Page 19 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

D eathan rarely spoke so much or for so long.

In company with his father and brother, he was expected to listen and hold his opinions.

With Ma, he was comforting. In company with his friends, he was stoic, rarely expressing his feelings.

With members of the guard, whom he directed, he was brief and to the point.

Now he talked, poured out words about this place he loved. The things he valued, and why. He spoke of his family’s deep roots here that stretched back hundreds of years to the Celtic chiefs who had journeyed from Ireland to seize homes in a new land.

“My ancestor, Adair MacMurtray, so ’tis told,” he related, “gained this holding by way o’ love.”

“Love?” Darlei repeated.

“Aye. Love for his wife and her grandsire whose holding it was, and who accepted him as his own. ’Tis said he chose Alba, and Alba chose him.”

“Love,” Princess Darlei said, “seems a powerful thing. I have never experienced it. Oh, I love my family to be sure. But not—”

She seemed to stick there.

Deathan said, “I understand. Love o’ the heart. For one person.”

She flashed a look at him from those silvery eyes. “Yes.”

“Nor have I experienced that. Yet,” he admitted.

“Perhaps it is not for everyone. Because though my friends have fallen victim to the love of husband and family, I have never even been tempted.”

“Mayhap ye were meant for something else.”

“Destiny, again? She spread her hands. “But for what? Not this.”

Did she mind so much walking with him? Talking with him, being with him? She saw herself only in a trap.

“I am sure ye will miss yer home. But again, ye may fall in love wi’ this place one day.”

They had reached the end of the path. It fell apart in a welter of stones and a rise that led upward.

“Let us climb,” she said impetuously. “I want to see from the height.”

“We truly should go back, princess. They will think ye lost and be worrying.”

“I care not what they think.” She scrambled on up the slope. Deathan leaped ahead of her.

“Let me go first.”

“Why?” Slightly flushed, she glared at him. “Are there dragons you shall have to batter out of the way for me?”

“I hope not.” He allowed his gaze to linger on her face. “I am no’ wearing my sword.”

The climb was stiff but worth it. At the last, he offered her his hand. The instant their fingers met, he felt… But nay, there were no words for what he felt inside, and his stunned mind did not try for them.

But he did not leave go of her hand, and when they reached the cliff top and looked out, they stood linked.

“Oh, magnificent,” she breathed.

It was. From here, one could see the far distances of the sea, and mark how restless it was, ever-moving like a man’s mind. Like the blood in his veins. The islands crouched low, the dragons all sleeping, so he did not have to battle them. He would not need his sword after all.

“It seems one can see forever.”

“Aye.” He drew her closer to him, and she made no protest, merely stood with her side pressing against his.

“Why did your ancestors not build their holding up here? Back home, we choose high ground.”

“The storms. Ye will no’ credit it on a day such as this, but in winter the waves come up and turn all to ice.”

“I would love to see that.”

“Perhaps ye will.”

She ignored that as if it were a thing she could not contemplate.

“What lies beyond those islands, over the water?”

“Well, Ireland lies to the south. Beyond that—men have long wondered. The old tales said ’twas the land of the ever-blessed. Tír na nóg. ”

“I have heard that name. Why is it called ever-blessed?”

“Those who died winged away there, to feast and play music and remain forever young.”

“Ah.” That seemed to strike her. He saw the thoughts move in her eyes. “I can understand why they thought so. If ever such a place of promise might exist, ’twould lie where the sun goes to bed. I wonder—” Abruptly she paused.

“What d’ye wonder?” he asked with true curiosity. This woman fascinated him, all of her, not the least the workings of her mind.

“Why such a place should not truly exist. A kind of reward for all we endure here. Life is so hard, the choices we make—and are denied making—so painful and costly. And all that comes at the end is death.”

Deathan gazed at her in dismay. For someone of her youth—surely not above a score of years—and station to stand there in all her beauty and express such pain seemed an abomination.

“Surely,” he said, “life is no’ all bad. There are rewards along the way.”

Her lips curved bitterly. Her gaze remained on the horizon. “I have been given away to a stranger by a king I do not acknowledge. Can you show me the reward in that? I confess, I would rather fly away searching for that far place until my strength gave out and I fell into the sea.”

