He’d known Niamh for many years, but never had she stirred any feelings in him. She’d been a friend, someone who was always there.
“What do you want from me, Niamh?” he asked.
“I want you to let her go.” She rested her palms on his shoulders. The touch of her hands startled him, evoking sensations he’d locked away for so long.
“And if I did?” he asked.
She lifted her knuckles to the growth of beard upon his cheeks, grazing it softly. “Then there might be a chance that you’d find love again. Somewhere unexpected.”
Not once had she spoken her feelings, though they were as transparent as water. He took her palm in his, aware that the ale had relaxed him more than it should have. Never would he have touched her otherwise.
But she had not pushed him. And he found her intriguing to look at. With a thumb, he brushed the edge of her mouth, watching her response. The flesh upon her skin rose up in goose bumps.
He leaned in, angling his mouth to taste her lips. The sweetness of her innocence allured him, and when she welcomed his kiss, he deepened it.
Her cheeks flamed scarlet when at last he drew back. “I’ve been kissed before. But never by the man I wanted.” A chagrined smile tipped her mouth. “Thank you for taking pity upon me.”
She rose and fled the stables before he could answer. He realized it hadn’t been pity at all.
And that, perhaps, was the greatest surprise of all.
Chapter Nineteen
Kieransmelledthesmokefor miles before he reached the settlement. Once it had been acatháir, a ringfort made of stone. Now all that remained were ashes. Sounds mingled, of children crying and mothers trying to hush them.
Familiar sounds, of people dying. Like a living nightmare, it was like stepping back in time to the aftermath of his own tribe’s raid. Kieran suppressed a shudder as he dismounted and tethered his mount. Whether it was the Norse raiders or another clan didn’t matter. What mattered was the survivors.
Small huts dotted the land, until he reached the center point where they were clustered together. What he found appalled him.
The bodies of slain men rested upon the ground, their bodies stiffened before anyone could bury them. Women, too, lay dead. The living folk were huddled together, soothing children and talking amongst themselves. Their stares pierced right through him, suspicious and fearful.
It was like walking amid his own people and being unable to help. There was a sense of chaos, a lack of leadership. No one was giving orders or making decisions on what was to be done. Women and children spoke in low voices, each waiting for someone else to take command.
It was presumptuous to step into such a role, though Kieran knew what needed to happen first. And perhaps, once he acted, they would follow.
Without speaking a word, he found a spade leaning against one of the huts near a garden. After choosing a spot, he began to dig a shallow grave. The dull wooden tool bit into the damp earth and as the dirt began to pile up, he found himself remembering the tribe members they had lost.
Declan. Séan. Siobhan.
Some had died from hunger, others from the raiders who had struck them down. The simple task of digging a grave released the grief he’d held back for so long. He hacked at the earth, giving rein to the anger and frustration. He had lived, while his closest friends had died. And Egan.
The people watched him in silence, before another young woman joined him with her digging stick. Then an older woman and a child barely over the age of eight. Together they worked to bury the dead. Kieran kept his head lowered so they would not look upon his face. He poured himself into the grueling work, letting it ease him in a way nothing else could.
When the last spade of earth covered the last body, his palms were blistered and his mind blessedly empty. The sun had gone down hours earlier, and they had worked by torchlight.
He leaned against the spade, wiping his brow with his sleeve.
“You must be thirsty,” an older woman said, offering a dripping skin of water. “I am Rosaleen Murphy. Who are you, lad, and who sent you?”
“I am Kieran Ó Brannon.” He took a long drink of water, never minding that it was stale, and handed it back to Rosaleen. For a moment, he almost called himself a slave. But he’d earned back his freedom. He thought of telling her he was a woodcarver. But in the end, the truth came out.
“I am a chieftain’s son and a warrior,” he said. Her head nodded with approval, and he continued. “I came in search of Aidan MacFergus. His mother Iseult has been looking for him over the past year, and I am here on her behalf. I believe he was fostered among you.”
Though he had not seen the child, he had followed Aidan’s foster family here. Nearly two moons had passed since he’d left Iseult. Each day he thought of her, and he needed to see her again. But not before he found Aidan.
Rosaleen crossed herself. “Bless the saints that you’ve come to us. Both of Aidan’s foster parents are dead. They fled here when the raiders arrived but did not survive the attack.” She bowed her head in respect. “They were among those we buried just now.”
Kieran kept his face expressionless, though inwardly his heart was pounding. “Is the boy all right?”
