28 DANGEROUS WATERS
PACING INSIDE HER alcove, Lara listened to the shrieks outside the walls. Panic thumped against her breastbone. “Gods … what are they doing back here?”
Two nights after Gateway, the Slew had returned.
Fortunately, the guards on the walls had spied dark clouds boiling in from the west shortly before dusk.
They’d managed to get everyone inside in time.
Of course, some of Duncrag’s residents were still without a home, or were still repairing their roundhouses—and so they’d sought refuge inside the broch.
The building was now crammed with fort residents.
They’d put down furs to sleep on in any available space, while warriors and druids kept vigil over the entrance.
They’d boarded up the doors this time, and the bards had begun a protection sain the moment everyone was safely indoors.
Outside, braziers burned bright upon the walls—many more than usual—to chase away the shadows.
“Clearly, Gateway wasn’t enough. They’re back for more souls.”
Lara turned, her gaze spearing Alar. Her husband sat by the roaring hearth—all the fires in the broch had been stoked high tonight—a cup of wine in hand. In contrast to her, he appeared irritatingly at ease. Only the crease between his eyebrows hinted that the return of The Unforgiven bothered him.
Lara put her hands on her hips. “How can we march north with the Slew hunting us?”
Reaching up, he rubbed his jaw. “That’s a problem, I grant you.”
“Any solutions?”
His gaze met hers. “Luckily, we’ll have a fire-wielder with us.”
Lara pursed her lips. “A fire-wielder who doesn’t know what she’s doing.” She swallowed then. “And I’m supposed to be hiding my abilities, remember? Not flaunting them.”
“There are ways to keep the camp secure and keep your secret.” Alar unfolded his long body from the chair and rose to his feet. He then gestured to where a jug of wine sat next to a stack of wooden cups on the nearby table. “I’m getting another … do you want one?”
She hesitated a moment before giving a stiff nod.
She needed to calm down. The broch was secure tonight.
Even so, she couldn’t stop thinking about the havoc those vicious spirits were possibly wreaking in the fort.
Would they rip apart the dwellings they’d already damaged as they hunted?
Would they manage to claw their way into the buildings where Duncrag’s residents sheltered?
Tonight would be endless as she waited to see the damage.
Alar crossed to the table, filled a cup with wine for her, and refilled his own. Their fingers brushed as he handed Lara her drink.
Her breathing hitched.
Her reaction to him unnerved her.
She was both attracted to and repelled by the man she’d married.
He was clever and could be surprisingly protective and supportive of her.
She liked his irreverent sense of humor, his aura of calm.
And often when he looked at her, the intensity of his gaze left her lightheaded and unsettled.
Whenever he walked into a space, her gaze tracked him, and sometimes she caught herself daydreaming about their handfasting night and wishing he’d touch her like that again.
But there was a viciousness to Alar as well.
Like when he’d killed that man. The lout had insulted her—and she’d been about to have him punished for it—but Alar hadn’t shown a shred of remorse after taking his life. Instead, his manner had been aloof ever since.
Even more unsettling was the fact that there was a part of her that didn’t shy away from his darkness.
Moving away from her husband, Lara sat down in her chair opposite him. The howling outdoors rose to a spine-tingling crescendo then, and the flames in the hearth guttered.
Lara’s pulse leaped, and without thinking, she extended a hand toward the fire, clenching her fist and then snapping her fingers straight. The flames roared up toward the smoke vent, and the shrieking subsided.
“How did you learn to do that movement with your hand?” Alar asked, eyeing her as he sat down once more.
She lowered her gaze to the hand in question, frowning. “I don’t know … it’s instinctive. If I clench my fist and focus on the flames, it forms a … connection of sorts. And then, when I straighten my fingers, it seems to do my bidding.”
“Do you have a cairn stone yet?”
She nodded, patting the pouch at her waist, where she kept a lump of smoky quartz. “Mirren found me one … her mother collects such things.” She took a sip of wine then. “Ruari’s been showing me some ‘mind-clearing’ techniques … but I’m not having much success.”
He snorted. “Give yourself some time.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t have any. We’re supposed to be leaving any day now, remember?”
His gaze met hers. “And we shall,” he said firmly. “And we’ll ensure you have the privacy you need to practice every night on the road north. Ruari will help you … and so will I.”
Silence fell in the alcove as their stare drew out.
Lara was the first to look away. “You’re a man of contradictions, Alar.”
“How so?”
