Iseult dared a smile. “She must have liked you, then. Most of the slaves have water and vegetables.”
Why was she chattering like a young girl? Like a witless fool, she’d let her tongue run off with her.
Kieran’s eyes grew appreciative of the repast she’d brought. He took a piece of venison and ate slowly, savoring the meat as though he had not eaten such in a long time. Iseult tried not to notice his mouth, nor the way his hands moved.
“Did you have to steal it from her?” he asked idly.
“I helped clean up after the meal,” she said. “I asked her if I could bring some of the food home, and she allowed it.”
“You don’t live with them?”
Iseult suppressed a shudder. “Not yet.” In spite of herself, she couldn’t help the dread that passed over her at the thought of dwelling with Neasa. “I am staying with my friend Muirne.”
He passed her the basket in silent invitation to share the food. Iseult withdrew the flask of wine and found two cups near the back of the hut. After pouring for each of them, she added, “Neasa probably wouldn’t have given me this, had she known I was bringing it here.”
The sweet fermented wine warmed her, and she knew she should go. Instead, she watched Kieran. His hand traced the rim of the cup before he drank deeply. In the shadowed firelight, his skin gleamed.
When he set the cup down, he rose from the bench. With him standing so near, she could almost feel the heat from his skin. She wondered what it would feel like to touch him, to run her hand over the hard breadth of his shoulders. Her nape grew damp, and she took a step backwards in retreat. Saint Brigid, she was losing her mind.
“You shouldn’t come back again, Iseult.” He crossed his arms, but in spite of it, his eyes devoured her. She gripped her hands together so tightly, her knuckles went white. He captivated her, this man whom she ought to despise. But right now she was wanting to feel his skin against her own, to experience the thrill of his kiss.
Her mind protested how wrong it was, even to imagine such a thing. “I only came to ask you about my—the boy,” she amended. Her skin flushed even more.
“And that’s all?”
“Of course, that’s all.” Did he think she had come to see him? She wanted nothing to do with him. “If you have no answers for me, I’ll go.”
She picked up the empty basket, but he caught her wrist before she could go. “He’s your son, isn’t he?”
Her throat closed up, and she managed a nod.Don’t cry.The effort to hold her composure made it impossible to speak.
“Why isn’t Davin helping you?” He softened his grip upon her wrist but did not release her. Iseult fought to keep herself from pulling back. She wasn’t afraid of him; only her body’s reaction to his touch.
“Aidan isn’t his son.” Though Davin claimed he would help her find the boy, he’d never initiated any searches. His only contribution was escorting her around the countryside. And he wouldn’t even do that anymore, not after the threat of the raiders.
Kieran’s thumb brushed against her pulse in a silent offer of sympathy. It cracked the frail edges of her control and the tears spilled over.
“Good eventide.” Iseult swiped at her eyes and left the hut. She ran to the far side of the palisade, ducking into the shadows. Sinking to the ground, she gathered her knees to her chest and wept bitterly.
Though she wanted to believe that somehow she’d find Aidan, she was beginning to fear the worst, that he was lost to her forever.
Kieran’seyesblurredfromthe sunlight. His muscles were locked and stiff. He’d stayed up the remainder of the night, finishing the carving. Iseult’s revelation had been the final stroke he needed to complete it. Her sadness wasn’t of a reluctant bride—instead, she was a grieving mother. It explained the sorrow upon her face, and her frustration.
He set the carving down and turned to the dying coals upon the fire. His tunic was dry, and he pulled it on, the wool still warm from the heat. She had set it there last night, as a wife might have done. The gesture had rendered him puzzled. He’d seen through her feigned bravery to the trembling she tried to hide from him. But she’d pressed on, asking questions for which there were no answers. She must be desperate if she thought he knew anything about her son.
What had happened to the boy’s father? Though she might have been married before, it did not seem so. There was an air of innocence about her.
He’d wanted to lie with her last night. In the intimacy of the hut, he’d wanted to taste her lips and touch the silken skin that haunted him.
Kieran expelled a breath. As if she’d ever let a man like him touch her. He was a slave, not worthy of any woman. He had no right to be thinking of her, and he’d never deceive anyone in the same way Branna had betrayed him.
He remembered waking beside his beloved, stroking her bare skin. He ached for her, even knowing she did not love him. Now, his perfidious bride slept in another man’s bed. Escaping a marriage to her should have been a welcoming thought instead of a painful one.
Had he loved her? Or was it his pride that was wounded? When he tried to picture Branna in his mind, her features remained as clear as ever. Soft auburn hair and eyes as dark as polished cherry wood. Her smile when he’d taken her into his arms.
His fingers dug into the carving, and he forced his fingers to relax. She was gone now, wedded to another man. Likely, she never even thought of him anymore. Would that he could drive her from his own thoughts so easily.
Kieran drew his attention back to the carving and the shape of Iseult’s mouth. Instead of carving the anguish in her features, he’d added his own touch: a note of hope. Though he did not give her a false smile, he’d carved her lips to hold a wistful dream.
