«Exactly. And I can never marry him because I might come to love him!»

«My poor love.» The serving wench pressed her palm to Siobhan’s brow. «The wound has given you a fever, that’s why your wits are so addled. You’re making no sense, my poor lady!»

«Nothing has addled my wits. ’Tis the curse put upon me! Don’t you remember what the skrying mirror foretold on my twelfth birthday? That my husband would die on our wedding day! Don’t ye see, Aislinn? If I marry Colm mac Connor, he’s as good as dead!»

That evening, in the hall of Glenkilly, Lord Diarmaid told the gathering that he had chosen a husband for the Lady Siobhan from among the many suitors who had flocked to his hall. Her prospective husbands had come from as near as County Waterford, and as far away as Gaul and Britain.

The gathering held its breath. The future bride felt sick to her belly as she awaited her father’s announcement.

«My beautiful Siobhan received more than a hundred offers for her hand. One hundred of the finest men! After — but only after — much thought, I have chosen the young man she shall wed from among them. Her husband shall be»—

An expectant hush fell over the gathering. All eyes were fixed on the Lord of Glenkilly. The only sounds were that of the spit, squeaking as it turned, roasting the juicy side of beef that would soon be carved for the celebration feast.

Siobhan peeked nervously under her lashes at the motley assortment of men ranged along wooden benches pulled up to the long trestle tables.

There was a fat fellow who’d come all the way from Gaul sitting across from her. He had a swarthy complexion, and a huge hairy mole on his chin that rose every time he smiled at her, which was often. She frowned. She wouldn’t be too upset if he were to be chosen. After all, she would only be his bride for a day, at most.

Or perhaps the one with the long beaky nose and only a few wisps of hair left upon his shiny pate would be a better choice? The less attractive, the better. She was not as likely to love a man she did not find attractive, as she was if she married a man with hair as black as jet, eyes of sparkling blue and a smile that would lighten the darkest room better than any rushlight.

She caught herself in mid-thought.

What sort of wretch was she, to think such low and unworthy thoughts? How could she calmly sit there and choose a husband solely by his lack of appeal, because if he was unattractive, she would not be overly distressed if he were to. to well, to die?

«— She shall marry Colm mac Connor, Lord of Colmskeep!» Lord Diarmaid finally declared.

Her heart sank.

The old man was weeping with joy as he raised his drinking cup in a toast. «Good health, and a long and happy marriage to you both, my children. Aye, and a fertile marriage, too! Give your father a dozen grandbabies to dandle on his knee, Siobhan, Colm, my son! I only wish my Deirdre had lived to see this happy day.» His eyes filled with tears.

Siobhan and Colm drank deeply from the loving cup, then stood and clasped hands as they received her father’s blessing, and the cheering and good wishes of their guests, who lined up to congratulate them.

The feasting followed, the serving maids and lads moving between the tables, delivering great portions of juicy beef and wheels of soda bread served upon trenchers, along with venison and roasted capons, duck, fresh salmon taken from the river just that morning, and cheeses.

Colm fed titbits of the choicest meats to Siobhan from his own trencher, spearing the juicy morsels on his own eating knife, and popping them into her mouth, as was the custom among sweethearts.

He laughed when, shuddering, she refused a piece of beef that was still raw and bloody, turning her face away from it and grimacing in disgust.

«Do you not like this juicy morsel, my dove?»

«Uggh, no. I do not, my lord. I prefer my meat well roasted and unbloodied. Why, I would sooner eat a worm, or a snail than half-cooked meats! The blood turns my belly.»

Her finicky complaints seemed to amuse him. «Very well. When we are wed, I shall tell our cook that his new mistress wants her worms and snails well cooked.»

She blushed at his teasing. «Please do, my lord.»

After the feasting, the fiddlers and pipers took over. The evening was given up to the wild joyous music of pipes and flutes, drums and whistles; to dancing, drinking and storytelling.

The evening was growing late when Siobhan took up her harp, Lamenter, to play for her betrothed. Seated upon a carved stool, she was beautiful in her purple kirtle, like a bard at the court of an Irish king. The firelight, and the light of the torches and sconces, reflected in her midnight hair and shamrock eyes.

