22 HARBORING SECRETS
ALAR STRODE OUT of the broch into the grey afternoon. The temperature had dropped. His breath steamed in the chill air, and the cold prickled his bare arms. Ignoring it, he made his way across the yard toward the gate.
On the way, he passed the chief-enforcer and his second-in-command. Cailean and Torran had been talking, but they halted their conversation as he walked by, their hard gazes tracking him.
Alar ignored the enforcers.
Let them stare.
“Off for another stroll?” the chief-enforcer called out as Alar reached the stone arch that led out of the enclosure and onto The Thoroughfare beyond.
“Aye.”
“Without an escort this time?”
“I don’t need one.”
And he didn’t. Alar carried his fighting daggers strapped to his back. Anyone foolish enough to take him on would regret it soon enough.
Neither man replied to this, and he walked on.
However, Skaal, who’d been sniffing at something by a nearby wall, spied Alar. The fae hound’s ears pricked, and she trotted toward him.
“Skaal!” Cailean barked. “Stay!”
Surprisingly, the fae hound checked her stride before halting. Then, casting the chief-enforcer a reproachful look, she sat down.
Her longing stare followed Alar as he departed.
Outside the walls of the broch, he breathed a little easier.
After decades of living wild, amongst the dark forests of The Uplands, he wasn’t used to being confined.
Like all the brochs of Albia, Duncrag was a stifling, windowless tomb.
The afternoon was dull and damp, but it was preferable to the heavy air within, acrid with peat smoke.
There were numerous vents throughout the broch to let out the smoke, but there weren’t nearly enough.
But that wasn’t the only reason he’d slipped away this afternoon.
He needed some respite—from her .
The events of the past day had unsettled him. He had to find some detachment. Some distance.
He’d told himself he’d be careful with Lara, wary of what he told her, what he revealed about his past. But, already, he’d said too much.
His lovely young wife had a way of prying things out of him.
Before he knew it, he’d told her about how he’d gotten the scar on his face. He never told anyone that story.
Her vulnerability had done something to him. Her last husband had damaged her. And she tried to hide it, but she was lonely. She longed to let someone in—even the likes of him. Alar had been ready to do his duty and fuck her—and enjoy it too—but he hadn’t been prepared for how it had made him feel.
He’d lost control. That couldn’t happen again. Now that their union had been consummated, he wouldn’t touch her again for a while.
And there was that strange incident with the fire. When she’d climaxed the first time, he’d been sure the flames in the hearth and in the cressets burning on the walls had flared bright. It reminded him of the fire he’d seen spark in her ring.
Curious .
There was definitely more to Lara mac Talorc than met the eye.
Jaw set, Alar headed off down The Thoroughfare. Along the way, he passed local women, wearing simple sleeveless tunics with woolen shawls to ward off the chill, who carried wicker baskets under their arms as they shopped.
Heads turned as he walked by. He caught the blend of fascination and distrust in the women’s gazes—not that different from the way his wife looked at him.
After last night though, he’d sensed a change in Lara.
There had been a camaraderie between them as they rode side by side through the fort that morning.
She’d defended the wulvers’ presence here, and he’d stepped in when she needed support.
She was still wary, but she was opening to him—like a timid flower opening to the early spring sun. She wanted to trust someone, even him.
She should be more careful … and so should I.
Alar continued walking, aware of the gazes that tracked him.
He’d given a few speeches during their walk through the fort that morning. The residents of Duncrag still didn’t know what to make of the Half-blood. Nonetheless, they hadn’t expected to see him out alone later in the day.
They all minded him though.
Deep in thought, Alar kept moving. He descended from the top level, through to where his brothers and sisters were housed. The aroma of smoking fish greeted him, a welcoming and familiar smell. Spying their leader, the wulvers called out to him. He waved back but didn’t slow his stride.
Restlessness churned through him, as did the urge to break into a run. He wanted to get out of this stinking fort, to race over the fresh green hills outside Duncrag—sprint until exhaustion beat him down. Until thoughts of Lara no longer unsettled him.
Instead, he kept walking. And before he knew it, his feet had carried him down to the middens. Halting on the edge of them, he screwed up his face at the foul smells drifting across from the pits.
The skin on his back started to prickle then. Glancing over his shoulder, he spied two black-clad enforcers following him at a discreet distance. He’d been so lost in his brooding that he hadn’t noticed them earlier. Cailean obviously thought he needed watching.
Irritated, Alar cut his gaze away, his attention traveling to where the Shee captives shoved piles of foul matter into barrows before wheeling them over to the pits.
And then, acting on instinct, he started walking toward them.
The stench grew eyewatering as he approached, and he took care to breathe through his mouth. His step slowed then. What was he doing?
A handful of enforcers oversaw the captives, their hands resting casually on the hilts of the swords at their hips. Blue-clad bards stood behind them, their voices merging into a low dirge that made the hair on the back of Alar’s arms tingle.
Unlike for the Shee—who worked with pinched faces, their shoulders rounded—the earth magic surrounding them didn’t press down on him like a smothering blanket.
