Chapter 8 #3
“Yes, but he didn’t mention you’ve all been alive for at least a hundred years.” She waited, and when he didn’t reply she sighed. “I don’t want to believe the entire clan is immortal, but if your father was, then you must have some of his longevity. Why don’t you man up and say something?”
“I dinnae waste my breath on wenches.” Sgathan moved in, caught her chin in his hand, and leaned down until his breath touched her lips. “I should take you to my chamber, and shackle you to my bed, so you may use that pretty mouth to suck me whenever I desire such.”
Her golden lashes flickered, and then the sharp prod of a dagger tip pressed against the front of his trews.
“What’ll you do if there’s nothing left for me to suck, darling?” Lucy countered sweetly.
Generally Sgathan kept all females firmly at a distance, but there was something about this wench that made him want to hug her. Gods, but she could be as heartless and bloodthirsty as his twin.
“I concede, my lady.” He carefully released her and backed away.
“I’m a wench until I have a weapon, and then I’m a lady.” She made a contemptuous sound. “Nice to know how to keep you chaps in line. Threats of castration are even better than a bucket of cold water.”
Sgathan inclined his head and waited for her next demand.
Lucy’s stance eased but she still held the dagger ready. “I’m not kidding about looking for the cluet, you know. One year will pass much sooner than all of you think, and the queen of the demons wasn’t kidding. She’s one of those ‘if I can’t have it, no one can’ types.”
“Aye, so ’tis said.” He wouldn’t tell her just how vicious his sire’s liege could be. “Only the stronghold, ’tis enormous, and our vassals, they’re needed for their work.”
“I’m not asking you to give me all of them, just whoever you can lend me for a few hours every day.” She gestured in the direction of the garrison hall. “We could use some of the clan for the search, too. Can’t you help me out here?”
Sgathan agreed with her thinking, and suspected why she was so set on finding the enchanted cloth.
If the dark Fae queen destroyed the mortal realm, then her future would never come to pass, and she would never be born.
While the clan might be burned alive, Lucy would simply cease to exist—a fate so ghastly the thought made him shudder.
“’Tis much that occupies me of late, my lady,” he admitted.
“I shall see which of the vassals may be spared to aid you. Cath assigns the garrison’s duties, so you must speak with him about recruiting the clan to your cause.
’Twould be better if you bid the laird provide you more aid with your search.
’Twas his command that you be kept from harm.
Mayhap you should permit him to guard your person while you look. “
“That’s not what he wants to do to my person.
” She moved forward quickly as the door to the granary opened and Dorchad stepped inside.
“I think that’s my cue to go back and search fruitlessly with one maid.
Thanks in advance for your help, Seneschal.
Hey, Wanker.” She ducked her head at him, sniffed at his twin and then strode out.
“’Tis a bold lad who swives the laird’s bed slave in a storeroom,” the chieftain said sourly. “Should our brother learn of such, your neck may bid farewell to your head.”
Sgathan regarded him. “She didnae come to me for facking, eejit, and she’s no’ his bed slave. The lady wishes to find the cluet, and sought my aid. I shall give her a few more maids so they may search for that enchanted facking rag. She’s sincere in her worries.”
“Bollocks. That canny wench needs aid as much as I do blade drills.” His expression remained flinty, but his voice softened a degree when he added, “ Dinnae step between Mistress Brooke and the laird. Both shall give you cause to regret your kindness.”
Was Dorchad trying to protect Lucy from Tair? “Brother, I’ve a brain, you ken. I but teased her a wee bit to discourage her. But I cannae refuse her request when all our lives may depend on her success.”
His twin made a rough sound. “As you say. Only remember my warning.”
After the chieftain left, Sgathan walked back to his work room and tried to tally his latest counts, but after a few moments abandoned the task and walked down to the kitchens. There he found Ronan cutting through a great mound of dough to form the pieces into loaves.
“Have you some hot brew?” he asked the cook, who nodded at the kettle hanging over the hearth. Sgathan went to retrieve it, but when he filled a mug with its steaming contents he smelled a particular blend that made him frown. “Who needs a calming brew at mid-day, Cook?”
“Besides you, Seneschal?” Ronan piled the loaves onto a large wooden paddle he used to load the outdoor ovens. “Your chieftain, the war master, and the laird. Night Watch never needs calming.”
“’Tis due to my lady màthair , who raised doves for the noble class, and kindly gifted me her good nature.” Lochran came in through the archway and sniffed the air. “Veg pottage again? You spoil Cath.”
“I cook for the war master as well as you lot,” the cook corrected him. “If I favor him, ’tis because if I anger him, I may come to a sudden and terrible end. I’d rather dark beasts devour me on a moonless night.”
Sgathan’s smile faded. “No, Ronan. You dinnae want such.”