They both chuckled, and he rolled his eyes. “Take every growl as a compliment, lass. It’s meant to be.”
They sat in comfortable silence as the moon tracked its path across the dark sky. Eventually, the cold started to seep through their cloaks, and they rose reluctantly, mounting their horses for the ride back to Duart.
As they approached the castle gates, Brynja felt something she hadn’t experienced in four months, a sense of homecoming. Not because of the stone walls or the warm bed waiting for her, but because of the man riding beside her. The man who understood that safety wasn’t about fixing what was broken but about accepting it and moving forward anyway.
On the morrow, she knew, Dugan might show up outside their gates. She’d felt it in her dreams, seen glimpses of him riding hard across the winter landscape. Whatever news he brought would change things. Would set events in motion that couldn’t be stopped.
But tonight, she had this. This moment of peace, hard-won and precious. This man who kept her horse saddled and didn’t try to heal her, who simply loved her as she was.
It would have to be enough. Because on the morrow, everything could change.
On the morrow, there could be an attack.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Brynja
Two days later, Brynja knocked softly on the chamber door, a bowl of venison stew balanced in one hand. Sela had asked her to bring it because Connor was finally eating again, and he needed to keep his strength up.
“Come,” Connor’s voice called, stronger than she’d expected.
She pushed the door open. Connor sat propped against pillows, still pale but no longer bearing that gray, death-touched look from a few days ago. The wound on his side had healed, thanks to Lia, as the tale was told. She still had a difficult time believing that it had been her hands intertwined with Hagen’s that had healed that horrible wound.
“Sela said you need to eat,” Brynja said, crossing to set the bowl on the table beside his bed. The old warrior’s coloring was the opposite of Hagen’s, dark hair peppered with gray strands, but the blue eyes were the same, calculating and always alert. His hair fell to his shoulders, like most men in the clan instead of like Hagen’s hair that fell well past his shoulders.
It fit Hagen. She thought of Hagen’s father as an old warrior, but he appeared only a bit older than her mother had been. Old was not a word she’d ever use to describe Sela.
“My wife is a tyrant.” But Connor’s smile was fond. “My thanks to you, lass. Will you sit with me for a moment? Or do you have somewhere else to be?”
Brynja hesitated. She’d expected to leave the bowl and go. She wasn’t comfortable with the easy intimacy of the Grant family, wasn’t sure where she fit among them. But Connor’s eyes were kind, and there was something in his expression that made refusing seem rude.
“I can stay,” she said, settling into the chair by his bedside.
Connor reached for the stew, his movements careful. “You were there, on Tiree. When I was wounded.”
“Aye.” She watched him taste the stew. “You fought well.”
“I got stabbed. That’s not fighting well.” His mouth quirked. “But I’m alive, so I suppose it could have been worse.”
“Much worse,” Brynja said quietly. She’d seen the wound, seen how close he’d come to dying, felt his blood on her hands. Another finger to the left and the blade would have found something vital.
Connor studied her over the rim of his bowl. “Sholto got away. How does it feel?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Different than I expected. I’m angry, but there were too many for us. I don’t think I could have done any better, so I’m upset, but I have faith I’ll get the chance again. I will still stick my blade in his neck someday.”
Connor nodded slowly, unsurprised. “I would wager you will. Vengeance has a way of sticking with you.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
“I do.” He set the bowl aside, his expression turning distant. “I’ve killed men for vengeance, lass. More than I care to count. Some deserved it. Some… well. Battle makes monsters of us all, if we let it.”
Brynja leaned forward. “Did it help? Killing them?”
“Sometimes. For a moment.” He met her eyes. “And then the moment passed, and I was still left with whatever I’d lost. Still left with the hole in my chest where someone used to be.”
“But you kept doing it. Kept fighting.”
“Aye. Because sometimes vengeance isn’t about filling holes. It’s about making sure the bastards who hurt you can’t hurt anyone else. It’s about drawing a line and saying this far and no farther.” He shifted against his pillows, wincing slightly. “But there’s a difference between necessary vengeance and poison.”
