Forbidden Realm

by Diana Cosby

  Sorrow wrapped around her heart, a cold, chilling sweep that threatened to release the tears for his pain. How he’d suffered. That he still mourned the loss of his wife after the years passed exposed the depth of his love for Máire.

  How did one recover from such?

  Or could they?

  If, God forbid, she found her father dead, Lathir wasn’t sure if she could be so strong. She prayed that she’d never have to face such a tragic circumstance.

  The crackle of the fire fractured the silence, thick with heartache.

  “’Tis more than you wanted to hear.” He grunted. “More than I expected to share.”

  “I appreciate your trusting me enough to tell me. How has your daughter handled her loss?”

  He glanced toward the loft, and lines of concern deepened on his brow. “Órlaith didna talk for months. Even now, she tends to be shy. I pray she can find a way to heal.”

  Lathir touched his shoulder; he tensed. “With your love and compassion, I have confidence you will help her overcome her grief. Your daughter is blessed to have such a caring father.”

  “I far from think her staying with me is a blessing. Quite the opposite.” The bench scraped as he stood.

  “I lost my mother during my birth,” she said as he started to move away. “But like you and Órlaith, my father and I are close.”

  He met her gaze.

  “Through his stories,” she continued, needing him to understand the importance he held in Órlaith’s life, “I have come to know my mother, to love her. Your daughter has memories of her mother, you to share more, and your love to help Órlaith through whatever challenges lie ahead.” She thought of Rónán. “Many children dinna have even that.”

  He released a frustrated exhale. “I know. ’Tis selfish to want more.”

  “Nay. ’Tis difficult to lose those we love.”

  “Aye. I thank you. To sleep with you, now. You are exhausted, and your warmth will be welcomed by your man.” He walked to a pile of blankets, made a pallet near the fire, then settled, his back to her.

  Lathir finished her meal. As she cleaned her bowl and mug, Rónán murmured under his breath. She turned.

  Rónán lay on his side, where she’d left him asleep, his breath even, errant shivers rippling across his body. The lines of pain that’d streaked across his handsome face earlier were but faint twinges. That the threat to his skin had passed was a blessing.

  On the ship, she’d rested against him to share warmth, but they’d both been fully clothed. Nor could she erase the images of his body, the tempting curves, the power. What would it be like to have him hold her, want her?

  Warmth crept through her, and for a moment she allowed herself to imagine his gentle touch, his kiss. She smiled at her whimsy.

  Nor, with the fisherman believing they were wed, did she have another place to sleep. Assuring herself that his lying naked against her was naught she couldn’t handle, Lathir walked over, lifted the cover, and climbed in bed.

  As the fire snapped in the hearth, she listened to his slow, even breathing. Too aware of him, she said a silent prayer, wrapped her arm around his side, and edged her body flush against his.

  His scent of man and a hint of sea filled her every breath as she rested her head within the curve of his shoulder, and a sense of peace filled her.

  On a shudder, his body relaxed.

  Pleased, she closed her eyes, but doubted, with her every fiber aware of him, that she’d sleep.

  Chapter Five

  A deep ache pulsed through Rónán’s body, invading his sleep. At the scent of charred wood, he gave a rough exhale. Another blasted night aboard the Aodh.

  He shifted, pressed against Lathir. Through the murky haze, he awaited the creak of joints as the battered cog lumbered up another swell.

  The pallet remained still, and the soft crackle of fire filled the silence.

  With a frown, he opened his eyes. Firelight glinted off Lathir’s gold hair as she lay next to him. Tensing in realization, he shifted his gaze, took in the simple hut, a loft overhead, chests stacked against a side wall, and several bundles of dried herbs hanging nearby.

  Vague memories of clinging to a rope and jumping from the ship’s rail, then slamming against the icy stone rolled through his mind.

  Then naught.

  Where were they? Whose cabin was this?

  The door scraped open.

  Muscles burned as Rónán shoved to his feet. Wavering, he reached for his dagger. His hand skimmed along flesh. God’s truth, he was naked!

  In the doorframe, snow swirled within the morning sunlight, outlining a tall man sporting brown hair and a beard. He dwarfed the rickety opening, an armload of wood clutched in his beefy arms.

  Rónán grabbed a nearby stick, determined to ignore the incessant throbbing in his head, then positioned himself between the stranger and Lathir. “Halt!”

  A thick brow shot up. “I see you are awake, then.”

  Regardless of the man’s calm demeanor, he kept his grip tight on his makeshift weapon.

  “I am Tighearnán.” The man nodded to the right. “Your broadsword is across the chamber on the bench. Nay doubt you would prefer using that over kindling.”

  “Father,” a young girl’s voice called from above, “’twould seem the man you found on the rocks yesterday will live.”

  Rónán’s gaze climbed to the loft, where a child peered out, before shifting his eyes back to the man. Which answered his question of who’d helped Lathir haul him to safety.

  “Aye.” A smile quirked on the man’s lips. “And that”—he lowered his voice—“is my daughter, who is eight summers. Though one day she will see a man naked, I prefer it not be now.”

