Page 64 of Bound By Deception

He harrumphed softly, his eyes slowly opening. “Aye, well, each one hurt like The Reaper’s blade.”

Bree’s fingertips traced the marking that wound around his bicep, just above the elbow—a serpent devouring itself. “It must have taken years to have all these done.”

“It did … I was fourteen when I received my first. A sacrificer worked on me upon a bloodstone in the moonlight, calling upon The Warrior’s strength as she carved out the design and stained the skin with woad.”

“Which one was your first?”

His eyes glinted in the half-light before he lifted his hand to the center of his chest. “This one.”

Bree peered at the wolf’s head, and her mouth curved. “It’s fitting … since you’re now shadowed by a fae hound.” Boldly, she reached out and slid a finger down his chest, gently following the tattooed swirls and symbols she found there. Mac Brochan’s breathing hitched, his gaze hooded now, but she pretended not to notice. “These are beautiful,” she murmured—and they were, even if their beauty was deadly to her people.

His mouth quirked. “Thank you, wife … although, as you’ve seen, using them comes at a cost.”

Bree raised her gaze to his once more. “So, you wield The Warrior’s strength when you fight?”

“Aye … one of the first things a druid learns when they take the enforcer’s path is how to draw on their power, their courage.” His mouth quirked. “Unlike the other paths though, our strength is purely physical. I can’t wield wisdom or insight like a seer or a counselor, nor can I commune directly with the Gods like a sacrificer, or weave sagas like a bard. Enforcers are weapons … savages.”

Bree inclined her head at his blunt words. There was no bitterness in them though; he was merely stating a fact. This was her opening to deepen their conversation, and she’d take it.

“Why were you so set against taking a wife?”

Her husband’s eyes darkened at her question, something moving in their depths.

Bree’s breathing grew shallow. Aye, there was something there—a reason why this man kept himself walled off from others. She sensed a deep well of loneliness in him, and she wished to peer into it. She was pushing things now, deliberately. If she could get him to talk about himself, to trust her, he might divulge other details as well.

But a moment later, he blinked, and his gaze veiled. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied, his tone gruff now.

“I think it does,” she replied softly, holding his eye. “What happened to your family, Cailean?” Her pulse lurched then; it felt far too intimate to use his first name, but she was desperate now. She couldn’t let him retreat.

It was too late though. As their stare drew out, mac Brochan’s face hardened.

Iron smite her, she’d just hit another wall.

“Leave it alone, wife.” There was a warning edge in his voice now.

“I left the letter … sealed with wax … on your table. It should still be there, awaiting you.”

Cailean shot another look across the tidy surface, his gaze taking in the tray with a stoppered clay bottle and pewter goblets. “Did you bring this in too?”

Torran snorted. “No … do I look like your servant?”

Cailean scowled. Only his second could get away with such a response.

It was late afternoon of the day after Cailean’s return to Duncrag. He’d meant to check his meeting alcove earlier, butthe blood-letting had drained him. He’d slept later than was his habit, and then the High King had summoned him for a debrief. Their meeting had dragged on, and Cailean had ended up eating his noon meal with his liege rather than with his wife. Afterward, Talorc had summoned the rest of the druidic council, and they’d had a lengthy meeting that had stretched on all afternoon.

Finally, as supper approached, Cailean had gone to his meeting alcove. But the letter he’d expected to find was nowhere to be seen. Torran had come looking for him shortly after.

Moving to the table, Cailean picked up the bottle and pulled out the cork, sniffing the contents. It was fruity and cloying.

“Blaeberry,” he muttered. He couldn’t stand blaeberry wine, especially the fortified variety—something most of the servants here knew.

Setting down the bottle, he glanced Torran’s way once more. A deep groove had cut between the enforcer’s tawny brows, and he’d folded his arms across his chest.

“So, you haven’t been back in here since leaving the letter?” Cailean asked.

Torran shook his head, his jaw tensing. “And the guards don’t let anyone into this alcove.”

Cailean growled a curse. Aye, they didn’t. However, there was one person who might have been able to persuade them to break the rules.Devious bitch. Heat ignited in his gut, anger flaring. Banking it, he tried to keep his focus. “I don’t suppose Mother Gelda told you what her response contained?”

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