Free Elizabeth McBride by Arrow of Desire Page A

his brows. "The fathers, they all want him to
marry their daughters. His mother was the daughter of a
king, you see, so he's in the royal line. Quite eligible, you might say. But Drosten, he won't as much look at a woman
twice."

    "Women! Bah!" Fergus spit out. "Here's a man who's
had no mother since he was a wee thing. How could he
not be a little rough around the edges? You'd think a
woman would expect that, wouldn't you?" He looked
around at his companions for confirmation. Their heads
bobbed.
    "What happened to his mother?" The words slipped out
of Mhoire's mouth before she could stop them.
    The men grew silent. Brian looked down at his hands
and fidgeted.
    "Did she die?" she persisted.
    "He doesna like us to talk about it." The other men
shifted in their positions. Fergus scratched his head.
    Elanta bent toward Brian. "Please tell us what happened."
    Brian fumbled with his spoon. "I canna. It's not a thing
to be spoken of. Has to do with the Danes, you see. Drosten's mother was killed, and his sister stolen away."
    Mhoire stared at Brian, stunned.
    "Did they find her?" Elanta asked.
    "The sister? Nay. Never. Gormach went to Daneland
many times, looking. Drosten did, too, when he was older.
They hired spies." Brian shook his head sadly. "Never
found her."
    " 'Twas a tragedy, that's for sure." Fergus shook his
head. His face crumpled like old linen. "My family-myself, my father, my mother, my brothers-we was all in
the hills with the cattle that summer. That's how we missed
it." He sighed. "Drosten's mother, she was a good woman.
Kind to everyone. Never a harsh word from her. Smart as
a druid. She was the one that ran the holding, truth be told."
    "How old was he when this happened?" Elanta asked.
    "Drosten?" Brian looked at Fergus. "Nine years, perhaps?"
    "More like seven," Fergus corrected glumly. "At most.
Just a wee thing he was. Still gives him nightmares. Tis why he sleeps by himself. Outside. Doesna want to wake
us."

    They all quieted, contemplating the horror of Fergus's
words. Mhoire understood the agony of a mother dying.
And his sister gone, too.
    "Why do you say Drosten never forgave himself?" Brigit
asked. "The poor lad. He was only a child. What could he
have done to fight off the Danes?"
    Brian looked at Fergus and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Fergus tightened his lips and shook his head.
    Suddenly, a voice boomed from the doorway. "What are
you doing in here?"
    Every head bent upward.

     

Drosten loomed on the threshold, brows lowered, his
head almost scraping the lintel. But for an instant Mhoire
saw past his intimidating figure. She imagined the boy behind the man, as tender as new-grown grass, and wondered
how much pain still writhed within him.
    "What is going on here?" He growled a command, but
Mhoire didn't understand it. His men did, and they scrambled to their feet. Drosten pointed to the door, and they
sheepishly filed out.
    "Do you know what he's saying?" Mhoire whispered to
Elanta.
    "I don't know. It must be the old Pictish language. It's
what the Picts spoke before the monks came and taught
them Gaelic."
    Mhoire rose and eyed Drosten warily. He had stopped
speaking and was frowning at the doorway through which
the men had disappeared. "There is no need to shout, Drosten. Your men have done nothing wrong. I'll have no raised
voices in this hall."
    He turned. His blues eyes flared.
    "First of all, I am not shouting. Secondly, I have men
out in that courtyard who have been up all night guarding
this fort and they need to be relieved. We're in a dangerous
situation, and I won't have soldiers lolling over their porridge bowls."
    Mhoire's chin went up. Damn the man! He may have suffered losses, but he had certainly covered them up with
a thick, insolent attitude. "No one asked you to stand a
guard."

    "Do you want to be killed in your sleep?" His voice held
a cutting tone she had never heard in it before.
    "Nay, I don't fancy dying in the