Flanna, who sat beside her, had been weeping. Liadan bustled around, trying to keep her hands and thoughts busy, he did not doubt.
She whirled and looked at him. “Och, Ardahl. Ye should no’ be on your feet.”
“That is what Dornach said.” Yet he was on his feet, if barely.
“Sit ye down.”
When he stood where he was, unwilling to intrude, she came to him, clutched his arm, and pushed him down with ridiculous ease.
“I just heard Aodh is dead.”
All three of them looked at him. Flanna and Liadan with horror, Mistress MacAert still blankly.
“Nay,” Liadan breathed.
“Would not the gods protect him?” Flanna wondered. “Such a holy man.”
Ardahl pressed his lips together so he would not say what burned behind them. That he’d heard more prayers for protection on the brink of a battle than upon any holy day, and they seldom meant aught. That the gods rarely stirred to protect those who deserved it.
Like his da. And Conall.
“Whisht now,” Liadan said. “’Tis not our place to question the acts o’ the gods.” She looked at Ardahl. “How did he die?”
“I do not know—I merely heard his death cried out.”
“Aye, well, ’tis a dire loss, but we will ha’ to go on without him. Just like all the rest who lost their lives this day.”
“How many?” Flanna asked with tears in her eyes. “How many have died?”
“Impossible to say before the bodies are gathered,” Ardahl told her.
“But,” she appealed to him, “it is over, is it not? We will no’ be attacked again.”
Should he lie to these three women who watched him so fearfully? What good would any lie do?
“Dacha has taken back his brother whom we held prisoner. He may be satisfied wi’ that. Or he may decide to strike again while he believes we are weak.” He hesitated. “Finish wi’ it.”
“Finish us, ye mean? Och.” Liadan comprehended the threat if her sister did not, if her mother stared uncomprehendingly. They balanced on a knife’s edge of danger.
She shook her head and said no more, then hurried to pull together a meal, which they shared without further discussion.
Afterward, Flanna sat with her head on her mother’s shoulder. Quietly, Liadan came to Ardahl and said, “D’ye think they will attack tonight? While—while all remains in confusion?”
He looked at her from beneath his lashes. He didn’t like to admit that was whathewould do, were he Dacha. Strike while the iron was hot. Deliver the killing blow. Then walk in and take the territory he’d been chasing so long. Kill whomever he chose. Chase the others off or make slaves of them.
“Do no’ worry,” he told Liadan. “I will be here. In Conall’s place. I shall sleep beside the door wi’ his sword. None shall touch nor harm ye.”
Her gaze held his. “Even should it cost your life?”
“Even so.”
“Come, then. Let me tend your wounds, that ye will be fit for the task.”
It proved a lengthy process, and not without hurt, though she made her hands as gentle as she could. First she brought a basin and washed him down, which felt…almost unimaginably pleasurable. But nay,pleasurablewas not the proper word. For despite his bone-deep weariness, her act of wiping away the soot and the blood, stroking the cloth over his arms and down his chest, aroused him.
He turned his face away. Conall’s sister. His sister, now, by the order of the druids. He could not possibly desire her.
But she was a grown woman, and a beautiful one.
