Chapter Twenty-Nine

A cold wind teased the back of Barta’s neck, sending chilly fingers through her clothing and down her spine. Snow stung one cheek and obscured what she could see of the Gaels’ settlement through the trees.

She could feel the others of her party all around her—True as ever on her left hand, the rest of their warriors, including Brude, silent as the trees. At her signal, an owl’s call, they would move—the third such raid launched in a seven-night.

The first two had been wildly successful, far more so than she could have hoped. This would be harder—the Gaels expected them now and had set a strong guard around the camp that used to be the Epidii’s own.

But even the most vigilant guard flagged in the pit of the night when the wind blew coldest, and Barta’s band could move very quietly indeed. As during the first two raids, they had their targets chosen—they would fell any guards they met before freeing the Gaels’ ponies and damaging their chariots.

The Gaels would not last the winter here. If they did, they would have to fight without their accursed carts, come spring.

She narrowed her eyes when she caught movement just ahead—a member of the Gaels’ guard walking his line. Far too predictable were these westerners, and she could smell his stink from here. No matter; he would be the first to die by her blade.

She heard True begin to pant beside her, and for an instant her grasp on reality wavered—time shifted and she thought she waited to enter the battle with Loyal at her side.

She shivered. A bad omen?

Surely not. The illusion of Loyal’s company could only give her strength.

She threw back her head and gave the owl’s cry. As silently as that bird in flight, her party moved forward through the trees.

****

“A great victory and no mistake.” Brude’s face shone with savage joy as he made the declaration.

So it was, and Barta could have chortled over it. For once everything seemed to be going the way of the Epidii. The Gaelic guard she’d earmarked had gone down—silently—to her blade. They’d stolen four ponies and destroyed a raft of chariots before slipping away, without losing a single man. Oh, they’d taken injuries—True, as she knew, had suffered two—but none too grave. And for the first time, as they stood around their own fire celebrating, even Brude seemed to have embraced the plan.

Barta eyed True, who bore a slash to one arm—not yet tended—and who lapped uncertainly at his cup of heather ale. No secret that he did not much like the taste of ale and would sooner have water.

But a celebration must include ale, and they did celebrate over the victory behind them—even gloated just a bit as the sun rose.

“The Gaels may follow us,” Gede proposed, a caution.

“They might well try,” Gant declared. “They cannot move as easily as we do through the forest, nor as quietly. They may try and track the ponies we loosed, but most of those scattered. I say bad luck to them.”

Barta met True’s gaze—bright hazel filled with golden lights—and knew what dominated his thoughts. Following each successful raid so far they’d made wild, passionate love fueled by the rush still coursing through their veins.

“Come, let us get that arm of yours tended,” she told him and towed him away by the hand, only half aware of the knowing smiles that followed them.

Had the tribe’s folk accepted True at last? Certainly he could not be more valiant in battle or less stinting in risking his own safety.

Before they even reached the edge of the trees where the Epidii hid their mobile camp, True dragged her to a halt and turned her to face him.

“Do you in truth mean to tend my arm?”

Breathless she answered, “That wound needs care.”

“Later, mayhap.”

“Better at once. I want to put on some of that salve I made—not as good as Mother’s but better than nothing. I know how strong you are, True, but poisoning can so easily set in…”

“Later,” he repeated. “I want you first. Want you, Barta.”

Her bones promptly turned molten. “I want you too. But it will take only a moment. I have the salve here at our bedside.”

“Hush.”

Barta went silent with surprise. Seldom did True order her to anything; rarely did he impose his will over hers. And what did she see in his eyes? Certainty, and a new confidence burning through the rampant desire.

“The arm will take care of itself,” he told her with emphasis. “I will take care of you.”

“Yes.” She did not consciously move forward into his arms, merely fell into the sense of belonging that always swamped her there, the heat of his mouth and the weight of him pressed against her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, mouths joined irresistibly. He carried her so through the misty trees to their bedroll, where he laid her gently.

Hazy and half mad with desire, she lay gazing up at him while he removed his clothing, revealing that long, lean-muscled body she’d come to know so well. Her mouth began to water.

“True…”

“Have I not told you to hush?” Affection spilled from him.

“I merely want to tell you how beautiful I think you are.”

He came down on top of her and began to unfasten her clothing. “I think you are the most beautiful person ever to walk on the face of the world.” His hands moved tenderly, dispensing with her tunic, uncovering her breasts. “But if you were not—if you had a scar across your face and had lost an eye, mayhap, like Pith—I would still love you and would still follow you.”

Barta’s heart clenched in her chest. “Oh, True.”

“Do you know why, Barta?”

Barta shook her head helplessly; she couldn’t imagine. With all her faults, how could she be worthy of this beautiful man’s company? Of his devotion?

“Because the bond between us is so strong.”

“Yes. Love me, True, please.”

He did, slowly at first and with attention that neglected no part of her before fire consumed the both of them together, the act so beautiful that when they lay spent in one another’s arms, tears flooded Barta’s eyes.

She wondered again what miracle had brought him to her, this stranger come out of a dark night with no past and barely a promise of a future, but bearing so much in his graceful hands—strength, devotion, and loyalty only ever matched by one other being.

“Tell me,” she whispered as he lay still inside her in the most intimate of unions, his cheek pressed against hers. “Tell me from whence you came.”

“I cannot, Barta. Do not ask me.”

“Then tell me what you know of the future. Sometimes when we sit in council with the others making our plans, I catch a look in your eyes…”

“What look, Mistress?”

“As if you know how long we will have together.”

He hesitated a moment before he spoke. “I do not. I know only that I want to be with you, I am with you, and that is enough. Live in the moment, Barta, and be satisfied.”

“That has never been easy for me.”

“But you are strong enough to accomplish it, to accomplish anything.”

“I am not strong enough to survive losing you. Anything else, True.”

He drew a breath. “I always told you I may not have leave to stay. I warned you of that again and again, when we spoke of a child. You said—”

“I know what I said. But now winter is upon us, and I’m looking for eternity. I’m a selfish creature, after all. I want reassurance so I can face today and tomorrow, and all the days to come.”

“I cannot give you that assurance. Only my love. It will be yours always and forever—so long as my heart beats and even when it stills once more.”

“Once more?” She drew away far enough to look into his eyes. At such close quarters, with the shaggy hair falling across his brow, he barely looked like a man at all, but somehow familiar for all that. “What do you mean, once more?”

“Have we not all lived many times? Do our spirits not come and go like the seasons, donning new bodies like new tunics? So the gods do teach.”

“You think we knew each other before?” And would that explain the sense of familiarity that dogged her?

“I know it.”

“Ah.” She eased slightly. “But such partings come with age. Surely we will have many seasons.” She knew, given the lives they now lived, age could not be promised. But she voiced the wish like a prayer against the unknown.

“I will make you a promise, True—here and now I will: I lay aside all my selfishness, all my self-interest and my headstrong complaints—for your sake. You come first with me, best and last. And I will trade anything for your company. Do you think the gods are listening?”

“They are always listening.”

“Do you suppose they will, then, permit you to stay with me?”

“I cannot say.”

Earnestly she told him—and told the gods—“I will be a different woman, a better woman, for your sake.”

“I cannot imagine you being better than you are.”

“Oh, True.” The tears in her eyes spilled over. “Then I ask but one thing of you.”

“Anything, Barta.”

“Before the next raid, wed with me.”