At last she came awake to find that she lay against his shoulder. That she clutched his left hand in her own.
His hand—the same that had slain Conall? That had performed an act of unendurable evil and harm? But, broad palmed and heavily calloused, it felt warm in the night, somehow battling against the cold that seized her and penetrated to the bone.
She lay there, eyes open to the dark hut, unwilling to surrender that warmth, that narrow grasp upon comfort. He breathed quietly and evenly. Did he sleep at last? But nay. As soon as she stirred, he whispered, “Hush, now. All is still well.”
His hand squeezed hers more tightly. Their fingers had become interwoven, palm to palm, skin to skin. She should free herself and move away from him.
She did not want to.
“How long till dawn?”
“Not long. The night is near done.”
“Sometimes the enemy strikes just at dawn when all lies most vulnerable.” Conall had told her that.
“’Tis so. No matter, I am here.”
And could he defend them? One man covered in wounds. Spent and exhausted.
She believed it. There in the dark of the night, she believed he would.
“I am almost afraid for the sun to come up,” she confessed. “To see how many lie dead. They will all be gathered together by now.”
“They will.”
“We will have so many burials. Without Aodh—”
“He will be first among them, I do not doubt.”
“Aye.”
He stirred and very gently released her hand. Before she could protest, he tucked his arm around her and drew her more securely against him. “Rest while ye can. Sleep if ye be able.”
With her face tucked into the crook of his neck, his hair like a cloud against her cheek, she absorbed the comfort that flowed from him. This serpent. And it felt so right, she never wanted to move away.
She should, aye, do as he suggested and rest while she could. How to do so, when her pulse pounded in her ears? When she could catch his scent, a tantalizing fragrance that seemed to curl through her and lodge down low in her belly?
She wondered how it would feel to kiss him. How he’d taste. And then she flagellated herself for the thought.
Holding his hand and even absorbing his warmth through the night was one thing. She absolutely could not have feelings for the man who’d killed Conall.
*
Rain moved insoon after sunrise, which put out the rest of the fires and made a mess of everything else. Mud and ash and sodden, half-burned belongings lay everywhere. The trees dripped moisture and the ground became a morass.
Soon after breakfast, Ardahl reported to Dornach for orders. He had the reward of seeing his mam there. In fact, she opened the door to him and they had a moment to embrace before he went in.
“So many hurts!” she noted, performing a swift inspection. “Are ye fit to be up on your feet?”
Ardahl was not at all certain. He hurt as if he’d been thrashed from head to foot, and several of his wounds stung enough to make him grit his teeth.
But he answered the worry in her eyes. “I am well enough. And ye? Are ye treated kindly here?”
“Aye, so, and I am able to help with the children. They do no’ judge me, and I feel—well, useful.”
He would owe Dornach for this, Ardahl thought. An unending debt of gratitude.
He found the man beside his fire, taking breakfast. The war chief lumbered to his feet, moving very much as if he too hurt.
