‘Were you going somewhere?’ one of the commanders asked. He wore an iron helm, and a sword rested at his left side. Trying not to show her alarm, she averted her gaze. She never had time to answer before another man emerged from the fortress.
He strode forward, his gaze narrowed upon the soldiers. And the moment she glimpsed his face, her pulse quickened.
Never in her life had she seen a warrior so handsome. He was like the son of Lugh, a god walking among them. He was tall with dark hair that hung below his shoulders. Every perfect feature looked as if it were carved from ice, with steel-grey eyes, an aquiline nose, and a mouth that tightened as he stared at the armed men. He seemed to be assessing their strength and ability to fight. Though he was dressed in ragged, worn clothing, she spied the glint of chain mail beneath it.
He carried no weapons, but she suspected he was not a man who needed them. There was not a trace of fear in his demeanour, and he didn’t seem to care if he lived or died. But when his gaze swept over her, she caught a warning in his eyes, as if he’d ordered her to say nothing. Her cheeks warmed beneath his gaze, and she tried to suppress the embarrassment of such a man watching her.
She lifted her chin, still keeping her face covered by the woollen brat so that only her eyes were revealed. Though it was vain, she didn’t want him to see her scars. For a moment, she wanted to look upon this warrior as if she were his equal.
The man turned to the soldiers and said, ‘Our chieftain would like to know why you’ve come with armed men to Carrickmeath.’
The commander moved forward, two riders on either side of him, armed with spears. His eyes narrowed for a moment as he confronted the man. ‘You have the look of the Ard-Righ about you.’
The man did not seem pleased by the observation. ‘I am the High King’s bastard son. And you still have not answered my question of why you are here.’ His words were iron, revealing his impatience.
‘Brian Faoilin betrothed his daughter to the Ard-Righ,’ the commander answered. ‘And yet, he has not brought the bride to King Rory, despite messengers that we sent over the past few months. The King wishes to know his reasons for delaying the marriage.’
‘Lady Carice has been ill,’ the dark-haired man said. He crossed his arms over his chest and met the man’s accusations openly. ‘The High King already knows this.’
‘I have my doubts,’ the commander said. ‘It looks as if she was about to flee.’ He stared hard at Taryn, and she ignored his gaze, feeling a sudden rush of fear.
He hadn’t seen her face. He thought she was the Lady Carice because her scars were hidden. Her heart beat faster, and she had no idea what to say. Taryn stole another look at the dark-haired god, but he did not deny the soldier’s mistake. Instead, his eyes fixed upon her, and in them, she caught another warning. Whatever was happening, he wanted her to follow his lead.
It was clear that she had to maintain a pretence. A frozen chill washed over her at the thought of such an illusion. It would never work—not in a thousand years. The moment anyone saw her face, they would know the truth.
But whatever it was that the man wanted from her, he would owe her a favour if she did as he asked. She needed his help, more than he needed hers. And for that reason, she met his gaze evenly and gave a slight nod.
‘Lady Carice was not trying to flee,’ he said smoothly, reaching out his hand to her. It was an offer of sanctuary, so long as she obeyed him. Taryn hesitated a moment, for this man was a stranger to her. She had no idea whether or not she should trust him.
His grey eyes were as cold as frost upon stone. There was no trace of emotion or any reaction upon his face. It was as if he cared not what she did.
Taryn took a slight step forward, feeling uneasy about the deception. But she kept her face shielded by the wool, lowering her gaze to the ground. Each step brought her closer to this man, and she had no idea why he wanted to perpetuate such a lie.
But perhaps her acquiescence would lead to the help she needed. One wrong move, and the High King’s men would attack this fortress and bring violence with them—she had no doubt of it.
When she reached the dark-haired god’s side, Taryn could feel the tension stretched tightly between them. She risked a glance at him and sent a pleading look, praying that he would help her.
Despite his ragged appearance, his hard body strained at the wool and hidden armour, revealing a warrior’s build. He crossed his upper arms, and the bulge of muscle made it clear that he had the strength to fight any of these men. But more than that, he held an unshakable confidence.
She took his hand, and he squeezed it lightly in a veiled command to remain silent. She decided that this was her best chance to save her father’s life. All she needed was to maintain the deception long enough to gain their cooperation. Just a little longer.
But the wind tore at her woollen brat, whipping free the dark locks of her hair. She seized the edges of the wool, trying to hide her scarred face.
For a moment, she held her breath, afraid that they had seen her. But instead, the commander gave a nod, as if her identity had been confirmed. ‘What have you to say, Lady Carice?’ He eyed her and remarked, ‘I presume you were trying to flee and realised your mistake.’
She sent another questioning look towards the dark-haired warrior. But this time, he gave no indication of what he wanted her to say. Instead, he seemed to be waiting for her response.
Taryn needed help from the Faoilin clan. Her best means of gaining an army was to offer them assistance in her own way.
‘You are right,’ she told the commander, trying to sound sheepish. ‘I was trying to flee. But then I realised how foolish it would be to do so.’
She lifted her chin, keeping the wool firmly in place to reveal nothing but her eyes. ‘I am Lady Carice. And I suppose you’ve come to escort me to Tara for my wedding.’
Who in the name of the gods was this woman? And why was she here?
Killian had never seen her before, but her presence had been the answer to a dilemma. He had left the fortress, intending to speak with the armed men, and the woman had appeared out of nowhere. The pleading look in her blue eyes was a silent cry for help, and he’d acted on impulse, letting the commander believe what he wanted to.
Because Carice’s freedom depended on the decisions he made now.
These men had come to seize his sister, and it would have ended her chance of escaping. But now, there was a fragment of hope.
The woman had kept her face hidden, and the effect had magnified those beautiful eyes. Her hair was wet from the rain and snow, like a length of black silk. Every man there had been unable to take his eyes from her, and that was why the High King’s men had believed she was Carice.
Fate had delivered a way of saving his sister into Killian’s hands, and he had acted on that instinct. The woman clearly wanted help, and he would give it—at his own price.
Carice wanted to leave, to have her freedom, and this young woman was offering herself as part of the deception. He didn’t know how he would use her—perhaps they could switch places. But for now, he would take her inside, and find out what she wanted later.
His breath became mist in the frigid air, and he kept his gaze fixed upon her. She was terrified and with good reason. Everything rested upon the decision he made now.
‘My men have travelled far,’ the commander said. ‘They need food, wine, and a place to sleep before