Chapter Ten
Captain, how old are you?”
Ronan’s horse was a few steps behind Clíodhna’s, forcing her to look back to speak to him. Which probably gave her the opportunity to see the look of confusion crossing his face. At this point it was useless to try to understand her; it was best to just go along with whatever she brought up.
“Nineteen years.” Every so often, the groups rotated positions while riding.
A few hours after their first conversation, Ronan found himself next to Clíodhna again and subject to her questions.
While he might have enjoyed talking with her any other time, the farther they traveled from Caisleán Cósta, the more his attention needed to be focused on their surroundings. Distractions could be dangerous.
The road they were on was the easternmost path in Scáilca, weaving past villages and lakes. In the distance, the peaks of the Diamhair Mountains broke through the horizon. He thought of the attack on Domhnall’s convoy to álainndore, and it put him on edge.
The Ionróirans aren’t the only thing to fear. There are many ways for one to die on a military mission. If he wanted to protect them all, he had to maintain his focus.
Something Princess Clíodhna seemed determined to ruin.
“Only nineteen? I wouldn’t expect a nineteen-year-old to become captain of the prince’s guard. It seems a rather important position for someone so young.”
He shrugged; his fingers molded around the reins. “I suppose.”
“‘I suppose’?” Clíodhna laughed, and the world seemed to go quiet at the melodic sound. “I would expect you to be a little more confident in your answers if you rose to captain so quickly.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Then yes. It is ‘rather young.’”
“Are you the youngest to have ever risen to that position? I don’t think we have anyone in our services so young with such responsibilities.”
He sighed. “I am. The youngest, that is.”
“The youngest captain in Scáilca? That is quite the accomplishment. It’s no wonder you’re at Caisleán. You are probably one of the best swordsmen of your age.”
He turned his head so she couldn’t see any sign of how uncomfortable he was with such praise. She waited for him to respond.
“I take my work very seriously,” he finally offered.
“I’m confident you do,” she stated. She dropped the conversation, and Ronan turned his attention once more onto the hills surrounding them. But after a few more moments passed, her stomach grumbled loudly.
Ronan glanced at her, and she shrugged.
They were passing through one of the villages now; it was as good a time to break as any.
He whistled to Domhnall and nodded in the direction of the market. The prince understood immediately and stopped Niamh, halting the convoy so they could pause to eat.
Kían and Niamh left to scout the market, while Ronan stayed with the royals and ó Dálaigh. They had packed provisions—dried meats, cheeses, and bread—but when fresh food was an option, it was best to take it. Especially when they didn’t know what they would be facing in the Ghostwood.
Sore and sweaty, it was a relief to rest. They spread blankets just off the road, toward the northern edge of the village; Kían and Niamh met them with baskets of fresh fare. After a day of traveling, the smell was mouthwatering.
Ronan groaned quietly as he stretched out on the soft woolen blanket and enjoyed the shade. The pain in his hands and legs flared with the heat beating down on them, though he was used to that. Any changes in weather worsened it.
He looked over at Clíodhna. She was combing her fingers through her hair, sticking pins into braids and undoing the damage of a day’s ride.
“I’m not sure why you’re sitting with me now, after that horrible attempt at a conversation.
If I didn’t know any better, I would say you didn’t want to talk with me then,” Clíodhna said, not bothering to look his way.
“I would like to point out that I did everything right. You just suddenly didn’t know how to say more than two words. ”
He rolled his eyes. “I had a job to do.” She ignored him and continued fussing with her hair. “You know that we’ll be back on the horses in an hour, and eventually all your work on your hair will be for nothing?”
“But for the next few hours, I will look better than I did before.” With a smug smile, she slid the final pin into place.
While he might not agree with her methods, her eccentricities were not completely beyond his understanding.
He’d spent years around Domhnall. However, there was an optimism to Clíodhna that was utterly unique.
Glancing back, he couldn’t help but notice her self-satisfied look had settled into a genuine smile.
“You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” He spoke before he could stop himself.
The glimmer in her eyes faded. “I pride myself on being different,” she retorted, too quickly.
“I didn’t mean that to be an insult. It’s refreshing.” He was grateful he clarified; her head seemed to lift ever so slightly.
“Happy to be of service, Captain.”
