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sank the point of the spear into the earth and grimaced at the grit on his fingers. “I’ve no stomach to strip down to my skin and practice swordplay on the grave of a legend.”
    “Get yourself a Christian bedmate, Dafydd. You’ve been spending too much time between the legs of that milkmaid.”
    “Easy, brother, else the devil will rise to challenge you.”
    “If he had the courage to face me, I’d welcome him.”
    “What about a witch?”
    Rhys tossed his brother a glare. Dafydd’s eyebrows—well–oiled this day—only arched a little more.
    Rhys set off across the field with Dafydd falling into step beside him. He clenched his jaw. Dafydd was his second in command, his older brother, and he owed the man too much to let his own hot temper fly. But why now did he choose to interrupt? Dafydd knew better than to come between Rhys and his nightmares.
    “This one has lost its point.” Dafydd frowned at the bare end of a javelin he’d yanked out of the ground. “I must speak to that blacksmith about the fitting. That’s not the first time—”
    “Out with it.”
    “Out with what? The arrow is already gone, buried somewhere beneath the dirt.”
    “I would have been back to the homestead for dinner, but you ride out here to confront me only hours before.” Rhys clattered a spear on his shoulder and strode still farther to collect more. “Have more cattle been stolen from the southern border? Or have they attacked from the English side this time, hoping to draw me into conflict with the Marcher Lords?”
    “Actually, it has been quite an uneventful day.”
    “Good.”
    “It’s your own household you must see to.”
    “You are the keeper of my household.” Rhys yanked another spear out of the ground, dislodging a stone the size of a hen. “Spare me the reports of cows which have stopped giving milk, or fires which refuse to be lit, or oatcakes burning in a cold pan—”
    “Come to think of it, there was an odd fire in the stables this morning.”
    “Then carry a twig of mountain ash.” He shrugged the weight upon his shoulders as her words came back to haunt him. “Or hang a horseshoe above your door.”
    “Too much burnt crust in the oatcakes this morning, brother?”
    They reached the target end of the field. Rhys seized the last spear and clattered it on his shoulder with the others, then turned around to head back. His ears stung with sudden heat.
    He confessed, “She’s a harridan.”
    “She refused to heal you?” Dafydd reared back in mock surprise. “How ungrateful of the wench. After all you’ve done for her.”
    “I must have been crazed,” Rhys said, “to let you talk me into going to Ireland.”
    “Only a fool would scorn the words of a man of Annwn.”
    “That visitor wasn’t from any pagan heaven, Dafydd. He was a demon sent from hell, and we’ve brought back his witch.”
    “You’d best hope she isn’t a witch, else with the way you’ve been treating her you’ll find yourself croaking in the mud and eating flies.” Dafydd stepped up close enough for Rhys to smell the orange–oil his brother used to dress his hair. “And remember: It was your idea to kidnap her and drag her here. Yours alone.”
    At the end of the field, Rhys shrugged the spears off his shoulder and let them clatter to the ground. Sweeping one up, he whirled to heft the shaft upon his shoulder and squint down at the target, seeing nothing but the blood–red haze of his own foolishness.
    He should have done exactly what he’d gone to Inishmaan to do. He should have tossed a bag of gold at the witch’s feet in exchange for her sorcery. He should have bared his face upon that shore with only Dafydd and the witch as witnesses to the humiliation. All the roads to Hell were paved with such good intentions.
    He couldn’t do it. Not after he’d seen her striding through the mists with the sea wind buffeting that wild hair. She looked like some nymph that had slipped between the veils that legend said