforcers.

Ignoring the fact that all the warrior-druids looked her way as she approached, Bree picked up her long skirt—she didn’t want to dirty her lovely green tunic—and made her way toward them.

Mac Brochan’s dark brows knitted together in a frown as she approached. He wouldn’t appreciate her seeking him out. Buther conversation with Mirren had made her realize that if she didn’t act, their relationship would never change.

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