She chose to play a love song for Colm; a haunting song that matched her mood. Her rippling chords told of two lovers who had been kept from marrying by their respective families, but later died of sorrow. In remembrance of the pair, the families planted two willows near a sacred pool, some distance apart. But within days, the two trees had grown into an arch, entwined in death as they had yearned to be in life.

There was hardly a dry eye in the hall when her last chord trembled into silence. Tears were flowing freely down Siobhan’s cheeks, glistening in the fire’s flickering golden light.

Colm watched her, listened to her, and was spellbound. He was already in love with his bewitching future bride. In truth, in but a day, she had ensorcelled him with her beauty, her fiery spirit, and a certain fey quality about her that drew him like a lodestone.

It was well into the evening, and the rushlights were burning low when Siobhan, yawning and still a little dazed by her unexpected betrothal, bade everyone a good night. Rising from her chair, she staggered off to bed.

Colm caught her by the upper arm as she passed the shadowed nook where he lay in wait for her.

She gasped in surprise as he pressed her back against the wall.

«Well, now. I’ll have a proper goodnight kiss before you’re off to your bed, my love,» he murmured. «After your ballad, sure, I need something sweet to bring a smile t’ my lips. And what could be sweeter than your kisses?»

He kissed her throat, her ears, her bared shoulders, frowning when she winced and drew away. «What is it? Do my kisses repulse you?»

«They do not, sir.» Far from it.

«Then what? Did I hurt you?»

She shook her head. «Please, it’s nothing really — just a small scratch on my shoulder. I was out gathering herbs this morning. I must have got caught on a branch»

«Aah. I see it. Aye, it’s a deep one. Here. Let me kiss it,» he whispered. His voice was husky as he pressed his lips to the wound unwittingly made by his arrow.

«Better?»

«Much better, my lord,» she said softly.

Their eyes met, green to blue. They both knew it was not the arrow wound of which they spoke. The air between them was suddenly charged, as if a lightning storm was crackling in the air.

«Siobhan,» he said thickly. «Darlin’. You’ve bewitched me. I shall go mad with wanting you. We must set a date for our wedding. It cannot come soon enough for me.»

«Nor me,» she agreed, arching against the warm hard curve of his body.

His kisses had ignited a bonfire in her belly. His gentle touch made her shiver with pleasure. Her weary head rested upon his shoulder like a lovely flower, drooping on its stem. She wanted nothing more than to spend the night in his arms. To be his bride.

«Hmm. Your skin tastes like honey, mo muirnin. I crave your sweetness. What say you to the last day of the old year? Can ye wait that long?»

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him nay, she would marry him that very day, if that were what he wished. But she caught herself in the nick of time, and pulled free of his arms.

«Samhain Eve? But. that’s only a week away!» Only a week to love him, when they should have had a lifetime? She could not bear it. But to marry him was to condemn him, and so she dare not name a day.

«A long week it will be, too, until I have ye in my bed. So? What say you to Samhain Eve, my dove?» he persisted.

«Then you. er. you have agreed to my lord father’s other conditions?» she asked hesitantly, her mind racing for a way out.

He laughed. His blue eyes sparkled wickedly in the rushlight. «I have. He’s an old rogue, but I like him well! Fifty fine red cattle he asked for, and fifty he shall get. They’ll be delivered to Glenkilly before the first snows. I’m adding a score of sheep and a fine black bull to sweeten the deal, just so the old divil can’t change his mind about having me for a son-on-law. He was overjoyed, to say the least. Judging by the amount o’ whiskey he was drinking, he’ll be overjoyed for some time.»

Colm planted an ardent kiss on Siobhan’s mouth that she felt down to her toenails. She could not think straight when he kissed her like that. If he let go of her, she thought she might slither down the wall into a warm gooey puddle at his feet.

«Is that the condition you meant, love?» he added.

«Nooo. I. I meant the other condition. The condition that tests your. your true feelings for me. And your courage, of course. Courage is very important in a husband.»

«It is?» His dark brows rose. «And what test might that be? Diarmaid said nothing about tests.»

He was frowning as he looked down at her. He had one palm planted against the wall, beside her head. The other cupped her chin as he tilted her lovely face up to his. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, he noticed. What did the wee minx have to hide? «Siobhan? What test?» he repeated.