The MacEgan Brothers

‘You’re unbearable,’ she said in disbelief.

Kieran tossed the wood aside. It clattered against the side of the hut, startling her with the sudden movement. Unbearable, was he? She had no idea.

He captured her wrist, drawing her forward until she stood before him. ‘That’s right, a mhuirnín. And you’d do well to stay away from me.’

He gave in to his desires, tilting her head back to face him. And learned that her hair truly was as soft as he’d thought it would be.

Iseult stared at him with shock, her mouth drawing his full attention. A few inches further and he’d have a taste of her forbidden fruit.

He held her there, waiting for her to strike out at him. Cry out for help to the guard she’d brought. But she didn’t say a word, just stood there watching him. Only the faint trembling in her hands revealed what she truly felt.

He released her, and Iseult stumbled away from him, shoving her way past the door.

Only after she’d gone did he realise he was also trembling.

About The Author

Michelle Willingham grew up living in places all over the world, including Germany, England and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antiques shows in manor houses and castles, Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance.

She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in English, and received her master’s degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English, and is working on more medieval books set in Ireland. She lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword.

Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at michelle@michellewillingham.com

Previous novels by this author:

HER IRISH WARRIOR *

THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH *

HER WARRIOR KING *

HER WARRIOR SLAVE is a prequel to The MacEgan Brothers trilogy

Also available in eBook format in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone

THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE

* The MacEgan Brothers

HER WARRIOR SLAVE
Michelle Willingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Author Note

When I was growing up, my father used to spend hour upon hour in his wood shop. The smell of wood shavings and sawdust is familiar, and always evokes special memories. Upon a recent trip to Ireland I saw a replica of a medieval lathe and a carved dower chest. I imagined a wood carver creating pieces of furniture and, at night, perhaps carving bits of oak. It was then that the character of Kieran was born. I imagined him as a fierce loner, falling in love with a woman he could never have, the bride of another man. I hope you enjoy Kieran and Iseult’s story and their bittersweet journey towards happiness. For those of you who have read books in my The MacEgan Brothers series, look for a special connection between Kieran and these characters.

Please feel free to visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com to view ‘behind-the-scenes’ photographs from the books. You can also sign up for my newsletter to be notified of future releases. I love to hear from readers, and you may contact me by writing to me at PO Box 2242, Poquoson, Virginia, USA, or via e-mail at michelle@michellewillingham.com

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Thank you so much to Dr Aidan O’Sullivan, Senior Archaeologist Lecturer at the University College of Dublin, for his help answering my questions on medieval woodworking. I appreciate your suggestions and feedback regarding tools and the care of wood carvings.

Also with thanks to my father Frank Willingham, for inspiring me.

Chapter One

Ireland—AD 1102

‘He’s going to die, isn’t he?’ Iseult MacFergus stared down at the bruised body of the slave. Lash marks creased the man’s back, raw and unhealed. His skin was pale with hard ridges of bone protruding, as though he had not eaten well in several moons. Her mind rebelled at the thought of the torment he must have suffered.

Davin Ó Falvey handed her a basin of cool water. ‘I don’t know. Likely I wasted a good deal of silver.’

Iseult sponged at the blood, lowering her eyes. ‘We don’t need a slave for our household, Davin. You shouldn’t have purchased him.’ It was becoming less common among the tribes to own slaves. Her own family had never been able to afford them, and it made her uncomfortable, remembering her lower status.

‘Someone else would have, if I hadn’t.’ He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘He was suffering, a stór. At the slave auction, they beat him until he could no longer stand.’

She covered Davin’s hands with her own. Her betrothed was never one to let a man endure pain, not when he could intervene. It was one of the reasons he was her dearest friend and the man she had agreed to marry.

A hollow feeling settled in her stomach. Davin deserved a better woman than herself. She had done what she could to salvage her torn reputation, but the gossip had not died down, not in three years. She didn’t know why he’d offered for her, but her family had seized the opportunity for the alliance. It wasn’t every day that a blacksmith’s daughter could marry a chieftain’s son.

‘Let the healer tend him,’ Davin urged, his voice turning heated. She recognised the intent in his words, along with the hidden invitation. ‘Walk with me, Iseult. I haven’t seen you in a sennight, and I’ve missed you.’

