“And you intend to go?”
Dallan swallowed. “I want to marry you, Niamh. And I have a responsibility to my people, my family. I want you to come with me.”
She pulled away from him, out of his lap, and turned to face him. “But, your family…” she began.
Dallan couldn’t bear the stricken look on her face. After the first night they’d spent together, after they’d finally cleared the mistrust between them, he wasn’t going to put anything else on her. He could speak with her in the morn, let her mull over the seed of the idea that he’d planted tonight. She didn’t seem ready to hear about the details of his impending journey.
“It’s nothing to worry over,” he hurried, desperate to keep her worries away for just this one night. “Let’s take another look around for that ghost flower, eh?”
She offered up a half-hearted smile, nodding in agreement. Dallan tried his best to push the conversation from his mind. She loved him. She’d said as much herself, proved it through her actions. He knew she’d come with him, even if she had her misgivings.
Beginning this night, Dallan vowed to help Niamh recapture the joy she’d once brought everywhere she went. He wasn’t going to start by causing her more worry. When Dallan had struggled with his responsibilities as a young man, Niamh had always been there for him.
Now it was his turn.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The following morn,Niamh felt lighter than she had in years. She’d faced her deepest fear, told Dallan her darkest secret, and he’d loved her anyway. Standing before her work table, quietly grinding some dried nettles she’d collected on her outing with Dallan, Niamh thought perhaps her mother had been right all along. The faint woody scent of the nettles filled the chilly morning air, invigorating her and propelling her into the new day.
She always expected visitors to the infirmary. Long before the attack, folk wandered into her cottage for everything from cuts to coughs to labor pains. Though aches and ailments happened with frequency, Niamh strove to ensure they left as quickly as they came.
When Catrin entered the infirmary holding her head, Niamh wasn’t surprised in the least that she already had a visitor so early in the morn, though she had yet to treat Catrin for anything.
“Good morning, princess,” Niamh greeted her, setting down her pestle and walking over to the doorway. “Headache?”
Catrin nodded, wincing at the movement. “Worst I’ve had in ages.”
“Have a seat over here, I’ll make you something.” Niamh gently guided her to a stool next to the work table. “You can lay your head down if it helps.”
Catrin did just that, collapsing atop her arms onto the wooden table as Niamh set water to boil on the small hearth across the room. Once the water was started, Niamh dipped a cloth into a basin of cool water and wrang it out.
“This compress should help while you wait.” She placed it where Catrin held her head, near her left temple.
Catrin thanked her before falling back onto her arms with a groan. Niamh didn’t bother her as the water boiled and she steeped the herbs she had on hand—not her first choice, but hopefully enough to dull the ache. When the infusion was ready, she placed a hand on Catrin’s arm to let her know and handed her a steaming cup.
“I’m afraid this is the best I can do for now,” Niamh told her as she sipped the infusion. “Willow bark or a decoction would be better, but I haven’t been able to gather those after my supply was destroyed.”
Catrin’s face fell. “I’m sorry.”
Niamh smiled at her. “It’s not as though it’s your fault my cottage was ravaged.”
Catrin swallowed a large gulp of her drink. Though she said nothing, the space between them filled with tension. Catrin’s lips parted, as though she was about to speak, but she shut them and looked down at her cup instead.
Between her odd statement and even odder reaction, Niamh recalled the last time Catrin had behaved strangely. They had also spoken of the attack then, and Catrin had been at odds with her mother.
“Catrin?” Niamh settled onto the other stool at the table, folding her hands and focusing her attention on the young princess. “Is something the matter?”
“What if—” she hesitated, taking a breath, “what if itismy fault?”
Niamh frowned. “Catrin, Aodh’s army destroyed the village at his command. It’s no one’s fault save his.”
Catrin bit her lip, her eyes darting every which way. “It’snothis fault,” she replied, quiet yet emphatic. “And it’s not all mine either.”
Niamh fought to hide her shock at such a statement, knowing Catrin might stop talking if she overreacted. She was so close to getting the answers they needed.
“What happened?” Niamh pressed as Catrin sipped her drink. “Catrin, if you know something that we haven’t been told, it’s of the utmost importance that we hear the truth of it. I’d hate for more folk to die because someone hid the truth.”
It was a stretch, she knew, putting such weight into whatever confession a young lady might have. Surely Catrin exaggerated, for Niamh couldn’t imagine any scenario where the princess could possibly be the cause of the attack.
