“If Brihan falls so swiftly that there is attack by morning, ye shall surely hear o’ it. Lad, I ha’ seen your wounds. Go home and take what rest ye may.”
Go home.That meant but one thing—go to Liadan. He would not argue having so much as one moment of extra time with her.
Hoisting his weapons, he went.
*
Liadan knelt besidethe hearthplace, praying. She did so often, spoke to the great goddess Brigid, who surely understood a woman’s lot and the longings of her heart, as to a friend.
Please, Brigid, let him remain safe. I do not know how that is possible, given what we face, and him a warrior who must march out wi’ a sword in his hand. But please. Even if he can never in truth be my own, let him live and thrive.
She heard a step behind her and turned. Ardahl stood in the doorway looking like a figure from some old, heroic tale—his weapons on his shoulder, hair and cloak wet from the rain. Eyes all for her.
Had Brigid sent him? No matter. She surged to her feet and went to him, unfastened the pin of his cloak and laid it aside. Glanced into his face and became lost in those hazel eyes.
“I ha’ been sent home to regain my strength,” he said, not without a hint of irony in his voice.
“Have ye indeed?”
“I would full rather lose it, in ye.”
“Would ye?” Her hands began to shake as she reached for the laces of his tunic.
He covered her hands with his own. “Is my mam here?”
“Nay.” Liadan went breathless. “Gone to a lying-in. She may be gone all night.”
“Liadan—this may well be the last time. Our last time ever. I ha’ been assigned to protect the chief when the battles come. Lay down my life for him, if necessary. Given what is coming…” He shook his head.
“Aye.” Liadan struggled to accept it, this thing most unacceptable. “Aye, so. If ’tis to be the last time, then we will have to make it count.”
He trapped her face between his palms. Kissed each side of her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead. Then kissed her so deeply, with such tenderness and devotion, her heart felt it must break.
Her hands still shook when she tied shut the leather curtain across the door. Shook with desire and with wondering.
If this truly would be the last time they lay together, became one in body as well as spirit, could she bear it?
She turned back to find him standing there watching her. She summoned up a smile and held out her hand.
“Come. Let me treat a hero as he deserves.”
In the sleeping place, she undressed him slowly and carefully, followed the removal of each garment with a caress on bare skin. Over bruises. Cuts and bandages. When mere touch failed to be enough, she blessed each place with her mouth. A thousand kisses could not be enough.
She removed his tunic, his kilt, his boots, and the wrapped leggings beneath. Now it was he who trembled like a pony in the traces of a chariot, eager to run. He stood ready for her, and when she fell to her knees and kissed the smooth, heated length of him, he made a sound deep in his throat.
“Liadan—”
“Nay, Ardahl, do no’ hinder me. If this is to be our last, I would ha’ all o’ ye.”
He made no further protest, but caught her head between his hands as she wooed him with her lips and tongue, coaxed him into the warm cavern of her mouth and drank what he had togive. The muscles of his stomach rippled as he gave himself to her. And when she’d had every drop of him, he drew her to her feet and babbled her name.
“Liadan. Liadan!”
He undressed her then, with as much care as if she were a high king’s bride. Drew her onto the sleeping bench behind them. Gazed into her eyes.
“My turn, wee one. My turn to worship ye.”
He began with her breasts, a slow burn of desire that soon spread through her blood and turned her wild. She buried her fingers in his hair and drew him closer, then closer still.
