Page 37 of Tair

“Dinnae tempt me crack more of your ribs.” Tair glanced up at the tower where Lucy would be pacing the floor of his bed chamber. “She’s no hoor, Cath. I cannae use coin to tempt her. Nor do words reach her.”

“Mayhap she’s fearful. She comes from a different time,” the war master said. “’Tis unwise for you to show your desire for her so openly. Vassals gossip, and the villagers, they’re no’ blind. Once you send her to the village, our enemies shall take her and use her against you—or cause her to suffer and die an agonizing end to torment you eternally.” He nodded when Tair glared at him. “You ken I speak truth.”

“Aye.” He hated admitting he was wrong, but his war master’s warning stabbed deep. “I dinnae ken what to do with the wench.”

“Think of her life, how short it shall prove, and the happiness you cannae give her. You may never sire her bairns, nor grow old with her.” Cath came to stand beside him. “I gave my heart to a mortal long ago. I didnae wish to, but you ken how they creep into your every thought, and remain there, like ticks burrowed deep.”

Although his comparison seemed quite apt, Tair doubted Lucy would appreciate being compared to a blood-sucking parasite. “Never tell a wench such.”

“Heed your own counsel, my lord.” The war master bowed and strode into the stronghold, passing Lochran as he did.

The blindfolded man joined him and bowed. “Need you another sparring partner, my lord?”

He regarded him. How the only man in the clan who became blind during the day could tell who he was with his eyes bound shut he would never understand. “Someday you must teach me your trick for fathoming everything with no sight, Night Watch.”

“You must learn the stink of every brother’s sweat,” Lochran told him. “’Tis peculiar to each of you. Cath smells of bread.”

“Dinnae tell me I reek of flowers,” Tair bit out, “or my fists shall answer.”

His mouth hitched. “Of late, you smell of Mistress Brooke.” He held up one hand. “Dinnae clout me for daring to speak her name.”

“I’ve fought enough for one day.” Tair glanced up at the sky, which was beginning to clear, thanks to his bout with the war master eliminating some of his temper. “Did you come in search of me for some reason, Night Watch, or only to prod me?”

Lochran produced a small scroll. “Our men, they’ve confirmed the MacAlen’s claims. Magistrate Duff shall be selling a dozen criminals he’s jailed to slavers when the bastarts arrive. They’ve also learned the caravan brings twenty more bound to be sold to a dockside brothel in the east. ’Twould seem that the MacAlen sent his own men to search for the slavers, for our scouts took pains to avoid crossing their path.”

“Fack the MacAlen. Nosy bastart.” Tair took the message and read it for himself. “Take this to Dorchad, and have him choose the men we’ll use on the raid. Ask Sgathan where these caravans encamp when they come to the highlands. Say naught of this to Mistress Brooke.”

The Night Watch chief bowed. “As you command, my lord.”

After spending most of the day fruitlessly searching for the cluet, Lucy decided to skip the evening meal and take a tray to the laird’s chamber so she could sulk by herself. On the way to the kitchens she turned a corner and promptly walked into a hard chest.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t look, ah.” She gave Dorchad a pained smile. “Sorry. Please don’t attend to me yourself for what was clearly an accident.”

Without a word the chieftain took hold of her arm and marched her down to the end of the passage, where he shoved her into an open doorway. Lucy nearly tripped over a bunch of sacks as she tried to put some space between her and the demonic MacRune, who had shut the door and bolted it.

“Really, I didn’t mean to do that,” she said, holding up her hands. “Sorry.”

Dorchad folded his arms and leaned back against the door. “I didnae bring you here to beat you, or make you beg, Mistress Brooke. I but wish to talk.”

“Talking’s lovely.” Lucy tried not to make it obvious that she had her back pressed against the wall by copying his stance. “How have you been? The weather’s rather nice, don’t you think? Well, before all those storms yesterday, I mean–”

“I shall talk,” he told her. “You shall listen.”

Wanker. She nodded, keeping her expression pleasant. Sodding wanker. Bloody evil sodding wanker.

“The laird desires you serve as his bed wench. You resist, and the storms come.” He gestured at the window slit. “They come every dawn now, and keep our vassals from their work for long hours.”

“I hadn’t noticed, actually,” she admitted. “Must be sleeping in, or the four meter thick walls. Maybe it’s both.”

Dorchad gave her a dark look before his gaze shifted and he stared at the wall behind her. “Cease your conniving and give him what he wants. ’Tisnae as if you’re a maiden.”

Was he embarrassed by talking about sex? Now this was an interesting development.

“You’ve been eavesdropping,” she said, and wagged a finger to shame him. “That’s not very nice, you know. What would Tair say if I told him you were listening at our bedroom door?”

“’Tis the laird’s bed chamber, no’ yours, and I dinnae care if you tell him. ’Tis wrong to torment a man who desires you.” The chieftain walked up to loom over her. “Fack the laird and give him the relief he needs.”

For a moment Lucy wanted to kick him where it would hurt the most. Was this all she was worth to Tair? Relief?