Chapter Twenty-One
L iadan dozed, and when she dozed, she dreamed. Mere flickers of scenes, those dreams were. Like glimpses from the past. Memories both distant and closer at hand.
The group of them up on the hillside, watching the settlement burn. The chief speaking to his people, trying so hard to be strong and reassuring. Conall, speaking to her on a warm day, the sun lighting his hair to gold.
She could not hear what he had to say, because every time a sound reached her from outside, she came awake again, all her senses alert, fear pounding up through her with every heartbeat.
If another attack came, could she get her mam and sister away in time? It all depended on her. On her, and the man beside her.
He did not sleep—at least, she did not think he did. Whenever she roused in fear, his voice was there to soothe her.
“All right. That is but the guard calling. It is only a stag in the hills. A dog barking.”
He held Conall’s sword in his right hand. She could see the gleam of light that rode its keen edge, reflected from the dying fire.
The knowledge that he was there let her go back to sleep, time after time.
At last she came awake to find that she lay against his shoulder. That she clutched his left hand in her own.
His hand—the same that had slain Conall? That had performed an act of unendurable evil and harm? But, broad palmed and heavily calloused, it felt warm in the night, somehow battling against the cold that seized her and penetrated to the bone.
She lay there, eyes open to the dark hut, unwilling to surrender that warmth, that narrow grasp upon comfort. He breathed quietly and evenly. Did he sleep at last? But nay. As soon as she stirred, he whispered, “Hush, now. All is still well.”
His hand squeezed hers more tightly. Their fingers had become interwoven, palm to palm, skin to skin. She should free herself and move away from him.
She did not want to.
“How long till dawn?”
“Not long. The night is near done.”
“Sometimes the enemy strikes just at dawn when all lies most vulnerable.” Conall had told her that.
“’Tis so. No matter, I am here.”
And could he defend them? One man covered in wounds. Spent and exhausted.
She believed it. There in the dark of the night, she believed he would.
“I am almost afraid for the sun to come up,” she confessed. “To see how many lie dead. They will all be gathered together by now.”
“They will.”
“We will have so many burials. Without Aodh—”
“He will be first among them, I do not doubt.”
“Aye.”
He stirred and very gently released her hand. Before she could protest, he tucked his arm around her and drew her more securely against him. “Rest while ye can. Sleep if ye be able.”
With her face tucked into the crook of his neck, his hair like a cloud against her cheek, she absorbed the comfort that flowed from him. This serpent. And it felt so right, she never wanted to move away.
She should, aye, do as he suggested and rest while she could. How to do so, when her pulse pounded in her ears? When she could catch his scent, a tantalizing fragrance that seemed to curl through her and lodge down low in her belly?
She wondered how it would feel to kiss him. How he’d taste. And then she flagellated herself for the thought.
Holding his hand and even absorbing his warmth through the night was one thing. She absolutely could not have feelings for the man who’d killed Conall.
*
Rain moved in soon after sunrise, which put out the rest of the fires and made a mess of everything else. Mud and ash and sodden, half-burned belongings lay everywhere. The trees dripped moisture and the ground became a morass.
Soon after breakfast, Ardahl reported to Dornach for orders. He had the reward of seeing his mam there. In fact, she opened the door to him and they had a moment to embrace before he went in.
“So many hurts!” she noted, performing a swift inspection. “Are ye fit to be up on your feet?”
Ardahl was not at all certain. He hurt as if he’d been thrashed from head to foot, and several of his wounds stung enough to make him grit his teeth.
But he answered the worry in her eyes. “I am well enough. And ye? Are ye treated kindly here?”
“Aye, so, and I am able to help with the children. They do no’ judge me, and I feel—well, useful.”
He would owe Dornach for this, Ardahl thought. An unending debt of gratitude.
He found the man beside his fire, taking breakfast. The war chief lumbered to his feet, moving very much as if he too hurt.
“Join us, Ardahl, and break your fast.”
“Nay, thank ye. I have eaten.” A hasty meal provided by Liadan.
