Astrid’s guilt was too much. She should have come to Diarmuid first. As soon as she and Marcán had awoken from their night of passion, they should have come right to see him. Even now, they would be betrothed.
Once outside, Marcán called after her when she kept going. “Astrid! Wait!”
She finally stopped, nibbling at her lower lip.
Closing the distance between them, he took her in his arms and kissed her. His lips so warm and sweet, the heady feelings returned to assault her senses. The stench of battle hit her and she couldn’t stop herself from turning away, the back of her hand shielding her nose.
Releasing her, he offered a sheepish smile. “Forgiveness, I beg. I needed to feel ye in my arms again.”
“Ye need a bath!”
“And would ye be seeing to it?”
She tried to smile and glanced around to see who was nearby. There was no one.
Marcán frowned. “Is aught a miss?”
“There is naught. I—”
“Then let us go to him now!” His eyes widening in excitement, he took her arm, pulling her with him. “Come, we will ask Diarmuid’s blessing on our union and be apart no longer.”
“He is near broken. Can ye not see that? I couldneverseek my own happiness while he pines away beside his wife.”
Marcán’s expression shifted, a frown marring his brow.
“Astrid,” Marcán said, his finger caressing her palm, where he held her hand in his own. “I have been beside yer brother all this time. I have seen his pain, and it truly runs deep… but would he not want us to have our happiness? I believe it could comfort him to see ye content.”
A rustling from the trail ahead had Astrid jerking away from Marcán. Met by his steady gaze, she could guess her reaction disappointed him. Mayhap he even believed she had forgotten his earlier words. She had not, but her courage had left her. The decision to wait demanded they keep their relationship a secret, and she did not like secrets. Faolán’s cryptic words had only increased her trepidation.
Maeve halted when she spotted them on the path, turning to one and then the other. “Astrid. Oh, Marcán! Yer men are looking for ye. There is some trouble with the hostages.”
“My thanks.”
Marcán paused, his fierce demeanor back in place. Always ready for battle. In command of all about him. But he showed no sign of leaving.
“Maeve,” Astrid turned to the woman, “Diarmuid requires yer presence. Please go to him, but be forewarned, he is beside himself with grief.”
“He’ll be venting his anger at me?”
“I fear that is so, but do not take it to heart.”
“If I had an answer for the man, I would give it to him.” Her basket hanging from her wrist, the healer quickly continued to the longhouse. Neither moved as they watched her go inside.
“I should return to them,” Astrid said.
When Marcán turned his suddenly warm gaze back to her, the breath in her entire body stilled. She read his desire there and her body responded.
“Are ye certain,grádh?”
With a tightness in her chest, she said, “I will not keep ye from yer duties. See to the hostages. We will speak later.”
His eyes darkened. “I want to do more than speak.”
He took her hand again in a light hold, his eyes never releasing hers, and kissed her palm. Her wrist. The bend of her fingers. “I wait on ye to decide when to speak to yer brother, but I will not wait forever.”
Dipping his head, Marcán rushed past her toward the roundhouse.
* * *
