Chapter Fifteen
Broccan didn’t sleep that night. Memories of Teamair flooded his mind, followed quickly by guilt. The moment Emer accused him of jealousy, he realized that she’d hit the mark. But why should he be jealous?
Emer wasn’t his. Teamair was. The logical part of him knew this to be true.
Yet he could no longer deny his interest in Emer. He’d wanted to throw Darragh in the river beside Eoghan. And for what? Talking with an old friend?
Every word that she spoke took root in him, his curiosity over her growing by the day. But what of Teamair?
The entire night his mind was assaulted with words spoken by friends, advice offered over the past nine years that he’d largely ignored.
Brian, who had buried two wives, telling him another woman would capture him in time.
Illadan, whose father had been murdered, telling him that Teamair wouldn’t want him to live a life of misery on her account.
Cormac, the wisest man Broccan knew, telling him to start leaving stones behind, to lighten his load.
Emer. Showing him what life might look like if he listened to any of them.
But what of Teamair?
By the time the first slivers of dawn broke across the dark eastern sky, Broccan was only more confused than when he’d laid down. What on earth was he to make of all this?
He splashed water on himself, shaking the cobwebs from his mind as best he could, then dressed and headed to the common room to get started on the day’s chores.
The hearth had shrunken to a pile of glittering coals in the night, offering neither light nor warmth to the guests who still slumbered in the compartments along the edge of the room.
Broccan stoked the coals, adding some of the wood he split yesterday. The flames licked up the dried logs, coming to life and starting to dance once more.
He knew the moment Emer entered the hall. Soft footfalls and the scent of lavender filled the space behind him. Turning, he was rewarded with a smile that brightened some of the darkness of his night. His chest tightened. He felt the blood in his veins quicken in a way he’d all but forgotten.
Emer made her way to the kitchen, moving slowly as she grabbed a bag of oats and a large pot.
Broccan jumped to his feet, hurrying to carry the heavy bag for her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, hauling the pot to the hearth and hanging it on the trammel hook. She reached for the bag of oats.
Broccan shook his head, tipping it into the pot. “Tell me when.”
Once she’d added water and given it all a good stir, Emer sat beside him near the warmth of the fire. “How did you sleep?”
It was such a small question. There was no reason for it to shake Broccan. It seemed like mindless chatter, but it wasn’t. The only people who’d ever asked Broccan that question were long gone. His mother. Brian’s second wife, Echrad—as good as a second mother to him. And Teamair.
His friends, the Fianna, cared about each other deeply. But that sort of question was intimate, in its own way. Once, long ago, Broccan had asked his wife and daughter the same question every morn. He’d not heard it since the morning he left them the last time.
“Broccan?” Emer’s dark brows knitted. She placed a hand on his arm.
He should have moved.
But he didn’t.
“I hardly slept,” he answered honestly.
Her smile flipped, the corners of her mouth turning down. “Do you often sleep poorly?”
As a matter of fact, he did. So much so that he never thought much of it. “It’s become something of a habit.”
“Do you want to try to sleep some more? I can manage breakfast on my own.”
Broccan snorted in amusement. “I would if I thought it would help.”
“Well, breakfast won’t be long.” She stirred the pot of bubbling oats, the smile returning. “You’ll feel better after you eat.”
He watched her add a bowl of ingredients to the pot, stirring it more. He hadn’t the faintest idea what she’d poured into it. She could’ve been poisoning them all slowly for all he knew.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her face. The way the tip of her nose looked like a button, tilted ever-so-slightly upward.
Her rose-pink lips—the top shaped exactly like the bow he carried.
The bottom looked fuller than the pillow on his bed and probably felt as soft.
The warmth and focus of her cinnamon-colored eyes.
They weren’t quite brown, especially in the fire’s light.
She turned toward him.
His eyes shot anywhere but at her. He’d been staring. “How did you sleep?” He forced himself to meet her gaze.
Those pillowy lips rolled, tucking into her mouth as amusement glittered in her eyes. “Deeply.”
Damnit. She’d caught him looking. “What?”
“I slept deeply,” she repeated with a husky laugh. “Let me get your oats.”
She was right, of course. The meal helped get his mind working properly, even if he couldn’t quite shake the exhaustion.
Emer fed and watered the guests while Broccan swept and carted in more firewood.
The movement helped him focus, helped his scattered, tortured thoughts coalesce into something manageable.
Something dangerous.
The more time he spent with Emer, the less he could deny that he wanted her.
