Her Warrior Slave

Davin’s shoulders lowered slightly, a barely perceptible relaxation. ‘Not yet. Before I let you touch the chest, you must first prove your skills.’

Prove his skills? He’d been carving wood since he could hold a knife. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t bring to life from a block of wood. This is your penance, he reminded himself, swallowing his frustration and resentment.

‘I want you to carve a likeness of my bride Iseult. If I find it worthy of her beauty, I will allow you to finish the chest.’

He might have known. The woman loathed the sight of him, and he didn’t have any desire to spend time with Iseult MacFergus. Yet he had no choice if he wanted to capture her spirit in the wood.

‘If I carve her likeness, you won’t have the dower chest in time for a bridal gift.’ It was a last, fruitless attempt to change his master’s mind.

‘I would like the figure, nonetheless.’ Davin opened the door wider and pointed towards one of the huts. The morning sun illuminated the interior of the ringfort, the glaring light burning his eyes.

‘The smallest hut belonged to our woodcarver, Seamus,’Davin said. ‘Inside, you will find the tools you need.’

‘And the wood?’

‘It is there.’ Davin leaned down and picked up the knife Deena had left behind. ‘You will begin the carving after your confinement.’

Confinement? His knuckles clenched as the full weight of his slavery pressed down upon his shoulders. He was to be punished for running away again. Of course.

‘For three days, you’ll remain guarded, in isolation. If you do as you are told, on the last day the guards will leave, and you’ll be permitted to begin the carving.’ Davin tossed the knife and caught it by the hilt. ‘You should be grateful for Iseult’s mercy. I would have confined you outside for the three days.’

‘I don’t need a woman’s pity.’The words came forth, behind a backlash of anger. ‘There is no punishment I am unable to endure.’

Davin leaned down, the knife glinting. ‘I will not tolerate disrespect towards her. She asked me to grant you mercy. For her sake, I will.’ He turned the blade close to Kieran’s skin in an unspoken threat. ‘I’ll send the guards now. They’ll take you to Seamus’s hut.’ Without another word, he strode outside into the sunlight.

Kieran rolled over and stared up at the ceiling of thatch and wood. He didn’t want to waste his days carving a woman’s likeness. It didn’t matter that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He hardly needed Iseult’s presence to create the image. Already he could see the curve of her cheek, the sadness in her expression.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the vision of the last female likeness he’d created. He’d almost wed Branna, but her heart had belonged to another man in the end.

Treacherous work, indeed.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Davin said.

His offer didn’t make Iseult feel better. Just the thought of being watched by the slave, letting him carve her image, made her nervous.

‘I’d rather not do this at all.’ She moved to a basket of mending Muirne had set aside and picked up a bone needle. The sewing gave her something to occupy her hands. ‘It makes me feel vain. What need do we have of a likeness?’

‘I want it.’ He came up behind her, resting his hands upon her shoulders. ‘I want something of you, for when we are apart.’

‘You’ll see me every day.’She wanted to talk him out of this. No other man had ever shaken her up in this way. There was something about the slave, both terrifying and fascinating.

On the day she’d found him bound outside in the rain, despite the miserable conditions, he had refused to let it break him. He was a fighter to his core. Somehow he’d freed himself, half-dragging his body through the mud in a desperate attempt for freedom.

Would she have done the same?

A pang clutched at her heart. Not for herself. But if she ever received word of her son, then, yes, she would never stop searching, no matter what happened.

Davin had no choice but to punish the slave; she knew that. But she didn’t want to face Kieran again. The idea of seeing him bound to the mound of hostages, exposed to the elements, would only make the man even more savage. Like a wild animal, prepared to strike out at those who harmed him.

She hadn’t wanted to see him again. Not like that. It was why she’d asked Davin to confine Kieran elsewhere. As if hiding him would make him disappear. Childish thoughts. She had to face him sooner or later, but if she showed him her fear, Kieran would only exploit it.

‘Did he harm you?’ Davin asked.

He’d questioned her about it before. And the truth was, he hadn’t.

‘No. It was only words. He was in a great deal of pain.’ She shrugged it off as though it were nothing. Rising to her feet, she took Davin’s hands in hers. His broad palms covered her own, making her feel safe. ‘Is this truly important to you? The carving?’

‘It is. But more than that, it’s part of a gift I want to give you. He’s going to finish your dower chest.’

She wanted to say that it was simply a wooden container, with no meaning. But he’d commissioned Seamus to make it into a work of art, into a treasure. Though Davin wouldn’t say why, she could see that it meant more to him.

She let out a breath. ‘Then I’ll go.’ Laying a hand upon his cheek, she added, ‘And I’ll take a guard with me. You needn’t come. I know your responsibilities to your father are more important.’ As the chieftain’s son, Davin had his own leadership duties. Not only that, but she refused to let this slave believe she was afraid of him.

She would not let an insolent man dominate her. Squaring her shoulders, she prepared herself for what was to come.

Three days later, Iseult strode inside the woodcarver’s hut, as though meeting with the slave were an inconvenience instead of something she dreaded. Be confident, she reminded herself. Don’t be afraid of him.

‘You.’ She pointed at the slave. ‘What sort of spell did you cast upon Davin?’

Kieran turned around, a whetstone and iron blade in his hands. ‘No spell.’ Though it was only a carver’s knife, Iseult’s heart beat a little faster. The way he held the blade intimidated her. He drew it across the whetstone, honing it to a razor’s edge.

She grimaced and dropped the bag of supplies Davin had sent before sitting down upon a tree stump. Outside the hut, she had brought one of Davin’s men. The guard was more than a little irritated, having to watch over her, but it made her feel better.

‘I suppose you know why I am here. For the carving, I mean.’ The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She sounded like a babbling young maiden instead of a calm woman. Of course he knew why she was here.

‘You want an image of yourself out of wood.’ He spoke the words with a casual air.

How could he think that? This wasn’t her idea at all. It was the last thing she desired.

‘It was Davin’s wish,’she corrected. ‘I had nothing to do with this.’She wanted so badly to turn around and run.

But then, from the gleam in his eye, she wondered if Kieran was provoking her on purpose. His black hair hung unkempt about his shoulders, his demon eyes as dark as his soul. His tunic hung upon him, still bloodstained from the marks upon his back.

‘You won’t have to stay long,’ he said. There was a hint of resentment beneath his tone, as if he hated anyone commanding him. He set down the knife, wrapping it carefully in leather before picking up a gouge.

Iseult looked around at Seamus’s hut. She’d visited a time or two, and although the space was by no means built for a family, it was large enough for two people. A pallet stood at one end, a work bench at the other. It was no wider than thirteen feet in diameter, made of wattle and daub. The roof often leaked, as she recalled. ‘You’re staying here?’

‘For now. Until he commands otherwise.’Again, she sensed the rebellion within his voice.

Iseult studied the work bench. Kieran had spent the afternoon preparing the tools, it seemed. Rows of knives and gouges were spread out upon the table, along with wooden mallets and chisels. The air smelled of wood shavings, and he’d built a fire in the hearth.

She sniffed suspiciously, then turned to him. ‘What did you eat this evening for your meal?’

Kieran said nothing, lifting a block of yew. He sat upon a wooden stump, opposite her. His hands moved over the wood, studying it. He was so intent upon it, he didn’t answer her question.

She already knew the answer. He hadn’t eaten at all. And from his pride, this was not a man who would ask for help. She didn’t know what kind of food or drink he’d had during his confinement, but it couldn’t have been much of anything.

It pricked her conscience, to see a man suffering. Even this one, as harsh as he was, did not deserve to starve. If she offered to prepare food, he’d never touch it.