Chapter Thirty-One
L iadan faced the dark doorway of the hut, which yawned in front of her. She’d come with the best possible intentions. To see what remained inside. To find what might be used by herself or others. To lay aside fears, if she could.
But now her feet froze to the ground. She could not take a single step forward.
Six days—and six endless, uncomfortable nights—had passed since the attack. Ardahl had been proven right in his assumption. Chief Fearghal had made a speech. In truth, he had made several of them.
So also had the druid priests, the two of them who remained. Tamald, who had been second to Aodh, had stepped up to support the chief, declaring that as a clan they now had a divine purpose. Insisting that their gods were with them and would help them answer the treachery with which they’d been met, as it deserved.
Thereafter, the two priests had circulated among the members of the tribe advising any who required it. Liadan had herself met with Tamald at Maeve’s insistence. Kindly and with exhaustion in his deep blue eyes, he had assured her Mam’s death was not her fault, and he prayed with her that she might find peace.
Hesitantly, she’d told him, “Master Tamald, I feel as if I must now have a purpose.”
“To be sure, my dear.” The kindness in his eyes deepened. “Each and every one of us has a purpose. Do we not return here to this world of sorrows time after time only to discover and achieve that purpose?”
She’d whispered, “We have lived before?”
“Indeed. What use would one life be? We come to live out the lessons we have learned before. To meet those we have known before. Discover your purpose, lass, and ye will find your courage and your meaning. One life”—he smiled at her ruefully—“is not all.”
That had comforted her in an odd way, the more she thought about it. She found hope in the belief that she would meet her da and Conall again—if not in Tír na nóg then in some future, unimagined existence. And Mam. Would she have the chance to ask Mam’s forgiveness? It came to her that if she had not the courage to face one empty hut, how could she ever face a future life?
Now that she stood here though, her resolve wavered. Mayhap she should have brought Maeve with her and not come alone. But Maeve was busy helping the mothers with young children, and those about to deliver amid all this madness. Liadan had come to rely on her too much.
Just as she’d come to rely on Ardahl.
Ardahl . She scarcely knew what to make of him. She scarcely understood her feelings for him, what he meant to her.
A strong man, unflinching in the face of the sentence the druids had placed upon him. Steadfastly carrying the weight of his wounds. Surely she could be as strong as him.
The hut, so she assured herself, was empty. Mam’s body no longer lay sprawled there. Many burials had taken place, including hers.
Liadan took a step forward. Another. She ducked through the doorway and went in.
Dust motes danced in the light coming through the smoke hole. No body lay on the floor. Or upon Conall’s sleeping bench, which she could see straight back from the door. Belongings lay strewn everywhere, though, the reeds scuffed into drifts on the floor.
Beneath the scents of smoke and disuse, it smelled like home.
They could come back here—she, Maeve, and Ardahl could, even if Flanna refused. Many people who still had huts standing had returned to them. It would get them out of the weather and free up space desperately needed by others.
Had she the courage?
She heard a sound behind her and whirled, the breath catching in her throat. Ardahl ducked in through the door, his gaze fastened to her.
Some of his injuries, the most superficial, had healed. Most had not. He appeared thinner than he had been, and strained. But as he moved, the sun turned his auburn hair to fire. She’d rarely seen a better sight.
He wore his weapons with his shield on his shoulder and must be on the way to practice, which Fearghal had reinstated long since, despite all the injuries.
Their lives currently hung upon a strong defense.
Ardahl’s gaze met hers, burning with emotions she could not name.
“All right?”
“Aye. She is not here.” Liadan gusted out a breath. “Not here.” Only she was, if but in spirit. This had been Mam’s hearth. Where she cared for her family.
For the first time it occurred to Liadan—it was best, perhaps, Mam had ended that life here, of all places.
Ardahl came forward, and she went into his arms. Just as simply as that. He wore his leather armor, which made a rough padding against her cheek, but she did not mind and merely clutched him harder.
“Och, lass,” he whispered against her hair. “I am sorry. I am that sorry for all o’ it.”
With her face against his shoulder, she said, “The druids teach that we live not one life, but many. Do ye think that is true? D’ye think we will see them again? Be once more in their company?”
“I hope so.”
And might she meet this man again, be with him time after time? Safe and at home in his presence? But he was not hers. He was not hers yet.
She lifted her face and gazed into his eyes. At what she saw there, all the breath left her body.
The kiss, as inevitable as her heartbeat, breathed new life into her body. Born like a flame, it unfurled deep in her belly and rose, spreading warmth to every limb, melting the numbness that had held her tight. Her lips, as she knew from that moment, belonged to this man. Her heart to him. Her life.
“Liadan. Och, Liadan.” He breathed her name before drawing her to him with such power, her feet left the floor. The second kiss begged entry, and she granted that to him, opened and let him in, tongue on tongue, soul to soul. At that moment she thought she caught a glimpse of her destiny.
When the kiss broke, they were both breathless. She caught his face between her palms and gazed into his eyes. She sought words. Found none.
He rested his forehead against hers and they clung, clung while their hearts settled within, while their beings aligned.
“If we return here,” she said at last, fumbling for the words as if for a foreign tongue, “can we be together?”
“Together?”
“Man and woman.”
“Is that what ye want? Liadan, is that what—”
“It is all I want.”
He drew a breath, and she saw his thoughts move in his eyes. He had killed her brother, or so their society claimed. He was here in her brother’s place, as blood to her. She did not know if they would ever be given permission to handfast.
As impossible as the rest of their world.
But he nodded. “I will make it happen.”
“Then we will return here.” She stepped away from him and looked around the hut. “I will clear the place out. Ch-change it.” If she could. So many memories here. It would be a hard task.
For him, she could do anything.
He drew her back to him for one more precious moment. Kissed the palm of each hand, dropped small, soft kisses on the corners of her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead.
“I must go to practice.”
“So ye must.”
He did not want to leave her. She could feel that in him. He did not need to say.
“I will see ye after,” she promised. But when she watched him duck back out through the door, it brought a pang to her heart.
She had learned that each and every parting could be final. Attack and separation could occur at any moment.
Only the love remained.
Did she love Ardahl MacCormac? She asked herself that question as she worked in the hut, tore it apart inside even more thoroughly than had the invaders. Dragged all the furnishings outside. Swept and shook and purged.
She decided what she felt could not be mere love. Not as she understood that emotion. Love could be strong, aye, but it was also soft. Reassuring. This that she felt for Ardahl reassured her, true, as did nothing else. It also terrified her with its depth of need and its power, a power that had taken the man from a serpent in her eyes to—
But that was where she stuttered and her understanding failed.
She stood with the blanket from Conall’s sleeping place in her hands, arrested by the intensity of what she felt and could not name.
Brigid, she prayed to the goddess as she stood there beside the cold fire, the very place where her mam had died. Look after him for me. Please, above all things .