24 BENEATH THE MASK
SEATED BEFORE THE looking-glass—a rectangle of polished silver—while Mirren brushed out her hair, Lara assessed her reflection critically.
A pale, heart-shaped face, with a scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, stared back at her.
In the light of the lamp nearby, her eyes were dark green.
She was attractive enough. Pretty even. Just not to her husband’s taste.
Catching herself, she frowned.
Stop this . This marriage was an arrangement. They were working together surprisingly well these days; sex would just complicate things. She should be relieved he left her alone. She should welcome it.
It was growing late, and the flames in the fire guttered. Outdoors, The Sweeper had gotten up and was now battering the fort. There was a sharp chill in the air tonight, and despite the thick stacked-stone walls of the broch, drafts still managed to push their way in.
Her gaze lifted then to where Mirren ran the hog bristle brush through her hair in long, deft strokes. Her eyes were unfocused, as if she were leagues distant.
Mirren hadn’t mentioned Torran again since the night of Lara’s handfasting.
Neither had they discussed Alar. Her handmaid would listen if she talked, Lara was sure of it, yet something held her back.
In truth, she wasn’t sure how to articulate how she felt about her marriage, or the man she’d bound herself to.
Shades, she was confused.
The heavy curtain swished open, and a tall, lean figure clad in black ducked inside the alcove. And to her consternation, her belly fluttered. However, a moment later, she marked his furrowed brow and tense jaw.
“Good eve,” Alar greeted them, his tone distracted.
Lara tracked her husband as he crossed to a narrow table, where a stack of wooden cups and a jug of ale sat. He then poured himself a drink before draining it in one long draft.
She frowned. Was he upset about something?
“All done.” Mirren stepped quickly back from Lara now. “Do you need anything else?”
Lara shook her head. “No … thank you.”
The handmaid put away the hairbrush and scented oil she’d used to help Lara ready herself for the furs and then nodded to both the High Queen and the prince consort. A moment later, she turned and hurried from the alcove.
“I make your maid nervous,” Alar murmured. “Every time I enter a chamber, she leaves.”
Lara sighed. “It’s not you personally. She’s not comfortable around men, that’s all.” She turned to him then, her gaze sliding over the sweat that gleamed off his naked arms. “Didn’t the training go well?”
“Well enough. Why do you ask?”
“You seem … on edge.”
He huffed a sigh. “It was a tougher session than usual, that’s all.
Lyall was in an aggressive mood tonight.
He bested Dolph and three other opponents before I took my turn with him.
He then tried to hammer me into the ground.
” Setting his cup down, he reached up and massaged his shoulder before wincing. “I should wash before we retire.”
Lara’s belly did another traitorous wee dip. “There’s fresh water and soap in the bathing alcove.”
He drained the rest of his cup and nodded. A moment later, he disappeared through the curtain into the adjoining chamber.
Telling herself not to be a goose, Lara shrugged off the woolen shawl around her shoulders and hung it from the back of a chair. Then, clad only in a thin sleeveless tunic that reached mid-thigh, she padded across the sheepskins to the sleeping nook and climbed inside.
She was lying on her back, cocooned by furs, when her husband emerged from the bathing alcove.
Clad in nothing but a pair of leather breeches, he walked barefoot across the alcove and lowered the iron cover on some of the lamps on the way, dimming the light.
His expression had smoothed over now, his gaze no longer troubled.
When he reached the edge of the sleeping nook, he started to unlace his breeches, and Lara hastily cut her gaze away.
She was still looking up at the stone ceiling when he climbed in next to her and covered himself with furs. “The Sweeper has a vicious bite tonight,” he said as he settled himself. “You can tell Gateway is just a couple of days away.”
Lara sighed. Months of dark and bitter cold awaited, yet she wouldn’t spend them huddled around a fire. Instead, she had The Uplands to take back.
“I appreciate you standing by me during our council meetings,” she said, even as heat rose to her cheeks. It embarrassed her to bring this up, yet she couldn’t help herself. Her advisors—especially Annis, Roth, and Gregor—continued to challenge her. “Your advice has been … valuable.”
Silence followed these words, and she inwardly cringed, wondering if she’d just made a fool of herself. She’d told herself she’d never trust a man again, and here she was extending a blade, hilt-first, to her husband.
