Page 68 of Bound By Deception

It was as if they shared a secret.

Staring down at the trencher before her, Bree focused on keeping her breathing steady.

Just get through this supper.

Servants appeared then, bearing platters of breads studded with hazelnuts and walnuts, rich venison stew, braised kale, and wheels of aged goat’s cheese. As always, the food here was pungent, overpowering—causing Bree’s already tense stomach to clench.

Shades, how was she supposed to force any of this down?

Having served the table, the servants departed, leaving the High King and his supper guests alone.

“It’s a pleasure to see my chief druids … and their spouses … gathered here this evening,” the High King spoke up then, his powerful voice rumbling across the now silent hall. However, his expression contradicted his words. A frown creased his brow, and his mouth was turned down at the edges.

He picked up the gem-encrusted goblet before him and took a measured sip. “Druidic gifts are only passed through certain bloodlines … and the gifts you bear grow rarer.”

Queasiness washed over Bree once more. There would be a reason why the High King was reminding them of something all his council would have been aware of.

“Aye, Your Highness,” the chief-sacrificer said with a nod. “That is why Beatha carries our fourth child.” His gaze swept around the table, while beside him, his wife gave a smug smile. “The rest of you are slow to produce.”

This comment brought tight lips and scowls from some of those around the table. None of them liked being reminded of their childlessness. Bree cast her husband a sidelong glance then, noting that his expression remained shuttered. If the chief-sacrificer’s comment vexed him, he hid it well.

“Of course,” mac Hume drawled, not yet finished. “Some of you are trying, at least.” His gaze fell upon the chief-enforcer. “Whileothersmake no effort at all.”

Silence settled at the table.

Bree started to sweat. Next to her, mac Brochan stilled.

“Indeed,” The High King leaned forward in his carven chair, his hatchet face tightening as he fixed his chief-enforcer in a gimlet stare. “Gregor informs me that during the blood-letting ceremony, he discovered that you and your wife have not been …intimate.”

Bree’s already fast pulse took off, while across the table, Gregor smirked.

She should be relieved, for she’d worried he’d somehow delved into her soul and learned that she’d once been Shee. But this wasn’t good news either.

“Aye,” the chief-sacrificer replied when mac Brochan remained stubbornly silent. “Usually, when wedded couples perform the rite, I can sense a ‘melding’ between them that comes from having joined physically. But not between these two.”

With a sinking belly, Bree waited for the High King’s judgment.

However, her husband responded first.

“Gregor lies,” he growled.

The High King’s dark gaze glittered. “And why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a shit-stirring bastard who’s never liked me.”

Talorc snorted. He then glanced across at a slender, sharp-featured man robed in green: the chief-seer. “What say you, Allaster? Has mac Brochan plowed his wife?”

Silence fell once more, all gazes settling upon Allaster mac Coll. Moments passed, and the druid’s lean face tightened, before the tattoos on his neck started to glow faintly.

Bree’s heart kicked against her ribs. Quickly, she raised her mental wards, hoping that her husband had done the same. Seers weren’t just masters of divination; they could also touch minds—just as the arch-druid had attempted to do on the day of her and mac Brochan’s handfasting.

The chief-seer’s eyes narrowed as he stared her down. Aye, he’d met resistance, and it surprised him. After a few moments, his attention shifted to the chief-enforcer. Eventually, mac Coll pursed his lips and looked at the High King. “I’d say not, Your Highness.”

“What have you seen?”

“Mac Coll hasseennothing,” mac Brochan ground out, his lip curling.

Relief fluttered through Bree. Of course, his mental wards would also be strong. He wouldn’t allow any seer to touch his thoughts.

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