His gaze returned to Liadan—only to Liadan—before he said, “I have done naught but any man here might do. We defend this land and those we love.”
“This belongs to ye.” With a grand gesture, Fearghal presented Ardahl with Dacha’s head. Ardahl took it by the hair but did not so much as glance at it, his eyes all for Liadan still.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Dacha’s head hungoutside their hut, suspended by its hair from a peg Ardahl had hammered there, with absent-minded disregard. Indeed, it dangled from one of the braids Dacha had no doubt put there before going off to maim, maul, and conquer. Which, Ardahl could not help but feel, was only fitting.
He did not want the trophy. He did not want the acclaim. He wanted to be alone with those he loved—with his mam, and most especially with Liadan.
He had not touched her yet, had not so much as brushed his fingers across hers. He still had blood on his hands—on most of him, to be fair. And so as he had done so often since he’d come to take Conall’s place, he went around the side of the hut and tried to scrub it off, a task much harder than one might imagine and one that took him back, back to the day he had stood covered in his dearest friend’s blood.
Life was made up of circles, he thought. It all came round again and again. Birth, death, and to birth again after a time spent inTír na nÓg. The gods’ cauldron of rebirth spat them out and they returned to this beautiful, troubled, treacherous world to—
What? Learn? Love.
Surely it was all about the love.
Liadan followed him around the side of the hut as she had so many times before. As he’d known she would. Their eyes met,and he thought,If she ever looked at me that way out among the tribe, everyone would know the truth.
And he thought about circles, and how such a love as theirs must endure. That even if they could not be together now, they would be, someday.
Someday. Because a circle had no beginning and no end. Neither did their love.
“Let me do that for ye.” She took the cloth from him, dabbed it into the pot of soap. Just for the chance to touch him, as he knew. And when she did, when her fingers met his, the contact felt so intense, so complete, he knew that, aye, in truth, he needed no more.
“Ye must see the healer.”
“I ha’ seen him. I would far rather ye tended me, Liadan.”
Their eyes met. Memory united them—the slide of skin on naked skin. Lips fused to lips in a storm of effortless belonging.
“That, aye, I will do, though I do not know that I can push your mam aside. Ardahl, I was so afraid.”
“Aye, but”—with one scraped hand, he touched her chin gently—“I am here. Liadan, I will always be here.”
Her eyes flooded with tears. She nodded. “Still, naught is promised.”
“Naught is promised but that I will belong to ye, for eternity.”
She caught her breath. “Come inside. I will finish wi’ tending ye. And—”
She wanted to kiss him. She wanted it as desperately as he wanted it. Yet Mam was in the hut. So very hard for them to be alone.
Liadan towed him inside to the comforting gloom, and pushed him down beside the fire.
“There is food,” Mam said, “and drink. And I—” She gave her son a long look. “I ha’ an errand elsewhere.”
She did not, not at such a time as this. But Ardahl would not argue it, and silently blessed her as she slipped out through the door.
Liadan came into his arms. The simple motion failed to describe what it lent—an answer to all the longing that had beset him when he was away from her. She kissed him, and the terrible need that had been inside him all the while eased. Something so basic as breathing, he thought as he held her fast in his arms. As the blood rushing through his veins. As simple and as profound as loving.
Loving this one woman.
“Here, do no’ weep,” he told her, feeling the tears wet her face.
“They are tears o’ joy. Ardahl.” She drew away far enough to gaze into his eyes. “I discovered somewhat while ye were away, when my fear burned its brightest. Love demands what it demands, and for me that is your presence. If I can ne’er be wi’ ye as your wife, at least I can be near ye. I ask only leave to watch the smile come and go on your face, the way the sun pricks red from your hair, the way ye lift a sword. See the thoughts flicker in your eyes. Hear your voice, your laughter. Spend my life near to ye.”
“And I to ye. My very soul clamors to be your own.”