“When we first struck our deal, I suspected you’d try to seize power once you got settled at Duncrag … that what you really wanted was my crown. That you were lying to me.” She paused then, forcing herself to meet his eye. “But you’ve stood at my side … encouraged me.”
Discomfort flickered across his proud features.
Warmth stole over her then, embarrassment rising.
She should stop talking now, yet she couldn’t seem to prevent herself.
“I put on a brave front, but I used to feel a bit like a sheltered princess playing at being High Queen. I feared failure … and the judgment of others. But you treat me like there’s nothing I can’t achieve. ”
A pause followed, and Lara’s chest tightened. She couldn’t believe she’d blurted all of that out. His silence made her wish she could haul every word back. Curse her, she’d just handed him a weapon to use against her.
“You give me too much credit,” he said finally, his voice gruff. “I’m not the only one who believes in you.”
“No,” she replied softly. “But you make me feel less alone.”
Alar observed his wife over the rim of his cup.
They were straying into dangerous waters here. His proud young wife, who’d once been so cold, was warming to him. Her pine-green eyes were soft this evening, luminous.
She needed to hide her emotions better.
And he needed to be more careful.
Taking a sip of wine, Alar considered his next words.
Things weren’t going to plan at present.
The warriors Lara had sent after the Shee had come back empty-handed.
The Slew were a problem. His half-sister’s escape had been a blow too.
Fern would return to Sheehallion and tell their father about him.
What would Wynn Sablebane do when he discovered that he had a half-breed son who was now wedded to the High Queen of Albia?
Alar’s pulse quickened. Did he really care?
Meanwhile, Lara watched him expectantly. He wouldn’t continue this conversation though; it was time to change the subject. “I wonder why the Slew have become so unruly,” he murmured.
A nerve flickered in her cheek, disappointment flaring in her eyes. “Once we’ve dealt with the Shee, I intend to find out.” She swallowed, even as her chin lifted. “Then, we’ll put things back the way they were.”
Heat ignited in the pit of Alar’s gut. He welcomed it. Here was his chance to distance himself a little from his wife. “Maybe, there’s no going back.” He swirled the dregs of his wine in his cup. “Have you considered that when your father fell, it marked the beginning of the end?”
She stiffened in her chair, her fingers tightening around her cup. “I refuse to believe that.”
He shrugged. “Look around you. Albia is fractured. The faerie creatures and spirits no longer hide in the shadows. You can defeat the Shee and beat your overkings into submission, but the old order … your father’s world … is dying.”
Her chest rose sharply, anger flaring in her eyes. Jaw tight, she got swiftly to her feet and slammed her cup down on the ledge above the fireplace. “And that’s something to gloat over?”
Alar put aside his own cup and stood up. “Aye … the Marav have ruled with an iron fist for too long.”
Careful, he warned himself then. Don’t say anything you’ll regret.
However, it was as if there were an imp on his shoulder, urging him on.
He moved closer, inhaling her sweet scent.
His breathing grew shallow at her nearness, and his pulse started to hammer in his ears.
Fuck, how he wanted her. She had no idea of the thoughts that had plagued him since their handfasting.
The urges . Right now, all he wanted to do was strip off her clothes, drag her into the furs, and tumble her until they both collapsed from exhaustion. But he wouldn’t.
Leaning in, he brought his mouth close to her right ear. “It’s time for you to share power with the rest of us.”
Lara lay amongst the furs, staring up at the stone ceiling of the sleeping nook.
And all the while, the Slew screamed and wailed. She could almost taste their fury.
Right now, it matched her own. She glanced over at where her husband slept a few feet away. Alar had rolled over with his back to her, although she could tell by the rhythm of his breathing that he was sleeping.
Her jaw clenched. Callous prick.
However, the anger that churned in her belly wasn’t just at him—but herself.
She’d walked right into that.
What was she doing, being so vulnerable with the Half-blood? He’d sniffed out weakness and gone straight for her throat. Even now, the glint she’d seen in his iron-hued eyes, the roughness of his voice as he leaned close made her curl her hands into fists.
He hadn’t needed to be that harsh, yet he’d been making a point.
She squeezed her eyes shut then. They were gritty and sore. She was in desperate need of sleep, yet it eluded her.
Humiliation burned like a hot coal in her chest. Thank the Gods that Bree, Cailean, or Mirren hadn’t overheard that exchange. They’d think she’d lost her wits.
And she had. For a few moments.
But then, Alar had emptied an icy pail of water over her head. He’d reminded her that vulnerability was a weakness and that trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford. He’d told her the old order was ending, that there was no saving it, but he was wrong.
And she’d prove it to the bastard.