Chapter Thirteen
Dinner that evening was torture in every possible way, inside and out.
What had he been thinking, taking her swimming?
In all honesty, he hadn’t thought much on the particulars—like the fact that they’d be dressing and undressing together to do so.
He’d just needed a bath and seen an opportunity.
The reality of his decision didn’t sink in fully until Emer’s hair floated like ink over the surface of the water, reminding his body how badly he wanted her and his mind how greatly he’d overstepped.
He didn’t bed women, not anymore. And he’d not even considered it until today—a sure sign that he’d made a huge mistake.
Yet still, even knowing and feeling all those things, Broccan couldn’t take his eyes off Emer as she moved through the common room, serving dinner and sunshine wherever she went.
Even knowing he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help but wonder what she felt like, how she tasted.
His head throbbed as a war raged within him.
When the meal finally ended, he helped Emer clean the tables and sweep the floors as usual, the ache in his temples only growing worse. A grimace slipped onto his face as he put the broom away.
And, of course, Emer noticed.
Her brow furrowed as she closed in on him like a bloodhound on the scent. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” He waved her away.
“Broccan,” she demanded, “you’re squinting. Is something the matter with your eyes?”
“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
Her hands went straight to her hips in response—a stance he’d noticed she favored, and the only outward sign that she was standing her ground.
“I get headaches,” he grumbled. “Frequently. They come and go. It’s fine.”
“It is anything but fine,” she retorted, marching back behind the kitchen counter and rifling through several jars. “Aha! Still have some.” She pointed at the hearth. “You, sit. That’s an order.”
“I don’t like being fussed over like an infant.”
She’d already set a kettle to boiling and grabbed a rag. “I’m not fussing over you like an infant. I would coddle an infant. I’m as good as yelling at you. Now sit down and relax.”
If his head didn’t hurt so badly, he’d have laughed at the venom she managed to pack into that sentence.
Mayhap he was rubbing off on her as much as she was him.
He did as she ordered, sitting on the floor so he could lean against the stone hearth.
Grudgingly, he admitted that the heat seemed to help, the warmth of the stones spreading through his neck and shoulders, loosening them.
Emer brought him over a steaming cup and a cool cloth.
Broccan took the cup and glared at the cloth. “I’m not using that,” he told her. “I’m not an invalid.”
“It helps!” someone called from one of the sleeping compartments.
“See,” Emer pressed, bringing the cloth to his forehead. “Dona knows what she’s talking about.”
“Stay out of this, Dona,” Broccan called, wincing when pain lanced through his temple again.
“Drink,” Emer ordered, settling onto the ground beside him.
Broccan sipped the warm liquid, recognizing the bitter taste of willow bark.
Emer sat quietly as he finished drinking.
Draining the last of the draught, he set the cup on the floor, leaning his head back against the hearth.
“Thank you,” he whispered, not terribly interested in sharing their conversation with Dona and the other guests who slept on the far side of the room.
Emer scooted closer, until her arm touched his. “Is it helping?”
Amazingly, it was. “Aye.” He took the cloth off his head, looking down to meet her gaze.
She grinned up at him, even after the long day. “So that was what you consider fun?” she whispered. “Fighting for my life and getting covered in leeches?”
“I think that’s the closest to a complaint I’ve ever heard from you.”
“I only complain if I think it will change something. Or at least I try to.”
Broccan’s hand slid over hers of its own volition. His entire body went rigid as he waited to see if he’d overstepped.
She tilted her head until it rested against his chest.
Broccan thought he might never breathe again.
It felt as though one wrong move, one deep breath, would break whatever spell had come over them.
He let his cheek lay on the top of her head, wondering just what he was doing.
It wasn’t as though he could be with her.
And even if the last ten years suddenly disappeared and he didn’t have all his memories of Teamair haunting him, he still couldn’t be with Emer.
She deserved a man far better than he could ever be.
Over the next days, they made good progress on Oran’s hostelry, replacing the rotted boards and finally getting every surface scrubbed clean.
Emer had burned all the bug-infested linens and kept mumbling something about shopping.
Broccan didn’t like the sound of that one bit.
He also didn’t like that she still called it “Oran’s hostelry.
” That bastard had no business haunting her from his grave.
And, more importantly, by rights it was Emer’s now.
But with all the nudity and leeches, that particular topic hadn’t come up as he’d hoped during their swim.
Shifting the pile of freshly chopped firewood in his arms, Broccan stepped inside the common room of the Hart’s Rest.
Emer stood in the kitchen chopping onions. When she noticed him walking toward the hearth, she beamed at him, a smile that could melt ice.
His chest tightened. God help him, even though she annoyed the hell out of him, Broccan found himself looking forward to her smile. He nodded at her, depositing the firewood on the small stack near the hearth.
By now he knew the rhythm of her days. In about two hours, a rush of folk would flock to the common room for a warm dinner and some company. It was always an odd mixture of hostelry guests, merchants, and others moving through town, and townsfolk who came in with varying degrees of regularity.
