Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (45 page)

 
          
She recalls too clearly what Strahan did to
her… and the child she might have borne him. Dishonored, as Ian was
—
giving Erinn a Cheysuli lord will mitigate
her guilt
—

 
          
He
broke it off. It was not his place to delve into Keely's feelings. They were
private.
Kivarna
or no, he should
respect them.

 
          
Sean
combed his beard with two fingers. "Shona is out on the headlands, with
the dogs. 'Twould not be a bad thing to see her alone, rather than cluttered up
by a household."

 
          
Keely
shot him a sharp glance. "She is not a woman for games." She turned
the gaze on Aidan. "Tell her the truth of why you have come."

 
          
Aidan
smiled blandly. "If you like, I will wear a placard."

 
          
His
aunt scowled darkly. "I have good reason for what I say. Too many men
tease and twist a woman. I'll not have it done with Shona."

 
          
Aidan
set down the goblet. "
Su'fala
,
the last thing I would do is tease and twist a woman. I promise, I will be
honest with Shona—I see no reason to play games with a woman I might marry—but
I will not blurt out my reason for coming before the proper moment. What chance
would I have then? If she is anything like you, she prefers honesty to lies,
but there is room for diplomacy. Also courtesy."

 
          
Keely's
eyes narrowed. "Brennan taught you that."

 
          
Aidan
smiled calmly. "My
jehan
has
taught me many things, aye… but I am no more my father than you are your
mother."

 
          
It
was a telling stroke, as he meant it to be. Keely's mother—his granddame, Mad
Gisella—had earned only contempt by her conduct with the Ihlini. The last thing
Keely wanted was to be thought anything like her.

 
          
Keely
raked him with a sulfurous glare. Then her mouth twitched. "
Ku'reshtin
," she said calmly,
flicking a hand toward the door. "Go. I will let Shona deal with you—you
will find her a worthy match." Another dismissive flick. "On the
headlands, as he said. Amidst a pack of hounds."

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
The
turf was lush, thickly webbed, excessively green. None of the nubby rugs in
Homana-Mujhar approached its thick texture, nor even the bear pelts in his own
chamber, so far away. Erinn was much damper than Homana, and its flora
responded with a vigorous, unrestrained growth. Everywhere he looked was
green;
even as he glanced back at
Kilore, falling behind, he thought the mottled gray stones acquired a greenish
hue, as if to blend in with the turf and trees and storm-gray skies.

 
          
So far from home
, he thought vaguely,
feeling the brief pang of regret flutter deep in his belly. He had not, as he
had so belatedly realized in Ashra's company, ever been anywhere. It had never
seemed odd to him—he was sufficiently satisfied with life in Mujhara and
Clankeep—but now he knew himself incomplete. There were places in the world he
could not go, and therefore places in himself he would never know. A man who
chained himself to his home drew a curtain over his eyes, blinding himself to
all the majesty of the world.

 
          
And
yet he proposed, one day, to chain himself to a beast. The Lion of Homana,
acrouch in Homana-Mujhar.

 
          
Is that so bad
? Teel's croak emanated
from overhead; Aidan glanced up.
A man
could have a worse tahlmorra than to be Mujhar
.

 
          
Aidan
was not disposed to argue.
He could
.

 
          
Are you wanting dogs?

 
          
He
frowned briefly, momentarily nonplussed, then followed the raven's change of
topic.
More to the point: do I want the
woman with them
?

 
          
Teel
angled back toward Kilore.
Meet her and
find out
.

 
          
The
raven departed swiftly. Aidan, laughing quietly, looked ahead. The headlands
were flat, a green flood of turf edging toward the sea—except that the edge was
sharp as a blade, dropping off to a chalky cliff. Somewhere along here, Aidan
recalled, his grandsire had ridden a horse off the edge of the world, intent on
escape. Deirdre had bidden Niall do it, to keep his honor intact; he had broken
another part of his honor as he had broken his parole to Shea, Lord of Erinn,
out the circumstances had required it. Had he not gone…

 
          
Aidan
smiled.
Had he not gone, he would never
have married Gisella of Atvia, nor sired four children on her, including my own
jehan—

 
          
In
the distance, something barked. And again. And Aidan, knowing how to read the
nuances of such sounds, stopped walking and held his ground.

 
          
The
river, in full spate, poured across the turf. Ash-gray, smoke-gray, storm-gray,
even palest silver. A handful of hounds—no,
more
—nine
or ten; he could not count them all. But they clearly counted him, ranging
themselves around him. None of them barked, now; the warning had been given.
They waited.

 
          
Bitches,
most of them. Two or three half-grown males, still pups, awkward and gangly.
And one huge male who stood hip-high to Aidan, massive shoulders tensed.
Hackles bristled on neck, shoulders, rump; deep in his chest, he rumbled.

 
          
How many men would test that
? Aidan
wondered in detachment.
How many men
would dare
?

 
          
Not
he. He was no fool.

