Silence settled inside the broch—a hollow, breathless silence that told Tea she should run.
She did not.
Instead she continued to watch Forcus. Apart from a slender knife at her waist, which she used for preparing vegetables or gutting animals, she had no weapon. Her breathing stilled as she calculated if she could reach for an axe hanging on the wall behind her in time should he leap for her.
The rest.
What she had learned so far was bad enough—she needed to hear no more.
“Your mother was nearly a decade older than me, but I wanted her,” Forcus began, his voice roughening. “Even after she wed Domech, I still wanted her.”
Tea wished for Forcus to stop talking, but now that he began his tale, the words poured out in an unstoppable tide; years of pent-up frustration and rage finally set free.
“She knew how I felt but she kept me at arm’s length,” Forcus continued. “For years I watched her, longed for her. Then, one summer she visited an ailing aunt at Dun Skudiburgh. For once, Domech and her brats did not accompany her, and I finally had my chance. I would convince her she had chosen the wrong man.”
Forcus started to pace then, circling the women as memories of the past consumed him. Tea and Eithni stood, frozen in place while he began to speak once more.
“I was gentle with Fina on the way there, for I didn’t want to frighten her. I wanted her to come to me willingly—some part of me still believed she had never really wanted Domech; that it was me she’d yearned for all those years. But on the way home, I finally couldn’t stand it any longer. I’d spent too long watching her, aching for her. One night, I went to Fina in her tent and tried to kiss her. She struck me across the face, furious—and at that moment I realized that I’d been living in a dream of my own making. She’d never wanted me. Overcome by fury, I took her by force.”
Forcus stopped for a moment, breathing hard as if even the memory of it excited him. He turned to the two women he circled, his gaze hungry.
“It was the most beautiful experience of my life. I put my hand over Fina’s mouth, so she would make no sound, ripped off her clothes and had my fill of her. However, when I was done, she no longer breathed. Too late, I realized that, in my maddened lust, I’d smothered her.”
Forcus’s words fell like hammer blows. Tea reached behind her, fumbling for Eithni’s hand. Her sister’s fingers, ice-cold, laced through hers and squeezed.
“Once I realized she was dead I had to act quickly,” Forcus continued, oblivious to Tea and Eithni’s horror. “I couldn’t let anyone know what I’d done. I waited till the deepest night, and then I crept out and killed the man who had taken the watch. When I was sure I wouldn’t be seen, I carried Fina out into the moor and carved the mark of The Eagle into her flesh, making it looked as if she had been raped and savaged by the enemy.”
Forcus looked up, his gaze pinning Tea to the spot. “I knew Muin mac Uerd wanted her. Years earlier, barely out of boyhood, I attended the gathering of the tribes—I’d seen the way he looked at her. The next morning, I feigned shock with the rest of them when we discovered the man taking the last watch dead, and The Wolf chief’s wife’s mutilated body.” Forcus’s mouth twisted. “The rest you know.”
An icy silence settled, as if the interior of the broch had turned into a great stone cairn burying the three of them alive.
Tea could hear nothing but the thundering of her own heart. Her mind scampered, struggling to take his words in.
It was Eithni who spoke first. “Beast,” she rasped. “May The Reaper torment you for what you have done.”
Forcus snorted, his gaze narrowing with derision. “What a disappointment you’ve been, Eithni. You look so much like your mother but you’re a sniveling shadow compared to her.” He shifted his attention back to Tea. “You on the other hand look too much like your father for my taste. However, I like a woman with fire, and I would have saved you from that marriage, if you’d let me.”
Tea’s belly twisted at his words. She spat on the ground between them in answer, so filled with rage that she could not even speak.
Forcus laughed. “What? Not regretting the handfasting so much now? I see that Galan mac Muin has succeeded in changing you.” His eyes widened as realization dawned. Forcus’s laughter boomed through the empty space, echoing high in the rafters. “You didn’t come here to escape him, did you? You came to confront your brother about the attacks.”
“I certainly hope that’s why she’s here.”
Galan’s voice, low and hard, cut through the laughter.
The mirth died on Forcus’s lips, and he swiveled to see a tall, leather-clad figure stride into the broch. Galan’s drawn sword-blade dripped with blood, and his face was hawkish. Behind him, Tea spied Lutrin and Cal enter the broch, weapons drawn. For the first time, the sounds of fighting outside—the clang of iron and shouts—intruded.
