Chapter Fifty-Two
“I have sent another messenger to Chief Brihan,” Fearghal said when the meeting broke up and he, with Ardahl and Dornach, stood at the door. “He will have a runner ready to send us, should Dacha attack him.” The chief corrected himself wryly, “ When Dacha attacks him. We shall then have enough notice to march out. I confess, I would rather make a stand on our border than here. That way our folk can once more move out for the hills. Some o’ them, at least, may survive. All o’ our blood will no’ be lost.”
Ardahl eyed the chief, who now bore deep lines in his face. “Permission, Chief Fearghal, to speak plainly.”
Dornach eyed him, but Fearghal said, “By all means. Ye ha’ earned it.”
“Your words make me think ye do no’ believe we will win the upcoming fight.”
“That is not so. By no means. It all depends upon how matters fall out, and that no man can tell.” He gave a wan smile. “Not even the druids, casting their stones. I think ye will agree, Ardahl, Dacha will no’ be easy to defeat.”
“He will no’.”
“And unless we defeat him whole, he will merely lick his wounds and keep coming. Our chances are better wi’ Brihan fighting alongside us than with us facing both Dacha and Brihan under Dacha’s thumb.
“Should Brioc go down to defeat”—Fearghal stopped speaking abruptly and struggled visibly with his emotions—“then our fate is in the hands of the gods and men such as ye, Ardahl MacCormac. Will we live on, or will we be naught more than a story told in some other chief’s hall on a cold winter’s night?”
Ardahl had no answer to that. He and Dornach walked out together to find the rain had slackened, but fell still in a fine silver curtain.
“Master Dornach,” Ardahl said when they stood as alone as they might amid so many, “I wish to speak to ye about Cathair. He will no’ be happy wi’ the praise Chief Fearghal has heaped upon me.”
“’Tis not up to him to like or dislike it. Ye have earned the praise.”
“I do not trust Cathair.” Ardahl met the war chief’s gaze. “I believe he will no’ rest till all such honor goes to him.”
He dared say no more. But he saw the spark of comprehension take hold in Dornach’s eyes.
“Ye think he means ye harm?”
“I think he has already caused me great harm and would do more still.”
Dornach grunted. “I will speak wi’ him. Make it clear that ye ha’ been elevated by Fearghal, and any man who moves against ye moves against his chief, and so betrays the fealty sworn to that man.”
“Aye, so.”
Dornach lowered his voice. “’Tis difficult for a man to battle if he must watch his back the whole time.”
“Aye, master, it is.”
“Go home. Ye are relieved o’ assignments this night. Continue healing so ye will be ready to stand for your chief.”
“I am ready now. If there be attack—”
“If Brihan falls so swiftly that there is attack by morning, ye shall surely hear o’ it. Lad, I ha’ seen your wounds. Go home and take what rest ye may.”
Go home. That meant but one thing—go to Liadan. He would not argue having so much as one moment of extra time with her.
Hoisting his weapons, he went.
*
Liadan knelt beside the hearthplace, praying. She did so often, spoke to the great goddess Brigid, who surely understood a woman’s lot and the longings of her heart, as to a friend.
Please, Brigid, let him remain safe. I do not know how that is possible, given what we face, and him a warrior who must march out wi’ a sword in his hand. But please. Even if he can never in truth be my own, let him live and thrive.
She heard a step behind her and turned. Ardahl stood in the doorway looking like a figure from some old, heroic tale—his weapons on his shoulder, hair and cloak wet from the rain. Eyes all for her.
Had Brigid sent him? No matter. She surged to her feet and went to him, unfastened the pin of his cloak and laid it aside. Glanced into his face and became lost in those hazel eyes.
“I ha’ been sent home to regain my strength,” he said, not without a hint of irony in his voice.
“Have ye indeed?”
“I would full rather lose it, in ye.”
“Would ye?” Her hands began to shake as she reached for the laces of his tunic.
He covered her hands with his own. “Is my mam here?”
“Nay.” Liadan went breathless. “Gone to a lying-in. She may be gone all night.”
“Liadan—this may well be the last time. Our last time ever. I ha’ been assigned to protect the chief when the battles come. Lay down my life for him, if necessary. Given what is coming…” He shook his head.
“Aye.” Liadan struggled to accept it, this thing most unacceptable. “Aye, so. If ’tis to be the last time, then we will have to make it count.”
He trapped her face between his palms. Kissed each side of her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead. Then kissed her so deeply, with such tenderness and devotion, her heart felt it must break.
Her hands still shook when she tied shut the leather curtain across the door. Shook with desire and with wondering.
If this truly would be the last time they lay together, became one in body as well as spirit, could she bear it?
She turned back to find him standing there watching her. She summoned up a smile and held out her hand.
“Come. Let me treat a hero as he deserves.”
In the sleeping place, she undressed him slowly and carefully, followed the removal of each garment with a caress on bare skin. Over bruises. Cuts and bandages. When mere touch failed to be enough, she blessed each place with her mouth. A thousand kisses could not be enough.
She removed his tunic, his kilt, his boots, and the wrapped leggings beneath. Now it was he who trembled like a pony in the traces of a chariot, eager to run. He stood ready for her, and when she fell to her knees and kissed the smooth, heated length of him, he made a sound deep in his throat.
“Liadan—”
“Nay, Ardahl, do no’ hinder me. If this is to be our last, I would ha’ all o’ ye.”
He made no further protest, but caught her head between his hands as she wooed him with her lips and tongue, coaxed him into the warm cavern of her mouth and drank what he had to give. The muscles of his stomach rippled as he gave himself to her. And when she’d had every drop of him, he drew her to her feet and babbled her name.
“Liadan. Liadan!”
He undressed her then, with as much care as if she were a high king’s bride. Drew her onto the sleeping bench behind them. Gazed into her eyes.
“My turn, wee one. My turn to worship ye.”
He began with her breasts, a slow burn of desire that soon spread through her blood and turned her wild. She buried her fingers in his hair and drew him closer, then closer still.
“Liadan,” he gasped, his breath whispering over the tender skin of her breast. “May I love ye as I desire?”
“Anything, Ardahl. Aught that I am is yours. Aught that ye ask, I give. My body is yours this night.”
And, in truth, for all time.
Leaving her breasts, he kissed his way downward. He was already hard for her again—she could feel the weight of him slide against her skin as he moved. When he reached her thighs, he hooked them with his fingers and eased them apart.
He drank of her even as she had of him. She gave to him fully and completely, without shame, her body convulsing at the persuasion of his lips and tongue. With his man, she would never know shyness or hesitation. Only a sense of rightness so powerful it permitted her to withhold nothing, body nor heart.
When she lay utterly and completely open to him, he rose and slid inside her—into that place so ready for him, deep and deeper. Still, he did not give her his seed, but spilled it on her belly even as she wrapped her arms around him fiercely and held on for dear life.
If this were to be the last time—
He lay quiet except for the seething of his breath, his face in her neck.
She wept.
“Liadan? Ye are never greeting. Why?”
“For the beauty o’ it, just.”
“Here, now.” He lifted his head and kissed the tears away, catching them with his lips.
“If,” she said aloud this time, “it is to be our last…”
A slow, bright smile invaded his eyes. “Aye, but surely not the last this night.”