Chapter Nine
Broccan thought his head might explode. He used the few remaining shreds of his self-control to stop himself from massaging his temples.
The last thing he needed was Emer fussing over him—and he had no illusions whatsoever that she wouldn’t smother him with help if she thought he ailed.
That seemed like exactly the sort of woman she was.
As annoying as he found Emer, Broccan didn’t want to hurt her, either. He still owed her an apology for the pie incident, but he wanted to mean it when he said it. Otherwise it was just disrespecting her all the more.
Every stubborn bone in his body screamed in agony as he turned to follow the irritating woman back into the common room. His entire future depended upon his obedience to Emer. Very little still mattered to Broccan. Very little had mattered to him since that winter’s day.
His friends were one of the few things that did.
He didn’t have to like Emer. He didn’t have to talk with her any more than she decreed. But, for his friends, he had to do what she ordered, whether he liked it or not.
“Every morning and every night, I need you to sweep out all the floors and the courtyard,” she instructed, grabbing a broom from behind the long, waist-high wooden table where she prepared all the meals and handing it to him. It was bigger than her.
Broccan took it and started sweeping.
Emer cleared her throat.
He didn’t look up at her. He didn’t want to lose his temper with her again, so he wasn’t about to engage unless ordered to do so.
“Broccan?” When he continued sweeping, Emer’s tone rose. “Broccan, please look at me.”
He stifled a sigh just before it escaped. She’d probably consider that “grumbling.” Instead he halted and looked at her. It was damned hard not to glare, but he did his best.
“I think it would be fun for you to let me know that you heard me speak when I give you orders.” She grinned from ear to ear as she said this, like she actually meant it.
“So, for instance, when I explained about sweeping, you could have replied, ‘with pleasure,’ or ‘as you wish,’ or ‘of course, my queen,’” she giggled. “You know, have fun with it.”
God’s bones. She was like a doll. People didn’t actually say things like that.
“Can I nod instead?” The less he said to her, the better. Broccan knew his own limitations.
She beamed at him, like she was trying to channel the sun itself. “Of course. Thank you.”
The rest of the morning Broccan managed to escape anything approximating a real conversation, in spite of being forced to follow her everywhere.
He swept. He carried buckets of water. He shoveled hay and cleaned the stables.
And she hummed little songs to herself as she cleaned everything else in sight.
“Alright,” she declared after hanging the last of the sheets to dry, “we have an hour or two to get some work done at Oran’s hostelry.
Since you’re so much stronger than me, I was hoping you might be able to help me haul some of these logs down there to split.
” She hoisted a shoulder pole up onto her back, apparently still needing more water and pointed at a pile of logs nearly as tall as Broccan.
Alannah had to have stacked it. He doubted Emer could even reach the top without toppling it.
“Do you have a cart?”
“Aye, but Alannah took our only horse. The others belong to guests.”
Well, that was unfortunate. “I’d rather drag a cart than balance it all in my arms.”
Her pink lips fell apart. “You’re going to drag it yourself?”
“Are you ordering me not to?”
“No,” she hurried, “I just—that.” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll show you where it is.”
Broccan nodded.
Setting down her buckets, she led him behind the stables to a lean-to that sheltered a rickety two-wheeled cart with long handles. Beside it, baskets and buckets sat in neat stacks.
He moved a stack of buckets so that he could free the cart, lifting the long handles and turning toward the firewood. “My only request is that I can walk there alone.”
A shadow slid across her face, like a cloud crossing a field on a sunny summer day. “Of course. I’ll meet you there.” Her smile faltered but a moment. Then she took off, leaving Broccan in blissful silence.
No singing. No humming. No talking.
Quiet.
The walk to Oran’s hostelry took Broccan about an hour.
He challenged himself not to walk slower on account of the cart.
By the time he arrived on the far side of the river, his arms, legs, and back burned and his mood was greatly improved.
His temples no longer throbbed, his chest no longer ached.
If only he could feel this way all the time.
He pulled the cart down the dirt road that used to lead across the causeway, following it toward the very eastern edge of Ath Luain. Buildings sat in cramped little piles on either side of him.
“Hey,” a dark-haired man with a thick beard called to him as he neared the hostelry. “Are you Emer’s new guard?”
“Guard?” Broccan let the cart tilt to a comfortable holding position. “More like her aide.”
“Alannah told me she was leaving a man to guard Emer. Is that someone else?”
Broccan’s brows knitted. “I’m here to help her. I wasn’t told anything about guarding her.” Wasn’t Oran dead already anyway? Broccan had heard all about him, but surely the woman couldn’t have more than one man trying to do her bodily harm.
The man shook his head. “I thought Alannah would have told you. Someone needs to keep a close eye on that girl. She has a tendency to attract trouble.”
Broccan’s curiosity won over his desire to keep to himself. “How do you mean?”
“I’ve been watching them since their parents died. Not as a father, mind you, but as a friend. I’d say Emer had a curse on her if I believed in such things. I can think of five men off the top of my head who’ve tried forcing her into a marriage.”
Broccan took a step to steady himself. He’d never heard anything so ridiculous in his life.
He knew her brothers were missing. He’d never considered her parents, but he refused to believe that anyone who’d lost four of the five people closest to them could smile as much as she did—let alone while being hunted by no less than five men. Perhaps the man was deranged.
Broccan simply nodded, picking up the cart and continuing toward the hostelry. “I’ll be on the lookout, then,” he replied in jest.
“You’d best be.”
Thus far, Broccan was underwhelmed by the people of Ath Luain.
There must be something in the water that made folk delusional, including his own friends.
The squeaking of the cart’s wheels accompanied him the last few feet to the building.
It didn’t take a great stretch of the intellect to realize that he’d probably be chopping wood for the next hour or two, but he headed toward the door to check in with Emer.
He paused, hand on the knob, when he heard a man’s voice.
“I’ll leave her if that’s what it takes! I’m not going one more day until you seriously consider my offer.”
“Eoghan,” Emer’s voice faltered. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t marry you.”
The pounding in his head returned, but for an entirely different reason. Emer wasn’t irritating him. She was scared.
And that was worse.
Broccan didn’t need to hear any more. He threw open the door.
A sniveling man with a scar on his chin stood entirely too close to Emer. He looked like the sort of man whose breath stank no matter how well he cared for his teeth.
“Who are you?” the man demanded.
Broccan stood to his full height, crossing his arms and flexing them as he did so. “Get out.”