Chapter 5
Chapter five
LOCKE
She did not smile back at him – this pretty bride of his.
A pity, Locke thought. He’d have liked to catch a glimpse of her open mouth – to see if she really did have serpent’s fangs in the place of teeth, as the rumors suggested.
Rather an important detail for a man to know before his wedding night.
“Good morning, my lady,” he said. “Allow me to formally introduce myself – Locke MacMurchada,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist. “Your humble servant.”
There was no change in her expression, no ripple of recognition for one of the oldest, most respected names in Eire’s long and glorious history – a name that had become synonymous with traitor for so many throughout the land.
Instead, she let her gaze run over him, distant and cool.
“I doubt that,” she said, her voice as low and lilting as the fall of winter snow, “very much.”
“Which part? My humility or my servitude?”
“Both.”
“Well, doubt no longer, my lady. I rather think that we shall be fast friends, soon enough.”
This time, she did smile – no fangs that he could see, but nevertheless unmistakably serpentine. Unbidden, an image rose in his mind – a sinuous beast, a creature birthed from the bowels of nightmares, fangs glistening as it slithered out of the blood-foamed waves. “That seems very unlikely.”
“Why is that?”
Wordlessly, she lifted her bound wrists, and he shrugged.
“Well now, that is hardly my fault. It was not I who treated you so unkindly. That would be that hulking green-eyed brute who dragged you in who put those marks on that pretty face of yours. I myself am more than willing to be your friend, should you allow me to be.”
Her eyes met his, and suddenly he felt as though an icy finger was stroking up and down his spine, slow and cruel. He shivered, and her smile widened. “And what exactly is it that you plan to do with me, Lord Locke, once we have become such good friends?”
Locke knew he should have been afraid, what with the promise of violence simmering in those silver-dark eyes as they latched onto his face with unerring intensity, but he could not bring himself to move away from her, mesmerized by the scent of her, the sight of her – a strangely intoxicating combination of loveliness and lethality, and when he opened his mouth to speak again, the words fell out almost unconsciously, a truth that had been summoned from the depths of his soul and commanded to be spoken aloud, whether he will or no.
“The smartest thing to do,” he said, “would be to kill you immediately, after the stories that I have heard of you.”
Her smile sharpened. “Thank you, Lord Locke,” she said. “Your honesty is much appreciated.”
Locke’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t meant to be honest at all.
She seemed to sense his unease, because her nostrils flared immediately, and he thought again of a sea-serpent, rising out of the waves, coils slick with salt water, forked tongue thirsting for blood.
“So,” she said, rather airily. “What new tales do my fellow countrymen tell of me now, that have sparked such fear in your stalwart heart, Lord Locke?”
With a great effort, Locke forced himself to ignore the disquiet and dread churning through him, and shrugged. “Oh, most of them are quite nightmarish in nature, don’t you know. The tragic fate of poor Arnaud Montrose, for one.”
“I’m afraid that I don’t recognize that name.”
Locke smiled, reaching out to rest the palm of his hand against the tree on which she leaned.
Her gaze never wavered from his face, and a shiver of half-dread, half-excitement rippled through him, rather as though he were preparing to walk barefoot across too-hot coals.
“Och, it was quite the scandal, some time back. He was the cousin to the present king of Albion, and an earl to boot – very powerful man. Beautiful wife, three strapping sons, a truly stunning amount of wealth and lands.” Locke shrugged.
“He lent many soldiers to the king’s general for the war, and in fact sailed with them, straight for the realm of Connacht, and – well.
Perhaps you don’t want to hear the rest, my lady.
It’s not a very nice story, what happened to your home at the hands of poor Montrose and his men.
” She said nothing, and he drummed his fingers idly against the tree trunk.
“Anyway, dear Arnaud returned home, the victorious hero, much richer and much bloodier than he was when he left, but then? Well. One morning, his wife awakened to find him alone in his study, sitting behind his desk, his throat cut from ear to ear, and his…unmentionables cut clean off, if you can believe that.”
“Such a story does not seem fit for delicate ears like mine. I am, if you will recall, a lady.”
“I apologize,” Locke said gravely. “True, you are not used to such violence, innocent flower that you are.”