Liadan . The very thought of her made it hard to breathe. She’d slept beside him last night, what little she had slept. Soft and vulnerable. Trusting him to protect her, even though she did not truly trust him.
A sacred debt, she had become. Was that what the druids had intended? That he would fulfill Conall’s duty at the prodding not of duty, but love?
Nay, but it had been meant as a punishment. Had it not? He could never ask Aodh now.
He lifted his head and met Dornach’s gaze. “I am here reporting for duty. Fit for standing guard or a patrol, whatever ye ask o’ me.”
Dornach glanced at his wife, pale and shattered, and at Ardahl’s mam, who had followed him in and stood listening.
“There is much to be done,” he admitted. “And all hands will be needed.”
“Aye, Master Dornach. How many dead?”
“More than a score. No’ all o’ them warriors.”
His wife began to weep.
“There are three bairns,” Dornach said, “and some women.”
“I would volunteer for the burials.”
Swiftly, Dornach ran his gaze over Ardahl. “I am no’ certain ye are yet fit.”
“I say that I am.”
“I hear wha’ ye say, lad. And while I admire ye for offering, I must differ.” He clasped Ardahl by the shoulder. “Come ye with me.”
Together they went outside into the morning. Here in the watery light, the weariness and pain showed clearly in Dornach’s face.
“Listen to me, Ardahl. I do no’ want the women to hear this, but I wish ye to know the truth. Dacha will be back. Sooner rather than later, if I do not mistake it. The season has just begun, and he has shown his intentions.”
“Aye, so.”
“Listen.” Dornach’s hand tightened on Ardahl’s shoulder. “We shall have to meet him here, or on the border. When that happens, I will need every warrior. No’ every gravedigger, understand? No’ every guard.”
“I am no’ certain I—”
Dornach gazed into Ardahl’s eyes. “I saw how ye fought in the battle at the border. Saw what ye did there. I also saw the wounds ye took. Despite what happened wi’ Conall, I believe ye belong at the head o’ the men.”
Shock ripped through Ardahl. “But—Cathair. He is already your assistant and wants to stand at the head o’ the men.”
“I know he does. And he is a fine warrior, is Cathair. Valuable to me. I believe”—Dornach’s gaze did not waver—“he would do anything to gain first place among Fearghal’s men.”
Ardahl’s eyes narrowed. What was Dornach saying, exactly? “Ye think—”
“Whisht, lad. Such suspicions are no’ to be spoken aloud. Keep your eyes peeled, and so will I. The long and the short o’ it is, I need ye healed and at your best when the next battle comes. No’ still suffering wounds torn open while buryin’ the dead.”
“I see,” said Ardahl, who didn’t, not entirely.
“Go home. Rest. Think on wha’ I have said. And not said.”
“Aye.”
“Be ready with your sword when I call ye.”
“Aye, master.” Home. Had Conall’s hut become that? Not truly. Not yet.
Liadan, though, was there. His heart insisted that counted for something.
He raised his eyes and studied the expression in Dornach’s. “I will be ready to fight, Master Dornach, whenever ye summon me.”
“See that ye are.”
He walked back to Conall’s hut slowly through the rain, not certain what he would find there. The folk he passed still stared at him, but a large measure of their animosity had flown, consumed by a wider misery.
Would he find acceptance in time, for this thing he had not done? Forgiveness? Dornach, at least, believed in him. That meant much.
But this thing Dornach expected him to do, take first place among the warriors and without Conall at his side, seemed equally impossible.
What had he implied about Cathair? That what Ardahl had considered a friendly rivalry had turned into something else?
Something deadly.
He’d never liked Cathair, braggart and bully that he was. And aye, they had competed against one another for some time. But Cathair would never go so far as to harm Conall just to ruin Ardahl.
And if he had—how? It had been Conall who’d turned on Ardahl in anger, there in the sunny field. Cathair who’d been close enough to bear witness.
A cold chill chased its way down Ardahl’s spine, one not caused by the rain.