by Diana Cosby
She recalled earlier this day the way he’d knelt before Órlaith so as not to intimidate her. Given the insight he’d shared of his youth, he would understand his size could easily frighten the child.
Lathir sighed. Despite all they’d shared, she had but a glimmer into the man.
“Come and sit,” Rónán said as he crossed to the table. “’Tis ungrateful to ignore the generosity of our hosts.”
The thought of a new beginning lifted her spirits. At his wince of pain, she started to help him, then stopped herself. A proud man like him would not want her assistance.
He settled on the bench.
With the scent of wood and herbs filling the air, she settled beside him.
Lathir selected a wedge of cheese, took a bite, then filled their cups with ale. “I still canna believe how after the wave slammed you against the stone that naught is broken. Our host did his own confirmation of the fact while you were asleep.”
“That neither of us is severely injured is a blessing.” He ate for several moments, then wiped his mouth. “’Tis imperative that King Robert be alerted of the attack, and that the English have seized your father.”
Lathir’s hand trembled at the unwanted reminder. “I want to believe my father still lives, that, as you suggested, he is too valuable for the English to kill. What if we are wrong?”
Mouth taut, Rónán set aside the cloth. “Had the English wanted Lord Sionn dead, they would have slain him aboard the Aodh.”
She tried to cling to his logic. “What if, after they sailed out of sight, he tried to escape and—”
“Lathir, your father is an intelligent warrior, a ruler who has planned and executed many a successful assault. Though the possibility exists that the Sassenach have killed him, it doesna make sense. Nor can I see him being foolish enough to give them reason.”
“Mayhap, but”—her voice wavered despite her best intentions—“he believes that I am dead.”
Eyes dark with conviction, Rónán gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Motive for Lord Sionn to do whatever he must, use whatever resources are available, to ensure that once free, retribution is delivered to the English.”
After all they’d been through, the warmth of his hand was reassuring, and the tight ball of fear inside her eased. He was right. However furious, however upset, her father wasn’t a weak-kneed man who’d collapse against violence, but would use his anger to destroy those who’d caused him and his family harm.
“Now we have to find him.”
She angled her jaw. “Aye.”
Rónán released her hand. “After Tighearnán and his daughter return, and once Órlaith is asleep, we will discover whether he has heard any news of import while in the village. Who knows?” He took a long drink, then refilled his goblet. “We might be fortunate and our host will have heard of the Earl of Sionn’s abduction.”
“As much as I would like to believe such, with the attack but days past, regardless if the captain shouted they sailed to Ireland, I doubt word of the raid has reached many villages.” She stilled. “What if they changed their minds and are taking my father to their king?”
He gave a quick shake of his head. “I dinna believe they will waste time bringing Lord Sionn to England. The young monarch doesna have the stomach nor interest in war as did his father.”
“But King Edward II continues the attacks on King Robert to seize control of Scotland.”
Rónán shifted on his bench, winced. “The monarch’s interest in unseating King Robert is driven by powerful nobles who have his ear.”
Something she needed to remember. “Once we reach Wynshire Castle, I will send a messenger to King Robert, alerting him to recent events, along with runners to discover my father’s whereabouts.”
He took a slow sip, then lowered his goblet. “Once we know Lord Sionn’s location, we will devise a plan to set him free.”
“Aye.” Aware she needed to eat to keep up her strength, she tore off a bit of bread, then slathered butter on top.
“How long will it take us to reach your stronghold?”
“On horseback, a sennight.” She took a bite, swallowed. “I am confident I can convince Tighearnán to lend us one of his mounts.”
Rónán nodded. A frown settled across his brow as he started to pick up his goblet. “As we travel through Tír Kythyr, do you think anyone will recognize you?”
“Given the many times I have journeyed through Ireland, the numerous festivals I have attended with my father, ’tis possible.” She brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “How many days before you think you shall be able to travel?”
“At first light.”
She scoffed. “First light? Your entire body is riddled with bruises, not to mention that you almost froze to death. I have seen warriors with fewer injuries never move again.”
Grayish green eyes narrowed on her. He set the goblet aside. “We leave on the morrow. Each day lost is one your father’s life remains in danger.”
Emotion swelled in her throat that he’d risk his life to save her father. Nor could she ignore that since Domhnall Ruadh mac Cormaic, never had another man caught her interest, much less consumed her thoughts, or made her wonder of the taste of his kiss.
After Domhnall, was it possible that he’d come to matter so much to her when they’d known each other but days? Yet the deep grief at thoughts of losing Rónán assured her that however impractical, however improbable, he’d made her care.
Deeply.
In truth, something about him had drawn her since they’d first met. She’d foolishly believed ’twas his handsomeness, but now she understood ’twas his confidence, his intelligence, and his lack of hesitation as he’d handled the dire situations during their journey.
Most men were intimidated by her self-assurance, her quick wit, but from the first, he’d treated her with respect and handled each issue that’d arisen with gallant command that didn’t undermine her own abilities.
Without her wanting to, he’d come to matter to her.
Needing distance, she stood.
