EITHNI WOVE HER way through the dancers—her harp in hand. The feasting was done. It was time to join the other musicians. She would lose herself in her harp for a while.
She made her way through the jostling drunken crowd, heading toward where a young man played the bone whistle. However, she had gone just a few paces when a strong hand fastened around her arm and yanked her back.
“Where are you going, lass?”
Eithni swung round to see Loxa grinning down at her. He was not an ugly man, not like his frightening eldest brother. Yet the arrogance on his face, the lust in his eyes, made him terrifying to Eithni. She wilted under that stare.
“To play my harp,” she replied, hating that her voice came out in a frightened bleat.
“Not before we’ve danced.”
“No, I don’t—”
But Loxa was not listening. His grip on her upper arm was so tight it hurt. He yanked her with him as he strode toward the heart of the dancers. Eithni’s harp flew out of her hand. She dug her heels in and tried to retrieve it, but Loxa dragged her away.
Amongst the dancers he turned to her. They were close to the fire here, the flames dancing in Loxa’s eyes. The heat was blistering against Eithni’s skin.
Loxa yanked her against him, laughing as she struggled. “So you have some fire in you after all, timid Eithni?” He grinned down at her. “I can’t wait to get you in the furs.”
Donnel was not in the mood to join the revelry. Nonetheless, he found himself on the edge of the circle of dancers, a wooden cup of ale in hand. He did not wish to join the crowd, but he did wish to keep an eye on the warriors of The Boar, who were celebrating with raucous abandon.
Flexing his fingers against his cup, Donnel recalled his argument with Galan earlier and felt his anger rise once more. His jaw ached from clenching it.
Galan is wrong. The longer he ignores Urcal, the worse it will get.
Donnel's gaze flicked over at where his eldest brother stood on the edge of the crowd, arguing with his wife again. Tea had fire in her blood. Donnel continued to watch his brother. Over the past months he and Galan had argued frequently. He had accused his brother of cowardice on a few occasions, an insult that could get a man killed. Yet Galan had not lost his temper with him—not once.
Of course Donnel did not truly think Galan craven; those had been angry words spoken out of bitterness. Deep down he knew Galan to be the greatest warrior of them all. Donnel had earned the name ‘Battle Eagle’, but all the Caesars he had slain had been victims to his killing rage, his fury at the world.
Galan was more dangerous, for his anger was far slower to kindle. Donnel had rarely seen the beast unleashed, and he wondered what would happen here if Galan’s temper did eventually snap. Urcal was playing a dangerous game.
The music had increased in tempo, the bone whistle shrill in his ears. Shouts and cries from the dancers lifted high into the night sky. Laughter and cries of merriment drifted across the hillside, and at the heart of it all the great bonfire illuminated the night.
Donnel took a deep draft from his cup, his gaze sliding over the crowd of revelers. And there in the midst of them—surrounded by swirling dancers—his gaze alighted upon Loxa and Eithni.
The moment he saw her, Donnel knew the woman was not there out of choice. Her gaze was wild, her face the color of milk. She struggled against Loxa as he swung her around, his hand gripping her forearm.
Eithni wore a long green tunic this eve, belted around her slender waist. The garment was so long that it nearly brushed the ground. Her walnut-colored hair flew out behind her as Loxa swung her left and right. His face was alive as he watched her, grinning.
Even from this distance Donnel could see Eithni’s eyes glittering with unshed tears. He could also see livid marks on her bicep, as Loxa released one arm before gripping the other.
The music stopped for a moment, and Loxa pulled Eithni into his arms and tried to kiss her. Eithni twisted her face away, pushing at the hard wall of his chest with her hands. The bone whistle and lute began once more, and the dancers resumed their frenzy. However, Loxa did not join them this time. Instead he continued to try and kiss the reluctant Eithni.
Watching them Donnel clenched his jaw once more. He did not want to get involved, but Loxa had taken liberties with that lass ever since their arrival. Something had to be done. Not only that—this was an opportunity for Donnel to vent the aggression that had been growing within him since his arrival at The Gathering.
