Page 27 of Dorchad

Leaving her unsatisfied as he was now should remain in her memory for some time.

He straightened her drawers and her skirts, and drew her to her feet as he stood. She wouldn’t look at him now, her pretty lips trembling. Doubtless she’d weep again, and if she did in front of him the sight of her tears would make him drag her to the ground and fack her until she screamed his name.

Dorchad said no more as he marched her through both gates and into the stronghold, where the laird’s wife intercepted them.

“Rebecca, are you all right? Did those sodding thieves hurt you?” As she hugged her, Lucy eyed Dorchad. “Did you kill them?”

“No, he rescued me,” Rebecca said before he could reply. “I should have listened to him.” She then moved away, turned and fled.

“What on earth?” The laird’s wife stared after her. “Why is she so upset?”

“’Twas my doing, my lady.” He wanted to go after her, but it was better if he stayed far away from the wench until his blood cooled. If ever ’twill.

Cath had been searching the guest room when he heard Rebecca outside in the hall, and quickly slipped into the adjoining room, where through the peephole he watched her come in and hurl herself atop the bed. The scent of her suggested she’d been with an unclean mortal and Dorchad, and had very much liked being with at least one of them. Why she had the smell of two men on her would have to remain a mystery for now, he thought as he walked out into the passage and headed for the garrison hall.

Along the way Sgathan appeared and stepped in his path.

“Dinnae brace my brother just now,” the seneschal warned. “He’s in a mood.”

“Dorchad’s ever in a mood.” Cath wondered how the second most secretive MacRune always knew everything that occurred inside the stronghold. “What happened to the wee healer?”

“The thieves on the island briefly caught her outside the walls. My twin rescued her. Spare me a moment to look at something that troubles me.” Sgathan gestured for him to come inside his work room, and when he did he held out the strangely-made satchel. “’Twas found by a maid, washed ashore near where Dorchad pulled her from the water.”

Cath examined the cloth bag, which had flat but vivid flower renderings on the outside and a top that folded over and clipped to the bottom with a small, brightly-polished latch. He fiddled with it until he could open it, and frowned at the contents: a scarf, a smooth leather pouch, and baubles of different shapes and materials.

“I dinnae ken what purpose the fripperies inside serve, but the bag belongs to the lady,” he told him. “Return the bag to her.”

“What if ’tis the cluet?” Sgathan asked. “I’ve never seen cloth made of flattened flowers trimmed in such metal.”

“’Tis dyed on the fabric, no’ pressed.” He ran his hands over the outside of the bag. “The satchel contains no’ a flicker of enchantment. If ’twas the treasure, we’d sense the magic empowering the cloth.”

The seneschal still appeared unconvinced. “Mayhap ’tis warded somehow.”

Now Cath understood why Sgathan had pulled him into the room to show him the bag. “Go out into the hall.”

“Your beastly skinwork doesnae frighten me,” he said, looking offended now. “’Tis but some wee demons.”

“Do you wish never to sleep through another night again?” Cath demanded. When the seneschal shrugged he started to walk out. Only then did Sgathan wave him off and leave the room himself.

Cath dropped the bolt bar for good measure before placing the satchel on a table and removing his tartan and tunic. The bespelled vest he wore next to his skin, which Rune had made from the skin of his first kill in Elphyne, only came off when his hand touched the front fasteners. He set it aside as the ink in his skin reacted to being exposed by lazily stretching and blinking. Had he been angry, or in any danger, something far worse would have happened.

“Aye, right, lads.” He gestured at the bag. “Tell me truth, ’tis bespelled and shielded, or mortal made and harmless?”

One of the small, snake-like demons on his forearm slithered up over his elbow before striking his chest with its barbed tail. That made the toothy horror inked over his breastbone snap at the serpentine creature before emerging from Cath’s flesh just enough to sniff the bag. The disgusted sound it made told him everything he needed to know.

“My thanks, Fomor.” Once the ink flattened itself once more against his skin he pulled on his vest and tunic, and opened the door to allow Sgathan back inside. “The bag, ’tis harmless. I shall return it to Healer McIan.”

The seneschal nodded and hesitated before he added, “Dorchad’s mood, ’tis worse than ever I’ve seen since we joined the clan. Go carefully with him until it passes, War Master.”

Cath mulled over Sgathan’s warning as he left to continue on his way to the garrison hall. It seemed that the seneschal had only just noticed the chieftain’s temperament, which had been darkening for some years now. He knew Dorchad struggled with some of the same difficulties Cath had wrestled with, including the self-imposed isolation that set them both apart from the rest of the clan. He consoled himself by enjoying as many females as he wished to take to bed, although lately even that had palled; the chieftain’s dark grimness and naturally intimidating demeanor prevented him from doing the same.

So why should he pay so much attention to Rebecca McIan?

Glancing down at the flowery bag with its sodden scarf, Cath detoured to the laundry. There he left instructions to clean the garment and hang the bag to dry, before heading to the garrison hall.

He understood why most of the women at Gealladh turned and ran when they saw the chieftain coming. Yet the wee healer had not. She’d taken to defending the most menacing man among the MacRune, and for a moment he couldn’t fathom why. Then something Tair had told him echoed in his thoughts: We’re no’ wholly dark Fae. ’Tis why darkness ever inspires us to seek the light, for the sake of our mortal blood.

Had Dorchad somehow fallen in love with the redhead?