Oriana licked her lips, not realizing how provocative it appeared. “I have no family, no dowry to offer any mortal man, so I’ve received no proposals, but my mother always assured me that Lugh meant for me to wed a god just as she had.”
“Is that what you want?” Egan asked in a hoarse whisper. He still believed her mother had raised her on fantasy, but the song Oriana had sung hovered in his mind as a taunting reminder that perhaps at least a part of her past was true. He made the mistake then of looking into her lovely golden eyes, and realized he wanted her so badly that he did not care if a god cursed him.
What Oriana saw in Egan’s expression was such naked desire that she quickly broke free of his grasp. He had boldly asked for her gratitude, but she would never surrender her body while her heart remained untouched.
“I will hold you to our bargain, sir,” she swore as she backed away. “I owe you my prophecies and nothing more.”
She turned and ran away from Egan as swiftly as Rose must have fled the awful news that killed her. Overcome with an unfamiliar sense of defeat, Egan took his time in following.
Chapter Three
Oriana rode Duncan’s huge beast of a horse for the remainder of the afternoon. Unlike Raven, who possessed a smooth dancing step, the brown gelding swayed from side to side in an exceedingly awkward gait. Oriana gripped the reins so tightly that her hands began to ache, and she feared after riding for so long that she would be sore from her waist to her knees on the morrow.
Without Egan’s firm shoulders at her back, she soon grew weary and oddly bereft, although she considered it ridiculous to miss a man she had known less than a day. And yet she could still feel his disquieting presence from where he rode ten paces behind her. She could feel his deep scowl without turning to observe his expression.
Egan’s mood was of slight consequence, however, when danger still surrounded him with a thick, ugly shadow that deepened as they traveled toward his home. Someone was dead, someone Egan held dear, but Oriana felt none of the poignant sorrow she associated with a woman’s demise. She heard only a faint whisper rather than the clear voice of the knowing, but she sensed it was a powerful man whose death had sent tremors of agony throughout his family. Egan might have ridiculed her prophecy, but she shuddered to imagine how terrible his grief would be when it proved true.
Lost in thought, Egan rode farther than he had intended before urging Raven into a trot to overtake Oriana’s plodding mount. “Follow me into the woods,” he ordered, and after easily herding her horse off the trail, he rode ahead.
Selecting a secluded spot above a rapidly running stream, Egan dismounted, released the tent and his gear from the ties behind his saddle, and tossed them to the mossy ground. The saddle quickly followed.
Without a glance toward Oriana, Egan surveyed the small clearing, chose a low limb of a gnarled oak, and unfurled the tent over it. He then slipped his bow and quiver off his shoulder, unbuckled his sword, and placed his weapons high in the tree. He pulled his tunic over his head and, carrying it over his shoulder, led Raven down to the stream.
Oriana had avoided looking down ever since Egan had shoved her into Duncan’s horse’s saddle. Now rudely abandoned rather than graciously assisted to dismount, she hazarded a peek toward the ground, gasped at how very far away it seemed, and shut her eyes tightly. Certain she would break her neck in the fall should she dismount on her own, she had no choice but to remain astride the great brute of a horse.
The big gelding tossed his head, jerking the reins from Oriana’s grasp, and nibbled at the lush grass underfoot while she was left to struggle with her own gnawing hunger. Hot tears of frustration had begun to roll down her cheeks before Egan finally returned from the stream where he had left Raven to graze.
“Oriana,” he called as he approached her. “Are you ill?”
Oriana stared at him coldly. His dark hair was wet and dripping glossy trails down his bare chest, but that he would speak to her half clothed only increased her anger.
“I’m surprised you finally found the manners to ask, my lord, but the answer is no. I’m so desperately tired I don’t trust my legs to hold me should I somehow find the courage to leap from this horrible beast’s back.”
Egan had expected to find Oriana seated in front of her tent brushing the dust of the trail from her long curls and cursing him for one imagined slight or another. Because he knew her to be far from helpless, he had to laugh at her near hysterical description of her predicament.
“Forgive me, my lady, but you made what you thought of me so plain that I doubted you would appreciate my attentions.”
He did not make her beg, however, but instead reached up to grasp her narrow waist and with a smooth pivot deposited her on the grass. When she wobbled as though she might truly fall, he scooped her up in his arms.
Oriana kept a grip on her bag rather than loop her arms around Egan’s neck, but she still felt the smooth warmth of his golden skin. She had never been in a man’s arms, but she was far too distraught to appreciate how gently Egan held her. He carried her with ease to her tent, placed her gingerly on her feet, and she quickly grabbed hold of the low limb to remain standing.
“Thank you,” she murmured through clenched teeth. “Now I do hope the provisions you mentioned will be better than the rest of this awful day.”
“Had I known you were hungry, I would have stopped much sooner,” Egan assured her, but indeed, it had not even occurred to him that she might not have eaten earlier in the day. “I’m accustomed to traveling alone, but I didn’t mean to neglect you. Tomorrow, please speak up when you wish to stop and rest or eat.”
Oriana could not fault the courtesy of his words, but his expression held more of a dare than a concession to her comfort. He was a proud man, and perhaps justly so, but she had her own pride as well. Her skin felt gritty, her clothing reeked of horse sweat, and she longed for the coolness of the stream. While Egan’s confidence apparently never failed him, she feared she looked far from her best and shrank away from him.
“Thank you, my lord,” she responded, mocking the insincerity of his tone. Turning away, she drew in a deep breath, and while weaving slightly, walked toward the water with an admirably even step. She glanced back only once, and found Egan sorting through his belongings for what she hoped would be the makings of a delicious meal.
She moved upstream to bathe, and after dressing in a clean linen chemise and gown, washed the wrinkled garments she had donned that morning. She cared little for clothes, and reclusive by nature, required only a few changes rather than the many pretty gowns wealthy maidens wore to impress their suitors.
Following Egan’s example, she spread her wet clothes to dry upon the shrubbery crowding the stream, and, driven by hunger, returned to him. She was relieved to see that he was now wearing a clean tunic and grateful he had unsaddled her mount, as she had completely forgotten the animal. But as she set her bag by the opening of her tent, she was disappointed to find he had provided only bread, carrots, and cheese.
Correctly reading her glance, Egan poked a long branch into the fire he’d coaxed to life, then picked up his fishing line. “This is a poor time to fish, but I’ll catch us some. Mind the fire while I’m gone.”
“Aye, I’ll give it a stick or two,” Oriana promised, and the instant his back was turned, she tore a hunk of bread from the small loaf. It had been baked that morning and was still soft in the center. She used her own knife to slice off a hunk of cheese, and then was content to rest until the fire needed tending.
All too soon she had to struggle to her feet, and then wander in ever-widening circles to gather fallen branches. Though she was concerned wolves might be lurking in the woods, she was more worried about getting lost, and kept a watchful eye on their small camp.