Eilidh was struck with the blinding sensation out of nowhere.
“Ciaran,” she almost screamed as she arched up into him, feeling everything inside her pull instantly taut, and Ciaran’s rhythm grew erratic, his plunging more forceful until, just as her own pleasure began to wane, he came with a cry. He pressed his mouth into her temple to dull the sound, and Eilidh felt it as though his shout sunk into her bones.
No matter what happened next, she would always have this with him. War could not undo the fact that he was now and forever would be the first man she had loved—both with her heart and with her body.
They breathed heavily for a moment, their air mingling as they came down from the glory of their exertions. Ciaran slipped free of Eilidh’s body and curled up next to her, turning her so that he could tuck her under his arm. Without him atop her, the air of the stable felt suddenly cold, but Ciaran had pulled his plaid atop them before Eilidh could so much as shiver.
“Thank ye, lass,” he murmured into her hair as he pulled her close. “No war, no fate, no god will ever make this untrue. Ye’ve marked me, Eilidh,” he said simply. “Body and soul.”
She felt tired in a wonderful, perfect way, as though her body knew that the only proper way to embrace such an amazing feeling was to let it carry her off into sleep.
She was awake enough, however, to press a kiss to the back of their intertwined hands.
“Just stay with me, aye?” she mumbled, nestling in closer to him.
She loved feeling all of him against her skin—the firm curves of his muscles, the sharp jut of his hipbone, thewarmthof him.
He tucked her in closer and pulled the plaid more firmly about them.
Just as Eilidh began drifting off to sleep, she heard him murmur against the back of her neck.
“I will stay with ye as long as I am able.”
16
Ciaran knew that he could not let himself sleep, not that any such thing would be possible, what with the acid self-loathing that churned in him.
Eilidh made a soft, sleepy sound from where she slept in his arms, and Ciaran felt another stab of fury and regret.
God, how had he been sostupid? How had he let himself take her? How had he dared to taste something that he knew he could never keep?
One more minute, he told himself. He would have one more minute—would soak in enough of her presence to last him a lifetime—and then he would go.
For that one minute, he let himself think about what it would feel like to love her. To marry her, to have her at his side always. To wake up every day with her golden hair tickling his nose; to tease her about how, even with the bulk of it braided, that hair goteverywhere. For that minute, he thought about watching her grow round with their children, about seeing her hold his babe in her arms. He thought about watching her hair go gray, about seeing more freckles appear on her cheeks and wrinkles carve into her eyes from decades of mischievous smiles.
He lived a lifetime with her in his head during that minute. And then, when it was over, he made himself let her go.
Because no matter what pretty lies he told himself, that future was not theirs to take. All he could bring to her was ruin and pain.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he murmured into her hair. “If this was a sin, I’ll carry it in me heart like a sacred thing.” He slipped his arm out from underneath her, careful not to disturb her rest, then tucked the blanket gently around her. “Please forgive me. But I cannot kill that babe. And I cannot risk ye, either. I willdiebefore I let Gordon get his hands on ye.”
He pressed a final kiss to her brow. It nearly killed him when the small gesture made her smile slightly in her sleep.
Shadowbane seemed to understand the need for silence; he did not let out so much as a single whinny of anticipation as Ciaran saddled him in the faint predawn light. In fact the horse, who normally took any opportunity to get out of his stall, seemed oddly reluctant to leave.
Or perhaps Ciaran was just projecting his own dread onto his mount.
He checked every buckle twice, and then he could delay no longer. He mounted his horse and rode out of the stable. He didn’t let himself look back, not even once, as he crossed to the gate that would let him past the Keep’s walls, nor as he briefly dismounted to open the way for Shadow to pass through.
If he had, he might have seen someone watching from the shadows. And if he had gone to look, he might have seen Arran McPherson watching every step he took, a fierce frown on the other warrior’s face.
Eilidh wascold. Why was it socoldin her bedchamber?
Except… she wasn’t in her bedchamber. The surface below her was too coarse and lumpy to be her bed, and these weren’t her soft, well-worn blankets.
Blearily, she opened her eyes, and for a moment, she had no idea where she was.
And then it all came crashing back. Ciaran. The stables.
