Conan didn’t have time for this nonsense. He couldn’t risk his father catching him. Taking Alannah’s hand, he headed to the back door—as far as he could get from the bastard who’d sired him.
Chapter Twelve
“Where are yougoing?” Alannah demanded, pulling on Conan’s arm to stop him. “We should go tell Cahill of Oran’s constant attacks while we can get the king’s ear.”
Conan frowned. “We should go check on your sister,” he countered. “She was worried sick over you and only partly dressed.”
“We were at the river to swim,” she explained. “She must’ve chased right after me to get you.”
“Thank goodness she did.” He started walking again, looking around the back corner of the building before stepping around it. Though the wall of the hostelry was straight, boxes of stores were piled against it, and barrels stuck out from both corners. He paused, holding still and listening.
Why was he behaving so oddly? First Emer, now Conan. What was going on today? “Conan?”
Instead of walking all the way to the front of the building where it met the road, Conan turned toward the cooper’s workshop, pulling Alannah behind him.
“Conan!” she demanded when he didn’t offer any explanation.
The sound of hoofbeats echoed from the front of Oran’s guesting house. Conan picked up his pace, yanking her behind the cooper’s back wall between two stacks of boxes. He pressed her against the wall, his body pinning hers in place so that they were hidden from view.
“Conan,” she hissed quietly. “What is going on?”
His throat bobbed. “I’ve crossed paths with the King of Connachta before,” he whispered. “He would not be pleased to see me again, nor I him.”
Alannah stiffened. “Would he be upset to learn that I’m hosting you?”
“No, no,” Conan hurried. “He’d not be cross with you over it. Only me.”
She narrowed her eyes skeptically, but held her tongue. If he’d been a mercenary in the past, it was certainly possible they’d met that way. Still, the more Alannah learned of Conan, the less she felt she knew about him.
The hoofbeats moved toward them down the road, headed in the direction of the causeway. Conan raised an arm, squeezing even closer and leaning his head right beside hers.
Alannah’s heart hammered. He was so close. His warm, hard body pressed on hers and his intoxicating scent surrounded her, reminding her of all the things she wanted but couldn’t have. His hands back on her. His lips claiming hers again. His cock deep inside her.
Damnit. Alannah swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. But when she sensed Conan’s eyes on her, she made the mistake of turning her head.
His blue-grey eyes softened, his gaze darkening as it caressed her face and fell to her chest.
Her breath caught when his hand fell to her waist, his thumb circling the skin just beneath the hem of her tunic. She shouldn’t let him touch her again. But instead of pushing him away, she melted against the wall behind her, slowly raking her hands over the thick muscles on his chest, savoring the feel of them beneath her fingertips.
He leaned down, his lips a breath away from her neck.
Her skin turned to gooseflesh in anticipation.
Then he pulled away. “Alannah,” he whispered, his voice gravelly and broken, “I’m leaving in less than a fortnight.” His forehead fell against hers, smooth and warm and comforting.
“I know,” she whispered back, uncertain how she found her voice amidst the desire running rampant through her. “One night only.”
His rough hand, covered in calluses from years of wielding his sword, rose to cup her face. “One night only.”
He backed away, releasing her from the crush of his body, and walked beside her in silence back to The Hart’s Rest.
*
The rest ofthat week was spent avoiding Alannah and scouting the bridge. He had come far too close to kissing that temptress, even with the threat of discovery looming so near. He’d bedded her, aye, but that was before they’d spent any amount of time together. Getting to know a person was much different than sharing their bed. The more time they spent together, the more dangerous a kiss would become, the more meaning it would hold. And Conan was leaving soon—he couldn’t afford to have his resolve waver. If he got any closer to Alannah, he had no doubt whatsoever that it would.
They continued playing to perpetuate their ruse as bards. Conan and Ardál checked in with the blacksmith every afternoon. Illadan took to fishing off the bridge every afternoon—perhaps the most ridiculous cover Conan could’ve imagined for their leader. Illadan looked even less like a fisherman than he did a bard.
Between their efforts, they’d managed to stuff kindling and hide oil on either end of the bridge and beneath it, in case they needed more fuel.