Tea’s heart stilled a moment at the sight of Galan, her breath catching in a mixture of relief and fear that he had followed her.
Forcus drew his own sword, iron scraping against leather. “Come to die upon my blade, Eagle?” he enquired, taking a step toward Galan.
Tea did not know who would have won that fight—having trained with both men she knew them to be of equal ability. However, Forcus was rested, while Galan had ridden a day to reach them and had been forced to fight his way into the broch. Even so, Galan looked formidable, his face all sharp angles, his slate grey eyes gleaming.
But Forcus was deranged and deluded—and that made him dangerous.
Tea could not let him kill Galan; could not let him take someone else from her. Even if her next act cost Tea her own life, she had to do it.
She whipped her boning knife from its sheath and lunged.
Forcus was distracted, his attention fixed upon The Eagle chieftain who strode across the rush-strewn floor to face him. He caught movement to his left at the last moment and swiveled to defend himself from Tea.
Too late.
Her knife slammed up under his ribcage, sending him reeling backward. Tea’s left fist struck out and slammed into Forcus’s jaw, the force of her rage behind it. Forcus took another step back, tripped over a stool and sprawled.
Roaring, he let go of his sword and fell on his back. His fingers fastened around the bone handle of the boning knife embedded in his torso, and he yanked it free. With frightening speed, he twisted, rolling to his feet.
Tea had moved faster. She dove for the sword, her fingers clasping firmly around its worn leather hilt. With a shout of fury that deafened all that heard it, she lunged at Forcus and thrust the blade into the base of his neck.
The warrior gave a choking, gurgling noise and fell to his knees. He stared at her, his pale blue eyes widening in shock. Tea stepped closer still and drove the blade deeper, watching as the life faded from those cruel eyes.
“For my mother,” she whispered hoarsely.
Galan stood a few feet away, staring at the woman who stood over the slumped figure of Forcus mac Vist. He barely recognized Tea’s face, the fury that contorted her proud features. Her storm-blue eyes glittered as she stared unseeing down at the man she had just killed. Tears ran down her face and her body started to quiver.
Still, she held the hilt of Forcus’s blade tight, keeping his body upright long after the life had drained from him.
For my mother.
Galan had heard Tea’s last words but did not understand them. His gaze flicked to where Eithni, ashen-faced and hollow-eyed, approached her sister and wrapped her arms about her.
Something had happened in here prior to his arrival—he could see that. He had sensed it the moment he had stepped through the door. Tea and her sister had been standing by one of the long tables, their bodies rigid, their faces like stone. Forcus had reminded him of a circling predator, the low rumble of his voice the only sound in the empty space.
Galan slowly approached the women. Tea was weeping openly now, as was Eithni. They clung to each other as if they were cast adrift on a wild sea. Tea still grasped the hilt of the sword, her knuckles white from the force of her grip.
Galan stopped next to her and bent down, gently placing his hand over hers.
“It’s over now, Tea,” he said gently. “He’s dead—you can let go.”
His heart twisted when she nodded, her head bowed with the force of her grief. He felt the hand under his relax its grip on the hilt, and he relieved her of the weapon.
Deftly, Galan withdrew the blade from Forcus’s neck, and the warrior’s body slumped over onto its side. Dark blood pooled out under him, soaking into the rushes.
Galan turned his attention back to his wife. It had been such a relief to see her, unhurt and well, but that relief had lasted only a moment. He hated to see her so distressed. Tea was strong; even when she had been upset after Luana’s death he had not seen her lose control.
Yet now he did.
He hunkered down next to the sisters, aware that Cal and Lutrin had followed him inside. They stood a few feet away, their faces tense and worried.
“What happened here?” Cal finally asked, casting a glance back over his shoulder toward the door. Outside, the rest of Galan’s men were dealing with the warriors guarding the broch. It had been a brief but bloody battle—bodies of Wolf warriors now littered the fort.
“I don’t know.” Galan’s gaze shifted back to Tea. Her dark hair had come undone from its long braid down her back and had fallen across her face like a raven’s wing, obscuring her grief from view. Whatever had occurred within these walls, it appeared to have broken his wife.