Chapter Twenty-Five
T hat day proved endless for Liadan, even though it was broken up by a number of visitors, all wanting to talk about the chief’s announcement and the prospective campaign. These included a friend of Liadan’s called Niam, Flanna’s friend Lasair, and her mam. Several acquaintances of Mam’s. All wished to talk, to speculate, to express their fears.
Liadan, who got precious little actual work done besides grinding the day’s grain, could not make herself care. With each visitor, her own fear increased as if it caught flame from theirs. She could think only of Ardahl. Of that kiss they’d shared.
Och, she’d never dreamed any kiss could be like that. It had been akin to tearing asunder a weir holding back a mighty river.
No hope now of stemming the torrent.
How much of that crashing surge of emotion was desire? How much something else? She could not tell. Only that she needed him on a heretofore unprecedented level.
She needed that man, whom she’d once considered a traitorous serpent.
Vital as the need seemed to be, she knew it must go unanswered. Even if she did believe he had not harmed Conall, could never have done so deliberately, the rest of their world did. Including Mam.
And with the way things were, she might never get the chance. Many men went away to fight. Many did not return, at least breathing.
One of the greatest certainties, aye—that life was uncertain.
Late in the afternoon, Maeve arrived. Ardahl’s mother wore a look on her face that all too closely matched what lay in Liadan’s heart.
She scratched humbly at the doorframe and stood.
“Mistress MacCormac, come in.”
“I do no’ wish to intrude.” Only Maeve’s gaze moved past Liadan into the hut. “Is Ardahl no’ here?”
“Still at the training. He should be home soon, though I do no’ doubt—I do no’ doubt they train extra hard and long this day.”
“It is true, then—they go to fight?”
“Aye. Were ye no’ at the spring for Chief Fearghal’s meeting?”
The woman shook her head. “I merely heard after. They leave in the morn?”
“Before first light.”
“I hoped to see him.”
She surely must. “Come, wait within.”
“I dare no’. Your mother—she has lost her son.”
“Both o’ ye have.” Pray to all the gods this woman would not, in truth. Liadan would make an offering to Brigid at nightfall. To Lugh with the sunrise.
Before Maeve could make up her mind to stay or go, a soft step sounded behind her. Liadan whirled to see Ardahl, his weapons on his shoulder.
“Mam?”
He quickly laid his weapons aside, handing the shield to Liadan, and his mother fell into his arms.
Liadan ducked back inside, taking the shield with her, affording them what privacy she could. Tears filled her eyes.
When Ardahl came in moments later, looking weary and grim, Liadan performed a swift inspection. No new injuries she could see, other than grazed knuckles. His hair had worked its way out of its plait and his skin shone from his exertions.
“Ye’ve worked hard,” she observed, saying nothing of the agonized scene with his mother. She handed him a pot of soap and a cloth, at the same time taking the rest of his weapons. He liked to go and wash as soon as he reached home.
With a nod, he went back out. He took a goodly while, likely struggling to get hold of his emotions as much as wash. Striving to seem as strong as he thought he should.
She told him as soon as he came in, “Sit and eat.”
Only one night—one very short night—lay between them and parting. All day long, her need for him had been an open wound.
Let me have this. Only this .
With Flanna gone off and Mam lying as she tended to do on Conall’s bed, they were as good as alone.
“What is the word?” she asked as he sat down.
“Naught of change. We muster at the training field before dawn.”
She took it like a blow. All day long, she’d hoped the plan might alter. That one of the druids would cast his stones, declare the signs said they should not make the venture.
“I see.” Her hands shook when she gave him his bread.
“If we can put an end to the fighting, set Dacha in his place, ’twill be all to the good.”
“One thing I have learned in nearly a score o’ winters is there is never an end to the fighting.”
His food served, she sat down beside him. Close. He shot her an inquiring look before beginning to eat.
“Chief Fearghal goes wi’ us this time,” he told her between draughts of broth. “He wants to direct the fighting, to be seen at our head. To let Dacha know he has a strong hand on the reins.”
Liadan experienced a stab of uneasiness. “Is that wise?” Not appropriate, perhaps, to question the decisions of one’s chief. Yet she spoke only to Ardahl, after all. Though the chief remained a youthful man, he rarely went to fight, keeping back to direct the defenses of the settlement with so many of the men gone.
