Page 49 of Bound By Deception

Torran’s expression sobered. “She certainly held her own against Drago and Frang.” He gave a rueful shake of his head then. “The Mother’s tits … how is that possible?”

“Fia insists she had a fighting instructor at the House of Maids.” Cailean rose from his desk and crossed to his second. He then thrust out the folded parchment to him. “Which is why I need you to ride there … and get me an answer from Mother Gelda herself.”

“Have I gotten you into trouble?”

Sucking her finger, for she’d just pricked herself, Bree glanced up from where she’d been mending her husband’s leather breeches. In truth, she’d been finding it hard to concentrate. Ever since her fight with the chief-enforcer, she’d been plagued with a feeling of impending doom. “No … why would you think that?”

Mirren straightened up from sprinkling fresh salt around the hearth, lowering her gaze. Her face was pale and puffy today, her eyes red-rimmed. “The chief-enforcer seemed vexed that you’d come to my aid yesterday,” she said huskily.

“He wasn’t angry about me helping you.” Bree pulled a face then and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. After her fight with the enforcers—and then sparring with her husband—her body ached all over. “He thought he’d ordered himself a refined Maid of Albia … not a wife capable of breaking someone’s jaw with a broom.”

Mirren’s gaze flicked up. “I’ve never seen a woman fight like that,” she whispered.

“Aye, well … I was taught to defend myself at the House of Maids.”

“You were?”

Bree nodded, studying her handmaid for a long moment. She’d told Mirren to take a day or two off, but the lass had refused. All the same, she looked too upset to be working. “How are you today, Mirren?” she asked gently.

The lass’s throat bobbed, her sky-blue eyes glittering as she held back tears.

Watching her, Bree fought a tight sensation in her chest. “I’m glad my husband executed those pigs,” she ground out. “Although he should have made them suffer first.”

Mirren nodded, hurriedly knuckling away the tears that now trickled down her face. “I wish I were like you, Fia,” she croaked.

Bree forced a smile, even as her ribs constricted further. Ancestors, she wished they could change the subject. “No, you don’t.”

A muscle feathered in Mirren’s jaw. “But you’re fierce. You aren’t afraid of anything … and you know how to defend yourself.” She paused then, her throat bobbing. “Will you teach me?”

Bree stared back at her. Of all the things Mirren might have asked her, this wasn’t what she’d have expected. “Surely, you don’t want—”

“I’m tired of being cowed,” Mirren choked out, wringing her hands before her as tears flowed unimpeded down her cheeks. “Of shrinking to make myself smaller every time one of those brutes looks my way.” She drew herself up, even as her small body trembled. “You don’t live in fear … youfight… I want to do the same.”

Bree drew in a deep breath. Curse it. She didn’t have time to train her handmaid, and it wasn’t wise either, not when her position here was so precarious. Not when her husband now watched her like a hawk.

The way things were going, Bree would soon have to flee Duncrag. Mor had wanted her to stay here a while, but at this rate, she wouldn’t last the summer.

Aye, she had her own problems, but the pain and desperation in Mirren’s eyes held her fast. She’d asked for her help, and Bree couldn’t bring herself to refuse her. And so, she nodded. “Very well,” she murmured. “We shall start tomorrow.”

“What are you doing?”

Bree glanced up. She was sitting in the sleeping nook, propped up by a mound of furs, Fia’s diary on her lap. Across the alcove, her husband sat by the fire, cup of ale in hand, Skaal at his feet.

“Reading my diary,” she replied, surprised that he’d even addressed her. Usually, mac Brochan made a point of ignoring her all evening.

They’d had supper together, a tense and silent meal, before Bree retreated to the sleeping nook. It had been a frustrating day. She’d finally managed to go down to see Eldra. The healer had been alone, although she’d been more interested in questioning Bree about the incidents of the previous day. She’d also been frustratingly glib and enigmatic when Bree asked her about the man she’d once worked with. Eldra seemed convinced he’d departed Duncrag one night and never returned.

Bree didn’t want to believe her—for Eldra didn’t offer any explanation—but doubt had crept in. Maybe her predecessorhadfled. Living here wasn’t easy; perhaps he’d feared for his safety and was now hiding somewhere in Albia, doomed to continue living as one of the Marav. Bryce wouldn’t dare return to Sheehallion now, not after failing his queen. A chill had prickled Bree’s skin as she’d considered this possibility—for she was also close to messing up.

Mac Brochan cocked a dark eyebrow. “Why? Didn’t you write it?”

Bree gave him a tight smile. “I did … husband … but reading my entries brings back memories.” She shrugged. “These days, I feel like I’m a different person to the lass who wrote these words.”

Her breathing quickened then. The chief-enforcer would never know how true those words were.

His head inclined. “How so?”

Uneasiness fluttered up, like a sack of released moths, in her belly. She didn’t trust her husband’s sudden talkativeness. Under normal circumstances, she’d have been pleased that he wasn’tignoring her. But after what happened the day before, she suspected there was a purpose behind his questions.

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