She pulled close the door to her chamber and turned into the corridor and startled as she nearly collided with him.
Ciaran filled the narrow space, broad-shouldered and imposing even with weariness dragging at his frame. His dark hair was damp at the temples, as if he’d just come from a bath,though he was fully dressed, braecan and sword affixed to his person as they normally were.
“I—sorry,” she stammered, instinctively stepping back. “I was just going down to get something to eat,” she said, expecting him to move.
He didn’t, only looked at her, his green eyes forest dark in the barely lit corridor.
“I owe ye an apology,” he said.
Her brows lifted. That was the last thing she expected. Ever, from him.
Despite the anger that bristled all day inside her, she refrained from retorting,Damn right you do.
“For this morning,” he said unnecessarily. His words were stiff, awkward, as if any apology would have to fight its way out. “I was... abrupt with ye. Ye meant only concern, and I gave ye frost for it.”
Against her better judgment, her anger diminished slightly. “Well, thank you for that. And I apologize in return,” she said tightly—she wasn’t going to let him off that easy— “for interrupting you in the middle of...well, whatever the medieval version of a board meeting is.” A frown still knit her brow. “I shouldn’t have barged in.”
He inclined his head. “All the same. I shouldnae have bitten.”
“Apology accepted,” she said simply, giving a brisk nod, wanting it done. She meant to move past him then, to be gone before the awkwardness thickened even more, but he didn’t step aside. Her heart gave a hard thump. “Was there...something else?” she asked.
His gaze held hers, sharp and searching. “Aye. I should also...apologize for another matter. For kissing ye.”
“Kissing me?” Her pulse leapt.Good Lord. He was going to apologize now? After all this time?
“The night of Last Plenty.”
Claire blanched, hazy memories flooding her. Oh, shit. She hadn’t dreamed it. The memory flared, hot and vivid now, the press of his mouth, the fire it had sparked, her own eager response.
“Oh, I thought you meant...” She trailed off, confusion rushing in. “Wait. You kissed me at Last Plenty? After all that...business—that disaster—in the pit? Why in God’s name would you kiss me again when you were already furious with yourself for doing it the first time?”
Ciaran’s frown deepened, mirroring hers. “Ye did nae...ken the kiss at Last Plenty was real?”
Heat climbed her neck. She lifted a hand, shrugged, meaning to skate past it. “I thought I’d dreamed it. You can imagine how that might seem possible, right? Since after the first time, you...well, you regretted it. Or didn’t like it. Or...” She waved her hand vaguely. “I don’t know. Something.”
To her surprise, he looked stunned. “I dinna ken whether to be offended ye couldnae tell the kiss was real,” he said slowly, steel threaded through the words. “or because ye imagined I regretted the first one. Out in the forest, I was angry with myself—nae with the kiss.” He paused, jaw tight, then redirected his thoughts and words. “I’ll nae apologize for wanting it. Only for troubling ye with it. Ye seemed...displeased. On the night of Last Plenty, mayhap on both occasions.”
Displeased? Dear God, if he only knew! Her stomach fluttered with the memory of his touch.
“I wasn’t displeased,” she said quickly, too quickly, and bit her lip. The words hung between them, bare and unexplained.
His head tipped slightly, his eyes narrowing, waiting.
Her chest constricted. She had to say it now.
“I’m married,” she whispered.
Silence fell hard. His eyes changed, became darker, harder, like ice forming over deep water.
“I’m married,” she repeated, stronger this time, though her throat burned with the words. “Five years. My husband, he’s...ah, he’s back in that other time...where I come from.” She swallowed. “I shouldn’t have let you—”
A faint scoff left him, humorless. His mouth twisted with distaste and Claire’s heart cracked a bit.
“Ye are another man’s wife,” he said, each word clipped.
Claire nodded, her eyes watering. She wanted to defend herself, to explain how dead her marriage had become, how cold, how long it had been since her husband had touched her with even a fraction of the desire that had burned through Ciaran’s kiss. But the words curdled before they reached her tongue. What kind of defense was that? To admit her vows had long since withered, that she had kissed another man because she was starving for something her husband didn’t give freely or feel? It made her feel cheap, grasping, desperate for crumbs of tenderness.
She bowed her head, fisting her hands at her side, and said, “I’m sorry. I should have told you—I didn’t mean to keep it from you or...”
