chapter 13
Nothing weighs on us so heavily as a secret.
—JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
“We need to speak to the Sinclair immediately.” Eirik sheathed his sword. “We have changed our plans for travel to Balmoral Island as well.”
“We are going to join Lais and Mairi on the boat crossing?” Ciara asked hopefully.
Eirik shook his head. “You and I will ride with them until we are far enough away from the keep and crofter’s huts not to risk having my dragon seen. Then I will shift and take you to the island. Fidaich and Canaul will stay with the horses while we are on the island.”
“They are only boys.”
“Old enough to guard horses.”
“What if Mairi’s father has sent soldiers to search for her? The boys would be no match for a full-grown Chrechte warrior. Besides, we are searching for the Faolchú Chridhe, surely Faol soldiers should accompany us.”
“You do not trust me to protect you without warriors of the Faol to help?”
She should say no, remind him that he had already proven himself to show no pity toward wolves, but she couldn’t. No matter what she should feel toward the prince of the Éan, Ciara could not shake the certainty that her life was safe with him. And she could hardly claim a dragon was not up to the task of protecting her regardless.
“You are far too busy helping your people settle into the clan to take on this quest,” she said, trying another tack and hoping to avoid the question of trust altogether.
She also wished she’d thought of this argument earlier during their discussion with everyone. It might have swayed her father, but then again…probably not.
No more than she expected it to sway the Éan prince. If he had already decided his people could be trusted under her father’s leadership, Eirik was not going to balk at leaving them to do his own assigned duty for the clan.
“The plans for the search coincide with my need to check on the well-being of the rest of the Éan among the Balmoral and Donegal clans.”
“There are more Éan?” she asked. When he’d mentioned his grandmother had gone to live with the Donegals, Ciara had thought she was the only one.
“There are.”
“How many?”
“Two groups about the same size as the one I brought to the Sinclair holding.”
“A size of tribe that it would be difficult to hide in the forest any longer.”
Eirik’s eyes narrowed as if surprised at her insight, but he nodded. “If we had not joined the clans, it would have become increasingly easy for our enemies to find us.”
“And kill each one they did find,” she said with a sick feeling in her stomach.
“Aye.”
“I am sorry.”
“You are not of the Faol that would kill us.”
“No, but it is wrong and makes me feel ashamed of my own heritage.”
“It should not. There are too many good Faol to paint you all with the brush of evil Rowland and those of his ilk would wield.”
“My father was loyal to Rowland. He and my mother argued about it. She thought Rowland responsible for the death of our laird before him, though they were accounted friends.”
“Your mother was wise.”
“Until her mind went after my father’s death.” True mates, her mother had not been able to withstand the loneliness once he was gone.
“Is that why she took her own life?”
“She was not in her right mind, but I did not think she would do that. I did not even think she was aware enough to want to, but the loss of my brother was one weight too heavy for her to bear.”
“She still had you.”
“Neither of my parents accorded me much value since I was not a son.”
“That is not the way of the Chrechte.”
“No, but it was their way.” Ciara shook her head. “Still, there was no doubt something I could have done to alleviate my mother’s grief. I was too lost in my own thoughts to even notice the direction hers had gone.”
“And were there signs? Looking back?”
“I still cannot find them, no matter how I try to remember, but they must have been there.”
“No. You said yourself, she was lost to herself at the death of her mate. She would not have made her plans known for she probably did not even realize them herself.”
“I…”
“It was not your fault.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I know it and so do you, if you will listen to the voice deep inside you.”
“You’re pretty arrogant, you know this?”
“So you have said.”
“I think it bears repeating.”
He shrugged and she found herself smiling, though she was not sure why. “So, the Éan have only joined two other clans?”
“I trust the Balmoral and Donegal with the safety of my people, but no others.”
Again such arrogance, it was breathtaking, but Eirik’s sense of duty shone every bit as brightly. “You see it as your job to ensure the safety of your people.”
“Aye.”
“Your cousin was certain of his protector, that day in the forest. When I saw your dragon for the first time, I knew exactly who he had been referring to.” And she had been awestruck.
“To protect and guide the Éan is my greatest honor and responsibility.”
She had no difficulty believing him.
