She had come this far. She would not back down.
“Good or no,” she said, “ye are therightman for me. Ye aremyman, damn it, Ciaran Gunn! Fate gave ye to me, and I intend to keep ye.”
His eyes were still closed, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her. Eilidh found that, rather than hurting her, this gave her a strange sort of hope.
“Fate,” he echoed, and she was prepared for him to argue with her. But then he let out a breathy laugh. “Mayhap it is fate,” he said. “I did everything I could to avoid ye, and yet here we find ourselves.”
“Together,” she said fiercely. “Where we are meant to be.”
“But it isnae safe?—”
She cut him off. “Ye gallus mon, I would rather be hurt at your side than safe without ye.”
Maybe he could tell how intensely she meant it, for he opened his eyes then, his gaze soft as he looked at her. One of his hands came up to cup her cheek, and she didn’t even mind thatthere was blood on his fingers. Rather, a part of her liked it. She felt a grim sort of satisfaction that this man—herman, as she’d said—had not hesitated to kill for her.
“Fate is too cruel sometimes,” he said.
She turned her face to kiss his palm, and an agonized expression crossed his features.
“It’s nae cruelty,” she said. “It’s just right.”
A shudder of surrender went through him, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her close instead of pushing her away. Eilidh barely had time to properly soak in the sight of him before his lips were on hers and they were kissing.
It was marvelous, she thought through the heady rush of pleasure, that each of their kisses could be so different. Because this one, even though it was their second one in this forest while a vanquished enemy lay nearby, was not at all like the hurried embrace they’d shared after the last battle they’d fought and won together.
No, this kiss had promise. It told of a future. She hadn’t quite realized how much their lovemaking had felt like a goodbye until this moment—which felt like a lifetime’s worth of hellos.
“Ciaran Gunn,” she murmured against his lips. “How lucky am I to have found ye?”
He sipped once more from her lips, then pulled away with clear reluctance.
“We shall discuss which of us is the lucky one another time,” he said with a gleam in his eye that promised Eilidh that such a conversation would be lessdiscussionand moreargument. She looked forward to it. “For now, I have to get ye back to safety as quickly as possible. Are ye good to ride?”
Eilidh was faintly bruised from her altercation, but none of her injuries were severe, thanks to Ciaran’s timely arrival. She knew she’d feel stiff and sore when the aches had had time to settle in, but for now she felt little more than a twinge as shemounted Grian’s back. Shadowbane sniffed curiously at Grian as the two horses began to go back in the direction that Eilidh had come only a few hours prior, as though confirming for himself that his companion was well.
They rode in the moonlight.
The night was as lovely as any Eilidh had ever enjoyed, peaceful and bright and with just enough of a breeze to keep her from overheating with the exertions of another long ride so soon after the last.
It was the kind of night that could make a dreamer out of a girl far more sensible than Eilidh Donaghey had ever been—or, indeed, had ever wanted to be.
So, for a little while, she let her imagination off its leash.
And why shouldn't she? she wondered to herself as she pictured a life with Ciaran, pictured days spent kissing and laughing, and nights spent wrapped in one another’s arms. This was the end of the fairy tale, wasn’t it? The part where everyone lived happily ever after?
Oh, aye, there was still a war to win, but she had never truly doubted her family’s ability to stand strong in the face of Gordon’s poison. She had even less reason to doubt it now, not with the fierce warrior she adored riding at her side. And it was perhaps abitdaunting to think about what happened after the end of the story, to imagine what the days and weeks and years might look like—but it was a good sort of wondering that filled her. It was anticipation.
Because finally—finally—she knew her place in the world.
It was at Ciaran’s side.
She was smiling contentedly to herself when the first whistle hinted at danger in the instant before an arrow jolted into a nearby tree.
“What?” The startled exclamation had no sooner left Eilidh’s lips than the single arrow turned into a volley falling down on them like deadly rain.
Ciaran gritted out an oath.
“Mercenaries,” he cried to Eilidh. “Run.”
