With the warning issued, he rejoined the rest of the slaves where he belonged.
Chapter Seven
Iseultpausedbeforethedoor to Kieran’s hut, a basket of food in one hand. Though he’d warned her not to come, she needed answers about her son. The chances of him knowing anything at all were unlikely, but she was willing to try anything.
She wanted to simply open the door, ask her questions, and leave. But the memory of his hands upon her feet made her skin burn, even now. She had almost imagined leaning down and feeling his lips against hers. Kieran Ó Brannon would not be considerate, like Davin. She could almost sense what it would be like, a wild stolen kiss. His sudden move the other night had made her feel like a captive, completely subject to his whims. It unsettled her that she’d wanted to know what it would feel like. This wasn’t the sort of woman she was.
She lowered her head. What was wrong with her? Did she crave the forbidden so much, that she could not accept the embrace of a man who truly loved her? Saint Brigid, she despised herself for even thinking such thoughts. And she didn’t even like Kieran. He was rude and insufferably arrogant.
Why was her heart beating so fast? She swallowed hard and bolstered her courage. In a few moments, she’d have her answers about Aidan. Without asking, she opened the door.
Kieran’s back was turned. His skin glistened from where he’d poured water down it. She shivered at the sight of his barely healed wounds and the water tracing the ridges of his skin. His lean body was formed almost entirely of muscle, not a trace of softness about him. The waist of his trews hung low, exposing the edges of his hips.
The sight of him captivated her. She imagined sliding her hands around his waist, raising her palms up to his firm shoulders. As if in answer to her vision, her body responded, aching to be touched. Her clothes weighed down upon her, the tips of her breasts hardening.
No. Don’t weaken like this.
“You could have knocked,” he said.
Iseult jerked her attention away. “You wouldn’t have let me in.” She pulled the folds of her graybrataround her shoulders, shivering in the cool spring night. The interior of the hut was as frigid as the outside for Kieran hadn’t bothered to build a fire. Two small clay lamps sitting on the work bench offered his only light. “Aren’t you freezing?”
“I hadn’t noticed.” He reached for a drying cloth and wiped the moisture away. Bare-chested, he didn’t bother to don a new tunic. It heightened the intimacy of the hut, making her imagination run wild. The forbidden desire to touch Kieran came over her again. Iseult dropped her gaze to the ground, forcing her thrumming heart to calm down.
She spied his old garment sodden with water, resting upon a bench. It struck her to realize that these were the only clothes he possessed.
Iseult set her basket down upon the earthen floor. “May I?” She gestured towards the peat stacked near the hearth. The need to do something, to take her mind off the present moment, was foremost.
He shrugged, and she gathered tinder and flint, sparking a fire. In time, her shivering ceased when the warm flames licked the fuel. She dragged two wooden tree stumps near the fire and picked up his wet tunic without asking. Wringing the remaining water out, she spread it to dry before the fire. Occupying her hands made it easier to avoid the true reason for coming.
Kieran said nothing but behaved as though she weren’t there. He sat upon the bench, his blade moving upon the wood. Tiny shavings flew into the air, and the fresh scent of yew filled the hut.
“I won’t stay long,” Iseult promised. She wasn’t certain how to ask him about the slave markets without bringing up bad memories. Surely it had been a barbaric experience, completely demeaning.
“What is it you want?” In his voice she heard the undertones of displeasure at being interrupted.
In the faint golden light, she saw white scars across his fingers and knuckles. They were the hands of a working man, not a nobleman. Like her father’s hands, burned and scarred from shaping metal. Her heart softened as she thought of her da and how she missed him. Rory was the sort of man who had laughed often before he’d gathered her in a bear hug. Sometimes he’d made rings for her out of bits of iron, while working at his forge. As a little girl, she’d pretended they were made of silver and precious stones.
“Iseult?” Kieran prompted again. Impatience lined his voice.
She bit her lip, fearing he would have no information to give her. “I wanted . . . to ask you about the slave markets,” she admitted at last. Her heartbeat quickened, and she rubbed her shoulders to bring warmth back into her skin. “Were there any children there?”
“Many.” His face transformed into anger, his green eyes fierce with the injustice. “Some only a few days old if their mothers happened to give birth in captivity.”
For the first time, he set down his knife and stared at her. “Were you thinking to buy a child?”
“No!” The very idea horrified her. How could he think her that cold or unfeeling? Though she understood that families were sometimes driven to desperation, she couldn’t imagine selling a child for profit.
Kieran didn’t press but waited for her to continue. He picked up his knife, and she watched the blade dig into the wood, shaving the layers away. It disconcerted her to see her face emerging from the wood. Not the carefree girl she’d been once, but instead the weary face of a woman.
“I wanted . . . to find a particular child,” she said at last. “A boy about two years of age. With dark hair and deep blue eyes. His name is Aidan.”
“I saw at least a dozen boys with that description. From all over Éireann.” Though his voice was flat, Kieran’s eyes rested upon her with speculation. She was afraid he’d ask more questions, but he kept any curiosity to himself.
Her hopes deflated, she bowed her head. “Thank you anyway.” Iseult picked up the basket of food and hesitated a moment. He still wore no tunic, seemingly unconcerned about his bared skin. Though she wanted to give him the provisions she’d brought, her face flushed at the thought of nearing him.
Don’t be foolish. He’s not going to attack you, she chided herself. Even so, she set the basket on the table and stepped away as though it were on fire. “I brought you some of the venison. I doubt if Neasa gave you much of anything.”
He set the knife down and eyed it with interest. “She offered bread and a little mead.”
