Chapter Forty-Six
Soft, White Hands
Neave, August 24, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
I must have collapsedinto sleep, for the sun shone high and bright in the cloudless sky when I opened my eyes. Aedan’s saffron clung to my sweat-drenched body, tangled about my legs, and smelled of anguish and night horrors.
I swallowed against a sting of tears in my nose. Where are you, my Aedan?
My insides recoiled at the summer day outside—warm, cheerful, and thrumming with life. For here, in Aedan’s chamber, a deathly stillness descended, filling every crevice with the chill of winter.
I shot to my feet, trembling all over. How could I have slept? A messenger—the fastest in Benburb—to ride to Tyrconnell outright. To stop what was to come. What had already been? My heart raced as I grabbed Sorcha’s road-worn russet.
Aedan! Where are you, my Aedan?
I fixed my gaze on the cold hearth. Brigid, watch over him. Watch over him. Watch over him. I stared at the clear sky through the window. Mórrígan, keep him safe. Keep him safe. Keep him safe.
But Aedan didn’t worship the old gods. Father, I call upon you to wrap him in safety, to rescue him from peril, to guide him home, sure, steady, and true. Tears, warm and ceaseless, blinded my sight as the clammy silence of the chamber pulsated with an unfinished quest. In Your Son’s name I pray for my beloved.
I ran from the chamber, pulling the hood over my face. It was of no consequence that I’d come here beneath the cover of darkness, dirty and shamefaced, seeking a widower’s company. It made no difference that I’d brought dishonor on my father’s name. It mattered nothing now.
I bolted toward the stairs. “Send a messenger to Tyrconnell—!”
An explosion of voices drowned out my scream. They paid me no heed, all talking at once, crying out, shouting over each other.
Dylan’s voice, oddly shrill, cut through the cacophony. “Repeat the message, man. Slowly, word for word.”
“Water...” someone gasped, and only then, I saw a road-worn messenger swaying with exhaustion.
Out of sight, there was a scrape of chair legs against the floor, someone’s hurried steps. Then, silence, thick and deafening.
I dug my fingers into the wooden banister. The wintry chill seeped into my life’s blood, braced my chest, took my breath.
“Tyrconnell taken...its guard fallen...” the messenger panted. “The O’Neal...struck down...”
I sank to my knees in a motionless heap, my mouth falling open, a hideous wail frozen in my throat.
“They’re coming back fast...make haste for their return.” The messenger’s words echoed dully in the great hall.
“Who...” Dylan’s voice was something from my night horror. “Who gave the message?”
“Lord Kian.”
The world spun, then shattered, dragging me into a roaring black abyss. Ice, sharp and tearing, filled my veins, pinned me to the floor. My misplaced pride, unbridled wrath, bitter jealousy.
My heart ached as if pierced with a blade, hands lay cold and lifeless in my lap. I’d never again hear his voice. Never feel the warmth of his skin against my fingertips. Never look upon him—save at the wake.
The abyss swelled with images. His warm lips against mine—my Neave. His twinkling eyes of steel blue—always and forever. His dimpled smile at the sight of our children—they’re the best of us.
I dropped my head into my hands. I’d never be whole again. Not without him in this empty world.
Something soft brushed against my hair. I looked up, but there was nothing there. Yet hope flickered, wild and bright. Could they be wrong? Could it be he was only wounded—?
A swift order from Dylan made me spring to my feet. “A small party is at the gate! Bring up boiled water, clean bandages, food, drink—”
I rushed back into the chamber, peered into the courtyard through the window. There, I stood, whispering fevered incantations to Brigid and Mórrígan. There, I knelt, mouthing frantic litanies to Father and Son.
Aedan sagged in his saddle as he rode before his men, slow but steady, his face pale and still. He shook off Kian’s attempts to help him dismount, slipped awkwardly off his steed, stumbled toward the castle door.
I was at the last step when he entered, flanked by his men. My stomach squeezed at the sight of his blood-soaked chainmail, his hair hanging limp and tangled, eyes burning fevered gray. My shame returned, hot and furious. Foolish, reckless, disgraceful. The damage I’d done was beyond repair. The peril I’d placed him and his men in, the bloodshed, the impending clan warfare was all my doing.
