Free Maire by Linda Windsor Page B

from him. The maid was as nervous and high-strung as his blooded horses, as fine a representation of womankind as they were of the equine.
Like a filly that has reached its pinnacle of development, yet remains unbroken,
Rowan mused as he studied her proud profile silhouetted against the dim light.
    He’d been right. She was the girl in his dream. The resemblance was too strong to allow for chance when coupled with the fact that she’d come from his homeland.
    “You but say the word if this churlish knave bothers you, Maire, and I’ll give him a taste of a man’s sword.” The threat invaded Rowan’s contemplation, bringing him about as sharply as the woman beside him.
    Maire was clearly surprised to see Declan standing there, feet braced on the deck before them, his manner puffed like a banty cock in full plumage.
    “Emrys has been a man of his word to the utmost, brother. I’m in no danger—” she eyed him for a moment, setting that small chin of hers—“not to say that my own sword would not suffice if I were.”
    The fair Scot nodded with as much concession as the chain and rope riggings gave the leather sails above them. “I did not mean to insinuate otherwise, Maire, but I confess, I cannot help but object to this marriage idea of yours.”
    “It serves Gleannmara well. Now Emrys’s tuath will be ours as well.”
    “And all that sleepy bit of plow pushers will do is fill your belly. You can’t fight with a cow or grain.”
    Rowan smirked. “Nor can an army fight on empty bellies.”
    Declan ignored Rowan’s wry point and switched tactics. “Come join us, Maire. ’Tis your victory we’re celebrating. Mayhap together we can think of an alternative for you.”
    “You’ve offered none thus far, brother. This is the best course I see, and Brude agrees. There’s much to be learned from the songs of the past.”
    So that is the lay of things…
Rowan studied the younger man.
This Declan considers himself more than brother to the queen.
The lad’s anger bellowed through his nostrils like that of a young bull with its herd threatened. The brashness of his nature, it seemed, did not assert itself in matters of the heart. Not that Rowan found fault with that. No doubt the handsome warrior feared she’d cut him down as quickly with her tongue as her sword. Leaning against the rail, Rowan folded his arms, content to watch the exchange with undeniable interest.
    “Then share his fancy bed, but know neither his high ways nor his God will protect you against Morlach when he hears of this treachery. ’Twas Brude’s magic that won at the last!”
    Maire rose to Declan’s heated insinuation that she was less skilled than the Welshman. “’Twas
my
stinger. And it was Brude’s magic that showed me the answer to my problems, whilst you and Eochan faced them with evasive eyes, shuffling feet, and all manner of
ifs.
This man at least meets his enemy head on and honors his word.”
    “We’ll see how quickly his courage and honor desert him when he faces Morlach instead of a woman.”
    Maire glanced expectantly at Rowan, as though not sure which of them had the most reason to take exception to Declan’s outburst. Rowan sensed her confoundment and disappointment when he let the insult ride. No doubt men in her world had lost their heads over less veiled affronts. Keeping a wary eye on the hand Declan placed on his sword, Rowan merely smiled. “And who is this Morlach you speak of, brother?”
    “Evil incarnate,” Declan derided, the disdain in his eyes giving evidence that his estimation of Rowan was dropping by the moment at his lack of spine. “Master of the powers of darkness…and I am not your brother.”
    “A druid? This is the worrisome suitor you speak of?” The chuckle in Rowan’s question was not one of mild amusement. He was as deadly serious as the subject they now broached.
    “Morlach is guardian of Gleannmara,” Maire answered shortly. “The high king appointed him to the task until I