“You gave up your role as sovereign to see to the safety and longevity of your race.” The selflessness and forethought of the act was so overwhelming, she could barely take it in.
“I only followed the Faol to the clans.”
When she should have been able to expect that arrogance again, she was met with humility. The man was a conundrum of a certainty.
“But we came to the clans because of MacAlpin’s betrayal,” she reminded him. Far from a great personal and voluntary sacrifice like Eirik’s own.
“Perhaps that heinous act was the event that made your leaders realize the futility of a way of life so separated from the humans, but they would have come to see what needed to be done eventually regardless.”
“You give them a great deal of credit.”
“I know what it is to have the burden of your people’s safety on your shoulders.”
Somehow they had moved closer together, so their bodies almost touched. She wanted to close the distance, wanted to feel his lips on hers again, but that way lay madness.
She took a deliberate step back. “So, you spread that burden among the clans without really relinquishing it at all. I think it takes a true servant to his people, to renounce his position as king in order to allow those he calls his to swear allegiance to clan chiefs.”
“I never accepted the mantle of monarch.”
What? But that made no sense. She didn’t know as much about the ancient ways as he did, but Ciara was certain kings were born among the Chrechte, not chosen. “Why not?”
He looked down at her sword still lying on the bed, a strange expression in his amber eyes. “Because I knew this day would come and if I had taken the oaths of a king, I could not have honorably instructed my people to give their allegiance to another leader.”
“You are the kind of leader my father says a man should be. It is why he despises MacLeod so.” Even before Mairi had come to the Sinclair lands, rumors of the other laird’s selfish behaviors had abounded.
“Why do you think I joined this clan?” Eirik asked wryly.
“I’m glad you did.” As soon as the words left her mouth she wished them unsaid. “I mean, for your people’s sake and for my father. A pack alpha and clan laird can never have too many trusted warriors.”
With a predatory expression, Eirik moved closer to her and she backed up until the stone wall prevented further retreat.
He came so close, the salty musk of his skin overwhelmed her senses. “I think you are glad I am here for more than just your father’s sake.”
She did not have it in her to lie, but no more was she willing to feed his ego with the truth. Pressing her lips together in firm refusal to speak, she looked up at him.
Undeterred by her silence, Eirik smiled that rare smile she’d learned to watch for and lowered his head. “I too am glad to have joined this clan.”
The kiss was like before, and yet different. Eirik explored her lips with his own, his tongue teasing along the entrance to her mouth. But he did not touch her otherwise.
Both of his fists rested on either side of her head on the wall and his lower body was a breath from her own. She could feel his heat all through her but nowhere but their lips did they actually connect.
Her hands pressed against the cold stone behind her, aching with the need to feel smooth skin over hard muscle.
Before she could give in to it, he broke the kiss and stepped back. “We need to speak to your father again before we leave.”
Continuing to lean against the wall, Ciara could do nothing but nod.
“I will kiss you again.”
Ciara started to nod again but realized what she was doing and shook her head quickly instead.
Eirik’s smile was purely feral. “Gather what you need; we will leave after speaking to the Sinclair.”
How did Eirik do this to her? Her brains had turned to mush, but she wasn’t about to let him see that. She turned and did her best to wrap the sword again in the Donegal plaid.
“When you had your vision, were you touching it?” Eirik asked, pointing to the not-nearly-so-neatly wrapped bundle as the one she’d taken from the trunk.
“How did you know?”
“I did not, that is why I asked.”
“Oh, well…I was. Touching it, I mean.” She sounded like a simpleton and it was all his fault.
“Mayhap we should bring it with us on this quest to find the Faolchú Chridhe then.”
“It is too big for me to wear.”
His lips quirked as if he thought her observation amusing. “It is a man’s sword. I will wear it with my own.”
“Two swords?” She’d seen other warriors with such, but only one long sword and one short one. She’d never seen a warrior carry two long swords before.
“It would be too heavy,” she protested without thinking.
Eirik laughed, his head thrown back, the sound booming in the small bedchamber. “I am a dragon shifter. I could carry an arsenal on my back and still fight with ease.”
No doubt that was true, and she would have thought of it, were her mind not still muddled from his kiss. Regardless, she hesitated to bring her brother’s sword.
