Chapter Ten
Emer was certain her soul had left her body as she watched Broccan storm toward them. Somehow he looked taller, though he was already a giant to her. Even more impressive was that he was angrier. How, Emer couldn’t imagine. The men hadn’t been jesting—she had seen him when he was in a good temper.
His furious gaze speared straight through Eoghan, who apparently didn’t have an ounce of self-preservation. Instead of following Broccan’s orders, he stepped closer to Emer.
What on earth had she ever done to be beset by so many fools?
Emer wasn’t strong like Alannah. She didn’t want to be.
She loved her life of small victories, of little moments of happiness.
She didn’t need battles or swords. But what she wouldn’t give to get all these preposterous suitors to just leave her be.
Broccan moved toward Eoghan like a predator. “Get out, or you’ll never leave.”
“Eoghan, for heaven’s sake,” Emer hissed. “I think he’ll actually kill you.”
“He will,” Broccan agreed, his eyes never leaving Eoghan. “And his patience is wearing thin.”
He never had much to begin with, Emer mused, watching Broccan carefully.
Eoghan wasn’t dangerous, not like Oran had been.
He wanted her to wife, not to drive Alannah mad.
Eoghan was bothersome, but Emer wasn’t in real danger.
That didn’t in any way lessen the thrill of watching Broccan defend her.
He might not like her, but he’d just proved he didn’t hate her.
It almost seemed that he cared for her, at least enough to intervene.
Maybe he wasn’t a lost cause after all.
A flurry of butterflies exploded in her stomach when Broccan’s attention slid onto her. His eyes were so bright they flashed like silver coins. “Do you want him here?”
“I do not,” Emer replied, her mouth dry. “But I also don’t want him dead.”
Eoghan looked between them, opening his mouth to speak, but Broccan interrupted him.
“You’re in charge.” The edge in his voice only made the fluttering worsen. “What are my orders?”
“Eoghan, you’re no longer welcome in any of our establishments, current or future.
I will not marry you, and I never want to see you again.
” Emer shook like a leaf in the wind, but she’d managed to tell him what she actually thought.
She hated that it hurt him, but how many times had she told him as much in a kinder way?
Too many. “Broccan, please escort him somewhere else.”
Something dangerously close to a smile played at the corner of his lips. “With pleasure.”
Warmth flooded Emer. Had he just smiled at her?
Moving faster than she’d expected for a man so big, Broccan grabbed Eoghan by the shoulders and hauled him out like a sack of oats.
He didn’t come right back, though. He must have decided to get Eoghan far away from the hostelry, which was just fine with Emer.
Picking up a rag, she dunked it in one of the buckets of water she’d carried in, knelt to the floor, and resumed scrubbing.
It was going to take her days just to get all the grime out of the wood.
She was so utterly sick of men like Eoghan.
And Oran. No one ever bothered Alannah. Of course, Alannah was convinced it had something to do with Emer’s cooking or her looks, but Emer knew that wasn’t it.
There were other women who loved making delicious food, and Emer was far from the prettiest woman in Ath Luain.
They bothered her because she was the weakest.
Emer scrubbed harder, willing every last bit of dirt, every ounce of her own shortcomings to disappear with her efforts. A drip fell upon the freshly scrubbed floor. Then another.
It took Emer several moments to realize they were tears.
“How are you—” Broccan’s question died when she turned toward him. “Oh, no.” He swore an oath, coming to join her on the floor. “Out with it.”
“What?” Emer blinked, swiping at the tears with her dry wrist.
He grimaced. “I’m no good at this. Tell me why you’re upset. Is it the oaf?” he growled.
“Are you,” she sniffled, “are you yelling at me because I’m crying?”
He swore again, running a hand down his face. “No,” he spoke slowly. “I’m not yelling at you. I’m trying to help. Loudly.”
A strangled sob escaped with a few more tears. “That’s so sweet,” she whispered, not trusting her voice. He was being nice.
“Damnit,” he groaned. “I told you I’m no good at this. You’re the one who’s good at talking.”
“I just,” Emer swallowed, trying again. “I’m so tired of being treated like a child, like some fragile thing that will break at the lightest breeze. I’m so tired of being weak, but I don’t know how to be anything else.”
Emer had hoped that Broccan would jump right in, assuring her she wasn’t weak. Instead, he tipped his head to the side, his stormy eyes studying her.
“I met a man on my way here,” he said softly. “Graying bronze hair with a big beard. Large-ish fellow.”
Emer nodded, some of her sadness lifting at the mention of her father’s friend. Her friend. “Glasny.”
“He told me two things about you. The first, that you have a handful of suitors who won’t leave you be. The second, that both your parents died. Is that the truth?”
“They caught a fever, one then the other. They were both gone in less than two weeks. It was eight years ago now,” she smiled, remembering her father’s kind heart, her mother’s warm embrace.
“And your brothers are missing after battle,” Broccan continued.
“Aye.” Emer sat up a little straighter. “I don’t see how pointing out all my problems is meant to help me feel better, though.”
“I think that living with a smile on your face and a kind word for anyone who needs it takes unimaginable strength after so much pain.”
Broccan’s gaze tore into her, digging deeper than anyone had ever gone and leaving a trail of shredded memories in its wake. It awoke something in Emer, a sense of inexplicable kinship, an unexpected closeness.
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.” Another tear slid down her cheek.
Broccan watched it, his tongue wetting his bottom lip. “We’re talking about you. Only you.”
Well, that answered that. But Emer knew better than to pry and she appreciated the effort he made, so she changed the subject. “What took you so long?”
“I thought that Eoghan could use a bath.”
Emer gasped. “You didn’t!” She leaned forward. “You threw him in the river?”
Broccan shrugged. “It’s only knee-high.”
She laughed, the last of her sadness evaporating.
“Why was he bothering you, anyway?”
“He wants me to be his second wife.” Emer picked the rag back up and started scrubbing. “He must have known Alannah was gone and thought he could convince me.”
“He’s a horse’s arse.” Broccan found a cloth and did the same, kneeling right beside her and scrubbing the floor.
“A wet horse’s arse,” Emer smiled. “Thank you, Broccan.”
Broccan nodded in response, back to his normal reticence.
But this time his silence didn’t bother Emer. She smiled to herself as he worked quietly beside her.
He hadn’t just followed her orders.
He’d asked for them.