Donnel dropped his half-drunk cup of ale to the ground and shouldered his way through the crowd. Dancers shifted out of his way although one or two warriors cast him dark looks as he jabbed them in the ribs with his elbows to get them to move aside.
Donnel paid none of them any mind. His attention was riveted upon Eithni. She was speaking to Loxa now; it looked as if she was pleading.
Reaching them, Donnel took hold of Eithni and pulled her out of Loxa’s arms. “You promised me a dance, lass”, he said, raising his voice over the music and laughter.
“Piss off,” Loxa growled. He made a grab for Eithni, but she jumped back, cowering against Donnel. “The girl’s mine tonight.”
Donnel drew Eithni farther away from the warrior. “I think not, Boar. Look at the lass’s face. Look into her eyes. Does that look like a woman who’s keen for your company?”
“Dun Ringill dog.” Loxa spat on the ground between them. “Leave the girl to me—she’ll warm up soon enough.”
“No, I won’t,” Eithni rasped from beside Donnel, speaking out at last.
Loxa’s expression darkened at that, and his gaze narrowed. “What’s this—the mouse speaks up for itself?”
To Donnel’s surprise Eithni held Loxa’s gaze. “Stay away from me, Loxa,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’ve no wish to dance with you.”
Donnel drew Eithni back farther toward the ring of dancers. “You heard her, Boar. Go and find a woman who is willing.”
In truth, after Urcal’s inflammatory words during yesterday’s feast, Donnel was spoiling for a fight. He had never liked the look of Loxa and itched to pummel that sneering face. However, a fierce protective instinct overrode the urge to brawl. Eithni needed his help. His thirst for reckoning could wait.
Loxa’s handsome face was twisted into a grimace of resentment. It was an expression Donnel knew well—one he had seen on Wurgest’s face when he had challenged Tarl for Lucrezia. It was of a grievance that would not be forgotten.
Both Donnel and Eithni had wounded Loxa’s pride. The warrior would remember. Donnel did not care—he hoped Loxa choked on his pride.
Instead he drew Eithni close and stepped into the crowd of dancers. A moment later they were swallowed up by the revelry, and Loxa disappeared from view.
Eithni gasped, sagging against him.
Donnel looked down at her. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “Just scared,” she gasped. “He terrifies me.”
Donnel’s mouth twisted. “I’d wager most women feel that way about Loxa.”
She glanced up at him then, and their gazes fused.
The world stilled. The sound of music and laughter faded and their surroundings drew back. Suddenly there was just the two of them staring at each other, a breathless moment of silence.
Eithni’s expression, the look in those huge hazel eyes, penetrated the shield Donnel had built around him. He had never seen such naked vulnerability, such fear. He could see the edge of panic that bubbled just beneath the surface. Even though he had rescued her, she was afraid of him. She was afraid of all men.
Looking into her eyes, he wondered once again what that man Forcus had done that she appeared so traumatized. It was like staring into the eyes of a wounded frightened animal. Donnel’s chest constricted. He did not want to leave her out here among the dancers; he did not want Loxa finding her again.
Without thinking he scooped Eithni up into his arms and carried her from the fire. On his way through the crowd, they passed Tarl and Lucrezia. Oblivious to their surroundings, the couple were kissing passionately, bodies entwined. Farther on, at the edge of the crowd of revelers, Donnel saw Galan and Tea.
They watched him approach, alarm on their faces. Tea stepped forward. “Is Eithni unwell?”
Donnel shook his head. “Loxa was bothering her,” he said curtly. “I’m taking her to her tent.”
Tea opened her mouth as if to intervene but shut it again when Galan placed a hand on her arm. They both remained silent as Donnel walked on.
Eithni said nothing either, curled against his chest. He could feel her exhaustion, her brittleness. Another wave of protectiveness crashed over him, unlike any he had known.
What’s wrong with me?