She stiffened, but forced a smile. Go with him, her head urged. Though Davin had never once held her to blame for her sins, she felt unworthy of his love.

After summoning the healer, Davin took her hand and led her outside. The moon cast its shadow across his face. With fair hair and piercing blue eyes, Davin was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He drew her hand to his bearded cheek. Apprehension sliced through her, for she knew he was about to kiss her. She accepted his embrace, wishing she could feel the same ardour that he felt for her.

Give it time, she urged. But even when she poured herself into the kiss, it was as if she stood outside her body, an observer instead of a participant.

He held her closely, whispering against her ear. ‘I know you don’t wish to become lovers before Bealtaine. But I’d be a fool if I didn’t try to convince you.’

She pulled back, her gaze cast downwards. ‘I can’t.’

Her face brightened with shame, even now. The thought of lying with a man, any man, only brought back grievous memories.

Tension knotted across Davin’s face, but he did not press further. ‘I would never ask you to do anything you don’t want.’

And that was why she felt even guiltier. She didn’t want to lie with him, but what kind of woman did that make her? She’d surrendered to a moment of passion years ago, and paid the price. But now that a man loved her and wanted to marry her, she couldn’t seem to let go of the bad memories.

Davin dropped a hand across her shoulders, kissing her temple. ‘I’ll wait until you’re ready.’

He walked her back to her dwelling within the ringfort, his hand holding hers. When they reached the hut, Iseult paused beside the wooden door frame, as though it were a shield.

‘What will you do with the slave?’

‘I don’t know yet. Possibly he can help with the crops or tend the horses. I’ll speak to him once he’s awake.

‘I will see you in the morning,’ Davin said, regret edging his tone. He kissed her lips again. ‘See what you can do to keep our slave alive.’

Iseult nodded, ducking inside the house. For a moment she stood at the entrance, gathering her thoughts. Why couldn’t she feel the blaze of ardour that women spoke of? Davin’s kisses and affection evoked nothing but emptiness.

What was wrong with her? He, of all men, deserved to be loved. He treated her like a cherished treasure, offering her anything she wanted. It made her feel unworthy of him.

Her heart heavy, she walked inside to join the others. Muirne and her family were busy setting out food for the evening meal. Though the Ó Falveys were not her kin, they’d willingly opened their doors to her, granting her hospitality. Because of them, she had a place to stay while growing accustomed to her new tribe.

And, bless them, it kept her from having to live with Davin’s mother. The chieftain’s wife didn’t like her at all and made no secret of it.

‘Who was the man Davin brought with him?’ Muirne asked. A stout, raven-haired woman who had borne seven children, she fussed over Iseult as though she were one of her own. Without waiting for a reply, she continued, ‘You haven’t eaten this night. Come and sit with us.’ She gestured towards the low table where her other foster-children sat, teasing one another as they devoured their food.

‘He was a slave,’ Iseult answered. ‘Half-dead from what I understand.’

‘Well, that’s not much of a purchase.’ Muirne rolled her eyes and handed Iseult a plate of salted mackerel and roasted carrots. ‘But that’s Davin for you.’ She smiled as if speaking of a saint.

‘Mother, may I have more fish?’ one of the boys asked.

‘And me!’ the other chimed in. Glendon and Bartley charmed her, though the sight of them deepened the ache of loss in Iseult’s heart. Her own son Aidan would have been two years of age now.

Iseult picked at her food, her appetite suddenly gone.

‘Why haven’t you wed Davin already?’ Muirne asked, adding a slice of bread on to her plate. ‘I don’t understand why you’d want to wait until Bealtaine.’

‘Davin asked me to wait. He wants a special blessing upon our marriage.’ When Muirne was about to add even more food, Iseult covered her plate with a hand. ‘I’ve had enough, thank you.’

‘I’ll eat it,’ Glendon offered. Iseult slid the fish on to his plate, and the boy devoured it. Muirne muttered words beneath her breath about Iseult being too thin.

She tried to ignore the criticism. ‘I think I’ll take the rest of this with me and see if the slave is hungry.’

‘You shouldn’t be associating with the likes of him,’ Muirne warned. ‘He’s a fudir, and people will talk.’

Iseult faltered. They would, yes. The wise thing to do was to remain here and not to think about the slave. Likely the man would die, a stranger to all of them.