“Lathir,” he said, his words soft, his eyes dark with sincerity. “Well I know my limitations.”
A desperate laugh twisted in her throat. He spoke of his body’s ability, while she struggled with her need for him. “As I know yours,” she forced out, keeping her voice even, as if her growing feelings toward him hadn’t tossed her off-balance. “With you all but grimacing with every step, if we depart on the morrow, even on horseback, hours out, I worry that I would be hauling you up from where you have tumbled in the snow.”
Amusement glittered in his eyes. “If we ride, I assure you, if I fall unconscious, I willna let go of the withers.”
“You canna make such a ridiculous claim.”
“And you,” he said, “dinna know my capabilities.”
“True. I admit to being pleasantly surprised,” she teased, “that you hadna proven to be a weak warrior as I suspected upon our first meeting, where I felled you.”
Their friendly banter had strayed to a dangerous topic that had little to do with travel and everything to do with them.
He shifted closer.
Yearning rippled through her. “Risking your life is naught to make light of. You…” Emotion stormed through her as the words, have become important to me more than ’tis wise spilled into her mind. She stayed them, stunned by what she’d almost revealed.
He paused. “Lathir, I dinna mean to cause you dismay.”
Dismay? As if ’twas so simple. Thoughts of him dying broke her heart, shattered her ability to think coherently. “You are right.” Through sheer will, she kept her voice light. “For all purposes, ’tis best we depart tomorrow.”
Chapter Six
Outlined by the flames in the hearth, Lathir started to turn, and Rónán caught her upper arm.
She pulled back, he
r expression raw, piercing deep into his ragged soul. “Release me!”
And if he did, he’d be a fool. He eased his grip but didn’t let go. Couldn’t seem to let go.
The lass didn’t understand that as a Knight Templar, he’d suffered many a battle wound yet fought on, faced numerous other challenges that would devastate most. Then, the Brotherhood demanded more of those who swore an oath, not only their body, but their soul pledged to God.
Nor was her concern for him alone. Understandably, she was afraid for her father, and her own life. He needed to reassure her that he well knew his physical limitations.
Although, he grimaced inwardly, his body didn’t seem to be suffering from any ill effects when it came to physical attraction. He may have been weakened by the ordeal, but he wasn’t dead. And her close proximity was having a potent effect on him.
He shifted to cover the evidence. “I am able to travel. If I held any doubts, I wouldna go. Lathir, I would never place your life in jeopardy.”
Gray eyes narrowed. “I am not concerned about my life, but yours.”
At the sincerity in her eyes, his throat tightened. Never had he experienced such comfort from a woman’s worry. From the start he’d realized she was unique, unlike any lass he’d ever met. However much he tried to keep thoughts of her from his mind, he failed.
“And I yours.” Beyond simply the vow to protect her. He forced himself to release her, his fingertips sliding free from her arm.
Yet, she didna step back, but peered deep into his eyes. Her gaze softened, darkened with longing.
A dangerous desire surged through his body. Bloody hell. He’d be a fool to touch her.
Yet his traitorous hand reached out, cupped her jaw.
Her lips parted as if in surprise, but her eyes flared with desire.
“’Twould be a mistake to kiss you,” he said, wanting her with his every breath.
“Would it?” She moved her body against his. “Tell me that you dinna want to kiss me, and I will move away.”
And if she did, he’d die. “Lathir—”
Triumph flashed in her eyes as she raised up, pressed her mouth against his.
Her taste slid through him, and need exploded in his body, roared through his veins until his every thought was of her.
Damning his weakness when it came to her, Rónán cupped her face, savored the quick gasp as he claimed her mouth, then teased, tempted, until she groaned under the onslaught.
Heat pounded through him to take, searing his every inch, scorching the warnings to leave her untouched, blaring in his head. With the last shred of will, Rónán pulled back.
“Well, then,” she breathed, her voice unsteady, “’twas a bit more volatile than I expected, but it answers my question.”
“Which was?” he hissed.
Her mouth quirked in a shaky smile. “How kissing you would be.”
So, she’d been thinking of it as well? Meaning he hadn’t imagined one whit of the ill-timed attraction between them. He stepped back before he couldn’t, putting much-needed distance between them. “I am charged with your protection,” he forced himself to say despite the heat pounding through his every fiber. “Until we rescue your father, we must work together as allies, naught more.”
Instead of being put off by his cool tone, she evaluated him. Understanding dawned on her face, and she took a step closer. “I worry you.”
Saint’s breath! “’Tisna a game.”
She shook her head, then lay her hand on his chest. “Rónán, I did naught but give you a simple kiss.”
’Twas naught simple about what the kiss made him feel, of how his blood still slammed through his body, and how he ached to strip off her garb and drive deep. “My role here is as your protector.”
“What worries you most, that I enjoyed kissing you or that you did?”
He swallowed hard. “If you are done tempting me, I need to select food for our journey.” Against the thud of his heart, he strode to the food chest, shoved up the lid, and inspected the contents.
“Have you ever loved a woman?”
