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knocked her down and sat on her to force a promise of good behavior.
Artair found himself torn between laughing at the memory, and shedding tears
over Fergus. Gods, Fergus, we're in such a damn pickle without you."
He fetched a bottle of whiskey and three glasses, knowing his brothers would
be along soon. The first drink steadied Artair and he began considering the
implications of the letters he had read. Eanruig's suggestion of foisting her
off on MacIver appealed to Artair more and more. He had written their
chieftain, Duncan MacLachlan about the situation between Darcy and Brodrig,
but getting an answer could take weeks.
"We're back. Tobrytan sauntered in with Eanruig trailing. We took her for a
walk and she was a holy terror the entire time."
"Did you find out anything? Or are we going to have to suffer through another
walk with Darcy. Eanruig dropped into a chair and poured a whiskey.
Artair's eyes went thoughtful and somewhat crafty. Love letters."
"From MacIver to Darcy? Tobrytan propped his elbows on the table, looking
mildly interested.
"They're sleeping together."
"Gaah! Tobrytan smacked the table with his palm. Anyone with the balls to
stick it to Darcy has got to be mad."
"Or very good at what he does. For one thing he's educated. Artair began
ticking off Finn's virtues on his fingers. He's the prince's spiritbrother.
He killed Jondries in single combat. So he's good with his weapons. Sinclair
trained him. So if Darcy needed a paddling, he could give it to her. And I
think Darcy's sweet on him."
"If he got her up the stick... Eanruig suggested.
Tobrytan shook his head with a snort. Darcy's too smart to end up with a bun
in the oven."
"I don't know ... have you seen that moony look she gets when one of his
letters arrive? Eanruig got that hopeful look in his eyes. Love makes a
bitch forgetful of some things."
"Not Darcy. She's not the cubs and cookies type. It would never happen,
scoffed Tobrytan.
"I say we talk him up to her. The fight with Jondries impressed her."
Artair took another drink from his glass, tapped his chin, and thought. Let's
take a ride over to Wolffgard and have a talk with him."
"Have to come up with a good reason for going, or Darcy will get suspicious.
Tobrytan scanned their faces.
"Cahira. Artair's eyes lit up. She has a store and sells books. Darcy knows
how I am about books. I'll go talk to Finn."
CHAPTER SIX
HOSTILITY
Slouched in a comfortable chair in the Great Hall, Kynyr studied the signet
ring on his finger that had turned his life inside out. Tarrant Redhand had
worn that ring when he made love to Cahira. He had promised to marry Cahira
and give their son his name when he returned from a meeting with Romney
Silverpaw about the direction of the war called the Lycan Rebellion. But
Tarrant had never returned. The sa'necari ambushed, captured, and executed
him; thus breaking Cahira's heart.
Kynyr had house duty that day. He had insisted upon retaining control of his
special units despite his changed status. Where the other guardsmyn had once
called them the Bitch Brigade because their primary responsibility was to
guard Aisha, Searlait, and Fianait, they now called them the Prince's Guard.
The change amused Kynyr.
Since all the troubles began, Claw wanted at least one male at large in the
family sections of the manor, watching over his sisters. Frequently there was
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more than one, depending upon Claw's mood, and the gardens and grounds were
patrolled constantly.
Having grown up with so many sisters, Kynyr enjoyed it; and his spiritbrother
Finn did also. That often led to the two of them getting paired for the duty
as they were that day.
Kynyr sat next to Fianait with just enough distance between them that he did
not get in her way as she wove the delicate kazamerie wool on her big loom.
Fianait had always responded well to his questions about the history of their
family even before learning that he was her nephew. His favorite stories
involved Tarrant Redhand and now she knew why.
Fianait took out her scissors and clipped a strand of brown wool before tying
on a green strand for the next row. Kynyr noticed that the ends of the
scissors were blunt and rounded like children's scissors. On impulse, he
glanced at her waist and saw that she carried pouches on her belt, but no
knife. Bitches usually carried a small utility knife, and some of them those
that had to travel alone for any amount of time carried a single fighting
knife. The absence of a blade and the blunted scissors increased the air of
fragility that clung to the elderly bitch in a way that Kynyr found difficult
to define.
Searlait occupied the sofa with Malthus two nieces. Finn sat nearby watching
them.
A basket of wool rested between Searlait's knees and two smaller ones rested
on the floor beside the girls. Each of them had a drop spindle. Ros reacted to
her attempts to teach them how to spin the wool into yarn with sulky boredom.
"I don't want to learn this. Ros lips bunched into a tight pout.
Searlait frowned. You must start learning the womanly arts if you're going to
be part of this household."
Finn perked up at the generic human word womanly and he grinned. All the
little bitches learn this stuff. My sisters did."
Ros snarled at him. I'm not a bitch. I'm sa'necari."
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