Free Morning's Journey by Kim Iverson Headlee

felt less certain. Arthur probably had appointed someone he knew well, which would rule out the Caledonaich and potentially cause more trouble in the ranks. She sighed.
    “Orders, Commander?” A brief hesitation punctuated the courier’s use of her rank.
    She regarded the courier levelly. Orders, indeed. Longing for her husband competed with a twinge of bitterness. Arthur never would face the dual hurdles of race and gender.
    “Dismissed.” The junior officer rendered a passable salute and turned to leave. An idea occurred—not a strictly military one and perhaps not one Arthur would have employed, but she didn’t care. “Take your midday meal with the men here, if you wish, before returning to port.” She wanted no company on the ride back and no more witnesses to her meeting with the reinforcements than necessary.
    He nodded once and strode toward the mess tent, which was attracting more occupants as the shadows shortened and the work crews reached sensible stopping points. As she vaulted onto her horse and spurred the animal toward the hawthorn hedge wall’s main portal, she caught tantalizing whiffs of bread and roasted pork. Her stomach grumbled. She ignored it.
    Ten miles of brooding left her ill prepared for what awaited her at the Dhoo-Glass docks.
    The twoscore and ten Tanroc reinforcements had been culled from the best horse-warriors of Clan Argyll.
    As Rhys and Conall and the others streamed by, she welcomed each with words laced with heartfelt gladness. They greeted her with respect mixed with affection before swaggering toward shore.
    She felt a tug on her braid and whirled around.
    The offender stood before her, hands on hips and a cocky grin painted across his face. She threw her arms around his neck, blinking back tears and releasing a long sigh.
    “Missed me that much did you, dear sister?”
    She let him go and swiped at her eyes, returning his grin. “Beast!” She enjoyed using the familiar epithet, but reality blunted her smile. “Yes, I did. You, and”—she glanced over her shoulder at the last of their clansmen disappearing into the crowd arrayed between the wharfside storage buildings and merchants’ shops—“them.”
    Per clasped her hand. “And Artyr?”
    She turned her head, not to look at Per but beyond him, a hundred miles north and east. “Constantly,” she whispered.
    “He asked me to give you this.”
    Per lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed a lingering kiss.
    Intense longing for her consort threatened to sunder her heart.
    Mercilessly, she reined in her emotions; the Breatanach soldiers would never come to respect her if they saw her in this condition.
    Drawing a determined breath, she thanked him and stepped back to inspect his appearance. Over traditional Caledonach black leather battle-gear he wore a woolen mantle woven of Clan Argyll’s deep blue highlighted with crossing bands of saffron and scarlet. A red-and-green-ringed copper brooch rode the cloak’s folds. Its dragon winked with a sapphire eye, Per’s due as an Argyll nobleman.
    “You have a new legion badge,” she said. To signify his status as an ala commander, the ring of his old badge had been red. Copper designated centurions—infantry, cavalry, and navy alike—but the presence of the dual colors could only mean, “Artyr put you in command of Tanroc?”
    “Who else? No Breatan could hope to keep Conall and the others in line.” He displayed the teasing grin she loved so well. “Your consort is smart enough to know it.”
    She answered him with her own smile. “And is my consort’s brother-by-law smart enough to recognize who’s in command here?”
    Per swept her an elaborate bow. “You have always ruled my heart. Why should this arrangement be any different?”
    “Beast!” As he straightened, she gave his shoulder a playful shove, and he chuckled.
    They stepped off the dock to make way for the dockhands reporting to unload the ship’s hold. Listening to the restless stomping and