Deathan wanted to comfort her. His heart did, and it strained his being terribly. But what had he to offer this woman? No promises. Only, perhaps, desire.

“We canna gi’ up on life,” he said, “however hard it becomes. Because we ne’er know what may happen tomorrow, when that blessed sun rises once again.”

*

Darlei turned to face the man beside her, dragging her gaze at last from the far horizon. Their hands remained linked—his felt calloused and strong and warm, and she did not want to surrender it. In a curious way, it grounded her, kept her, yes, from flying off to die in the sea.

There must be something to live for. Could it be him?

Those two thoughts warred in her mind as she gazed into his eyes.

Those eyes of his—of a sudden she realized they were not unlike the sea. Deep, deep blue with flecks of green and glints of light that appeared in accordance with his thoughts. Or when he smiled.

A protective sort of spirit, this man had. He took it upon himself to look after others. He did not want her to despair.

How she knew that, she could not say. She just did.

Could he be her refuge? Her Tír na nóg? A woman could scarce ask for more.

“I wish,” she said softly, “that somewhat better awaited me tomorrow. I cannot quite believe it.”

“Ye will make friends here,” he proposed, “and find the comforts ye need.”

“Will I?”

“Am I no’ the first o’ them? I pray ye will let me be.”

Friend, or comfort?

A thousand things, she might have said. The words might come pouring out just as his had, when he spoke of his love for this place. Yet merely standing here with him this way felt suddenly so intimate, she could speak not at all.

What had a cruel fate brought her? Possibly his company.

A call sounded along the path that traced the shore. Darlei and Deathan both turned their heads to look back. Three members of the guard, followed by Orle, puffed their way along at top speed.

“Master Deathan?” the first of them called.

Deathan surrendered Darlei’s hand with alacrity. She felt the loss of his warmth, his vibrancy, to her bones.

“Och,” he said, “we are in for it now. They are no’ happy wi’ us.”

Indeed, as Darlei turned to start back down the rise, she could see her father also hurrying. And Chief MacMurtray.

Deathan did not lend her his hand on the way down. She picked her own way carefully, even as he went before her to meet the first of the guards. They began an earnest conversation.

“Darlei!” Father caught up. His face was dark with displeasure, his eyes accusing. “What are you about?”

He spoke in their own tongue, and Chief MacMurtray, stopping beside them, gave an inquiring look.

“King Caerdoc, ye can see she is quite unharmed.” He then turned on his son and began to berate him. “Wha’ were ye thinking, going off this way wi’out a word? The princess’s guard thought her lost.”

Darlei drew a breath and stepped forward to Deathan’s side.

Calling on all her dignity, she said, “Chief MacMurtray, I cannot allow you to blame your son because I went astray. I took it in my head to see what lay up this track. And, indeed, had he not run after me, who knows what dangers may have befallen me? Would you fault him for looking after a guest?”

Chief MacMurtray stared at her. His eyes were blue just like his other son, Rohr’s, but with none of the green flecks. Quite clearly, he did not know what to say, but he choked back his anger.

“To be sure, princess.”

She jerked her chin up. “If you will blame anyone, blame me.”

“Nay, but there is no blame in it. Yer woman merely came running. We did not ken where ye went and feared the worst.”

And what was the worst? That she might have run off? That she meant to cast herself into the sea? That she might take the hand of a man who made her feel—

But she still had no words for that.

She looked at Orle, who mouthed in their own tongue, I am sorry.

Father stepped up and said smoothly, “We are, to be sure, grateful to Master Deathan. My daughter is headstrong—a fault she must strive to overcome.”

Darlei lifted her chin higher. “This is to be my home. Am I not at leave to walk about here?”

“Not until ye are better acquainted, princess, wi’ the lie o’ it and its dangers,” said Murtray.

She turned on him. “And how am I to become acquainted, if I am held on a lead?”

“Darlei,” said Father sharply, “you will keep a respectful tongue in your head.”

“No’ at all,” Murtray said. He looked about rather wildly. “Mayhap Rohr or—or, aye, Deathan may be your guide. Aye, Deathan?”

For the briefest instant, her gaze met Deathan’s.

“Aye, Father,” he said.

With that, Darlei could be content.