  God’s teeth! His grasp tight on the stick, Rónán snatched a blanket, wrapped the coverlet around his waist, then glanced toward Lathir, caught in deep sleep. The firelight exposed one shapely leg, yet a linen shift concealed the rest of her body.

  His gaze darted to the large man. Wherever they were, whoever this stranger was, Lathir accepted them, and had even gone to sleep. He slowly lowered his makeshift weapon. “I am called Rónán.”

  The other man nodded. “’Tis good to make your acquaintance. Though I would rather have done so under less harrowing circumstance.” He stepped inside, shoved the door closed with his boot. The light from the hearth illuminated the chamber in a soft glow. “Your woman explained how the Sassenach attacked your vessel. They are a nasty lot.”

  Sassenach, an unflattering term for the English, one he’d used many times over himself. That he and this man shared a dislike for the enemy brought a token of relief, but his attention riveted on the fact that he’d called Lathir his woman.

  “They are.” Rónán paused. He’d go along with the ruse of a marriage for the moment. “You found us on the rocks yesterday?”

  “Of sorts. The lass was frantic when I arrived. I helped her pull you to safety, then carried you to my home.” The large stranger piled the wood near the hearth, selected two chunks, and laid them upon the fire. “Your woman tended to you until your chills faded. As well, I heard her several times during the night caring for you. Nay doubt ’tis the reason she is still asleep.”

  An unfamiliar warmth tightened in his chest as Rónán’s gaze swept over Lathir before shifting to the man. “My thanks. We are indebted to you.”

  A wry smile touched Tighearnán’s mouth as he wiped his hands on his trews as he stood. “As I explained to the lass, ’tis the way of those who live along the sea to help those in distress and naught to repay.”

  Rónán nodded. A lifestyle that excluded brigands. A fact he’d learned all too well during his time sailing with the Templars.

  Scuffs from above brought his gaze back to the loft. A pair of tiny feet edged over the side, followed by a fluff of fabric as a little girl stepped on the t
op rung of the ladder. Tangles of chestnut hair framed an angelic face. Wary brown eyes peered at him over her shoulder as she slowly made her way down. Once her foot touched the floor, she hurried to stand behind her father.

  A tender smile curved Tighearnán’s mouth. “Órlaith tends to be shy. That she spoke at all in your presences is a boon.”

  Keeping his hold tight on his cover, Rónán knelt so that he was at eye level with the girl. “’Tis nay harm in being a bit cautious. To my way of thinking, ’tis a wise lass who takes stock of a person before deciding they are someone to like, much less trust.”

  Unsure eyes shifted to her father.

  Pride shone on Tighearnán’s face. “’Sage words, lass, ones to live by.”

  Acceptance filled the child’s eyes as she lifted her gaze to Rónán and studied him for a long moment as if gathering her courage. “Do you have a daughter I could play with?”

  Her father chuckled, but the innocent question left Rónán floundering. After the hell he’d lived through, never had he contemplated having a child.

  Lived? Nay, survived.

  Barely.

  Against the ugly memories of his youth, Rónán forced a smile. “Nay.”

  Her thumb wavered near her mouth in a nervous gesture. “Your woman is pretty.”

  He glanced toward Lathir, found her sitting up watching him, her eyes thick with sleep, lengths of golden hair tugged free of her braid.

  Pretty? No, stunningly beautiful. A woman who would steal a man’s breath and make him forget everything but her. Including his body’s lingering aches and pains.

  Lathir arched a curious brow.

  Stunned by his thoughts, Rónán cleared his throat. “Aye, that she is, lass.”

  A blush swept Lathir’s face as she wrapped the blanket around herself and stood. “I didna expect to sleep so long.”

  “I am surprised that you have woken up before the sun has risen high in the sky.” Tighearnán set his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Órlaith, don your traveling garb. ’Tis time to head to the market to sell our catch.”

  “Aye, Father.” After one quick glance at Rónán, the girl scrambled up the ladder. The rustle of clothing sounded as she hurried to dress.

  “You are a fisherman?” Rónán asked.

  “Aye.” Tighearnán withdrew a loaf of bread wrapped within a cloth, cut a few thick slabs of cheese, and laid out several oatcakes. “To break your fast.” He gestured toward an aged wooden chest in the corner. “There should be enough food inside to tide you over until we return this eve. Your garb hanging near the hearth should be dry.”

  Lathir moved beside Rónán. “I didna realize a town was so close.”

  He secured his broadsword, then tugged on his cape as his daughter hurried down the ladder. “’Tis a distance away, but we are traveling on horseback. If my food stores werena low, I wouldna be going now.” He smiled. “If the fish fetch a good price, in addition to restocking the larder”—he winked at his daughter—“mayhap I will purchase a few sweets.”

  The child’s eyes danced with excitement as she donned her cloak, trimmed on the inside with fur. “I am ready!”

  “So you are. On with you, then. I shall be there in a trice. And”— he handed her a broken piece of a carrot—“give this to the stubborn beast so he will take us without a fuss.”

  With eyes dancing in delight, carrot clutched tight, the child scampered from the hut.

  Tighearnán nodded to Rónán, then Lathir. “I despise having to leave, ’tis poor manners.”