“I will not keep it, if that is what worries you. Nor will I lose it. I know the value of our heritage.”
“I know.” She frowned at Eirik, not understanding why he would even think she would be afraid of such a thing. “You might be irritating beyond measure and too arrogant for any one man, but you are no thief and are certainly not likely to misplace a Chrechte king’s sword.”
He was a bloody selfless prince of his people, not even a mere man.
Eirik’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “I’m not sure if that is praise or condemnation.”
“Like you need praise to add to your overweening confidence.”
“Do you not know? It is only overweening if it is not justified. Mine is.”
“No doubt.” He sounded just like her father.
“If not fear of losing it, then why hesitate to bring the sword?”
There was nothing for it but to tell him the truth. “I don’t want to touch it again.”
If she could avoid another waking vision, so much the better.
“You may have no choice.”
“If we have it with us, that is certainly true.”
“You are no coward.”
“I’m not.” Though sometimes she wanted to be.
“We bring the sword.”
She sighed but relented. “Oh, very well.”
He picked it up and donned the scabbard so the sword’s handle rested opposite his own on the other side of his back. “You can finish gathering your things later. We need to find the Sinclair.”
He talked as if she would need some measure of time to do so, but she did not. Making quick work of folding her old Donegal plaid, she put it in the trunk. Then, she grabbed the blanket from her bed before she folded it with a single fur into a bundle she tied with a leather strap. “This is all I need.”
“You are certain?” he asked with a surprised frown.
“Yes.”
“I expected you to bring more…fripperies.”
“Why?”
“You are a woman.”
“Éan women find fripperies necessary, do they?” She could not see it.
The women of his people she’d seen so far among her clan were quite minimalistic in their dress and appearance. Over time, that might change, but for now they still lived much as she was sure they had in the forest.
“No.” He packed a world of the absurdity at such a thought in that single word.
The Sinclair women were not much more focused on their appearance than the Éan that had come to live among them though. “Then why believe I would take a trunk full to travel?”
Not that she thought he would ever stand for that kind of an unwieldy burden on their quest.
Eirik gave a significant look to Ciara’s dress and understanding dawned.
“It is like the cross between a clanswoman and an English woman’s dress. I know. And with too many layers for an easy shift into my wolf form, but Abigail does not despise her homeland like we do. She has no notion of dressing to make a shift easy and quick.”
Eirik frowned. “The laird has not told her that it would be better for you to dress as the other clanswomen?”
“He does not wish to hurt her feelings and no more do I.”
“Hurt feelings cannot always be avoided.”
“I know.” She lived in a keep filled with Chrechte warriors, after all. They were not well acquainted with subtlety or tact, though they tried with their lady. “Abigail has been too kind to me for me to dismiss her feelings though. She is a gentle soul.”
“She must be strong to make the laird such a good mate though.”
“She is. Gentle does not equal weak.”
“But you protect her feelings at the expense of your own comfort.”
“It’s what family does.” And even when Ciara had not wanted to acknowledge she had a family, she’d understood that.
Eirik shook his head, but he didn’t argue any further about the unsuitability of Ciara’s style of dress for a Chrechte.
They found her father in the twins’ room, watching the little boys napping. There was an expression of such love on his features, Ciara’s own heart ached with it. Talorc of the Sinclairs, powerful Chrechte alpha and clan chieftain, insisted on putting his sons down for their nap with a story and soothing touch himself more days than not.
His soldiers didn’t seem to find their training or duties any less rigorous for their laird’s short afternoon respites.
He turned as soon as Ciara stepped into the room. She indicated the corridor with her head and he nodded, but she did not follow him out of the room immediately.
First, she took a moment to place barely there kisses of farewell on her adopted brothers’ foreheads. She did not know how long this quest would keep her from the holding and she would miss them. She’d spent near as much time with them since their birth as Abigail and Talorc. How Ciara had deceived herself into believing she had no family to lose, she was not entirely sure.
The needs of the heart made many things possible.
She smiled mistily down at the boys and prayed for their safety while she was gone. Such sweet lads, but both prone to trouble if not watched more closely than a wounded boar. Brian slept sprawled, his cherubic face showing no sign of his mischievous nature when awake. Drost snuggled into the covers, his favorite wooden knife tucked against him like a doll.
