“Whatever comes in the days ahead, I am with you,” he said. “If you want to go to the mainland, I will take you there. If you want to remain in the east, so will I. And if you want to venture into the west, let me be at your side.”
She could hardly find the breath to speak. She nodded, and Jack kissed her palm, the cold scar from his truth blade. He slowed their pace, as if he wanted to savor each moment of their joining. His gaze lingered on hers as he found a new rhythm between them, a song they could lose themselves within, and Adaira felt as if he were drawing music from her bones.
The candles burned down into wax remnants; the fire crackled into blue embers. Soon it was just the constellations, the moon, and a gentle wind blowing through the window. The wings of a western spirit. Adaira and Jack, wholly consumed and gleaming, fell asleep entwined in her sheets.
CHAPTER 27
Frae was dreaming of the river. She was standing in it, uncertain if she should follow the water downstream or go against the current to reach home. She saw Moray in the distance, walking toward her.
“Come with me, Fraedah,” he said, and her heart beat with fear.
She turned to run, but the water made her slow, and she knew he was going to catch her.
“Frae,” he growled.
She was afraid to look over her shoulder. His voice was changing, though. It sounded strange when he spoke again, and she realized the dream was breaking.
“Frae? Frae, wake up.”
She startled, opening her eyes to find Mirin hovering above her. It was dark, and for a moment Frae was confused. But then she heard the noise beyond the shutters, beyond the walls of their home. The clash of swords, shouts, and grunts. Horses whinnying, the thump of hooves on the ground. Sounds of pain and fury.
“Mum?” Frae whispered, and terror spun a chill through her. “Mum!”
“Shh,” Mirin said, stroking Frae’s hair. “Remember the rules?” She took Frae’s hand and drew her from the bed. Mirin had laid Frae’s enchanted plaid on the bench, and the sword was already belted to her waist, as if she had been ready for this night.
Frae waited as her mother knotted the plaid over her chest, to protect her heart.
Without a word, Mirin led her into the common room, to the corner by the hearth, where the fire flickered. Frae sat first, and then her mother unsheathed the sword and settled in front of her like a shield. This is nothing more than a dream, Frae thought, leaning into Mirin’s back. But over her mother’s shoulder, she could dimly see the chamber, the shadows and the firelight that fought each other. The violent sounds grew louder, closer, and Frae began to cry.
“We are safe here, Frae,” Mirin said, but her voice was hoarse, and there was fear buried within it. “Don’t cry, my love. We are strong; we are brave. And this will be over soon.”
Frae wanted to believe her. But her thoughts became a roar, and all she could think was, This is just a dream. Wake up! Wake up …
The back door blew open.
The Breccan warriors spilled into the house like a flood, their blue plaids the color of the sky just before dawn. Frae clung to Mirin and watched as they searched the house. They took note of Frae and her mother in the corner, the sword in Mirin’s hands, but the Breccans didn’t approach them.
Frae recognized Captain Torin stepping into the house, blood streaming down his face. One of the Breccans held a dirk to his throat.
This was bad. This was very bad, Frae thought, and she whimpered and buried her face in Mirin’s hair.
It suddenly grew quiet and still in the house, as if ice had formed. Frae lifted her head to see what had inspired this strange reverence.
A tall man stood in the chamber. He was dressed like the other Breccans, but there was something different about him. His face was softer, kinder. His hair was red like fire. Like copper. Like her own, Frae realized, and grabbed the end of her braid. His hands were bound behind him, and Frae wondered what he had done to become a prisoner of his own kind.
The man stared at Mirin, anguished.
Frae could hear her mother’s breath catch. The sword clattered from her hands, and Frae tugged on Mirin’s chemise, thinking she shouldn’t have dropped it.
“Mum!” Frae whispered, tremulous.
But she sensed her mother was far away as she stared at the Breccan and the Breccan stared at her.
“Mirin,” the man said. Her name was sweet in his voice, as if he had spoken it many times before, as a whisper, as a prayer. “Mirin.”
Frae was astounded. Her mother knew him?
Frae felt his gaze shift to her, and she couldn’t fight the draw of his stare. He looked different in the firelight, but she recognized him with a gasp. He had stood in the yard weeks ago. It had been him she had seen, the man who had visited the garden with his horse, staring at the cottage by starlight.