Page 72 of Ensnaring the Dove
He glanced then, over his shoulder at where Tuathal followed. Unlike him, the warrior kept his gaze lowered. Nonetheless, his thin face was composed into a deliberately dull-witted expression.
The pair of them hauled rickety wooden carts, piled high with cabbages and turnips. Dressed in faded, work-worn clothing and threadbare woolen cloaks, the two outlaws blended in with the other Britons trailing into the vicus.
Leaving the southern gates behind them, the men made their way down a wide, cobbled street.
And as he walked, Lucon scanned his surroundings. He’d never been inside a Roman town before and was surprised by how prosperous it was. The houses, many of them rectangular in shape and white-washed, had bright fire-red tiles. The streets were clean, and the people he passed had a well-fed look.
A smile did curve Lucon’s lips then. There would be rich pickings here.
Slowing his gait, he allowed Tuathal to draw level with him—and the warriors shared a look.
“We’re in,” his companion grunted. “What now?”
Lucon frowned. Although he wasn’t showing any signs of nerves outwardly, anxiety was clearly getting to Tuathal. They’d already discussed their plan the eve before.
“We pretend we’re two simple farmers selling our wares,” Lucon replied. The rumble of the cartwheels on the cobbles masked their conversation, yet he was still careful. “And make our move at nightfall.”
“The market ends at noon,” Tuathal reminded him. “We’re going to have to find something to occupy us afterward … or we’ll draw too much attention to ourselves.”
“We’ll spend a coin or two at a tavern.” Lucon frowned then. “Just don’t get too drunk … we’ll need our wits about us.”
Tuathal nodded, his peat-brown eyes gleaming.
Both their carts appeared laden with produce, yet it was an illusion. They had false bottoms—and within carried clay pots of pitch.
During daylight, they’d play the role of farmers selling their vegetables before lingering for a few ales. But once night fell, the two outlaws had an important job to do.
“If he sends Colombia away, I’m going after her.”
Silence fell around the hearth. Aedan and Keir sat on stools, fingers wrapped around warm cups of broth. It was nearly time to start work for the day, yet neither man was in the mood this morning.
Aedan had slept fitfully, and Keir also looked tired this morning—as if he too had spent a troubled night.
Their gazes held. The carpenter then huffed a deep sigh. “Curse it, I was afraid you’d say that.” He shrugged then. “I understand though. You love the lass.”
Silence fell in the dwelling, while both men sipped at their broth. Eventually, Keir spoke once more. “As selfish as it sounds, I don’t want you to leave. I’ve gotten used to having you around.”
Aedan swallowed the dregs from his cup, smiling. “And I’ve learned much from you,” he replied, his voice lowering.
Indeed, although living amongst Romans chafed him, he’d still felt at home in Onnum and enjoyed working alongside Keir. He was like a kind uncle.
“Don’t get too cocky, lad,” Keir grumbled. “You’re still an apprentice.”
Aedan grinned in response.
The carpenter surveyed him over the rim of his cup. “If Juventus intends to send her away, it’ll be soon.”
Aedan nodded, his expression sobering. “I know … and I’m ready.”
Keir’s brow furrowed then, worry clouding his eyes. Aedan could tell the man had much on his mind—although he’d already aired his thoughts the eve before.
Aedan wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it all again.
“Just promise me one thing,” Keir said finally, breaking the heavy silence between them.
“What?” Aedan asked warily.
“That when you catch up with Colombia … and the two of you make a new life together … let the past go. Right now, you carry it upon your back like a tortoise. It’s a heavy weight to bear, lad.”