She tried to hide her own smile in a snort. “I will if you quit acting like you’ve forgotten that I’m half equine.”
“Can’t a man show simple appreciation for female beauty, even if she is part horse?”
Brighid made herself glare at him in mock severity. “Centaurs are not horses.”
“I stand corrected, my beautiful Huntress!”
“Oh, just sit back down. By the Goddess, I’d forgotten how annoying you could be!”
Cu chuckled as he flopped down, reclining back on his elbows and sticking a long piece of sweetgrass in his mouth. Warily Brighid settled herself beside him.
“Relax, I’m not going to bite you.” He grinned boyishly at her. “Probably won’t kiss you, either, although I’m considering it.”
“Cuchulainn!”
“You sound exactly like Elphame when you say that,” he said.
“Which is not necessarily a compliment. You know how uptight my sister can be.”
She shook her head at him. “Act right. It is my dream.”
“We’re in your dream, huh? Well, that explains what I’m doing here. You must have been thinking about me before you slept, and, like a Shaman, you’ve conjured me here. What is it you want with me, Brighid? Are your intentions honorable?” He waggled his eyebrows at her. Her shocked expression had him pulling the grass from his mouth, throwing his head back and laughing heartily again.
And there it was—that endearing, infectious, totally happy laugh that used to boom through MacCallan Castle regularly, causing women’s heads to turn as they stopped and listened and smiled with secret thoughts, and causing men to eagerly join Cu in whatever renovation Elphame had set him to, no matter how filthy and difficult. By the Goddess, he looked young and relaxed and so very happy. Then, with a little sparklike shock, his words registered.
She had conjured him. Just like a damned Shaman. But what had she conjured? Ciara had said that it was during sleep that they were closest to the Otherworld. Could this dream apparition be more than an image created by her own mind?
“What?” Cuchulainn asked, still chuckling softly. “Since when have you become so serious you can’t joke with a comrade?”
“No, it’s…it’s not that.” Brighid fumbled, not knowing what to say. Then she blurted the first thing that came to her mind. “It’s just so damned good to see you!”
“Ah, there, you see? My charms are not totally wasted on you,” he said, chewing the stalk of sweetgrass again.
Brighid snorted. “You needn’t be so cocky. I’m surprised that I have missed you—charm and all.”
“Harrumph,” he snorted back at her. “Huntress, you are a confusing creature—decidedly beautiful, but confusing.”
Brighid raised one eyebrow at him.
“Well, it’s you who said you’ve missed me, but how could that be? We’ve been working side by side for days clearing out that wreck my sister calls a castle.” He winked at her. “Or is this your subtle way of telling me you’d like to spend even more time with me?” He made a great show of sighing. “Go easy with me, Huntress, I am only one man.”
Brighid’s mild annoyance changed to something that felt almost like fear.
“Brighid?” He reached forward and touched her arm gently. “Have I offended you? I thought you knew I only jested.”
“No…I…” She floundered. What was she supposed to say? She stared at the man sitting next to her. He was carefree and kind and charismatic—everything that the Cuchulainn who was at that moment watching over the New Fomorian camp was not. And she knew with a feeling as sure as her knowledge of the habits of the animals he wasn’t a figment of her dreaming imagination. He was the part of Cuchulainn that had been shattered at Brenna’s death, and this part of Cu seemed to be caught in a time before the tragic event. Brighid searched desperately within herself. What should she say to him?
“Brighid? What is it?”
“Cu, you know we’re in my dream?”
The warrior nodded.
“In the waking world we are no longer at MacCallan Castle,” she said slowly.
Cuchulainn sat up straight and took the sweetgrass from between his teeth. “But that’s not possible. Just this evening we worked together to clean out the Chieftain’s quarters as a surprise for El.” His smile faltered only a little. “We can’t be traveling. We’re busy working.”
“Who?” she asked quietly. “Who is busy working on El’s chamber, Cuchulainn?”
“Have you been overimbibing my sister’s stash of red wine, Brighid?” he asked with humor that was obviously forced. “It’s mostly been the three of us—you, Brenna and me.”
Brighid drew a deep breath. “Cu, what you’re remembering…it happened in the past…more than two full cycles of the moon since—”
“No!” With a sharp, jerky movement the warrior stood. “No…” He backed away from her.
“Cu, wait!” Brighid reached toward him, but all she touched was the darkness of her tent as her eyes opened to the fading night.
That was when her headache began. The cold drizzle of the morning had done nothing to dispel it. Brighid had tried to catch Ciara’s eye and pull her aside. She needed to talk to the Shaman about her dream. But the Shaman had been kept busy herding the waterlogged goats.
“You’re setting a fast pace for such a miserable day.”
Cuchulainn’s gruff voice jolted through her thoughts. She looked around and felt a little like she was waking from another dream.
“Sorry,” she said shortly. “I hadn’t realized I’d pulled away from the rest of them.”
A grunt was his only reply. She expected him to turn and ride away, but as Brighid slowed her pace Cu’s gelding stayed beside her. His hair was damp and too damned long. He looked like one of the semiwild goats Ciara had spent the morning wrestling.
“You need a haircut,” she said.
His eyes widened in surprise before they narrowed into the flat, cynical expression that had overtaken his face in the past months. “I do not care about my hair.”
Huh, Brighid’s mind whirred. He was visibly shaken by a normal, personal comment. And something suddenly made sense to her. Everyone had been tiptoeing around Cuchulainn since Brenna’s death, treating him like he was a delicate egg that needed to be sheltered. Even the hybrids were careful with him—not expecting him to stay for dinner and most of the storytelling—allowing him to escape to his tent so he could brood alone. No wonder the joyous part of him had retreated. If she had a choice, she wouldn’t want to spend time with the black cloud that had become Cuchulainn, either.
“Obviously. Your hair looks awful,” she snapped. “You also need a shave and a change of—” she gestured at the stained kilt that was barely visible beneath the goat’s pelt he’d thrown over his shoulders “—whatever it is you claim to be wearing.”
“The more delicate aspects of a gentleman’s toilette have not been foremost on my mind these past cycles of the moon.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.
“Perhaps you’d like to reconsider that Goddess-be-damned attitude, boy.” The Huntress purposefully drew out the word. Granted, she was probably only a year or two older, but she drew her seniority around her like a rich cloak and sent the warrior a haughty look. “By this time tomorrow we’ll be entering Guardian