“One thing I have learned in nearly a score o’ winters is there is never an end to the fighting.”
His food served, she sat down beside him. Close. He shot her an inquiring look before beginning to eat.
“Chief Fearghal goes wi’ us this time,” he told her between draughts of broth. “He wants to direct the fighting, to be seen at our head. To let Dacha know he has a strong hand on the reins.”
Liadan experienced a stab of uneasiness. “Is that wise?” Not appropriate, perhaps, to question the decisions of one’schief. Yet she spoke only to Ardahl, after all. Though the chief remained a youthful man, he rarely went to fight, keeping back to direct the defenses of the settlement with so many of the men gone.
Ardahl shrugged. “He will leave a stout guard. So”—he gave a wry smile—“Cathair will no’ claim the place o’ honor after all.”
Aye, so Fearghal wanted the might of the clan on full display when they reached the border. It made sense, at least in the way men tended to think.
“How long d’ye guess ye will be gone?”
Their gazes met, held, full of emotions that could not be spoken. “Impossible to say. A day and a night? Longer if the campaign pushes forward.”
Forever, if he fell.
“Ardahl.” She caught her breath. “Ardahl, I cannot bear it.”
“Liadan.” He laid aside his supper, raised a hand to her cheek. Caressed it gently. “We have spoken of this.”
“The fear will not leave me. I have naught but bad feelings about your going.”
“By all the gods, do no’ let anyone hear ye say it. Tamald, he who has taken Aodh’s place as head druid, spent many precious moments when I would ha’ rather been here, telling us we must go with high hearts and only triumph on our lips, if we are to prove victorious.”
“Ye would have rather been here?” She searched his eyes.
“Aye.”
Liadan leaned forward and kissed him. She did not mean to do it, did not truly understand the impulse. Nor could she hold it back.
Only their lips touched, their lips and his finger, fleeting, on her cheek. But the day’s long agony inside Liadan eased for one blessed instant before they flew apart and glanced quickly at the opening to Conall’s sleeping place.
Had she gone mad? They weren’t alone, though the curtain, half drawn, surely limited what her mam could see.
“Ye best get some rest,” she told Ardahl then, knowing it might be his last respite for days untold.
“Aye.”
“Do no’ sleep by the door tonight. Keep warm here beside the fire.”
“But that is my place.”
His place, so she began to suspect, was anywhere she was. Where she drew breath. Where her heart beat.
“If ye rest by the door, I do also.”
“Liadan—”
“Nay, do no’ tell me what I may or may not do. This might be the last—” She caught those words hastily. He was right. She should speak only hopeful words.
She tidied away the supper things and went to check on her mam, who slept soundly. When she left the sleeping place, she drew the curtain all the way across.
Ardahl, so she discovered, had made up the fire and spread his blanket beside it. She made sure the outer door was fastened shut before going to lie down beside him.
She half expected him to protest her presence. He did not, but reached out through the firelit air to take her hand in his. Palm to palm. Fingers intertwined.
“The chief will send a caller when we are to rise,” he said in a soft rumble. “I canna be late.”
