‘I am yours,’ he said, ‘now and always.’
‘I will never be frightened again,’ she told him. The words jarred, and he did not understand them, though he heard the relief in her voice and did not question her further.
Now, as he lay in his bed, he could not tear his mind from Braefar’s words.
She is a flirt. Why can’t you see that?
Of course he could see it, and could remember vividly the sound of her laughter as she stood in the dark with Casta. That alone would not have been enough to trouble him, but there was also the unfocused passion. He had not sensed it at the time, his blood roaring, his senses aroused, but, looking back, he felt that Arian had not even known who he was before her first orgasm. Only afterwards did she respond.
Pushing away his doubts he concentrated on the one great truth of the night. She had told him she loved him.
And within a few days she would be his wife, the mother of his children, the one, eternal love of his heart.
The following morning was bright, clear and cold. On the high hill to the north of the settlement Ruathain drew on the reins and stared gloomily down over the meadows where his herds were grazing. Six hundred long-haired, sharp-horned highland cattle were gathered here. A cold wind blew down from the north. Ruathain shivered, for he had left his cloak at home and wore only a blue tunic shirt and thin leggings. He glanced at the sky. It was grey and forbidding, heralding what he feared would be a hard, bitter winter.
The Feast of Samain was twelve days away. Touching heels to his pony he rode slowly through the herd, occasionally leaning over to smear blue dye on the backs of selected cows and bullocks. The eight-day feast was always a time of great joy for the peoples of the Rigante. This year it was to be held in Three Streams and tribesmen would travel from all over the land to the settlement. Hundreds of tents would be pitched and by the last day more than nine thousand tribesmen would be gathered here.
But Ruathain’s thoughts were not of feasting and dancing. He was a cattle breeder and the winter was not only a time of danger, hardship and struggle, but also of loss. Only the hardiest of the breeding stock would survive. Vicious cold would kill some, falls and snapped legs would destroy others. Added to this the wolves would come, and the great cats, and even – occasionally – bears, roused from their hibernation.
Choosing which stock should be given the chance to survive was always hard. As was slaughtering the less fortunate to feed the feasters. Dipping his hand into the bucket slung from his saddle horn he rode alongside Bannioa. He had hand-reared her as a calf when her mother was killed by a lioness, and she had proved a good breeder. But she was eight years old now and had been barren for two years. Leaning over he smeared the ochre on her broad back.
Beyond her was the old bull, Mentha. Would he survive the coming cold, the wolves and the lions? And if he did would he still be able to subdue the younger bulls come spring, and sire fine sons from his herd?
Ruathain’s chief herdsman, Arbonacast, rode alongside him. He said nothing, sitting silently alongside his lord. ‘Well?’ asked Ruathain, as the silence grew.
Arbonacast saw that his lord was staring at Mentha. The herdsman shrugged. ‘I’d give him the chance.’
‘Give him the chance? Is that sentiment?’ asked Ruathain.
‘Partly. But he is a fine bull. And insatiable.’ On the hillside below, as if sensing they were talking about him, old Mentha’s massive head came up. His long horns, wickedly curved at the tips, and stretching for almost seven feet, glinted in the sunlight.
Ruathain sighed. ‘He can’t last for ever, Arbon.’
‘Nothing does,’ said the herdsman. Ruathain glanced at the man. Arbonacast was short and slightly built, with black hair peppered with silver, and bristling black brows over deep-set grey eyes. His face was a sea of fine lines, a map charting fifty years of hardship and struggle. It was a strong face, hard and lean, and Ruathain trusted him as he did no other man.