“You’re making the right choice, Lara,” he replied eventually, and—curse her—her breathing grew shallow under his praise. “This isn’t the time for indecision. A wavering flame is easy to extinguish.”
She grimaced, knowing he couldn’t see her face. “I suppose my father never campaigned in winter.”
“No, it’s not the ‘traditional’ choice … but we have the advantage over the Shee in the cold, and we’d be fools not to use it.” He paused then. “Besides, wulvers are hardy.”
Lara’s mouth curved. She glanced his way, observing his shadowed profile. The sleeping nook was wide, and he lay around three feet from her. “What was it like living amongst them?”
He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his voice held a slightly strained edge. “They are my people … they gave me a home when everyone else turned their back on me. They saved me.”
He didn’t look her way, although she turned on her side now, observing him with interest. “They did?”
“Aye … remember that story I told you about how Evin mac Darach strung me up by the throat from that pine … and left me to slowly choke?”
“Aye.” She wouldn’t forget it.
“Well, a wulver named Hrol found me. He’d been out fishing in a nearby burn, and he cut me down.” Alar paused then. “I was half-dead by that stage, but he carried me back to the lair he shared with his mate, and they healed me.”
“And you stayed with the wulvers after that?”
“I did. Hrol and Isa became my family for a long while. I spent summers fishing with them in the deep, cold lochs of the north and wintered in the Hallow Woods with their pack. Dolph is their son.”
“Hrol and Isa are dead now then?”
“Aye … they joined the Hearthkeeper over twenty winters ago.”
Lara considered this story, imagining what it would have been like for him to live amongst people who weren’t his own but who treated him like family. It reflected well on the wulvers. He’d piqued her interest, and she wished to learn more. “Did the wulvers make you their leader voluntarily?”
He snorted. “I didn’t force myself on them … they’d never have accepted me if I had. Instead, I earned their respect.”
“And you rallied them?”
“I did.”
Lara propped herself up onto an elbow, eyeing him. “Do you think they’d have ever united without you?”
“Probably not.” His tone had cooled.
“And they want this war?”
He glanced her way, and his grey eyes glinted in the shadows. “They want to live in peace in The Uplands as they once did,” he replied, his tone cutting. “If fighting for you will get them that, they will do whatever it takes.” His expression turned hard. “And so will I.”
Lara observed him, surprised by the vehemence of his answer.
She’d clearly poked him in a tender spot.
His loyalty toward his wulver kin, his drive to get justice for them, appeared to be a subject that made his temper flare.
“The Uplands?” she said finally, choosing her words with care now. “They won’t remain in Duncrag then?”
“Some might,” he replied, looking away. “But the North is where many of their hearts lie.”
She took this in with interest, more questions bubbling up. However, his curtness made her hesitate.
Silence fell between them before Alar’s expression shuttered. “It’s been a long day,” he said, his tone softening a little. “We should both get some sleep.”
Alar laced up his vest, his gaze flicking to where Lara crawled from the sleeping nook. A thin tunic covered her modesty, although the curves of her supple body were clearly visible through it. His gut tightened in response.
A few nights had passed since their handfasting, and during each one, he’d been painfully aware of the woman who slept within arm’s reach in the furs.
The Hearthkeeper forgive him, he wasn’t made of stone. After their conversation the eve before—after he’d told her yet more details about his past—he’d lain awake for a long while, fighting the urge to roll toward her, to sink deep into that soft body again.
Fortunately, he’d restrained himself. He had more important things to worry about right now.
Fucking his wife needed to be low on his list of priorities.
He knew that, but that hadn’t stopped him from sleeping fitfully and waking earlier than usual.
However, studying Lara’s pale face, she appeared to have had a much rougher night.
He frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“I sometimes have prophetic dreams,” she admitted huskily.
He stilled. This lass was full of surprises. “Really.”
She swallowed before nodding. “I had one when Bree first arrived … seven crows sitting on a yew tree. This one was the same.”
Alar’s heart kicked as he finished lacing his vest.
Like most folk, he knew of ill omens. That one warned that someone near Lara guarded a dangerous secret. It had been accurate too—for Bree had once been a Shee spy.
Lara reached for a woolen shawl then and wrapped it around herself. It was cold inside their alcove, for the lump of peat in the hearth had burned down.