‘You’re right.’ When Muirne’s back was turned, she tucked a slice of bread into a fold of her cloak. ‘But I’m going to go for a walk. I won’t be long.’

Her friend fastened a knowing gaze upon her. ‘Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Iseult.’

She tried to muster a nonchalant smile, but it wouldn’t come. ‘I will be back soon.’

Outside, the moonlight illuminated a ring of twelve thatched stone cottages. The hide of a red deer was stretched across a wooden frame on one side, while outdoor cooking fires had died down to coals. The familiar scent of peat smoke lingered in the air, and the early spring wind bit through her overdress and léine. She raised her brat to cover her shoulders, seeking warmth from the shawl. Though she had only lived among the tribe since last winter, she was starting to consider the ringfort her home.

At last she stopped in front of the sick hut. Why had she come here? The healer Deena would already have fed the slave and tended him. Her presence would be nothing more than an interference. She almost turned away when the door opened.

‘Oh,’ Deena breathed, touching a hand to her heart. The healer had cared for members of Davin’s tribe for almost a generation, but her hair still held its black lustre. Fine lines edged her smiling mouth. ‘You startled me, Iseult. I was just going to fetch some water.’

‘How is the slave?’ she asked.

Deena shook her head. ‘Not well, I fear. He won’t eat or drink anything. Stubborn, that one is. If he wants to die, that’s his concern, but I’d rather it not be in my sick hut.’

‘Shall I speak with him?’

‘If it pleases you. Not that ’twill do any good.’Deena expelled a sigh of disgust. ‘Go on, then.’

Iseult stepped across the threshold into the darkened room. The hearth glowed with coals, and she smelled the intense aroma of wintergreen and camomile. The slave lay upon a pallet, his eyes closed. Unkempt black hair fell across his neck, his cheeks rough and unshaven. He looked like a demon who’d crawled from the underworld, a dark god like Crom Dubh.

But as a slave, he might have travelled across Éireann. He might have seen her son Aidan or have news. She tried to shut down the wave of hope building inside.

Don’t be foolish, her mind warned. With a countryside so vast, the chances of him knowing anything about a small boy were remote.

‘Will you eat something?’she asked, kneeling beside the pallet.

He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move. Iseult reached out to touch his shoulder.

His hand shot out, crushing her wrist. Dark brown eyes flashed a warning at her, and she cried out with pain.

‘Get out,’ he said. The razor edge of his voice shocked her. He had none of the penitent demeanour of a slave.

Mary, Mother of God, what sort of man had Davin bought? Iseult scrambled to her feet, wrenching her hand away from his grip. ‘Who are you?’

‘Kieran Ó Brannon. And I want to be left alone.’ He rolled over, and Iseult shuddered at the sight of his raw back. The voice of reason demanded that she leave. Now, before he lashed out at her again.

‘I am Iseult MacFergus,’ she said calmly. ‘And I’ve brought you food.’

‘I don’t want it.’

Steeling her voice, she added, ‘If you don’t eat, you’ll die.’

‘I’d rather die than live like this.’

Instead of grief, she sensed a seething rage within him. It terrified her, not knowing what he would do or say. Like a wild animal, he was ready to strike out at anyone offering compassion.

Iseult dropped the food on the ground beside him, not caring if the dirt mingled with the bread. ‘If you’re going to die, do it quickly. Or if you decide to live, know that you’ll not be harmed here.’

Before he could reply, she fled outside. She would get no answers about her son, not from a man such as this. As far as she was concerned, the sooner Davin got rid of this slave, the better.

Kieran Ó Brannon wanted to laugh. It was fitting, wasn’t it, for one of God’s angels to appear before him. After the past season he’d spent in hell, the irony did not escape him.

Her hair was the colour of a sunset, gold and red intertwined. The blue léine and overdress she wore revealed a slim body and long legs. Once, he might have tried to charm a lady like Iseult MacFergus.

But women were not to be trusted, especially not beautiful women. He’d learned that the fairer they were, the more treacherous their hearts.

He stared at the fallen bread. Though his body cried out for food, his mind refused it. He no longer cared what happened to him. If he could encourage death to come sooner, so be it.