Why did he feel this way over a woman who got on his nerves more often than most? Until now he had only ever thought of Eithni as a nuisance. He had been so immersed in his own bitterness that he had never really seen her before, he had never glimpsed the wounded soul beneath her role as healer.
They crossed the encampment, passed the smoking fire pits, and walked toward the line of Eagle tents. Donnel’s tent sat next to Tarl and Lucrezia’s while Eithni’s one was easy to spot. It was small and sat a few feet from Galan and Tea’s.
Donnel ducked into the tent, pushing aside the leather flap covering the entrance. It was a cramped space illuminated by a tiny brazier that bathed the interior in a warm red-gold glow.
Stopping before the fur in the center, Donnel gently lowered Eithni to her feet. As he did so he was acutely aware of her warm, lithe body sliding against his. He inhaled the scent of rosemary from her hair as the fine strands trailed across the bare skin of his arms.
A jolt of arousal went through him, and he felt his groin harden.
He had almost forgotten what lust felt like. He did not welcome the sensation though, for it brought back too many memories that he wished to keep buried. He could not understand why it had crept up on him now.
Eithni stepped back from him and pushed the curtain of hair out of her eyes.
“Thank you, Donnel,” she said, her voice husky. “I appreciate your help.”
“Will you be alright alone here?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m sorry if I appeared feeble back there. Loxa seems to rob me of courage. I need to learn to be braver.”
Donnel watched her a moment before shaking his head. “Don’t apologize,” he said gruffly, “and don’t blame yourself. I know what men like Loxa are capable of. Tell me if he bothers you again.”
Eithni stared back at him before she eventually nodded. “I will … thank you, Donnel.”
Filled with a strange emotion he did not understand, one that made his breathing constrict, Donnel nodded. He then turned his back on her and left the tent.
Out in the cool evening air, he heaved in a deep breath and walked away. However, there was a strange restlessness in him that would not give him peace.
Eithni sank down onto the fur, her limbs suddenly boneless.
The light from the brazier was dim, casting long shadows over the hide walls of the tent. Heaving in a long shuddering breath, Eithni brushed away the single tear that escaped and trickled down her cheek.
Enough, she chastised herself. I must be strong. She appreciated Donnel’s words although she could not bring herself to heed them. I must learn to stand up for myself. One day the likes of Donnel might not be around to protect me—what then?
Eithni had been so scared tonight. When Loxa had hauled her into the dancing, and then dragged her around like a doll, she had felt so frightened she thought she might faint. The way he had grinned down at her had dredged up terrible memories of the past.
Donnel had rescued her.
The feel of Donnel’s arms around her had not frightened her. When he had picked her up and carried her out of the crowd, she had merely let go and huddled in his embrace. She had heard the steady beat of his heart as he had taken her to her tent.
Eithni lay down on her side. She was too tense to sleep, so she listened to the sounds of the revelry and laughter drifting up from the hillside below the camp. She wondered what had happened to her harp. She had dropped it when Loxa grabbed her. It had probably been trampled underfoot during the dancing; she would have to get another made.
Tears stung her eyelids, but Eithni blinked them back. She would not weep. Tomorrow she would talk to Tea; she would ask her for help. She needed to learn how to defend herself. She was tired of cowering. The likes of Tea and Lucrezia would not have needed rescuing tonight.
The night stretched out, and the revelry eventually died down. It took Eithni a while to fall asleep, and when she did it was more of a fitful doze halfway between sleep and wakefulness.
It was early morning—the time of night when the silence was always the deepest, the time when Eithni’s weakest patients would often be taken by The Reaper—when a noise awoke her.
An odd ripping sound, like a sack being torn down the middle.
Eithni stirred and pushed herself up on her fur, blinking as the fog of sleep receded. The embers in her brazier had died, and the interior of her tent was pitch black. For a few moments she was completely disoriented.
Something was wrong. The whisper of cool air against her back alerted her—someone had sliced open the back of her tent. She was not alone.
Eithni’s breathing hitched in her chest, and she scrambled toward the entrance, a cry rising in her throat.
A moment later a hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her scream.