All the same, the odor of pine and ash that now blended with the reek of the cesspits put him on edge.
He’d lived apart from the Marav and their druids for decades; it would take time to grow accustomed to their ways again.
Halting a few yards back, Alar did his best to ignore both the stench and the earth magic, his gaze traveling to where a Shee female with long braided black hair shoveled muck into a barrow.
Like the others, she wore a leather collar around her throat—rather than an iron one like slaves wore—with a rope attached. The ropes tied to each captive snaked along the ground and were secured to a heavy iron stake that had been driven into the ground.
The enforcers weren’t taking any chances with these prisoners.
Standing in the shadow of a large conical-roofed storehouse, he folded his arms across his chest, observing the female.
She was tall, as most Shee females were—nearly his height—and as slender as a blade, although having fought her, he knew she was much stronger than she looked. She’d moved with a fluidity the Marav lacked, her thin steel longsword a blur in the darkness.
As skilled as Alar was, it had been an effort to best her.
Feeling his gaze upon her, Fern Sablebane straightened up, her grey eyes, with their slitted pupils, narrowing when she saw him. Her proud features tightened, and her mouth puckered as if she’d just tasted something foul.
One of the enforcers barked at her, warning her to keep working, but she ignored him. Instead, her baleful gaze drilled into Alar. She likely hadn’t forgiven him for branding her with his iron blade back in Doure.
Moving out of the shadow of the storehouse, he approached her.
“Watch yourself,” an enforcer warned gruffly. “I wouldn’t get too close … these goat-eyed fuckers move like greased eels.”
Alar nodded, taking the man’s point. He halted a few yards distant from Fern, his right hand rising to the grip of one of his daggers. A warning.
A nerve flickered on her smooth cheek. “Come to gloat, have you?”
“Not at all.”
Around them, the noise of the others working—the scrape and squelch, and the creaking of wooden barrows—mingled with the rumble of a busy fort. They stood apart from the other prisoners and the watching druids. If they kept their voices low, they wouldn’t be overheard.
Fern studied him for a few moments before uncertainty flared in her eyes.
Alar knew why. “I look like him , don’t I?”
She jolted. “What?”
“It was dark when we fought … maybe you didn’t get a proper look at my face. But when I learned your name, I knew.”
Her fingers tightened around the shovel she gripped. She looked like she wanted to swing it in his face. “You speak in riddles,” she growled.
Alar held her gaze, tension coiling between them.
Is this wise? He checked himself then. He shouldn’t be here—but when he’d found himself at the middens, he’d been unable to stop himself. In truth, ever since he’d heard the name ‘Sablebane’, it had lodged in his head and given him no peace.
Turn around and leave.
Wise advice, but he didn’t heed it.
“Look closely at my face again,” he murmured. “Whom do I remind you of?”
Her slender throat worked, her slitted eyes narrowing as she stared back. And then, when her chest hitched, he knew she’d made the connection. “No,” she whispered, her voice brittle now. “It can’t be.”
Alar’s chest clenched. He’d spent a lifetime being treated as an aberration. He was used to it, but the horror in her eyes cut deep. Moments passed, and then he forced a smile. “It is.”
“Cailean tells me you took a walk this afternoon.”
Alar glanced up from where he’d been watching the flames dance in the hearth.
He and Lara had retired to their alcove after supper and were relaxing together before bed.
However, it hadn’t taken his wife long to pounce.
“Aye … I saw the two enforcers tailing me earlier,” he replied, even as irritation speared him.
He’d known this conversation was coming, but wasn’t in the mood for it.
“Why did you leave the broch without an escort?”
“I don’t need one.”
“Maybe not before you married me … but now you do.” Seated opposite him, her slender fingers tightened around the cup of wine she held. “You can’t just wander where you want anymore.”
His irritation slid into annoyance.
He wouldn’t have his movements restricted, even by her.
Sensing his rising temper, her brows arched. “What did you have to discuss with Fern Sablebane?”
He sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing a booted ankle across his left knee. Here was the real reason she’d brought up this subject. “Aren’t I allowed to have any secrets?”
“No,” she replied. “Not any longer.”
“It’s personal.”
“And I’m your wife.”
“So, you harbor no secrets then?”
A flush rose upon her cheeks at his challenge. A moment later, she swallowed. The sudden vulnerability of her expression made him kick himself. Stop being such a prick .
“I lied this morning … when I told you I didn’t know who my father was,” he said finally. “His name is Wynn Sablebane. Fern is my sister.”
Lara stilled. Her eyes grew large.
“You didn’t notice my reaction in Doure when we learned her name?” he asked.
“Aye,” she whispered. “You went as white as a shade.” Silence fell then, drawing out before Lara cleared her throat. “So, Fern didn’t know you’re her half-brother?”
He shook his head, even as something deep in his chest twisted. “She wasn’t overjoyed … if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Lara studied him, and he wished she wouldn’t. This conversation needed to end.
“How did you leave things?” she asked, her tone softening. Her sympathy made his gut clench. He didn’t need her kindness.
“She knows I exist,” he ground out. “Although, she wishes I didn’t.”