The great hall came alive with activity, servants rushing back and forth with trays in hands. Recovered, Dylan barked stern orders. The head cook, Saoirse, who rarely made appearance, watched the setting of the table like a hawk.
“Da!” Ronan burst into the hall before his nursemaid, eyes searching the party, wide and frantic. His lips quivered as he came to a halt, making no notice of Aedan’s hand rising to his side, nor of the tabby cat at his feet. “Where is mama, da?”
My hood hung low over my face as I lifted my arms to throw it back—come what may—when Saoirse approached with a scowl on her lips and a large tray of wheaten rolls in her hands.
“You’d better make yourself useful, lass,” she bit out in a low whisper, scowl deepening. “And lower that hood!”
Unthinking, I grabbed the tray, parted my lips. My anguish was a living thing, rising to the top, overflowing.
Aedan’s gaze swept the hall and fixed on me.
I dug my fingernails into the tray. Forgive me, a chroí.
“Apologies for the delay, m’lord,” said Dylan, straightening out the dais. “The messenger arrived late... Are you in need of medicines?”
Aedan’s gaze remained on me, the groove between his brows visible through the loose weave of my hood. “Have we visitors, Dylan?”
“Only our good brehon, m’lord.” Dylan dipped his head toward Senan Fleming, who stood a distance away.
Aedan took Ronan’s hand and headed to the dais, leaning a bit to one side.
“Bring the rolls here, lass,” he said without breaking stride, his voice hoarse and low.
My heart thumped as he took his seat on the dais, murmuring something in Ronan’s ear.
“Go!” Someone gave me a sharp nudge in the back. “Don’t make the lord wait.”
How could I reveal myself to him now—dressed like a peasant and reeking like a stable hand—before our son, all his men, all the servants, and the brehon into the bargain!
Head bent low, I stepped to the dais. There wasn’t much to serving, was there? I would set down the tray, then bolt to Aedan’s bedchamber, and await him there.
I stood so close, I could smell his scent of horse, road, and him—my breath hitched in my chest—and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. I drew closer yet, heart racing. Now.
But placing a large, heavy tray before a sitting man proved a struggle. Not only would I have to lower it at an angle to avoid nicking him, but I’d have to hold it upright to keep the rolls from scattering off. Hands shaking, I thrust it forward—and slammed it clean into Aedan’s shoulder.
He sucked in his breath, eyes widening. “By God, lass—”
I froze as he tried to glimpse my face beneath the hood. The tray tipped in my hands; the rolls spilled all over the table and into his lap.
A furious heat rose to my cheeks. Brigid, help me. Lord, deliver me from this—
“Clumsy fool. Pick them up,” Dylan ordered, his confounded gaze studying me in stunned silence. “Apologies, m’lord.”
Trembling, I reached across the table, mere inches away from Aedan. A wee hand appeared and began to pick up the rolls.
“Don’t fret, lass,” said the velvety voice of a small boy. “I drop things all the time, too.”
Something gripped my chest, rushed into my throat. Another heartbeat, and I’d lower my hood and bring on myself unspeakable shame. Without warning, Aedan’s large fingers grabbed my wrist, solid and warm.
“Lower your hood, lass,” he choked out.
I wrenched my hand away. I’d not appear before all Benburb as a clumsy, disheveled serving wench in this disreputable attire.
“By your leave...” I stammered, scarcely hearing myself before dashing into the corridor.
Gulping for breath, I stepped behind a post.
All seemed quiet in the great hall, save for the clatter of spoons against the plates, the tinkle of ale being poured into cups, and an occasional clearing of someone’s throat.
“Find that serving lass, Dylan,” Aedan’s voice, sharp and agitated, broke the silence.
Dylan coughed. “Which serving lass, m’lord?”
“The one with soft, white hands, who had never handled a heavy tray in her life.” The clang of the cup on the wood punctuated his demand. “The one with the hood over her eyes, hiding her face.”
