She watched him move, the sword lifted above her head, never wavering despite its weight. Perhaps she would be the one to destroy him after all.
Here he had been, thinking these women couldn’t do a single thing to him, and one already had changed his mind. Her gaze was sharp, her body honed for battle, and she looked like she would stop at nothing.
Donnacha had learned a long time ago that the best warriors were the ones willing to give up their own lives in pursuit of their orders. She most certainly was that kind of warrior.
Who was this woman with the flint and steel eyes?
He couldn’t get distracted. He had a curse to break, and no matter what others might think, he didn’t want to be stuck in this form forever.
Donnacha huffed out a breath and continued toward Scáthach’s keep. She would have to welcome him, no matter how much she hated him. The long journey to her doors was enough to allow him a few days of rest. Although she would probably only offer him a few hours respite before she tossed him from her doorstep.
They’d left the doors to the keep open for him. Considerate, since he couldn’t grip door knobs with his paws.
He padded into the keep and tried to keep the thunderous sound of his breathing quieter. He’d learned a long time ago the huffing breaths of the bear sounded very much like he was growling, especially when echoing inside a stone building. The women were already here for a reason. They had suffered more than most of their sex, or perhaps, the same amount but were the brave ones who had run. Either way, they didn’t deserve to be intimidated by a creature who had no right to ask for help.
The interior of the keep was the same as he remembered from years ago. When he had been nothing more than a boy, he’d come here with his father’s men. Those were the days when Scáthach had allowed males into her home willingly. Before she had been betrayed by the man who she trusted most.
Three long tables arrowed toward the main table set horizontal at the front. Stag heads were mounted around the room, with bear and wolf pelts stretched out on the ceiling. Scáthach was a renowned huntress. It didn’t escape his notice that her eyes lit up the moment she saw him.
The woman of the hour sat at the head table, feet crossed at the ankle and arms crossed behind her head. She said nothing as he approached carefully, avoiding the tables so he didn’t knock anything to the floor.
When he was close, she finally spoke. “Donnacha of Clan Fuar Bheinn. I hadn’t thought to see you in my keep.”
His lips were not a human’s, so his words were lisped. His tongue stuck in his mouth. It didn’t want to form around the human sounds, but he made them. Donnacha had worked for years to be able to speak in this form. It was a badge of pride that he could still communicate with those who knew him. “A dangerous choice, I’ve been told.”
“Indeed.” Scáthach looked him up and down.
In her younger years, she had been a beautiful woman. Tangled blond hair, eyes the color of grass, and a body hardened by life. Now, he saw the telltale signs of age. Wrinkles marred her forehead and winged out from her eyes. Strong muscles were now showing signs of deterioration. Gray hair flecked the golden locks. And yet, she was still a beautiful woman. Far more beautiful than he’d thought she would age to be.
Donnacha bowed, lowering his great head and touching his chin to the ground. “I wouldn’t have come if circumstances weren’t dire.”
“I cannot imagine what the fabled beast of cold mountain could ask of me.” Scáthach unlaced her fingers behind her head and leveled him with a glare. “But it’s rude to speak of such things without first feasting.”
“You wish me to break bread with you?”
“I wish for entertainment.” The feral grin on her face was a clear sign she wanted to embarrass him.
Fine. If she wanted to see him bend a knee and show just how bad the curse had gotten, then so be it. He needed her help and would pay any price she requested.
Donnacha folded his great, furred body by the nearest table. He wouldn’t sit in a chair—his weight would only snap the delicate wood like a twig—but he could at least pretend to be human. Seated at the end of the table, he tilted his head and eyed the relaxed huntress. “Now what?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“Now we eat,” Scáthach replied.
She really wanted a show then. A few of her women started to bring in food. A veritable feast with a whole roasted pig, vegetables, and all manner of sweets. He hadn’t expected food, but perhaps he’d arrived at the right time.
Donnacha watched as they laid the food out in front of him. “Were you planning on a large dinner tonight?”
“A celebration,” she replied.
“For what?”
“Of life. We enjoy our time on this earth while we have it, Donnacha. Perhaps you have forgotten the festivals of your clan.”
One of the warrior women poured him a glass of ale. He stared at the tankard, remembering quite clearly the way his clan had enjoyed themselves. The festivals had lasted for days. The ale had flowed through the mugs so quickly they’d had to find more barrels, usually in the cellars of the stingiest dwarves.
He couldn’t drink the ale anymore. His bear stomach rebelled, violently throwing up whatever he ate or drank that
