Page 35

Eventually, Ailsa cleared her throat. “We should talk … about what happens now.”

Fern nodded. “Aye.” She cut Darach a level look then. “But I can’t concentrate with your stench. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

He snorted. “Just tell me what you really think, Fern.”

She waved him away. “Go on. Get yourself cleaned up … and take my lantern with you so you don’t trip and break your neck.”

Darach pulled a face. Cods. He didn’t want to venture outside again, but he would.

For the sake of Fern’s delicate nose.

Kayla and Ailsa didn’t argue with the huntress—even though the latter looked a little irritated that their discussion would have to wait—so they probably didn’t appreciate his reek either.

Every muscle in his body protested as he made his way, still naked, outside. He carried a bundle under one arm and the eerie silver lantern in his free hand. He’d left his clothing indoors where it was dry, for although the rain had slackened off now, the water-smoke from the falls would drench him.

Nonetheless, as he slithered over slippery rocks and tried not to pitch headfirst into the churning river, he sucked in lungfuls of rich air.

What a magical place.

He’d never traveled this far north or east before.

He’d had no idea this waterfall existed.

Picking his way down the riverbank, he found where a pool eddied off the main flow of the bubbling water below the falls.

He set the lantern down on a large flat rock, alongside the drying cloth and knife he’d use for shaving later. Steeling himself, he gritted his teeth, grabbed the block of soap, and waded in up to his waist. The shock of the cold water made him hiss a curse.

Jaw locked, he scrubbed himself down, washing away over three moons of grime and filth.

He scrubbed under his arms, his hair and beard—scrubbed his skin until it stung.

Fuck, the water was freezing. Bracing himself, he ducked under and rinsed himself off.

Then, shivering, he climbed up onto the rock.

Sitting on the river’s edge, as spray tickled his naked skin, he pulled out the sharp blade he’d brought from inside the cave and, working by feel, cut off his beard before scraping his chin and jaw free of stubble. What a relief it was to get rid of it. While he was there, he cut some of his hair off too. It had grown long and knotted. When he was done, it formed an untidy mop around his head, but at least it was clean and free of clumps.

He let out a deep sigh then as he rose to his feet—wincing at the aches and pains that still plagued him—and reached for the drying sheet before toweling himself off.

That was better.

As much as he hadn’t wanted to venture outdoors again, he did feel better after bathing; almost like a man again, rather than the creature his imprisonment had turned him into.

The slave destined to shovel turds until he broke.

And he admitted to himself now just how close he’d been to breaking.

It was too cold to linger outdoors for much longer. He’d just risen to his feet, wrapped the drying sheet around his waist, and picked up the soap and knife when he spied a woman’s figure approaching out of the mist along the riverbank.

And as she reached the frosted halo the lantern threw out, he recognized Ailsa.

She walked barefoot, a fur wrapped tightly about her, and another bundled under her arm. “Here.” She flashed him a tight smile and held out the fur. “I thought you’d need this.”

He nodded, more grateful than she likely realized, and slung it around his shoulders.

Immediately, his shivering ceased.

Halting there before him, Ailsa raised her chin, her gaze searching his face. “You look better,” she murmured. “I almost recognize you now.”