The healer Deena returned a moment later. She sat across from him, a foul-smelling decoction in her mortar. Her black hair hung down in a long braid, covered by a length of linen.

‘Why do you want to die, lad?’ she asked.

She reminded him of his grandmother, a brook-no-foolishness woman who spoke whatever was on her mind. When he didn’t answer, she prodded again. ‘Now, then, I know you can speak, as you nearly frightened Iseult to death. You must know that it won’t work with me. I can be quite a force to be reckoned with. Not to mention, I’ll be preparing your food and drink for the next few weeks.’

His head ached from her chatter. She had kept up a stream of talking while she mixed up God only knew what in her mortar.

At last he answered, if for no other reason than to make her cease the noise. ‘Why would I want to live?’

She shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. She’d won and knew it, too.

‘You’re an intelligent one, aren’t you, lad? Somewhere, you’ve got a family. And you’ll live because your kin would want it so.’

Had she read him that easily? Was she a soothsayer, as well as a healer? The unwanted memory of his younger brother sprang forth from his mind, Egan pleading for help. Like a cold blade, it sliced open his guilt, making him bleed from it.

His kin would rather see him dead.

But when she started to talk again, he shut off his emotions and picked up the fallen bread.

You don’t deserve it. You deserve to starve, like the rest of your tribe.

He shut out the voice and ate. It tasted as dry as it looked, but the vicious hunger inside him begged for more.

Deena handed him a clay cup, and he took it with shaking hands. He was so thirsty, he didn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten or drunk. When he tasted the bitter wine, he nearly choked at the vile taste.

Deena chuckled again. ‘It’s to make you sleep, lad. You’ll need to be on your feet again soon.’

If it would bring about forgetfulness, he’d drink it all. Without argument, he drained the vessel.

The healer spread the herbal mixture on his back, and, as promised, the cooling effect of the medicine did ease the pain of his wounds. The lash marks weren’t as deep as others he’d endured. He welcomed the pain, for it was a physical act of contrition.

‘You’d best be on better behaviour with Iseult MacFergus,’ Deena warned. ‘She is promised to wed the man who owns you. Davin Ó Falvey won’t look kindly upon anyone who mistreats his betrothed.’

‘Then I won’t speak to her at all.’ Kieran gritted his teeth when she laid linen atop his lash marks. He knew why she was tending him. Not out of compassion. A weakened slave held no value.

The thought of servitude chafed at his pride. He’d never been any man’s slave, and the instinct to fight back rose up, stronger than ever. Thoughts of escape tempted him, beckoning to his sense of pride. Healed or not, he could find a way out of this ringfort.

And then what?

He closed his eyes, wishing he knew. There was nothing for him to return to, nowhere to go. Perhaps his failures justified a life filled with suffering.

The healer handed him another slice of bread, which he ate without thinking. His stomach craved more, cramping up at the unexpected food.

‘That’s enough for now,’ she warned. ‘As thin as you are, if you eat too much, it will only come back up again.’

She held out a cup of cold water instead of wine. It tasted sweet, like melted snow. Unlike any of the mudridden water he’d gulped down over the past few months. He savoured it, letting it assuage his thirst.

The healer eased him down to the pallet, to rest upon his stomach. The herbs had begun to steal away the pain, drawing him towards sleep. He closed his eyes, his spirit feeling as bruised and battered as his body. The dark temptation of death cried out to him, for the finality would silence the ghosts that haunted him.

He’d chosen this path, selling himself into slavery. He’d meant to rescue his brother and bring Egan home again. Instead, he had played into his enemy’s hands.And lost.

His father would never forgive him for it. God willing, he’d never set eyes on his family again.

Chapter Two

Iseult draped a blanket across the black mare, vaulting atop the animal. She had packed a bag of provisions for the morning and early afternoon. Silently, she murmured a prayer. Please, God, let me find him. Let today be different.

She’d been searching for her son Aidan for nearly a year. And though she hadn’t found him yet, she couldn’t abandon the search.

‘Iseult!’ Davin called out. He strode towards her, gathering the reins of her horse. ‘Where are you going?’

She flinched at the sharp inquisition. ‘I think you know the answer to that.’

Davin hid his frustration, averting his gaze. Though he didn’t speak a word, he believed her search was fruitless. The chances of finding a missing child after a year were small, at best. But she couldn’t give up looking for Aidan. Not yet.