  “There is little to regret,” Rónán said. “’Tis we who thank you for your hospitality.”

  Concern lined his brow as the fisherman opened the door. “I am not expecting any visitors, but I suggest keeping the door barred while we are away.”

  Tension slid through Rónán. “Are you expecting trouble?”

  “Nay, but with the English sailing about in their effort to seize control of Ireland, ’tis prudent to remain cautious.” He slid a sgian dubh inside his boot, another into his belt, then stepped out. Wind-tossed snow swirled inside as he tugged the door shut.

  His body stiff, Rónán walked over, dropped the bar into place, turned, then stilled as Lathir’s gaze rested on him. Beneath the edge of sleep lingering in her eyes, he caught awareness. Nor with how her blanket had slipped from her shoulders did he miss the slender curves of her body, the lush swell of her breasts, or how her nipples had grown taut.

  He hardened, and silently swore. Onboard the Aodh, with their survival bound by working together and danger ripe at every turn, he had been kept too busy to think of her, of the need she inspired. With them safe and alone, the hours ahead were filled with naught but the other. Nor could he overlook that she’d tended to him while naked, lain beside him throughout the night.

  Rónán drew in a steadying breath. Regardless his attraction, he was a knight with naught to offer but his sword. “I thank you for saving me.”

  She pulled up the blanket to drape around her shoulders. “’Tis naught to thank. You would have done the same if I were in danger. Had Tighearnán not arrived when he did, I dinna know if I could have…” A shudder swept her.

  “But he did. Because of your efforts, I am alive.” He hesitated, deciding, given his attraction to her, the best way to broach a topic he’d rather avoid. “Tighearnán called you my woman, said that you cared for me and checked on me throughout the night.”

  She gave a visible swallow, nodded. “As a stranger, I thought ’twas best to allow him to believe we were—”

  “’Twas.” He cleared his throat. “Your body’s warmth gave me great comfort.”

  A slight blush crept up her face.

  He had to ask. “I didna do anything untoward, did I?”

  Surprise widened her eyes before they twinkled with mirth. “Are you asking if you touched me inappropriately in your sleep?”

  His jaw tightened. “If I did,” he ground out, “I apologize.”

  “You did naught but sleep.”

  He nodded. “Do you trust him?” Rónán asked, thankful to shift the attention to their task, not her, or the way she made him feel, or the things she made him want.

  She stretched. “He seems like an honorable man.”

  “How much does he know about us?”

  “That the English attacked our ship. With the cog ablaze and believing we were dead, they departed.”

  “Good, but a few—”

  She cleared her throat pointedly as another blush swept Lathir’s cheeks. “I think it prudent to dress before we continue our discussion.”

  God’s truth, where was his mind? “Indeed.”

  “Here.”

  She handed him his trews from the hook near the fire, then a large tunic that no doubt belonged to their host.

  “My shirt?” Rónán asked.

  “’Twas nay more than tatters. You are fortunate to be alive. If Tighearnán hadna arrived and helped to haul you out of the water…” Her voice broke at the last.

  To give her a moment to recover herself, he took his time donning the shirt. “But he was, and we are safe. ’Tis naught to worry about now.”

  She gave a slow exhale. “Aye.”

  Rónán turned his back to give her privacy, donned the remainder of his garb. “The Aodh?”

  The splintering wood of the hull breaking against rocks as Rónán, battered by the spray of water against the rocks, hung unconscious, flashed through Lathir’s mind.

  Swallowing hard, she forced herself to calm. Rónán was alive; ’twas all that mattered. “The ship was crushed against the stones. Broken planks are strewn along the shoreline, with many more dragged out to sea.”

  Mouth grim, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Let us hope the English come upon the wreckage and believe we died.”

  “Aye.” She secured he
r last tie. “Are you dressed?”

  “I am.”

  She turned.

  Rónán motioned to a bench. “Sit and break your fast.”

  As if after recalling his near death she could eat? “I will later.”

  Concern darkened his eyes as they skimmed over her. “Are you hurt?”

  He didn’t understand how she struggled with the fact that she’d nearly lost him. How could he when she fought to understand her intense reaction toward him herself? They had known each other less than a fortnight. It should be impossible for Rónán to matter, but something about him drew her.

  Nor had she missed the tension simmering between them moments before. A dangerous awareness when, throughout the night, as she’d checked on him, heated his body with a cloth dipped in warm water, she’d found herself unable to keep from gliding her hand along the hard curve of his face, or linger on the firm tilt of his mouth.

  What would it be like for a man like him to kiss her?

  Heat swept her as her gaze slid to his strong jaw and rested on his lips. On an unsteady breath, she lifted her eyes to his. ’Twas best to keep her mind on their conversation and away from intimate thoughts. “A few bruises.”

  He rolled his shoulders, then tugged up the right leg of his trews to reveal a large patch of discolored skin.

  Compassion rolled through her, and she ached to caress the harsh bruise.

  Rónán released the fabric. “I have suffered far worse.”

  No doubt, considering what he’d told her of his brutal childhood. Yet, despite the horrific beatings he’d suffered, goodness filled him.