“Call me Ronan. After all, we’re supposed to be equals now, aren’t we, Princess?” he responded.
“Then you should call me Clía.”
“All right then, Clía.” Something about the name felt soft on his lips. He smiled.
***
NIGHT ROLLED UPON THEM AS THEY TRAVELED ALONG A dirt road in the woods.
There was still another day of riding before they would reach the Ghostwood, where beasts from Tír Síoraí roamed.
Ronan stopped them as they approached a clearing.
It was small, but the trees would offer cover, making it hard for them to be caught unaware.
Everyone began setting up, hurrying to erect their tents and unroll supplies. Ronan had just finished his setup when he noticed Clíodhna—Clía—sitting on her unfurled bedroll and staring at the tops of the trees.
“Where’s your tent?” Ronan asked, crouching down to her level so that he wouldn’t tower over her.
“Why do you want to know?” She looked up at him, her eyes sharp, but when he raised a brow, she relented. “Last week, you promised not to judge me. If I tell you, you can’t mock me.”
Her face was turning pink, and he immediately had to know what could have such a woman embarrassed.
“I won’t,” he lied.
She eyed him, then sighed. “You will. You definitely will.”
A smile started to grow on his face, but he tamped it down once he realized it wouldn’t help his case. For some reason, in the moonlight, he wanted to joke with her again. So he promised. “I swear, I won’t make fun of you.”
She put her face in her hands and mumbled something he couldn’t make out.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” he asked, pulling her hands away. His calloused fingers wrapped around her soft skin with a mind of their own.
She pouted. Actually pouted. “I said, I didn’t bring a tent. I don’t even own one.”
A laugh bubbled up inside him, and it was a struggle not to let it out. But what finally ended his battle was her reaction to said struggle. She shoved him. Like a child.
That ruined all the restraint he was delicately holding on to, and he started laughing outright. She stayed where she was, struggling to hide the smile on her lips, and his laughter eventually died out.
“I’m sorry. I really am. In my defense, I wasn’t going to laugh until you viciously attacked me.” He smirked and was rewarded with a small laugh from her. “Why didn’t you say anything when we were leaving Caisleán? You had to have noticed you were missing something kind of important.”
If Ronan had noticed, he would have helped her, but with all of the bags she packed, he had just assumed a tent was in one of them.
“I noticed but, at that point, I was too proud to do anything about it,” she admitted.
“Everyone is waiting for me to mess up. They’re looking for me to stumble so they can stick their claws in and finish the job—I didn’t want to give them a reason.
I thought I’d be able to play it off, sleep out here and act as if I planned it. ”
Ronan looked around the clearing, at the surrounding woods that could hide any sort of threat. “You shouldn’t stay outside. My tent is rather large—big enough for two. You can stay in there.”
She hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Her reluctance was understood. They had known each other for only a short while, but Ronan had shared tents with warriors he knew even less on missions. He rose to his feet, holding his hand out to her as a peace offering. “You’re a warrior now, right? This is the life of a soldier.”
That seemed to convince her. She took his hand, letting him help her stand. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Clía.” He smiled at her, and it was as if he were suddenly lighter.
He dropped her hand. Clearly, he needed to lie down.
Ronan waited outside the tent, giving her some privacy as she prepared for bed. From across the camp, Domhnall sent him a questioning gesture. He simply shrugged in response. What was he supposed to do? Let the princess sleep in the dirt? Kordislaen had asked him to look out for her.
But Ronan couldn’t deny there was another motivation. He couldn’t help but want to help Clía. When he was first sent to the palace, he was often overwhelmed, not understanding the world he had been thrust into. He needed someone then, as she did now.
However, when Clía opened the tent for him to enter, he saw the reality of his decision. While the tent technically was big enough for two, it wasn’t meant for it. And the two of them were both taller than most. They would fit . . . but it would be tight.
As he lay down, he wondered what she was thinking in that moment. Was she noticing how close they were? That they would be sleeping mere inches from each other?
In hindsight, maybe he should have offered to sleep outside.
No, the tent was warm, and he knew from experience how cold the nights could grow. Not to mention that strange curiosity, which seemed to rise whenever he was around the princess. This was a chance to see the version of Clía she kept for herself—her hair undone, powder wiped away.