‘I know you don’t want to come,’ she admitted. ‘I won’t ask it of you.’

‘It isn’t safe for a woman to travel alone.’ Lines of worry creased his bearded face.

Iseult reached towards the dagger at her side. ‘I am armed, Davin. And I’m only going to visit the nearby tribes.’

He took her hand. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Really, you don’t have to—’

‘It’s important to you.’ He kept his face neutral, as though her quest were not an inconvenience. ‘And perhaps one day you’ll find the answers you seek.’

But Iseult heard the unspoken words: Perhaps, one day, you’ll give up.

He might be right. But she didn’t want to believeAidan was dead. In her heart, a frail hope continued to beat.

Never could she forget the infant who had grasped her long hair in his tiny palm, pulling the strands towards his mouth. Nor the horrifying moment when she turned to him and found him gone.

Davin joined her, riding along in silence while she took the mare along the sands leading up to the Benoskee Mountain. Clouds skimmed high above the rocky surface of the peak, shadowing the face. The deep azure of the lake marked the location of the Sullivan tribe.

She rode to their lands often, asking if messengers had stopped with any news. In the past year, she’d been to every neighbouring tribe and clan. Her hands tightened on the horse’s mane, as if she could somehow hold fast to her hope.

Perhaps today she’d find what she sought. Iseult steeled herself for the forthcoming pitying looks. They might think her foolish, but this was her child. She could never give up.

Davin stopped to let the horses drink, and she caught the impatience upon his face. She should have left before dawn. He could never understand this cross that she bore, for Aidan was not his.

Fate seemed to intervene at that moment, for a single rider approached at a rapid speed. The man didn’t bother to dismount, but addressed Davin. ‘You’re needed back at Lismanagh. Your slave is causing trouble.’

‘What sort of trouble?’ Davin’s face showed his displeasure at being interrupted.

‘Fighting with the others. We’ve bound him, but since hebelongs to you…’The messenger’s voice trailed off.

‘I’ll come.’ Davin urged the horse around, a determined look upon his face.

When he glanced at her, Iseult shook her head. ‘Go with him. I’ll be fine.’

‘I want you to come back with me. I don’t like leaving you here.’ There was an edge to his voice, almost like an angry parent.

Iseult stared back at him. She hadn’t wanted him to escort her, and now he treated her as though she were incapable of caring for herself. ‘I make my own decisions. And I’d rather look for my son than bother with a disrespectful, arrogant slave.’

A strange flash took hold in Davin’s eyes. ‘What do you mean…“disrespectful”?’

Iseult bit her tongue, wishing she hadn’t spoken. ‘I went back to assist Deena. The slave awakened, but I didn’t like him.’

‘Did he threaten you?’The iron cast to Davin’s voice made it clear that he was not at all pleased.

Iseult shrugged. ‘He asked me to leave, that’s all.’ She waved her hand as though it were nothing. ‘Go on. I’ll join you this afternoon.’

When he hesitated again, she drew her horse alongside his and kissed Davin gently. ‘Go.’

Her action had the intended effect, and he softened. ‘Be careful. If I do not see you by the noon meal, I’m sending men after you.’

He leaned in and kissed her again, this time with more intensity. Iseult accepted it, but her mind was still on the Sullivan tribe. Within a few more moments, she’d know if her search had been for nothing.

‘I’ll see you later,’ she promised.

Kieran strained against his ropes, hardly caring when the hemp bit into his flesh. They had bound him hand and foot, trussed like a fowl about to be roasted.

It was his own fault. He’d thought he could slip away without anyone noticing, forgetting that starvation had robbed him of his strength. When the men had sighted him, he’d fought them off as well as he could. Wounded a few of them, too, but in the end it hadn’t mattered. His strength was diminished almost to a boy’s. Blood matted his skin, his lips split from one of their punches. His back blazed with an unholy fire from the lash marks.

Would they kill him now? He steeled himself for it. Lowering his gaze, he stared at the damp earth. The scent of the smoke and straw were similar to his home in the south of Éireann. So far from here, almost a world apart. Away from those who would cast blame upon him.

He shouldered every pound of the guilt. It was his fault that Egan had died. If he could have put himself in his younger brother’s place, he’d have died a thousand deaths. Only three and ten, his brother had never had the chance to grow to manhood.