Ardahl shrugged. “He will leave a stout guard. So”—he gave a wry smile—“Cathair will no’ claim the place o’ honor after all.”
Aye, so Fearghal wanted the might of the clan on full display when they reached the border. It made sense, at least in the way men tended to think.
“How long d’ye guess ye will be gone?”
Their gazes met, held, full of emotions that could not be spoken. “Impossible to say. A day and a night? Longer if the campaign pushes forward.”
Forever, if he fell.
“Ardahl.” She caught her breath. “Ardahl, I cannot bear it.”
“Liadan.” He laid aside his supper, raised a hand to her cheek. Caressed it gently. “We have spoken of this.”
“The fear will not leave me. I have naught but bad feelings about your going.”
“By all the gods, do no’ let anyone hear ye say it. Tamald, he who has taken Aodh’s place as head druid, spent many precious moments when I would ha’ rather been here, telling us we must go with high hearts and only triumph on our lips, if we are to prove victorious.”
“Ye would have rather been here?” She searched his eyes.
“Aye.”
Liadan leaned forward and kissed him. She did not mean to do it, did not truly understand the impulse. Nor could she hold it back.
Only their lips touched, their lips and his finger, fleeting, on her cheek. But the day’s long agony inside Liadan eased for one blessed instant before they flew apart and glanced quickly at the opening to Conall’s sleeping place.
Had she gone mad? They weren’t alone, though the curtain, half drawn, surely limited what her mam could see.
“Ye best get some rest,” she told Ardahl then, knowing it might be his last respite for days untold.
“Aye.”
“Do no’ sleep by the door tonight. Keep warm here beside the fire.”
“But that is my place.”
His place, so she began to suspect, was anywhere she was. Where she drew breath. Where her heart beat.
“If ye rest by the door, I do also.”
“Liadan—”
“Nay, do no’ tell me what I may or may not do. This might be the last—” She caught those words hastily. He was right. She should speak only hopeful words.
She tidied away the supper things and went to check on her mam, who slept soundly. When she left the sleeping place, she drew the curtain all the way across.
Ardahl, so she discovered, had made up the fire and spread his blanket beside it. She made sure the outer door was fastened shut before going to lie down beside him.
She half expected him to protest her presence. He did not, but reached out through the firelit air to take her hand in his. Palm to palm. Fingers intertwined.
“The chief will send a caller when we are to rise,” he said in a soft rumble. “I canna be late.”
Liadan slid closer to him so their shoulders met, warmth against warmth. She watched the smoke from the fire rise toward the rafters through narrowed eyes.
“Liadan, I cannot tell ye what it means that ye believe in me. If I never have another chance to say—”
“Hush. I should have believed ye from the first. Conall could never have been so mistaken in his friend. Forgive me?”
“There is naught, lass, to forgive.”
She moved so her head found his shoulder. Snuggled in against him. Satisfaction and longing arose in equal measures, a staggering wave.
“Sleep,” she bade him.
But he did not. Neither of them did. Instead they dozed and roused again separately or together. Sometimes they kissed. Soft, tender kisses that said more than words ever could.
When Liadan next became fully aware, it was still dark and she lay with Ardahl’s arms wrapped around her, her body half draped over his.
Outside, someone shouted. A searing cry that raced past the hut. Liadan could not catch the words. She did not need to.
Ardahl arose immediately with a groan. She lit a rush light and he gathered his weapons. The fire had died to orange embers and the hut felt cold.
“I am coming with ye.” She took up her shawl.
“Liadan, nay.”
“’Twill afford us a few more moments together.”
“Best we speak our farewells here.”
She moved into his arms. In the dim light of the hut, she could barely see his face. But she felt the emotions that roared through him, akin to her own.
“I do not know what to say to ye,” she whispered.
“There is naught to be said.”
“If I could trade my life for your protection, I would.”
“And I for yours.” In fact, was that not what he went to do?
A vow of sorts.
She leaned up and kissed him again. One single, searing kiss to seal that unspoken vow.
Before she could blink the tears from her eyes, he was gone.