“M’lord.” Dylan’s steps receded toward the kitchens.
I bit into my lip until it hurt, struggling to still my galloping thoughts. The stairs leading to the chambers—in plain sight of the gathering—were cut off to me now. When Dylan wouldn’t find me in the kitchens, he’d send others to search elsewhere. And if he weren’t one to discover me here but an overzealous servant-woman who would raise an alarm? Mayhap I could slip away into the gardens and hide there.
“Have a bit to eat, brother, would you?” said Fillan. “The stew is quite good today.”
“The lot of you think me mad!” Aedan’s voice held unmistakable traces of his former self. “But upon my sword, she is back in Benburb!”
I clamped a hand over my mouth.
“She may well be,” Fillan mused, calm as a summer breeze. “But even if she isn’t, that wench’s company would do you good, brother. This self-imposed celibacy—”
Dylan’s footsteps announced his return. “Apologies, m’lord. The lass is not in the kitchens, nor in the servants’ quarters.”
“Find her outright,” Aedan boomed, and I shook with sobs at the sound of his strong, hale voice. “Search in every chamber, nook, and cranny, turn the castle upside down if you must. Bring her to me!”
“The lass is hiding away after her blunder, fearing chastisement.” Kian chuckled. “Have some mutton, brother. We’ll find her.”
The plates clattered, and the dais’ feet scraped the wooden floor.
“By God, is it so difficult to find one small lass?”
His heavy footfall reverberated in the corridor, approached my hiding place. Louder. Nearer. My heart was a wild, trembling bird, yearning for freedom.
“M’lord,” I called against its unbearable flutter.
He appeared before I could blink. It was too dim to make out his face through the russet, but no longer did he lean to one side. His heartbeat drummed a roll in his chest, echoing in mine. His sweet breath brushed my face. The scent of wheaten rolls, whiskey, and him dizzied me. I could raise my hand and touch his face, run my fingers through his hair, smooth out the lines in his face I’d caused with my recklessness.
“I bring a message from Lady Neave,” I whispered through choked gasps. “If she cannot be your wife...then she’ll be your concubine. And if she cannot be your concubine...then she’ll be your illicit lover—”
I yelped as he threw back my hood, his eyes wide and fevered.
“And if she cannot be your lover...” I breathed, knees wobbling, words rushing forth, hot and tremulous, “then she’ll be your whore.”
He parted his lips, but no sound emerged. Then, his face was in my hair, his large body crushing me against the stone behind, trembling like an autumn leaf. “Christ... Christ, my Neave...”
His kiss wasn’t a kiss—not this shattering clash, this razing possession, this all-consuming need to reclaim and redeem. His mouth collided with mine, his tongue took my breath, his beard flayed my skin. Abruptly, he drew back; his burning gaze bored into my face as if searching for the O’Neal brand. But if the dim barred him from seeing it, then my racing pulse proved it was seared into my heart and woven into my soul.
Kian’s voice reached us unhampered from the great hall. “Lord, have mercy on us.”
Tomas sighed. “I pray he plows the clumsy wench for her troubles and regains his lost wits.” He clicked his tongue. “Breaking off the raid after such a carnage, and to ride back like demons and empty-handed, withal.”
“And a sure war with O’Donnell now,” added Fillan, his voice low and somber.
Aedan squeezed his eyes shut, shook himself. “It may be they’re right to think me mad.” His eyes locked on me—two stormy pools of steel-blue. “But am I so far gone as to succumb to a waking dream?”
I stood on tiptoes and rubbed the groove between his brows with my fingertip. Then I took his hand and urged him after me into the great hall.
A flurry of golden hair and blue eyes rushed forward and slammed into me.
“Mama!” A raspy bear cub’s voice called over and over again. “Mama, mama, mama, I missed you so, mama.”
How big our son had grown and how heavy. His head nearly reached my waist as I bent to pick him up, chin trembling. But I settled him on my small swell.
“Don’t you ever leave me again.” Ronan wrapped his brawny wee arms round my neck and buried his silky head in my shoulder to hide away his sobs and drown out mine. “Don’t you ever leave us, mama.”