Galan delayed entering the tent for as long as possible. He ate a light supper with his brothers by the outdoor fire pit, watching the lumps of peat burn bright in the darkness. However, the seeking wind had a raw edge to it.
“Another storm is coming,” Donnel announced, peering up at the dark sky. “I can smell it on the wind.”
Tarl laughed. “All I can smell is burning peat.”
“We should reach the fort before it does,” Galan replied, moodily staring into the fire. He felt his brothers’ gazes upon him.
“What happened?” Donnel asked finally. “After watching you at the feast I thought you’d both be all smiles today—yet you look as if you just wedded The Hag herself.”
Galan threw him an irritated look. He’d already warned Tarl off this subject; clearly the two brothers had not spoken.
“Aye—you should have seen his face this morning,” Tarl added ignoring his elder brother’s frown. “I think the lass wore him out. Maybe she needs a man with greater stamina.”
Donnel roared with laughter at this. “Are you offering?”
“Shut your mouths, both of you,” Galan growled, his patience snapping. “It appears my new wife doesn’t remember much of last night. Her sister made her a draft, a special potion, so that she could go through with our handfasting.”
He glanced up to see Tarl and Donnel staring at him. At least his admission had wiped the smirks off their faces.
“Surely she remembers the handfast?” Tarl asked.
“Aye, and the rest of it too—although she denies it. She wants nothing more to do with me now that the effects of that potion have worn off.”
Tarl’s mouth twisted. “Sounds like female mischief to me. Just throw her down on her back and teach her who rules.”
Despite his foul mood, a smile tugged at the edge of Galan’s mouth. His brother had no idea how he longed to do just that; only such an act would make her hate him even more. For this union to work, he needed to go softly.
Donnel snorted at Tarl’s comment. “Your knowledge of women astounds me,” he said. “No wonder none of them will warm your furs.”
Tarl laughed. “Marriage has turned you soft, brother.” He punched Donnel’s shoulder. “I don’t need them to warm my furs—I’m too busy riding them.”
Donnel punched him back. “One day you’ll tire of just riding them—you’ll want a woman to share your life with, to have your children, to grow old with.”
Tarl smirked. “That day is long off.”
Despite himself, Galan smiled at his brothers’ banter. Since becoming chief he had lost his sense of humor—his brothers reminded him that he was still young. Tarl and Donnel grounded him.
However, it grew late and eventually his brothers made their excuses and retreated to their tents. Galan stood alone beside the smoking fire.
He did not want to face her.
Before arriving at the Lochans of the Fair Folk, he had wondered what his bride would be like—none of his imaginings had brought him to this eventuality. He hated to admit as much but Tea, daughter of Domech mac Bred, had completely unbalanced him. His usual calm, unwavering sense of purpose had started to falter and he felt strangely lost.
Remember why you did agreed to wed her. This union must forge lasting peace.
He turned from the fire and strode toward the tent he and Tea shared. Enough. He could not shy away from his duty. He needed to mend things with his bride, to approach her gently like a skittish pony, and build her trust.
Tea lay on her side, with her back to the glowing brazier, when she heard Galan enter. She had been dozing, teetering between wakefulness and an exhausted slumber, when a gust of cold air warned her of his presence.
Instantly, her entire body went rigid.
Under the furs, her hand went to the sheathed knife she always wore at her waist—one she used for skinning and de-boning animals or chopping vegetables. She had climbed into the furs fully-clothed, unlike her usual habit of sleeping naked.
Galan’s heavy tread stopped behind her and she felt the weight of his gaze settle upon her.
“Tea,” he spoke her name softly, his powerful voice a low rumble. “Are you awake?”
Tea ignored him, feigning sleep.
“I know you’re awake—you’re not breathing,” he continued, a faint edge of amusement creeping into his voice. “You’re a poor mummer.”
Irritation surged through Tea. She rolled over and fixed him in a hard glare.
He met her gaze, his own steady, before favoring her with a slow smile. “That’s better.”
“What do you want?”
“We have not spoken all day—it’s time to break the silence between us.”
“I have nothing to say to a Dun Ringill dog.”
Galan gave a heavy sigh and shrugged off his cloak before unbuckling the heavy leather vest that covered his strong torso. “Your insults become repetitive, wife. Surely you have better names for me than that.”
Stinking pig turd. Maggot spawn. The insults rose within Tea but she choked them back. He was deliberately baiting her, and she would not give him what he wanted.
Galan’s clothes fell to the ground, leaving him stark naked before her. Tea wanted to look away; the sight of him—powerful, tattooed and virile—made her loins melt. Once again, it was a test and she would not satisfy him. Men liked to assert their dominance over women, but she was not easily cowed. Still, she made sure she kept her eyes on his upper torso—far from his manhood.
However, Galan was not looking at her as he stood by the glowing brazier. Instead, his gaze went to the two remaining furs on the other side of the tent. His face was serious when he glanced back at her.
A dark eyebrow quirked. “So that’s how it’s to be? A husband cannot share the furs with his wife?”
The heat in his gaze caused Tea’s pulse to race and she resisted the urge to clutch the furs to her breast in protection. Forcing down her sudden nervousness, she raised her chin and narrowed her gaze. “I won’t have you near me.”
He cocked his head, infuriatingly calm. “You didn’t seem to feel that way last night.”
Anger surged, hot and wild within her. “I told you I was not myself last night,” she replied through gritted teeth. “I took—”
“So you say.” He raised a hand, cutting her off mid-sentence. “But, I think you are just making excuses. The woman I plowed last night is still there—you remember more than you admit.”
Galan strode round to the other side of the brazier, moving with unselfconscious male arrogance. “I’ll let you have your way for now, Tea. You are tired, upset and missing your kin. However, I won’t let you risk peace for my tribe. Tonight you can sleep apart from me—but once we reach Dun Ringill, you and I will share the same furs.” He fixed her with a challenging stare that made her body feel hot while her temper nearly boiled over. “Naked.”
With that, he climbed into the furs and turned away from her.
Tea stared at his broad back, her fingers fastening around the bone hilt of her knife. Just two strides and she could reach him, before plunging it between his shoulder blades.
She would have killed him too, yet something held her in check. Perhaps the fact he had his back to her kept her from stabbing him. Tea preferred to face her enemy, if she was to take his life. Or was it the memories of the night before that still tormented her? He was right, she remembered more than she let on, although she would never say so to him.
Still, Galan’s conceit and dominance turned her vision crimson. If he tried to force himself on her, she would make him regret it.
On the other side of the brazier, Galan stared at the flapping side of the tent and waited for sleep to claim him. Despite his exhaustion, sleep was slow arriving tonight. He could feel Tea’s gaze stabbing into him, her hate emanating across the tent like the glow from a burning forge.
I could have dealt with that better.
He had planned to treat her softly and attempt to win her trust, but her manner had goaded him. She was so haughty … such a savage beauty. He had enjoyed angering her, seeing the rage flare in those deep-blue eyes, watching her high cheekbones flush.
She will never soften toward you at this rate.
Galan inhaled deeply, before letting his breath escape slowly. Tomorrow, he would start again.