He’d finished his chores leading up to dinner, so he walked over to where she stood in the kitchen. Her hands moved so quickly, handled the knife so deftly, that it was a wonder she still had all her fingers.
“You could win a knife fight with those skills,” he told her, leaning against the table and watching her work.
“My mother taught me.” She didn’t slow down, grabbing a handful of carrots and slicing them into coins. “She was an excellent cook as well. Some of my favorite recipes to cook are the ones we used to make together.”
She didn’t seem upset. In fact, quite the opposite. A warmth filled her cinnamon eyes as she spoke of her mother. This seemed as good a chance as any to appease his curiosity.
“How old were you?”
Carrots flew into a bowl and she grabbed for the turnips. “When my parents died?”
“Aye.”
“I was fifteen when they got sick,” she answered. “A sickness came to Ath Luain and many died. They both caught it, and I cared for them while Alannah and my brothers kept the farm working. They were in such pain that I was glad it didn’t last long.”
A familiar ache threaded through Broccan’s chest, reaching for his gut. “Doesn’t it hurt you to speak of them?”
Emer’s bow-shaped lips pursed thoughtfully. “Not at all. I certainly hope my family will speak of me when I’m gone. That’s the only way we keep them with us, isn’t it? By telling the world how wonderful they were.”
Her words slammed into him like a hammer’s blow. He’d never thought of it that way. “So you were fifteen when your parents died. How long until your brothers left?”
“They left two years after that, when I was seventeen. We’d had two years straight of famine and drought and the farm wasn’t sustaining us. They joined the king’s army for the coin, to feed us.”
Broccan stood speechless. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been further tragedy. “Do you not feel sadness?” He couldn’t keep the thought to himself. “How are you so happy all the time when everything I learn of you is a tale of trials and loss?”
Her hand paused, the knife stilled. “You saw me cry,” she whispered. “I feel everything. I just don’t let it break me. I smile at all that horror to show it I’m not afraid to keep going.”
How could anyone take something so awful and make it into something so beautiful? Broccan made a note to stop underestimating this woman. “Does Alannah know that?” Did everyone know this about her except him?
Emer’s delicate shoulders lifted. “She’s seen me cry, too. I don’t think I’ve ever told her what I just said in so many words, but I assume she knows. I’ve not given it much thought, to be honest.”
“Emer.” Broccan didn’t know what had come over him. He wasn’t usually so chatty, and he certainly never had any desire to speak of feelings. Yet something compelled him to reach out to her. “Weak people don’t smile in the face of despair. They break.”
Like he did.
Broccan didn’t want to think on that particular analysis or its disturbing implications any further. Instead, he headed back outside to chop more wood for the fire.
Two hours later, Broccan stood in the common room watching Emer deliver trenchers of bread and stew to the clamoring crowd of diners. He’d managed to avoid any further talk of lost family members, keeping himself busy with unnecessary chores until the first folk arrived.
After the encounter with Eoghan, Broccan took his guard duties more seriously.
Eoghan wouldn’t be coming back—he’d made certain of that.
With what he considered incredible restraint, he hadn’t even harmed the bastard.
But he’d made his stance on Eoghan’s reappearance very clear.
Happily, aside from a few stray hands after too much ale, no one else had come demanding her hand in marriage.
Broccan’s eyes followed her blood-red dress as it moved through the tables.
Everything about her was so delicate—he understood now why Alannah was so protective of her, even why Emer thought herself weak.
She was half the size of her sister with a willowy frame that reminded him of the Fair Folk.
Not that he’d seen any, but he imagined they’d look something like Emer.
Hair as dark as the charcoal in the hearth, blacker than the dark of night, hung in a pair of long, shiny braids.
She always wore it in braids, but Broccan imagined it would feel soft as a feather, flowing like a river of ink, should she let it loose.
His fingers tingled just thinking of it.
She hurried back, picking up three more trenchers and balancing them on her petite arms. She left two behind.
Without thinking, Broccan grabbed them, trailing her across the room to the farthest table. He set them down in the empty spots, glancing up to see where Emer headed next.
The look on her face sent a shiver of awareness through him. The delight in her eyes at finding him beside her filled him with a burst of warmth. He couldn’t take his eyes off hers, sparkling at him in the firelight.
After that, he couldn’t stop helping. He delivered the rest of the meals with her, only returning to stand watch when everyone had been served. Emer grabbed a pitcher of water, wading through the packed tables to refill cups. She stopped at one of them, smiling and laughing with someone.
Broccan sidestepped to get a better view. His stomach soured when he saw it was a man. A young man, of the sort who would be a suitable match for Emer, in age at least. He had disheveled brown hair and a smile to match her own.
And Emer appeared to be genuinely enjoying whatever he said. But what if she wasn’t? She smiled at everyone. Maybe the fellow was just as unwelcome as Eoghan. He needed to make sure.
Before his mind realized what his feet were about, Broccan found himself standing beside Emer, glaring down at a freckled, smiling buffoon.