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instead of the battle sprite struggling to keep up with him? How could the man allow it? Just the mention of a man’s head splitting like a melon had robbed this Maire of at least one shade of color.
    Sudden understanding dawned: She’d drawn her first blood today! Rowan nearly stumbled over his thought. Faith, this was all he needed—standing against a novice
and
a female in battle.
Father, show me a way out of this, I beg you!
    “It does you credit that you would avoid unnecessary bloodshed, Emrys; although it takes little more than a blind eye to see you’re no cleric, but a warrior in a churchman’s robe.”
    “I merely sought to capture your attention that I might appeal to your clan’s honor and spare my tuath by my sword arm. They are good, hardworking people, all of them.”
    “I suppose we both have our little surprises then.” The way Maire’s lips curled, her sideways glance—they were not good signs, not the way they ran Rowan through like a hot iron of seduction.
    She might have no idea the assault she practiced upon him, but that made it no less deadly.

THREE
    T he scent of the grass crushed beneath their feet rose to Maire’s nostrils, a fragrance of new life and peace rather than death and war. Bones! Her warrior’s resolve wavered like the legs of a newborn colt—for all it was born to do, it was wobbly and unsure of itself.
    Realizing that Emrys was a man who cared as much for his people as she cared for hers was like saddling that fledgling colt with a heavy load on its first try to stand. The obvious prosperity of the land and dwellings were a sign that his consideration was returned. A barn in the distance housed livestock in a manner better than that in which most of Maire’s people lived. A beloved chief is a prosperous one, her mother once told her.
    As he spoke to his people of their bargain, Maire studied the square cut of the stranger’s shaven jaw, where a shadow of a beard threatened to sprout. What made him scrape his face clean as a babe’s bottom? Even his dark hair was close cropped about his collar, like some of the traders who hailed from the Mediterranean countries. It reminded her of a raven’s wing, alive with more than one color of black.
    As he turned to indicate he was ready for the contest, he froze for a moment, staring at her. Thought enveloped his blue gaze. They were not a pale and lifeless color, those eyes, but a gemstone hue of many facets. He seemed suspended in another place and time, not really seeing her. What manner of confoundment lured him away from the prospect of the impending battle to the death? What nameless anguish criedout from his eyes, making the two of them seem kindred spirits rather than enemies?
    To her astonishment, she found herself once again wishing her visit to the villa and her meeting with its master were not as an enemy. There was something foreign and intriguing about them both; the nature of which she’d never have the chance to know as a guest, only as a conqueror.
    Behind him his people clustered, the farmers and domestic servants who still objected to the terms he’d presented them, if not with voices, with grudging looks. Aye, she mused, they’d have to take hostages, as well as send people of her own to defend this peaceful tuath against others who might be tempted to plunder its unprotected wealth.
    Of course, sending any warriors from Gleannmara would have to come
after
she dealt with Morlach. One battle at a time. Maire steeled herself against the gnawing fangs of anxiety spawned by thought of the greedy druid.
    “The day is yours, my queen,” Brude told her, clapping a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Make the best of it for all.”
    Maire hardly heard him as a woman emerged from the massive dwelling to join the men gathered about the tall warrior-priest. The crowd parted before the woman like water before the bow of a trim craft until she reached Rowan’s side. Too old to be the man’s wife, Maire guessed. This