Chapter Eleven
The next few days passed in a blur of manual labor and confusion. That woman worked from dawn to dusk, slowly and steadily tending to task after thankless task. And all with that same sunny smile on her face.
Broccan couldn’t figure her out. On the surface, she seemed naive and positive to a flaw.
She still irritated him more often than not.
But something had shifted. A new layer added to Emer, one that elicited a glimmer of admiration from Broccan.
She may be unrelentingly happy, but he knew now that it wasn’t because she’d had such a wonderful, carefree life.
It was in spite of all the hardships she’d faced.
He had to admit, he had thought about that conversation many times in the days that followed.
It only piqued his curiosity, illustrating how little he actually knew about Emer.
He’d considered asking her more about her family and her trials, but he knew how painful it was to revisit the loss of loved ones, so he’d held his tongue.
She never stopped. Cleaning, washing, cooking, mending. It was a wonder she had time to sleep and eat herself.
The Fianna worked hard and trained hard. There were days on end during missions where they were pushed to their limits. But Broccan found Emer’s incessant labors exhausting. Not physically, but mentally. The woman could easily out work any of his men.
He made it until the fourth day after the Eoghan debacle before he broke. The weather was fair, not a cloud in the azure sky. The sun burned hot, the warm breeze doing little to assuage the rising temperature.
Broccan had just finished chopping the last of the firewood for the day. Drenched in sweat and in desperate need of a washing, he strode over to where Emer shook out the linens she’d just washed, hanging them to dry on lines alongside the hostelry.
“Is this all you do?” he asked, leaning against the wall of the stone cottage where Emer slept.
She flung a large brown blanket over the line. “Laundry?”
“Work.”
He felt her smile before he saw it, brightening her heart-shaped face. “What else would I do? There’s more than enough work to keep me busy.”
“What do you do for amusement?” Broccan refused to believe she never took leisure time. “For fun?”
She secured the last sheet, picking up the giant woven basket and balancing it between her arm and her hip. “Sometimes Alannah and I go to Glasny’s after dinner. But not often.”
“Do you ever play games with her?”
“Not since we were children.” She worried her lip, her gaze tilting upward like she was wracking her memories.
“Mostly we just work. Alannah does the same chores you’ve been doing and tries to build more roundhouses in her spare time.
I do all the cleaning and cooking and manage the guests.
” She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “I don’t have time for games. ”
Broccan scoffed. “Everyone has time for games.”
She shot him a wicked smile, one that made his blood run as hot as the thick summer air. “Spoken like the son of a king.”
“My father wasn’t a king.” Not even close. Broccan’s father had started as a warrior in Brian’s army decades ago and worked his way through the ranks. Until, by the time Broccan was of fostering age, his father was close enough to Brian to earn Broccan a spot in the king’s household.
“He wasn’t? But Illadan said you grew up together.”
“We did. We all fostered with Brian, so my foster father was a king. I lived in a cottage like yours until I was seven.”
“The fosterling of a king is as good as his son,” she laughed.
“I suppose that’s true,” Broccan allowed, though he’d never thought of it that way.
Illadan, Cormac, Conan, and Diarmid were the sons of kings.
Growing up Broccan had always thought of them as such, according to their higher social status.
They’d never treated him like a warrior’s son, but Broccan knew his place well enough.
Emer brushed past him, near enough that he caught the scent of lavender that followed her everywhere.
Broccan followed her. “Do you swim?”
“When I must.” She tucked the basket away in one of the storage compartments along the edge of the common room. “Shall we head to Oran’s hostelry?”
Enough was enough. Broccan may not be the best at enjoying his life—on more than one occasion Dallan had accused him of lacking that skill entirely—but he knew the importance of rest, of taking time for oneself.
He wasn’t about to go one more day without a break, and he wasn’t about to let Emer do so either.
“How long until you must start making dinner?”
“Three hours or so. We made good time this morning with the washing.”
That should be enough. Broccan moved to block her into the kitchen, not to be aggressive but to keep the damned woman from continuing to flit around like a butterfly.
She was always moving, always working. He needed her to hold still long enough to finish this conversation.
“We’re not going to Oran’s hostelry today,” he told her.
“And while we’re out, you’re going to come up with another name for it.
You shouldn’t have to continue speaking the name of the man who tried to kill you. ”
Her dark eyes went wide. “I believe I’m the one giving the orders.”
“Not today. I’ve done everything you’ve asked for the past four days, and we both need a break. You’re taking one.”
Pink, pouty lips tilted thoughtfully. Broccan fought the annoying urge to reach toward her.
“Only today,” she said at last.
A thought crossed his mind. One he should have dismissed before ever it took root. But he’d learned much of Emer in their days together, and Broccan’s growing curiosity over what else there was to learn won out over his good sense.