He felt a pull toward her that he had to fight harder and harder with each passing day.
But he should not want her. He didn’t deserve her—with her bright smiles and easy kindness—and Teamair deserved better than to be forgotten.
Emer’s words came back to him as he hauled the final load of firewood into the Hart’s Rest. That’s the only way we keep them with us, isn’t it? By telling the world how wonderful they were.
Perhaps that was a way he could leave some stones behind without forgetting her. He wandered to where Emer stood at the last occupied table, refilling a cup with water and talking with Dona—the nosy woman who’d gotten involved in their conversation.
“She’ll learn one day,” Dona declared. “She can’t avoid them forever. I’m talking about Alannah, of course,” she added when Broccan joined them.
“Of course.” He managed not to grumble or roll his eyes, but only just.
Not registering Broccan’s disinterest, Dona continued. “She gives Emer here so much grief over her fondness for ghost stories, but the moment she sees one herself, she’ll finally listen.”
And just like that, the conversation was interesting. “Her fondness for ghost stories, you say?” He turned a questioning look to Emer. The pink spreading across her cheeks told him he’d stumbled upon something very interesting indeed.
“I’ve already told you I believe in spirits,” she defended.
“Believing that your parents linger in affection is not the same as indulging in ghost stories.”
Fists to hips, she raised a dark, delicate brow. “Isn’t it?”
“It most certainly is the same,” Dona interrupted, draining her water and rising from the table. “Spirits, ghosts. Ghosts, spirits. What difference does it make?” She tossed Emer a thank-you and strolled out the front doors.
Broccan turned on Emer the moment Dona was gone. “I’m going to need to hear more about this ghost business.”
Emer retreated to the kitchen as she answered. “There’s not much to tell, honestly. I keep trying to convince Alannah that ghosts exist and she keeps winning.”
“Winning? Like an argument?”
Emer’s hands moved with practiced precision and skill, mixing flour, water, and butter into a dough. “A wager. Whenever I convince her to seek out evidence with me, she makes it a wager,” Emer sighed. “This last time, I really thought I had her.”
“What happened?” This was her idea of fun. He’d finally found something she enjoyed other than work—hunting for ghosts.
“I heard a voice crying out in the woods. Not speaking words but it was more than just noise.” She shook her head, sighing again. “I know that doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Broccan lied. He had no idea what she meant, but he hated that her smile had faded. He’d say anything to bring it back.
The corner of her lips lifted, demanding his full attention. “I convinced her to come with me, since it was so clear a sound there was no way she could deny hearing it. But when we returned, it was silent. I never heard it again.”
“That’s how these things always go,” Broccan told her truthfully. You see a golden hare in the same spot every morn, but invariably when you bring someone with you it won’t be there.”
Her smile slid to a smirk. “A golden hare?”
“I saw one,” he insisted. “I was just a boy, but I know what I saw. Just as you know what you heard.”
Her hands stilled on the dough, her amber eyes finding his. “You believe me?”
He shrugged. “Why would I not?”
“Very few people do, and you seem to have the nature of a skeptic.” She resumed her kneading.
She had him there. “Most folk that come through here with extraordinary tales,” he began, “they tell them for the attention. They’re there for the audience.
You’ve never once acted that way, which makes me think you’re sharing your story either out of excitement or for validation.
And neither of those is reason to make up a tale. ”
The way her eyes deepened made Broccan keep talking, to keep himself out of trouble. “What did you wager?”
The frown returned and Broccan resisted the urge to place a hand on hers. “My coin for the fair. Alannah’s using it to buy a dagger.”
“At Cruachan Aí?”
Emer nodded. “We go every year.”
“I’ve been myself,” Broccan told her, ignoring the tug in his chest at the memory of wandering the grounds with Teamair many, many years ago. A lifetime ago.
“Do you think they’ll return in time for it?”
Broccan snorted. “They’d better. But if they don’t, then it seems to me Alannah forfeits her winnings.”
Emer beamed at him. “I think that’s more than fair. Perhaps you and I could go instead.”
The tug in his chest became a thunderous pounding, a fist slamming him back into his right mind. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “Or perhaps we could go searching the forest for ghosts.”
“Perhaps,” she repeated, her warm smile a balm against the darkness that threatened his good mood. “I’d like that very much.”
Broccan set to chopping carrots beside her. He should be thinking of Teamair. He should be wondering how his companions fared in their mission. He should be planning their training leading into Brian’s battle with Malachy.
But all he could think about was that he’d made her smile.