Page 39 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

T hey had not much time. Only so long as it might reasonably take either of them to visit the nearest privy and return, before someone would come looking for Darlei.

True, the bard had successfully woven a spell, and the hall full of his listeners, only steps away, had fallen into a kind of enchanted stupor. Silent.

“Please. Please.” Darlei did not mind begging the man she loved. “The last time.”

She could feel Deathan’s hesitation. She could feel the moment his will broke and he capitulated. He kissed her again and his need came flooding upon her, a match in full for her own.

The wondrous music played on, a backdrop to what they would share.

For the last time.

Gently, he laid her down on a rug by the wall. She could barely see him for the gloom, but oh, she could feel. His hands shook as he drew up her skirts and loosened the ties beneath. As he pushed up his kilt and untied his leggings.

Time for little more. She would not have his mouth at her breast. His fingers all over her skin.

At that moment, she did not care. She opened herself to him, drew him in, and, mouths fused, they rocked to the flowing music while everyone they knew sat but a hand’s reach away, unaware of the great need met and answered.

After, when Darlei still had him hot and spent inside her, she wept. Lying with his weight atop her, she listened to the ancient song played upon the magical harp, each separate note passing through her like an echo of longing. The tears ran down into her ears.

I must remember this. How he feels, how he smells, each separate heartbeat, at this moment when he is mine. I must live upon this for a long time.

But they could not remain so, and he withdrew from her, leaving a wound so deep it made her gasp. He kissed her cheeks and found the tears.

“Weeping? Nay.”

What else could she do? What else was left in the wake of these beautiful moments?

“I must go back.”

Beyond the wall, the bard was speaking, saying he would play one last song tonight.

Yes, she must return.

He lifted her up. Smoothed her skirt. Fastened his own clothing.

“Deathan—promise me something.”

“Aye?”

“You will not follow me.” It could only end badly. This, she felt to her heart.

“Ye expect me let ye go?”

“Yes.” This she did ask, rather than expect.

Before he could answer, she ducked outside. The night air struck cool. No colder than the chill that beset her heart.

When she returned to the hall and took her place beside her father, he gave her a questioning look, but she focused all her attention on the harper, who, indeed, played a final song to end the night.

As for Deathan, he did not return.

*

And what lesson, so Deathan wondered amid pain so bright it nearly made him numb, was he to learn from this?

Being forced to stand in the morning so young it had not yet earned its light and watch the woman he loved ride away from him.

In aid of what seeming enlightenment could he attribute this flaying of his soul?

The morning, crisp and cool, argued good travel, and he was glad of that, glad for Darlei’s sake. Yet old Coll’s song—the one he had given his audience last night while Deathan held Darlei in his arms—continued to play through his head as it had all night, and the pain…

Impossible to bear.

What were life lessons in the face of this?

Da and his advisors stood by to bid farewell to honored guests. Deathan could see the relief in his father’s eyes.

No one questioned Deathan’s presence, since Rohr had failed to turn up, and it might be argued he represented the house.

In truth, he merely wanted to drink in the sight of Darlei while he could. Brown hair all braided for travel, her grand cloak upon her shoulders. He had run his fingers through that hair. He still carried its fragrance on his skin.

Her pony stood ready, and she had not looked at him even once.

Ah, but he could still feel the softness of her cheek beneath his lips. Wet with her tears.

“Go safely,” Da told King Caerdoc. “And I wish ye all prosperity ahead.”

The king nodded. Urfet stepped forward to help Darlei mount. Deathan reached her first.

“Princess, allow me.”

His hands closed on her waist, beneath the cloak. The last time he would touch her?

She did look at him then, a searing look as bright as the glint of a war shield. A warning. Do not follow me.

She feared for him. Had she so little faith in his abilities? Did she not know that Ardahl MacCormac—the man of whom Coll had sung last night and one of the greatest warriors ever in Ireland—was his ancestor? That he carried the man’s blood?

If ever he would fight for anything, it would be for her.

Yet she rode away from him, already she did, her borrowed pony falling into place behind Urfet and her father, her woman in the wagon behind. She did not look at him again.

Did she weep? He could not tell. But the pain inside him was beyond bearing, and if she felt anything akin to that…

At the last, when the jingling of bridles had near died away, she did look back, one telling glance, swift as pain.

My love.

My love.

Da gave a gusty sigh. “Good riddance to all that. What a trial! I suppose now I shall ha’ to set a swift marriage for yer brother, if only to see things right.”

So Rohr was to get everything he wanted, was he? The blessed firstborn. While Deathan watched his life disappear into the distance.

Hard not to grow bitter. But was that what he was meant to learn through this ordeal?

Nay. He believed he was meant to follow his heart, no matter the cost.

He watched the train out of sight, some part of him hoping for a miracle, that they might turn back at the last moment, that Darlei might persuade her father to let her stay. A mere child’s hope. The air grew bright, folk bustled around pursuing their business, and he could stand there no longer.

He did not truly have to think about what to do. He’d done so for long enough. The heart did not care for objections, nor what the head might argue.

He had only to figure out the way of it. He could not just disappear. People would worry. His ma would.

By all that was holy, it would be hard to leave her. Not as hard as watching Darlei ride away mayhap, but still difficult.

She had forbidden him, had Darlei, from following after her. But he had promised always to find her. No matter where.

Perhaps that was the lesson in all this. That naught, however terrible, could keep them apart. And perhaps it was her lesson, not his, to learn.

His headstrong lass, his wild woman who sought to protect him. Was he not a man? Was he not her man?

If she thought he would stay here meekly to pick up the pieces and go on without her, she did not know him.

Or she did not remember everything about him. Not yet.