 
          
The
pups, he saw, were less interested in domination than in seeing who he was. But
the big male—their sire, undoubtedly—was in no mood to allow anyone closer to
Aidan, or Aidan closer to them. And the bitches—how many were there, again?—would
not allow a stranger to harm their young.

 
          
Impasse.
Aidan sighed, wondering how long it would take Shona to release them. He
could
take
lir
-shape and escape this travesty, but he wanted to meet her as a
man, on her terms; taking lir-shape would lend him an advantage he did not,
just yet, want to display.

 
          
Then
he saw her. Distant yet, but approaching, striding along the edge of the cliffs
with no apparent thought for her nearness to danger; hummocky turf curling over
the edge could give and send her to her death. But Shona strode on easily,
smoothly, without haste; could she not call to them? Or whistle?

 
          
No.
He realized that as she came closer yet. She was blatantly unconcerned with any
discomfort or anxiety engendered by the wolfhounds. What concerned her were the
hounds themselves.

 
          
She
came into their midst as one of them, a hand touching here, there; thick long
tails waved. But none of the hounds moved, save to flick an ear, or thump her
hip with a tail.

 
          
Her
language was Erinnish, as expected. Her tone cool, quiet, unhurried.
He
could wait as long as it took. He saw
it in her eyes.

 
          
Aidan
assessed her. Tall.
Very
tall; she
was, he thought in shock, at least as tall as himself. While he did not match
the elegant height of most Cheysuli, he was easily six feet. So was Shona.

 
          
And
big-boned to match her height, with broad, level shoulders. There was no
delicacy in her, or fragility, or anything approaching femininity. She was,
quite clearly, Sean's daughter. Keely, next to Shona, would be shorter,
slighter, leaner.

 
          
A true-born Erinnish, big of bone and
stature…

 
          
Incongruously,
he thought of Blythe. Slender, elegant Blythe, very much a woman. And while
there was no doubting Shona's gender—no man would dare—there was nothing at all
in her reminiscent of feminine Blythe. Whom Aidan had thought beautiful.

 
          
No
, he thought wryly,
that is not in Shona's purvue
.

 
          
But
something was. In movement, in posture, in expression, Shona's gift was
presence
.

 
          
She
was blonde, like Keely and Sean. A wild, unruly blonde, had she worn her hair
cut short. But she did not, and so the curls were tamed. The long, heavy braid—thick
around as his forearm—hung over her left shoulder, dangling to her hip. She had
tied it off with a leather thong ornamented with amber beads. Their color
matched her tunic; her trews were dusty ocher.

 
          
Sean's
daughter indeed: brown eyes observed him calmly. Her features, though perfectly
regular, were not those he might have chosen, given leave. They lacked the
elegant aquilinity of Blythe's. There was no delicacy. It was a strong, almost
masculine face, devoid of beauty or elegance. Its statement was one of
strength. And of unremitting power.

 
          
Something
tickled his belly.
This woman was born
for a throne… it shines out of her like a beacon
—

 
          
He
wondered what Teel would say.

 
          
He
wondered what Shona would say.

 
          
"Enough,"
she said softly in a low, smoky voice.

 
          
For
one odd moment he thought she meant him; that she knew why he had come and was
giving him his dismissal. But he saw the hackles go down; the male wolfhound's
tail waved.

 
          
The
growling stopped. Aidan blinked. The sound had been so low, so infinitely soft,
he had not truly heard it. But with its absence, the silence was absolute. The
threat was dissipated; he felt himself relax.

 
          
"So,"
she said, "you're here. What are ye wanting from me?"

 
          
To marry you
, he said. But only to
himself.

 
          
Blonde
brows arched. "Are ye mute?" she asked.

 
          
Until this moment, no
. Aidan cleared his
throat. "Handsome dogs," he said; the inanity amazed him.

 
          
Shona
considered him. "They'll do," she allowed gently. " 'Tis what I
do, d'ye see? I bred the boyo myself, and all the lads and lasses… but not
all
the bitches, of course. The line
must not get too tight, or the blood will ruin itself."

 
          
Aye
, he agreed fervently.
Much like our own
.

 
          
Shona
gestured briefly. "That one, d'ye see, came from over-island. And that one
from Atvia…" She shrugged. "They're not known for their wolfhounds,
there, but 'twas a line I admired. I brought the bitch in to shore up what was
here
."

 
          
Why are we discussing dogs
? Aidan smiled
weakly. "I like that one there."

 
          
Shona
glanced briefly at his choice. Her contempt, though fleeting, was manifest. Her
smile was barely polite. " 'Tis a judge of wolfhounds, is it?"

 
          
"No,"
he demurred.

 
          
Eyes
crinkled. "Good; the man admits it. He's the worst of the litter, that
lad. A bit crooked in the rear to run down a pack… but you'll be knowing that,
I'm sure."

 
          
"No,"
he said again. "I know nothing about wolfhounds."
And less about myself; this is not a woman I
would
look
at, in Homana
—