One day he would wield a sword like his father and probably be every bit as hard and uncompromising as the laird as well. These boys would be strong, but their strength would always be tempered by honor and compassion. Just as Talorc’s was, no matter how he might deny the latter.
Her heart full, she crept quietly from the room and followed her father and Eirik down the stairs. They found Abigail and Guaire going over the records of the keep’s stores at the main table in the great hall.
Abigail looked up with a smile for all of them, but her eyes were on Ciara when she said, “I am glad you came to say good-bye before leaving.”
“I would have regardless,” Ciara promised. “But we have a question for, um…father.”
Abigail’s smile became brighter and the laird’s pleasure could be felt in the air around them. So simple a thing, to use the words that had resided in her heart so long.
She wanted to apologize, but both laird and lady’s expression revealed an understanding Ciara would never take for granted.
Abigail made sure they were all seated at the table with watered wine before Talorc asked, “What is your question?”
“I should have asked it this morning, but I am unaccustomed to speaking of my secrets.” It was not quite an admission of regret, but close enough. She hoped.
“You will learn it is safe to share them with your family,” Abigail said softly. “I did.”
The laird smiled at her, a silent message passing between them. “What is your question, daughter?” he asked Ciara.
He’d called her daughter many times, but for today was the first time Ciara had allowed herself to accept the title fully. The word now caused a sweet pain inside her. “I possess a sword that Eirik believes belonged to one of the original Chrechte kings,” she said instead of asking about the luminous caves, surprising herself.
And apparently the others at the table as Abigail gasped, Talorc cursed, Guaire said, “Now, that’s a treasure to protect,” and Talorc growled, swearing a second time. Guaire did not look worried and Ciara was pretty sure the human mate to her father’s second-in-command had nothing to worry about.
“Niall…” her father snarled.
“Has said nothing he ought not to,” Guaire said with the acerbity the seneschal had become known for. He might be almost half the size of his mate, but the man was no pushover. “But I live here. I see things. I know what he does not say, when he does his best to hide things from me. You might recall I was well aware of the import of your and his Chrechte nature long before he would ever have admitted it to me.”
Her father gave Eirik a significant look and the Éan prince just rolled his eyes. “Think you that the Éan have no secrets we carry generation to generation? Whatever treasure you protect with your covert words and actions, it is safe from my curiosity. Guaire is right in saying that the fact your daughter had a sword of a Chrechte king in the trunk at the end of her bed is a secret worth knowing.”
“Because it means she really is a descendant of the original Faol kings?”
“That and the sword itself has power to help her see visions of the sacred stone.”
“Really?” Abigail asked, her soft brown eyes glowing with interest.
Ciara nodded but kicked Eirik’s ankle under the table. He hadn’t needed to share that bit of information.
The look he gave her was bland, but his tone was firm. “No more secrets, remember, faolán?”
Her father’s chuckle stopped the words of protest from fully forming and she simply nodded.
“I take it that is the second sword you wear,” Talorc observed.
“It is.” Eirik went to draw the Faol sword. “Do you want to see it?”
Her father’s nod, his eyes filled with a deep desire she never would have expected sent a sharp stab of guilt through Ciara. She should have told him about the sword long before this. She’d known it was special, even if she had not known its true illustrious heritage.
Eirik drew the sword and laid it on the table, the emeralds in the hilt not glowing like they had in her bedroom, but looking magical all the same.
Her adopted father reached out slowly, his blue gaze dark with reverence. “’Tis truly of the ancient Chrechte. Look at the conriocht on the handle.”
“Pick it up. Try the warrior’s dance with it,” Eirik said in a voice Ciara found compelling, though she found the suggestion odd.
Her father saw nothing wrong with it though, because he did exactly as Eirik suggested. Wielding the sword through the pattern of movement she had seen many times before, he yet managed to make the dance something more than it had ever been.
And Ciara realized the stones in the hilt were glowing now.
Talorc stopped and held the sword like it had been made for him. “The handle is hot.”
“I was taught that none but those of my line could wield the sword given me upon my father’s death,” Eirik said. “That it would accept only a Chrechte of righteous heart as its master.”
“It’s a sword, not a horse,” Ciara’s adopted father said with some disbelief.