Page 57 of Bound By Deception

And as Torran walked, he withdrew a rolled piece of parchment from a pouch at his waist.

Bree’s heart kicked hard at the sight.

She should have realized that her husband wouldn’t let things be after discovering she could fight. Of course, he wanted to make sure that she wasn’t lying to him about Mother Gelda hiring a fighting instructor to teach the Maids of Albia.

Bree started to sweat. Picking up the skirt of her tunic, she followed Torran inside and up the stairs to the first floor, hoping that he’d leave the message in their quarters. Unfortunately, he veered left, instead—nodding to the guard posted on the landing and pushing aside the heavy curtain shielding the chief-enforcer’s meeting alcove. Torran then disappeared inside.

The guard glanced her way as Bree appeared. “Good afternoon, Lady mac Brochan.”

“Afternoon.” Heart pounding, Bree walked past him and dove into the safety of the quarters she and the chief-enforcer shared, where she paced the floor.

She couldn’t let mac Brochan read that letter.

It was over for her if he did.

Supper had come and gone when Bree made her way up the stairs, carrying a tray that balanced a heavy stoppered bottle and four pewter goblets studded with garnets.

“Where are you going with that, Lady mac Brochan,” a guard greeted her when she reached the first-floor landing and turned left. While he was in residence at the broch, the chief-enforcer didn’t post a guard on the landing. However, to her frustration, there was always one there during his absences.

Bree flashed him a bright smile. “The fortified blaeberry wine my husband ordered from Troon has arrived,” she informed him. “I’m leaving it in his meeting alcove for when he returns home.”

The guard, a coarse-featured man with eyes too close together, frowned before he nodded to the curtained entrance at the other end of the landing. “Why don’t you leave it in your quarters?”

“The chief-enforcer prefers to drink in here,” she replied sweetly. “So he might share the wine with his men over a few games of dice.”

“Aye, but he won’t be back for a few days yet.”

“No,” Bree replied patiently, keeping her smile fixed. “And the wine will be waiting for him when he does.”

The guard squinted at her before clearly deciding he couldn’t be bothered deciphering the reasonings of a flea-brained woman. He grunted then and gestured to the entrance to the chief-enforcer’s private space. “Go on.”

Bowing her head so the guard wouldn’t see the jubilation in her eyes, Bree stepped forward and shouldered the curtain aside, entering the alcove. She hadn’t been inside here since the day of her arrival at Duncrag, and the moment she stepped within, the smell of leather and ash, with a whisper of clove, wrapped itself around her.

Cailean mac Brochan’s scent.

Before she realized what she was doing, Bree dragged the smell deep into her lungs. Her chest tightened then, a strange fluttering beginning deep in her belly.

She halted abruptly, her fingers tightening around the edges of the wooden tray.

Iron flay her, she hadn’t meant to do that. What had come over her?

All the same, the chief-enforcer’s presence permeated this chamber. It was his domain. Everything, from the iron swords and axes that hung on the walls, to the wolfskin rug in front of the hearth, reminded her of the mortal she’d shackled herself to.

It overwhelmed her senses.

Curse this mortal body. It made her weaker, more susceptible to things that wouldn’t usually bother her.

Jaw clenching, Bree moved once more, carrying the tray over to the sturdy oaken table that sat at the back of the space. A neat stack of fresh parchment sat upon one corner, together with a stoppered pot of ink. Another pot held a collection of quills. Everything was tidy, reflecting her husband’s orderly, military,mind. Mac Brochan controlled everything around him. How frustrating for him that his wife was so unruly.

Setting the tray down on the table, her gaze went to the rolled piece of parchment that waited there.

It bore a wax seal, with the sigil of a holly leaf upon it—the House of Maids.

This was it.

Bree grabbed the message and deftly tucked it into her bodice.

Straightening up, she then cast a glance around the alcove. This was her opportunity to see if her husband had left anything—letters, maps, or hastily scribbled notes—behind that might be useful to Mor. However, a quick survey revealed that every surface was clear.

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