Chapter Twelve
“Where are you going?” Alannah demanded, pulling on Conan’s arm to stop him. “We should go tell Cahill of Oran’s constant attacks while we can get the king’s ear.”
Conan frowned. “We should go check on your sister,” he countered. “She was worried sick over you and only partly dressed.”
“We were at the river to swim,” she explained. “She must’ve chased right after me to get you.”
“Thank goodness she did.” He started walking again, looking around the back corner of the building before stepping around it. Though the wall of the hostelry was straight, boxes of stores were piled against it, and barrels stuck out from both corners. He paused, holding still and listening.
Why was he behaving so oddly? First Emer, now Conan. What was going on today? “Conan?”
Instead of walking all the way to the front of the building where it met the road, Conan turned toward the cooper’s workshop, pulling Alannah behind him.
“Conan!” she demanded when he didn’t offer any explanation.
The sound of hoofbeats echoed from the front of Oran’s guesting house. Conan picked up his pace, yanking her behind the cooper’s back wall between two stacks of boxes. He pressed her against the wall, his body pinning hers in place so that they were hidden from view.
“Conan,” she hissed quietly. “What is going on?”
His throat bobbed. “I’ve crossed paths with the King of Connachta before,” he whispered. “He would not be pleased to see me again, nor I him.”
Alannah stiffened. “Would he be upset to learn that I’m hosting you?”
“No, no,” Conan hurried. “He’d not be cross with you over it. Only me.”
She narrowed her eyes skeptically, but held her tongue. If he’d been a mercenary in the past, it was certainly possible they’d met that way. Still, the more Alannah learned of Conan, the less she felt she knew about him.
The hoofbeats moved toward them down the road, headed in the direction of the causeway. Conan raised an arm, squeezing even closer and leaning his head right beside hers.
Alannah’s heart hammered. He was so close. His warm, hard body pressed on hers and his intoxicating scent surrounded her, reminding her of all the things she wanted but couldn’t have. His hands back on her. His lips claiming hers again. His cock deep inside her.
Damnit. Alannah swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. But when she sensed Conan’s eyes on her, she made the mistake of turning her head.
His blue-grey eyes softened, his gaze darkening as it caressed her face and fell to her chest.
Her breath caught when his hand fell to her waist, his thumb circling the skin just beneath the hem of her tunic.
She shouldn’t let him touch her again. But instead of pushing him away, she melted against the wall behind her, slowly raking her hands over the thick muscles on his chest, savoring the feel of them beneath her fingertips.
He leaned down, his lips a breath away from her neck.
Her skin turned to gooseflesh in anticipation.
Then he pulled away. “Alannah,” he whispered, his voice gravelly and broken, “I’m leaving in less than a fortnight.” His forehead fell against hers, smooth and warm and comforting.
“I know,” she whispered back, uncertain how she found her voice amidst the desire running rampant through her. “One night only.”
His rough hand, covered in calluses from years of wielding his sword, rose to cup her face. “One night only.”
He backed away, releasing her from the crush of his body, and walked beside her in silence back to The Hart’s Rest.
*
The rest of that week was spent avoiding Alannah and scouting the bridge.
He had come far too close to kissing that temptress, even with the threat of discovery looming so near.
He’d bedded her, aye, but that was before they’d spent any amount of time together.
Getting to know a person was much different than sharing their bed.
The more time they spent together, the more dangerous a kiss would become, the more meaning it would hold.
And Conan was leaving soon—he couldn’t afford to have his resolve waver.
If he got any closer to Alannah, he had no doubt whatsoever that it would.
They continued playing to perpetuate their ruse as bards.
Conan and Ardál checked in with the blacksmith every afternoon.
Illadan took to fishing off the bridge every afternoon—perhaps the most ridiculous cover Conan could’ve imagined for their leader.
Illadan looked even less like a fisherman than he did a bard.
Between their efforts, they’d managed to stuff kindling and hide oil on either end of the bridge and beneath it, in case they needed more fuel.
Brian’s party had come and gone, riding north as planned along with the other kings.
Which meant it was time.
The plan was simple. Conan and Ardál would keep watch while Dallan, Finn, and Illadan set the bridge afire. The trick would be getting it to burn fast and hot so that once folk noticed they couldn’t put it out in time to save it.
There was only one rule: don’t be seen. They all wore hooded cloaks, just in case.
“We need this to work,” Illadan reminded them as they huddled under the bridge in the early hours of the morning.
The moon neared the horizon, but the sun wouldn’t appear for hours yet.
Even folk who’d stayed out late or got up early would be sound asleep right now.
“We don’t have many more supplies. If this goes wrong, we’ll be stuck here until we can procure more and try again. ”
They all nodded their understanding. As pleasant as the hostelry was, none of them wanted to stay longer than needed. Finn’s wife was heavy with child. Illadan had left his new baby to come on this mission. Everyone had a reason to make sure this worked.
And Conan couldn’t take another agonizing day of pretending he wasn’t still interested in Alannah.
Conan took up the post on the western side, Ardál the eastern. He didn’t hear a sound as he gazed out into the sleeping streets of Ath Luain, and he didn’t dare a glance behind him. With his luck, the moment he turned his head, someone would stumble into sight.
The smell of burning oil filled his nostrils, a faint flicker of light cast dancing shadows at his feet.
The shadows grew longer. Heat billowed against his back.
But the men still hadn’t called out that they’d finished.
Conan shifted his weight, narrowing his eyes at a cluster of shadows along the side of a building at the edge of the nearest road.
They were taking too long. He didn’t know how long it had been, but he knew it shouldn’t take so long to light wood afire.
The shadows moved again, a cat emerging to stretch languidly.
Conan exhaled slowly. They needed to get out of here before they drew attention.
Lights appeared in town. Someone woke. Then all hell broke loose.
“Fire!” Shouts rose up, a symphony of panic, first from the western shore, then the eastern.
Conan whistled to the men, signaling they needed to leave, before ducking under the bridge. Four splashes told him they followed. They swam south to the ford, sheltered enough from sight between the embankments and the cover of night to sneak away unseen.
Soaking wet and freezing, the five Fianna warriors flopped like fish onto the shore once they were clear of Ath Luain.
“What happened?” Conan demanded.
“It wouldn’t light,” Dallan grumbled. “They coated it.”
“It lit,” Illadan corrected, entirely too composed. “It didn’t spread as it should. We’ll need to start fires every foot or so to burn through the coating.”
“We need twice as many materials as we had, and we used them all,” Finn sighed.
Conan shook his head. “We need a new plan.”
“We’ll circle around Ath Luain, dry off, and sneak into our room. Sleep if you can, but we still run at sunrise. Tomorrow afternoon we’ll come up with a new plan.”
They made it all the way to The Hart’s Rest before the rest of their plan fell apart. Dried and exhausted, Conan stepped around the corner.
And straight into Alannah.