Yet her heart would cling to him. Even if it meant she must forsake having a husband and a family, a home of her own. She belonged to him, lifelong.
He did not return until late, the practice in the field having stretched long. When he did come, he looked weary, shoulders slumped and skin streaked with sweat.
As was his custom, he deposited his weapons inside the door.
“Mam,” he said. But it was at Liadan he looked, and she saw the change come over him as their gazes met, the weariness lifting from him and light seeping in.
He went out to wash. She waited but a moment before snatching up a cloth and a pot of soap and following him.
Around the side of the hut she stood, her back pressed against the wall, and watched him. Watched as he stripped off his tunic and bent over the basin.
He was filthy, and new bruises and scrapes showed on the skin thus revealed. It did not matter. She held out what she’d brought and let her eyes touch him, as her fingers had the night before. There, and there, andthere.
“A new pot o’ soap. Go carefully wi’ it. There is not much to spare.”
He took the pot and the cloth from her, their hands brushing. She relived the feel of his hand at her breast, the thumb sliding over her before his mouth followed.
“I missed ye,” she said. Simple words, but they caused him to stop washing and raise his head, caused the light in his hazel eyes to flare.
“I missed ye also, full well.”
Not much of an exchange—it was all she was permitted. Just to have him near her this evening, to watch him wash and eat and smile and speak. It would have to be enough.
To last the rest of her life.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Fearghal did notmake any announcement about the planned venture to Brioc. Though it had always been his way to gather his folk and make speeches concerning clan affairs, this time he avoided it, saying, “Our folk ha’ endured enough wi’out suffering more uncertainty.”
He gathered Dornach and Ardahl and made his plans with them in private. He meant to send a lone messenger to Brihan of Brioc so that Brihan would be expecting him, then journey with but a small party.
As he told Dornach and Ardahl, with a rueful sort of smile, “We do no’ want to be mistaken for an attacking force.”
Be that as it may, the prospect made Ardahl uneasy. Since Fearghal had assigned Dornach the task of keeping the settlement safe in his absence—also unenviable—only four of them were to make up the party to Brioc. Fearghal himself, an older warrior named Tierney who often advised Fearghal, Ardahl, and Cathair.
The very idea of having Cathair watching his back made the hairs stand up all over Ardahl’s body.
Yet Fearghal’s mind was set. Moreover, he did not want to waste time, and at the last meeting between the three of them said, “We leave come the morn. I have spoken about it at length wi’ Tamald, as well as with my wife. Tamald says the portents are not bad. He has cast the stones thrice. My wife”—he made a face—“is far less happy.”
Dornach spoke in a grumble. “Nor, my laird chief, am I. I would ye might spare yoursel’ and let me go in your stead.”
“Ye be no’ yet healed enough to travel, and ye know it. Besides, if Brihan is to be persuaded, ’twill only be by me. ’Tis I who have forged past agreements wi’ the man.”
“Aye, Chief Fearghal, but he has already broken one o’ those agreements. If somewhat goes wrong and ye fail to return—”
“I ha’ discussed that also with the druids and my wife. If I am slain, she and Tamald together will lead the clan until my son, Rhaod, is of an age to assume the place.” He gave Ardahl a dour smile. “But Ardahl will be there to assure I am no’ slain. Aye, Ardahl?”
“I will do my best.” But they might all be slain, the four of them. Dornach was right—Brihan had already offered them treachery. Might he not look on this as an opportunity to offer more?
Dornach gave Ardahl a long and burning glare. He knew how heavy was what Fearghal asked of him.
Ardahl walked home from that meeting slowly, trying to marshal his words. Dark had already fallen. He would not have long to gather his belongings. To make his explanations.
When he entered the hut, Liadan stood bent over the fire, its light washing over her, and he was struck still for a moment, taking her in. The graceful line of chin, throat, and breast. The golden hair hanging down her back and the feeling that reached out to him from her.
Belonging.
She glanced up, and a smile of welcome transfigured her face. “Ye be late.”
