Chapter Fifteen #4
Silence settled briefly as they stared at each other.
The memory of the kiss lingered immediately between them, palpable enough that Morggán became aware all over again of exactly how her mouth had felt beneath his earlier that day.
His eyes betrayed him briefly, dropping toward her lips before returning upward.
He saw at once from the faint warmth rising into her face that she noticed.
What troubled him, however, was that he could not read her fully now.
Earlier, after the kiss, he’d believed he understood the look in her eyes. But tonight something else lingered there as well beneath the warmth and shyness—something quieter, more guarded perhaps. Sadness? Worry? Reluctance? He could not tell. And he didn’t like not knowing.
“Avery,” he said after a moment, grasping somewhat helplessly at the first thought that came to him, “why do ye don fresh garments at night rather than in the morning? Most folk I ken begin the day in clean clothes.”
She tilted her head slightly at the question.
“I don’t want the bed to get dirty,” she answered simply. “I don’t have a shower or a washing machine like most people do.”
Morggán gave a low laugh to conceal his confusion. “Washing machine?”
“Washer and dryer,” she elaborated, which clarified nothing whatsoever.
Her tone suggested he ought to know the meaning of the words. For the briefest moment Morggán wondered whether this might truly be the first time in his recollection that language itself had failed between them.
“Verra well.” His voice roughened unexpectedly. “I only wished to see that ye were well. The camp will quiet soon enough, though there’ll be movement through the night whilst the watches rotate.”
“I’m all right.” She hesitated faintly. “I’m fine.”
“Aye.” His gaze moved once toward the walls surrounding them. “Too many men for a place accustomed to silence.”
Something flickered across her expression at that, though she made no reply.
“Avery,” he said after a moment, his voice lower now. “I still canna leave ye here.”
Avery held his gaze, reminding him, “I won’t leave.”
“Aye, so ye said.” Morggán stepped closer then, not enough to crowd her but enough that the smallness of the house seemed suddenly sharper around them both.
“But there are more than three hundred men in these woods tonight, and mayhap as soon as tomorrow, we ride against England again. I cannae go to war knowing ye remain here alone.”
Her mouth tightened faintly. “But nothing has changed—this is still my home.”
“I ken that.” His voice roughened slightly. “I’m nae asking ye to abandon it forever. I can send ye safely to Ard Cael,” he continued. “Twelve mounted men. Tormod commanding them himself if need be. My mother and sisters abide there. Ye’d want for nothing.”
At once she shook her head.
Morggán received her reply with growing frustration. “Avery—”
“Nae.” She caught herself immediately at the word, startled perhaps to hear his own language from her mouth. Softer now, she said, “No. I can’t.”
He didn’t need to ask why. He understood that much about her already, had heard enough yesterday and seen enough besides. The forest had become more than shelter to her. It had become safety itself.
Yet bluidy hell, how it frustrated him all the same.
“Morggán,” she said then, using his given name for the first time.
The sound of his name in her voice washed over him slowly, warmly.
“I’m not your problem,” she continued quietly. “Not something you need to figure out or manage. I appreciate that you feel you owe me something for helping you, but I assure you, you do not.”
Irritation surged almost immediately. “Jesu, Avery.” He blew out a harsh breath. “D’ye truly believe this is about debt?”
She looked unsettled by the question—or by the tenor of his tone.
“Aye, I owe ye my life. I kent that the moment I opened my eyes upon your floor.” He stepped closer subconsciously.
“But if that were all this was, I’d have left coin and provisions as soon as Tormod and the army arrived and been done with it.
” Morggán dragged a hand back through his hair, already annoyed with himself for speaking so plainly and yet unable to stop now that the words had begun.
“Jesu, Avery,” he repeated. “D’ye truly believe this is only about debt? ”
Avery’s fingers tightened around the damp cloth in her hand. Her cheeks had gone pink again, though whether from embarrassment or discomfort, Morggán could not say with any certainty.
And that uncertainty irritated him further.
Hours ago in this very place she had yielded beneath his mouth with a softness that had stayed with him from then until now.
He had thought—God help him—that he understood the look in her eyes afterward.
Now he found himself wondering whether he had imagined half of it.
“I’m nae trying to manage ye,” he said at last, more controlled now though tension still sat hard beneath the words. “But I’ll nae pretend the thought of leaving ye here sits easily with me.”
After a curt nod, he turned and left, closing the door firmly behind him before he said—or promised—something he perhaps had neither the right nor the power to give.