In a whisper she said, “I must be wi’ ye again. Somehow. All day long I ha’ been hard put to think o’ anything else.”
“As have I.” His hands chased hers, but only to take away the cloth. “Liadan, we cannot.”
“But—”
“We cannot.”
He spoke the words with great regret. Unmovable. Everything she desired there in the half dark.
“Best accept it,alanna,” he whispered. “Best accept it.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Ardahl stood inthe dark amid a stand of hazel trees with his sword—Conall’s sword—in his hand. It had to be past midnight. Beyond the twisted branches of the trees, stars glittered in a field of deep blue, the vault of sky suggesting eternity. There was no moon.
A good night for attack.
Two days had passed since he’d warned Liadan off, there outside the hut, and he’d barely seen her since. Dornach had switched him to night guard, the post he now filled. During the day he slept and kept busy on the training field or sat in meetings with the chief.
Though he ached to see Liadan, at the same time he could not bear seeing her. If he saw her, he would want to touch.
Besides, if anyone observed them together, their secret would be out. The lass was not good at hiding her feelings. Each time he looked at her, he could see everything they had shared together. Every touch. Every kiss, each quiver of flesh. He wanted her unceasingly, but not so much as he missed her. The simple comfort of being in her presence. Catching the smile in her eyes…
He snatched his attention back to the present when he heard a rustle, not far off. Just a fox. No gleam of starlight on weapons. If invaders did come—
He spared a thought for his mam and Liadan, there alone in the hut. He should be there to protect them. Lay his life downfor them if need be. As Conall would have done. He had taken Conall’s place, had he not? Could he do any less? Any more? Meanwhile, Liadan had his sword. Some manner of protection…
As for his love for Liadan—could this be called love? It seemed so much more. Deeper. And higher. He carried her within him now, which, curiously, did not assuage the longing.
After this night’s duty, if the morning came without an attack, he would be able to see her, at least for a short while. She might come out with him while he washed. Sit with him while he ate.
The promise of it would be enough to keep him alive.
Another rustle and he turned toward it. A movement amid the trees had his sword up hard.
“All quiet?” Cieran, his neighbor on the picket.
“By the gods, Cieran, I near took your head off.”
“Sorry. I am jumpy tonight. What a night for an attack, eh? But I can hear nothing.”
Ardahl nodded. Much easier to hear than see in the dark.
“D’ye think Dacha will be coming?” Cieran asked.
“Aye. ’Tis but a question o’ when.”
A bit diffidently—for he was among those who had denounced Ardahl after Conall’s death—Cieran asked, “Ye are close to the chief, are ye no’? D’ye think he will send us to war?”
Ardahl did not know. He did not think Fearghal had yet made up his mind. Was marching out to the attack better than sitting and waiting to be attacked?
“Either way,” he said heavily, “’twill be this season. Dacha is no’ a patient man.”
“Aye.”
“Best get off, lest someone hears us talking.” A sword in the dark could end a life quite easily.
Cieran left. Another rustle had Ardahl spinning the other way. If Cathair wanted to put a knife in his back, here was as good an opportunity as any.