His fingers tightened on the aged wood. Allowing a woman in his life, one beyond that of a friend, ’twas something, as a Templar, he’d had no reason to ponder. “Nay.”
“There must have been at least one lass you allowed to become close?”
He grabbed a loaf of bread, several apples, then shoved them into the sack, glanced up. “My past plays nay part in my escorting you to Wynshire Castle.”
Lathir’s soft scent teased him as she moved beside him. With a twinkle in her eyes, she selected several oatcakes and stacked the baked rounds atop the items he’d stowed in the bag. “Does that mean you are going to answer the question, to a friend?”
However much he didn’t want to discuss the subject, during their time aboard the cog, he’d learned that with her stubborn streak, she’d pester him ’til she had an answer. And ’twould do little harm as he couldna allow more to ever grow between them, however much he desired it. There was too much at stake.
“I joined the galloglass and fled Ireland. I was often away at war.” Rónán picked up a small sack, loosened the tie. The potent aroma of dried herbs spilled out. “There proved nay time for a woman, nor would I have considered placing a lass in such danger.” He returned the pouch to the trunk, scoured the remaining goods. “A woman deserves a safe place. A home and a family. Not to be part of the life I live.”
“I see.” Her tone softened. “A safe place…that kind of life. Meaning for you that kind of life is accepted and understood?”
“I far from think of a skirmish as safe,” he said, his voice dry.
“Nay for your body perhaps, but for your thoughts. And what about you? The feelings of the child of your past, the little boy who was beaten, who hid his feelings away, and shielded himself against the scars of memories. Given a lack of a foundation of trust in your youth, it makes sense that you would avoid allowing most people to become close, more so a woman.”
He dropped dried meat strips, which would travel well, into the sack. “My feelings arena a topic for discussion. You asked a question, and I answered.” Irritated, he focused on his task, not wanting to remember the dark years of his youth, the impact they’d had on his life. If it took him longer than most to make friends, ’twas his choice to make.
He shifted to the other knee, staring into the food chest. Was she right? Had the horrors of his youth prevented him from finding love?
On a soft curse, he shoved away the questions dredging his mind. “Pick two of the blankets,” he snapped.
She did as he asked.
“Once we reach your castle,” he said, “I will dispatch a runner to return them, along with supplies and coin.”
Lathir shot him a pointed look. “I am trying to be of help to you.”
“Dinna.”
“Rónán—”
“Do you always poke into other people’s business?”
“I have been accused of prodding a bit.”
“Well, keep your curiosity out of my life. Some problems you canna repair.” Tenderness shimmered in her eyes, and he muttered a curse.
She couldn’t fix a hopeless cause. He’d seen too much, suffered too long to ever believe himself worthy of any woman. He couldn’t enter into a relationship without dragging dark thoughts from his past, a stain that would taint any attempt at a relationship with a lass.
’Twas best that he curb his foolish thoughts of her, or any lass, and concentrate on a life of war.
He stood. “I am going to fetch some wood.” Rónán tugged on his cape, grabbed his broadsword, removed the bar on the door, and left the cabin.
He welcomed the cold slap of the wind.
The lass was naught but trouble. She made him want more; more living, more loving, more of every damned thing he’d ever denied himsel
f.
Many of his Templar friends had found the blessing of a family, but that wasn’t a life he could choose. Lathir had accused him of shielding himself against the scars of his youthful memories. The truth.
As for trusting her…
’Twas hard to give.
He’d agreed to be her friend, nothing more.
He’d lived life alone and liked it that way. With the galloglass, as a valued fighter, even after joining the Templars, it’d taken him years to allow friendships to form within the elite Christian force. But with the Brotherhood dissolved, to let a woman into his life, allow her to believe that once he laid down his sword he could be a man who could share the hidden part of himself as she would expect, nay.
He knew his limitations.
However much he was drawn to Lathir, he was broken inside. In the end, if he was foolish enough to give in, he would hurt her.
His stomach clenched at the acceptance, but it was inevitable. ’Twas best to keep her at a distance.
The tang of the sea filled the air as he headed toward a massive, dead oak perched on the rim of the slope. Its weathered roots bleached by the sun, twisted upon the frozen ground in a battle long since lost, the scarred bark a buffer against the hurl of wind as the trunk leaned at a dangerous angle toward the stone-laden beach far below.
The next storm, or mayhap the one after that, and the once grand beacon would topple to the ground and rot. Proof that naught, however strong, like the Knights Templar, lasted forever.
Rónán halted beneath the lifeless tree, wrapped his hands around a low branch, stilled.
In the distance, a cog flying the English standard sailed toward shore.
Shielding his body behind the thick trunk, he peered around. Waves curled off the bow in a roll of white as the vessel navigated to sail parallel to the coast. Several men were visible as they stood on the starboard rail.
One of the sailors shouted, motioning toward the shore.
Rónán glanced to where waves tossed the sodden, charred planks of the Aodh against the rocks. Farther down, stacks of splintered boards lay in awkward piles half covered in seaweed, no doubt carried to shore during high tide.