“What if,” he proposed, leaning against the counter between them, “just for today, you follow my orders?”
The words were out before he could change his mind. It felt odd, different, this way that he was around Emer. Like a part of himself that he’d forgotten ever existed was clawing its way out from an ancient grave. He shouldn’t give into it. He shouldn’t let himself have that back.
And yet, here he was—dangerously close to forgetting how angry he was with the whole world.
She leaned forward across from him. “I still have to cook dinner and clean up afterwards.”
“Of course,” Broccan agreed. “But I get you after that.”
Her brown eyes darkened, almost matching her raven-black hair. “What did you have in mind?”
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Emer murmured as they neared the lake.
Lough Ree was a touch too far to hike in the short time they had before dinner, but Cuasán had a smaller lake that spilled away from Lough Ree and was only an hour’s walk northeast, mainly through farmsteads and the occasional small wood.
“It’s for me more than you,” Broccan lied. It was for both of them, but he wasn’t about to say as much aloud. “If I don’t rinse off I’ll scare away all your customers.”
“You might scare them off either way,” she chuckled. “Broccan, I haven’t gone swimming since I was a child.”
“Then it’s good to get some practice. What if you fell in the river?”
“It’s not that deep,” she argued. “I could stand in it.”
Broccan stopped walking, pretending to size her up. Or in her case, down. “I’m not sure you could.”
Her mouth fell open. “Did you just make a joke?” she gasped. “You? Broccan the Grumpy?”
“Broccan the Grumpy?” he snorted. “Is that what you call me?”
“No,” Emer laughed, “but I should.”
They reached a thickly wooded area at the edge of a field of oats, the trees so close that Broccan had to practically climb between them. “You’re certain this is right?” he asked.
“It opens up in a moment,” Emer assured him, fording her way through the foliage. It was so tall he could hardly see her when she passed through a bush.
Sure enough, just as Broccan considered taking out his sword and hacking a clearer path, the forest gave way to a sloped grassy shore and a body of water that he probably would’ve called a pond.
“It’s a puddle,” he said, looking over the small blue lake.
“There are lots of them, and then the two bigger ones. If you want to hike through more forest we can find a different one.”
“Absolutely not.” Broccan was already considering alternate paths home, scouting the other shorelines for better options. He took off his shirt, grateful to finally be free from its sticky, dirty confines. Turning it over in his hands, he realized he should have brought a fresh one to change into.
“Here,” Emer offered, grabbing it from him. “I can wash it.”
He snatched it right back. “Nice try. You’re here not to do work. I’ll wash it.”
“Are you getting in first, then?” Emer asked, her eyes fixed on his bare chest.
“Aye, that way if you need help I’m already in.”
“I know how to swim. It’s just been a while.”
Broccan shrugged, enjoying the way her gaze followed the movement and immediately reprimanding himself for it.
Hell, what had he been thinking, bringing her down here?
Apparently he hadn’t been thinking at all.
He needed to stop indulging in their interactions.
“Are you going to watch, or are you going to turn around?”
Next time.
Pink flooded her cheeks and she spun on her heels. “Sorry,” she squeaked.
He couldn’t help but prod her further. “I was just asking. It’s your choice.” What was the matter with him? He wasn’t supposed to want Emer. He wasn’t supposed to want anyone.
She turned around long enough to glare at him before staring back at the tree line.
“Are you telling me folk don’t bathe in the river?”
“Of course they do,” Emer replied, still facing away.
“Then what’s the problem?”
Emer stayed silent as he removed his trews and climbed into the water.
It was warm, but still refreshing. Broccan sank down, submerging himself completely so that all the sweat and dirt washed off.
When he rose back up, Emer was staring at him.
Her cheeks still flushed, her lips parted tellingly, her eyes pinned to his shoulders.
“This isn’t the river,” she answered at last.
“You still have to swim,” Broccan told her, running water over his arms and chest.
She made small, quick circles with her pointer finger, which Broccan took to mean he should turn around. So he did. When he heard the water splash behind him, he looked back toward the shore.
Emer was in the water, standing so that it lapped just above her breasts.
She’d not be able to go much farther without exerting herself at her petite size.
The ground dropped off quickly after her stopping point.
She reached for one of her dark braids, unraveling first one, then the other just above the water’s surface.
As Broccan had done, Emer dropped until she disappeared, soaking her hair and rising back up.
Broccan forgot everything as he watched her wash her hair. He forgot to wash his own. He forgot the water and the trees and the walk back to Ath Luain. He forgot the pain that followed his every step. He forgot how to think.
And, for just a moment, he forgot that he wasn’t supposed to want Emer.