Her head cocked to the side. “Did they catch them?” She asked presently. “This heartless monster who murdered dear Arnaud, as you called him.”
“Sadly, no. Some say it was a ghost who killed him, one of the thousands of phantoms he’d left in his wake, come back from the grave to take its revenge.”
“I confess,” she said, her tone bored, her silver eyes anything but, “I am at a loss to see what this has to do with me.”
“Nothing, probably. There are no such thing as ghosts, after all.” Locke let his hand fall away from the tree, folding his arms across his chest, his shoulder resting a breath away from her own.
“But I did also hear, interestingly enough, that the earl was known for entertaining troupes of traveling players at his estate in Cymru, and that it was shortly after one such visit that this…tragedy occurred.” He shrugged.
“Interesting, is it not? That – whether be it ghost or no – Montrose’s doom should follow so shortly after such a visit? ”
Rory hummed under her breath. “Well, I have heard that too much sea air can turn men’s minds.”
“And I never said that his was a shoreline estate, my lady,” Locke said, smiling.
“Ah,” she said. “A lucky guess, I suppose.” She raised her bound wrists, burrowing her bloodless fingers into his fur-lined cloak.
He forced himself not to flinch as her wintry touch bled through his clothing, seeping into his skin.
“Forgive me,” she said, “but I am a bit cold. It was, as you can imagine, a rather long night.”
He cleared his throat, the proximity of those icy fingers so close to his vital organs deeply unnerving. “Of course,” he said. “My apologies, my lady. How very inconsiderate of me. Would you allow me to escort you inside my tent so that you can warm yourself and rest?”
“Your tent? Am I not to have my own?”
“Ah.” He blew out a breath, exaggerated and long.
“It seems that it is my father’s will that we share a tent, my lady, you and I – and before I offend those delicate sensitivities of yours once more, I am proposing nothing untoward.
” A slight incline of his head. “I am asking you the honor of your very cold hand in marriage.”
She stared at him, unblinking and hard, but said nothing
“It would only be a hand-fasting,” he continued airily. “A year and a day of wedded bliss, and then we shall go our separate ways and never lay eyes on the other again.”
“I’m afraid that I must decline,” she said after a moment. “Charming as you are –”
“Thank you, I do try.”
“ – I have sworn never to marry, the reasons for which, I think, should be quite obvious.”
“Let me assure you, I support such a decision entirely. One of you is quite enough. However –” He sighed. “I do rather think the marriage should, alas, go forward. Would you indulge me for one moment and allow me to explain my reasoning, my lady?
“What choice do I have but to indulge you? My hands are, quite literally, tied and I am wholly at your mercy.”
“Liar.” She blinked at that, and he moved forward another step to take advantage of her momentary discomfiture.
“Let’s drop the pretense, shall we? You think I don’t know that you could have ended me, ended all of us, within moments of your arrival here?
You think I don’t know those ropes are nothing more but the trappings of what has frankly been a very unconvincing show of helplessness?
Think what you like of me, my lady, but I am not a fool.
I am not my father,” he said, lowering his voice, and her eyes narrowed slightly.
“I know that he is the true reason for this charade. I know that you mean to use me, to take your revenge upon him for what he has done to your family.”
She didn’t flinch in the slightest, but Locke could have sworn he saw something flicker in her eyes. “And what do you know of my family, Lord Locke – or of revenge, for that matter?”
He smiled as he edged closer to where she stood, straight-backed and watchful. “Tell me, my lady. Do you know the story of Cúchulainn, my lady, and how he met his end?”
“What has that to do with my hypothetical revenge on your father?”
“Indulge me,” he said, smiling still, “as I requested, and I’ll tell you anything you wish to know.”
She studied him for a long moment. “Every child born of éire knows the deeds of Cúchulainn,” she said at last.
Locke shook his head. “The deeds, yes, but not, perhaps, the death of him. We prefer our heroes invincible, do we not? Heroes do not die – or at least, not alone, and he did indeed die alone.” She flinched at that, an all-but-imperceptible shudder.
“Cúchulainn was a mere man, after all, despite the divinity of his father Lugh, and like all born of mortal flesh and bone, it was his fate to at last make his way across the star-studded.