He had left his sacred mate to fend for herself while carrying his child. Caelis had wanted Uven’s approval so much that he had dismissed his feelings for Shona and done as the laird ordered, repudiating her completely.
Six years ago, Caelis had felt trapped between his duty to his pack and alpha and the woman he wanted to make his mate.
He was just as torn in two directions now. How could he fight for Shona when it meant either forcing her to return to a clan she so clearly despised or abdicating his own responsibilities and the promises he had made to the Cahir?
“What in damnation are you two doing?” the Sinclair bellowed as he approached them.
“Sparring,” Vegar said, his tone just as surly.
The Éan recognized no alpha but their prince and were still acclimating to the concept of living under a laird’s authority within the clans.
The Éan had only recently joined the clans, having lived secretly in the forest under the reign of their royal family for the past centuries. The Faol had lost their royal family, or most of them, in MacAlpin’s betrayal.
A pack alpha was not so different from a prince to Caelis’s way of thinking though.
And they’d since learned that some of their own people yet carried the royal blood of the Faol. Himself included if the evidence of his son’s gifts could be believed.
“When two trained warriors spar, they do not draw blood.” Talorc glared with disapproval.
Caelis would have said something cutting in response, but the laird was right. There was no excuse for his and Vegar’s carelessness.
Vegar scowled, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. “This mating business is not so simple. No wonder my tribe encouraged bonding without seeking one’s true mate.”
“The Éan had little choice in your isolated home, but now that you live among the clans, God willing, many of your people will find their mates.”
Vegar did not appear brightened by the prospect. Caelis could not blame him. He’d no desire to give Shona or their children up, but neither did he enjoy the difficulties their bond created in his life.
Talorc sighed, his expression tinged with unexpected understanding. “Abigail gave me a fair chase.”
“She was ordered by her king to marry you.” Caelis did not see how the laird could have had to chase the woman.
“But a Chrechte desires the heart of his true mate, not mere promises of fidelity.”
“I would take the promises.” He’d had Shona’s heart once.
He had no doubts it was not on offer again. That organ now resided behind a prickly wall of impenetrable brambles.
“So you think.”
“A warrior has no need of emotional entanglements.” Vegar sounded very sure for a man so easily distracted by finding his mate.
“A warrior fights best when he has something of great value to fight for,” Talorc said, quoting ancient Faol tradition.
“That refers to our tribe, or pack. A Chrechte is not suited to life alone.”
“You quote more Chrechte teachings but do not understand them.” Talorc unsheathed his own sword, dropping into a fighting stance. “Come spar with me and I will see if you can keep your blood in your veins.”
Vegar and Caelis both moved to take opposing stances to Talorc. Soon the clang of clashing metal could be heard again, this time even more frequently and with more controlled rhythm.
“What do you mean, I do not understand our teachings?” Vegar demanded as he advanced on the laird.
Talorc maintained his defensive posture without losing ground to Vegar’s attack. “A warrior’s first concern is not his tribe or pack.”
Vegar stopped moving, shock holding his body rigid. “You do not teach your warriors this.”
“I do.” Talorc’s sword arced down, caught Vegar’s and tossed the other blade across the ground like a twig. “Sacred matings supersede even our duty to pack.”
“But…”
“A Chrechte can survive without a pack—but only in misery without his true bonded.”
Caelis nodded his agreement before thinking about it. He felt the need to point out, however, that, “Love is not necessary between mates.”
“Nay, but it makes life a joy when it is there.”
“You sound like a woman,” Caelis accused.
Then he spent the next fifteen minutes fighting a warrior that might well best him on the battlefield were they ever pitted in truth against each other, even with his new form gifted through the sacred stone. Because Talorc had been gifted as well and he was a formidable fighter.
Ciara’s connection to the Faolchú Chridhe had turned out to be an amazing blessing for the Faol, particularly those committed to fighting the Fearghall.
Caelis was sitting on the steps leading to the keep and cleaning his sword while trying to decide if he wanted to return to the loch for a dip to rinse away the blood, sweat and dirt of sparring, when Eadan came running up.
Eyes shining with excitement, Eadan called, “Da!”
Caelis heart squeezed in his chest and he smiled at his son. “What are you about?”
“We’re going searching for bugs.” And then the small boy launched into a tale about what kind of insects could be found where.
The excited words tumbling from his lips ceased as Caelis’s son’s gaze fell on the cut on his arm. “You’re hurt!”
Caelis shook his head. “’Tis naught.”
Eadan turned back to his mother, who had been walking a pace behind with Audrey and little Marjory. “Mum, Da is bleeding.”
Shona’s beautiful green eyes darkened with concern. “What happened?”
Maybe not all was lost. She’d responded to his touch with all the hunger she’d shown six years ago and had at least some consideration for his well-being.
“Sparring.” Caelis would have preferred not to answer, but he was no child to pretend not to hear what he would rather not have been said.
Shona’s confusion shone clearly on her lovely face. “I thought you were not supposed to draw blood during practice?”
“It happens.”
“It’s not supposed to.” Eadan looked up, worry etched in his boyish features. “Thomas said so.”
“Thomas has the right of it. Who were you sparring with that you came away marked?” Shona demanded.
“Vegar.”
Shona’s hands settled on her hips. “And you call this man a friend?”
“It was not on purpose.”
“How could it not be on purpose? It was his hand on the blade, was it not?”
Despite his own embarrassment at their poor performance on the training field, Caelis fought a smile. “Aye.”
“Well, then?” Shona’s foot tapped against the packed dirt in front of the keep.
“Vegar has his own wounds,” Caelis replied, figuring that would mitigate the little termagant’s ire.
“Vegar? He is hurt?” Audrey asked, her pitch rising with each word. “Is it a grievous wound?”
“Not likely.” Caelis snorted his disbelief. “He is fine; it is only a small cut like mine.”
“Where is he?” Audrey demanded, not in the least appeased.
She turned and looked over the practice field, as if the warrior would magically appear.
Caelis wasn’t sure he wanted to tell the agitated Englishwoman that Vegar had gone into the great hall to clean his sword and discuss plans for further Cahir training among the Sinclair.
“Where is who?” Vegar asked from behind Caelis. “Your brother is inside, speaking to the Sinclair.”
Caelis looked back over his shoulder. “The woman is wondering about you.”
Vegar smiled, smug. “Is she now?” Then his expression turned sour. “She’s not looking to avoid me, is she?”
Ignoring their banter, Audrey spun around and rushed forward. “Let me see.”