Page 36 of Tair

“Have you some hot brew?” he asked the cook, who nodded at the kettle hanging over the hearth. Sgathan went to retrieve it, but when he filled a mug with its steaming contents he smelled a particular blend that made him frown. “Who needs a calming brew at mid-day, Cook?”

“Besides you, Seneschal?” Ronan piled the loaves onto a large wooden paddle he used to load the outdoor ovens. “Your chieftain, the war master, and the laird. Night Watch never needs calming.”

“’Tis due to my lady màthair, who raised doves for the noble class, and kindly gifted me her good nature.” Lochran came in through the archway and sniffed the air. “Veg pottage again? You spoil Cath.”

“I cook for the war master as well as you lot,” the cook corrected him. “If I favor him, ’tis because if I anger him, I may come to a sudden and terrible end. I’d rather dark beasts devour me on a moonless night.”

Sgathan’s smile faded. “No, Ronan. You dinnae want such.”

Chapter Nine

Tair paced the passages of Gealladh for half the day, trying to find a task that would divert his thoughts from Lucy, who seemed bent on tying his cock in a knot. He growled at maids who stepped into his path, and made every guard he passed stiffen. Outside the sky grew dark yet again with storm clouds that had lingered since early morn. If he did not soon resolve this standoff between him and his wench, the whirlwinds would soon come and raze the highlands until nothing made by mortals remained intact.

All for a woman whom he’d already given great pleasure, and who denied herself more for some silly facking notion.

He ended up in the lists, where he saw the war master checking the blunted blades and staves the garrison used for sparring. Cath remained vigilant about such things, for he knew that in the heat of a match the men could sometimes lose their control and attack each other in earnest. That often resulted in unwanted injuries. Tair appreciated his concern for the men, yet at the same time it annoyed him so much he wanted to punch his war master in the head.

“You’ve naught to do but make more work for the smith?” he demanded.

Cath gave him a sideways glance. “Do you wish me rule over the clan in your stead?”

Being reminded that the war master was his older and much stronger brother, and had basically allowed him to become laird, only made Tair’s temper boil higher. Lightning streaked overhead, jumping from one cloud to the next.

“I need your aid.” He forced out the words. “How many mortal wenches do you take to your bed?”

“No more than three or four at once.” Thanks to their sire’s brutal training during his boyhood, Cath had never learned how to laugh or smile, but something like amusement filled his eyes as he met Tair’s gaze. “You mean, in all? I dinnae count them, my lord, but a fair amount. Less than a town, more than a village.”

He grunted. “How do you persuade them come to you?”

“I ask, most come. A few offer and I go to them.” The war master peered at him. “You wish to ken how to lure…but you’ve bedded Lucy Brooke.”

“Once,” he said, and then knew it was a mistake to admit as much. “’Tisnae about Lucy.”

“You facked her but one time?” Cath shook his head. “Doesnae she ken how to pleasure a man? Mayhap you should gift the wench to me. I’ll keep her abed and shrieking my name until she learns how to use that fetching wee arse.”

A faint red haze came over Tair’s vision. “Dinnae speak of her as you do your hoors.”

“Do you jest? She’s but a mortal wench, like any other.” The war master peered at him. “Ah, now the truth unveils. You fancy that female. Why? She’s a mannerless slut with no home, no family–”

That was all Cath got out before Tair’s fist collided with his chin, sending him sprawling back against a straw target. The pole snapped as he seized and brandished it like a club, his skinwork coming alive with copper-violet light and crawling over his dark skin.

“Do you wish for death?” Cath demanded.

His fist didn’t care how lethal his brother was. “Serve as my cluet then, you friendless castoff.”

The insult worked better than a second punch; the war master let out a vicious curse as he lunged for him. Tair grabbed him and used the power of his attack to sling them both to the ground. Dirt flew as they rolled and grappled and hammered at each other, splitting the skin over their knuckles with the force of the blows. He tasted salt and blood, making his darkness billow up inside him. With all his might he kept the madness from overtaking him, for Cath’s tattoos had gone still and dark again. They ended up jerking away from each other, scrambling to their feet and retreating to opposite sides of the sparring circle.

“Bastart.” The war master swiped his mouth with the back of his fist. “Rune didnae cast me off. He brought me here to keep me alive and find my mortal kin.”

Tair hid his surprise behind a grunt; Cath never spoke of the past. Then again, he had been acting oddly of late. “You missed your mortal màthair so much you couldnae abide the paradise of Elphyne?”

“That lady drowned herself just after he took me from her.” He looked away, but not before pain flashed across his battered face. “The dark Fae wouldnae cease bracing me, for to them halflings, they’re naught but an abomination. The only reason I wished remain in Elphyne, ’twas gone. You’re my only family, you and the other halflings Rune littered across this realm.”

Tair knew Cath was older than the rest of them, but now he wondered how much older. “Had he sired me on Brenna by the time you came?”

“Aye. As a young lad I watched her swell with you.” He rubbed his right side. “My skin, ’tis yeukin, my lord. Do you wish beat on me again, or shall your temper subside?”

No one ever wanted to hear that the war master had itchy skin.