Maeve’s gaze—now clear of tears as if burned dry—met Liadan’s. “My Ardahl would no’ have harmed a hair on Conall’s head. He loved him like a brother.”
“Yet Conall lies dead.”
“There must be more to it. The truth lies in it somewhere. Ye must discover it.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because he is yours now. Ardahl is yours. Would ye not know the truth o’ him?”
Chapter Thirteen
Ardahl returned tothe hut at the end of that day’s training carrying a number of new abrasions that caused Liadan to narrow her eyes. Another hard day he had passed with his fellow warriors, and no mistake. It made her wonder.
Were the young warriors with whom he drilled not supposed to be his friends, men who had known him life long? Were they so quick to turn on him?
Aye, and had she not known him most of her life also? He had spent as much of his time here in her mam’s hut as his own. Taken his meals here often. Fallen asleep by the fire.
She had been attracted to him then. Considered him the bonniest man to walk the face of the world. Had conspired to make him see her as more than a child. More than Conall’s wee sister.
As a woman.
She still considered him braw and handsome. As he quietly entered the hut with his hair hanging down his back in an auburn mane, moving with that quiet competence, and set his weapons just inside the door, her pulse quickened. Against her will, it did. She could no longer feel attracted to this man. Could not allow it.
He shot her one swift look from assessing eyes before glancing away.
“Mistress Liadan. How fares your lady mother?”
“Sleeping. Quiet, for now.” Dosed by Dathi’s draught. Liadan did not like that, but it was better than the endless weeping.
Weapons laid aside, Ardahl looked at his hands. “I am filthy. I will go wash.”
Liadan did not intend to follow him. She but remembered there was no clean cloth there at the washing place around the side of the hut, so she caught one up from those she’d washed earlier and headed out.
She caught Ardahl at his ablutions with his back to her, bent over the wooden basin. He’d had time already to strip off his tunic, so she had a clear view of him, the auburn waves of hair swept to one side. Broad shoulders narrowing to lean hips, clad in rough leggings that failed to disguise the play of muscles. A rash of abrasions. He’d been put down onto the turf a number of times this day.
He’d presumably fought his way up again.
Liadan froze as if an iron grip had seized her by the heart—or lower down.
Hearing something—surely not Liadan’s quiet step—he turned. Caught her standing there eyeing him.
The view from the front was even better than the other.
“A cloth. For drying.” She flung it at him and fled for the hut.
She must be mad to think of him that way.Stillthink of him that way. After he’d killed her brother.
Maeve’s words returned to her mind.My Ardahl would not have harmed a hair of Conall’s head.There must be some truth in it.
When she reentered the hut, her mam was stirring, whimpering in her sleep. Liadan went to soothe and provide comfort, and soon heard Ardahl come in behind her, nearly silent.
He would need to be fed. Might once more need his hurts tended. Suddenly, she wanted to weep.
She still hadn’t had a chance to do that. To weep properly for her brother. To throw herself down and sob as Mam had done.
She could not afford to give way. If she did, she might break entirely.
Mam subsided back into sleep and Liadan tiptoed out to find Ardahl seated beside the door. His place. That of a hound.