Kieran saw the flash of a blade, but didn’t move. A tall bearded man stood before him. He wore a dark green tunic, trimmed with gold thread. Wielding the knife in one hand, the man dismissed the others, authority evident in his voice. Their chieftain, perhaps, judging from his costly garments.

The man addressed him. ‘I am Davin Ó Falvey.’

His owner. The possessive sound in the man’s voice made Kieran want to snarl. He’d never been slave to any man, and bitter resentment filled him at his fate. ‘You’re the man who bought me.’

‘I am. And from the stories they’ve told, I suspect you’d like me to slice this blade across your throat.’

Kieran lifted his chin in an invitation. ‘Do it, then.’

Davin tilted the knife in the sunlight, the blade flashing. ‘I could. But then you’d get what you want. And I’d have lost the silver I spent.’Davin reached down to help him rise to his feet, cutting the bonds around his ankles, but leaving his hands tied. ‘What is your name?’

‘Kieran, of the Ó Brannon tribe.’

‘I’ve heard of your kin. They are a great distance from here, are they not?’

Kieran didn’t answer. Didn’t have to, for Ó Falvey already knew it. He studied his enemy. The flaith exuded a calm confidence, showing not a trace of unease. Davin watched him as if trying to make a decision.

‘You want your freedom. I can understand that, and perhaps I’ll grant it to you in return for your service.’

Kieran didn’t answer, for nothing would make him endure servitude willingly. He’d rather die than live as another man’s slave.

Davin reached into a fold of his cloak and held up a wooden figurine, the carved likeness of his brother Egan. ‘Or perhaps you’d like to earn this back.’

The carving. He cursed, trying to strike out despite his bound hands, but Davin stepped sideways, using his foot to send him sprawling on to the ground. Kieran tasted blood and dirt, hardly caring as he tried to attack again.

Gods above, but the piece of wood was the only thing he had left of Egan. It was only a piece of yew, but he’d given it to his brother years ago. Seeing it in his master’s hands ignited the same anger he’d felt towards the slave traders.

Davin caught him with a punch, and the air went crashing from his lungs. Kieran crouched down, trying to catch a breath. Blood trickled from the wounds on his back, and he bit back the pain.

‘Did you carve this?’ Davin asked softly, fingering the piece.

Kieran only stared at the man, rage seething inside him. He’d made a mistake, showing Davin that the carving was important to him. He forced a neutral expression on to his face as he got up from his knees.

‘You have skill,’ Davin remarked. ‘I think I know a way you can earn your freedom. And this.’ He tucked the figurine away in the fold of his cloak. ‘Come.’Davin grasped the length of rope that held his wrists captive, and Kieran struggled to follow.

He didn’t believe for a moment that Davin would set him free. His limbs ached, and the salty taste of blood lingered in his mouth. More than once, he stumbled, his knees shaking with weakness.

Davin led him inside a darkened hut, where Kieran smelled the stale odours of ale and old straw. Near the door stood a large oak chest, its height reaching the tops of his thighs and the length slightly larger than the spread of his arms.

The intricate carving was old, the wood hard and seasoned. Though his trained eyes saw a few deliberate flaws, nicks set against the grain, the chest was a masterpiece. And it was not yet finished.

‘This is a chest commissioned by my bride’s father. It was supposed to be completed last winter as part of her dowry.’

‘Who carved it?’

‘Seamus did.’ Davin kept his voice low and pointed to the empty pallet. ‘But he fell ill and died a sennight ago.’ He lowered his head out of respect and made the sign of the cross.

Kieran ran his hands over the wood, like a familiar friend. Temptation beckoned, to sink back into the days when he could lose his hours, forgetting all else but the wood. He had missed this.

‘A task such as this would be a simple matter and a worthy use of your time…’Davin paused ‘…unless you’d rather wait upon my father’s table or work in the fields.’

Kieran had no intention of doing either, but didn’t say so. ‘Aren’t you afraid of what I’d do if you gave me an adze or a knife?’

Davin stared at him for a long moment, as if considering whether the threat was genuine. ‘I don’t know who you are, or what lies in your past. But, perhaps once, you were a man of honour. And if that is true, you will not cause harm to others.’