Page 13 of For an Exile’s Heart (Ancient Songs #2)

A dair’s chest hurt every time he drew a deep breath. The healer, a brusque old man with anything but a kindly touch, informed him his ribs were likely bruised or broken. He had a battered head, a lacerated eye, and bruises down low on his back, of a worrying nature.

“Do not be surprised,” the healer said, “if ye see blood when ye pass water.”

A cheerful thought that did nothing to raise Adair’s spirits. Most of what he felt was anger, mingled with a goodly helping of frustration. He’d given as good as he got, but there had been three of them—Kendrick’s two sons and a stranger—and he hadn’t been able to finish it.

Now his hosts had stowed him in his quarters, brought him food and drink, and abandoned him to recover alone. Flynn had sat with him for a time and brought up the subject of returning to Erin. Clearly his dearest wish.

“When ye’re able to travel, I mean.”

Adair could travel now if he wanted to. Not that it would make for a pleasant journey, but a man who was determined enough could accomplish most anything.

If only it did not hurt quite so much to breathe. He’d never realized till now just how frequently one was required to draw breath.

He wanted to take Kerr and Toren apart with his hands—one at a time, preferably, in a fair fight. He remembered their faces, gleeful and snarling, and the other man, a big brute who had mostly held him while the others used their fists. And feet.

He shifted uncomfortably on his bed. The door curtain had been tied back and the sun came streaming in, the day having cleared and turned fine.

It would kill him lying here this way.

A shadow stirred in the doorway and his heart leaped. Would she come?

He’d seen the look in her eyes, there in the hall last night. He’d felt her emotions.

Surely she would come.

But it was a gray form that slipped in through the door.

“Wen.”

He peered behind the hound, expecting the beast’s mistress, but Wen had come alone.

“Kind o’ ye,” he told the animal as it lay down beside him. He reached out to stroke the gray fur and got a good look at his hands. Knuckles and nails torn.

Once the healer had finished work with him, Kendrick had approached and asked him outright, “Was it my sons who did this to ye?”

But he knew. The look in his eyes, half ashamed and half abashed, said he already knew.

Given that fact, Adair had replied only, “’Tis a harsh kind o’ hospitality, is it not, Uncle?”

Now they quite possibly meant to ignore him. Pretend, perhaps, that he did not exist. Kendrick would likely hand out some nominal punishment to his sons. No more than that because, in truth, they all wanted him gone.

Even Mistress Bradana?

He did not know what it was she felt for him any more than he understood what he felt for her. Just that it was powerful, far more so than it should be. They were strangers. Only, inexplicably, they were not.

And aye, she was bonny. She did not play at games of flirtation like many of the lasses back home. What drew him to her was far subtler than that. And though she had lovely hair and beautiful eyes—and, by the gods, beautiful breasts—it went far beyond all that.

Back home, it being something of a closed society, they courted as they danced, changing partners with naught serious behind it. He had never been in love, not even with the lovely Forba.

This, that he felt, now was not love. Too quick, and too instinctive.

It was need, rather than love.

That thought startled him so, he blinked at the hound, who edged closer and laid his chin on Adair’s bed. Adair ran his hand over the rough gray head and down the beast’s neck.

“Tell me about your mistress,” he bade, wishing the animal could.

Wen edged still closer, looking at Adair with canny hazel eyes. Any nearer and they’d both be in the bed.

“Is she patient? Valiant? Loving? She loves ye, that is certain. Is she clever and wily and—”

“Why d’ye no’ ask her for yoursel’?”

The query came soft from the open doorway. Bradana stepped in, her back to the light so Adair could not see her expression. But his heart leaped and the feelings came streaming in, victorious gladness and a grateful relief he did not want to show.

“I should ha’ known if Wen were here, ye could no’ be far behind.”

“I ha’ been looking for him. Ye ha’ stolen the heart o’ my hound, so it seems.”

“I am certain he loves no one more than ye. He has merely taken pity on me in my loneliness.”

“Are ye lonely, then?” She stepped in farther. “I supposed, as must everyone else, ye would wish to sleep.”

“I would, if I could.”

“Is the pain too great? Allow me to send for the healer, who will mix ye a draught.”

“Nay. I do no’ wish him back.”

What he did wish was for her to sit beside him like her hound. And then the wish came true as she approached the bed and sat down, folding her legs beneath her skirt gracefully.

Reaching out to touch Wen, she said, “I must apologize for my stepbrothers.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Why must ye?”

“Because they will no’ apologize for themselves. They are fools. Did they think they could get away wi’ such a deed? That ye would no’ fight back and mark them?”

“I do no’ suppose they cared in the heat o’ the moment.”

She gazed at him steadily, and he could feel the emotions rushing through her as if they were his own. “They want ye gone. For yer own safety, it might be best for ye to give them what they want.”

“Well, I might do. I could sail home having failed in the task my father set, even as my two brothers did. But now, I am angry.”

“Ah.”

“I ha’ a right to be here, do I not? A right of blood, even if the debt Kendrick owes my father is disregarded. Should I let his sons chase me away? Besides—” He broke off.

“Besides?”

He hesitated before finishing softly, “You are here.”

That made her look away from him for the first time. She turned her eyes down to her hands, which lay in her lap.

“I will no’ be for long. Soon enough I will wed and move awa’. Better, perhaps—” Now it was she who hesitated.

“Better?”

“If the break be made clean now.”

“I see.” That was what she chose, was it? A merciful parting, a distance of sea between them forevermore.

“But what of this?”

He reached out and took her hand. For an instant it fluttered in his grasp like a wild bird. Then the feelings came rushing in—those feelings he could only begin to define. Warmth. Belonging. A sense of rightness so strong, it overmastered every other consideration.

Her fingers eased in his. The terror fled her, replaced by something else that fairly screamed aloud.

“But,” she whispered, “it is hopeless.”

“Is it? Look at me, Bradana. Look at me.”

She raised her eyes. Gazed at him in wonder.

“Bradana, there must be a way.”

“A way?”

“For us to be together.”

She caught her breath. “It is madness. I do not know ye. Ye do not know me. How—”

“I do not understand it either. But if I stay here, even though it means another beating, or half a score more, I can remain near ye.”

“For a time, perhaps.”

“A time is better than naught at all.” He gazed down at their hands—hers smooth and unmarked lying in his, scraped and torn. He whispered, “Stay wi’ me.”

“I cannot. I should not.”

“Would ye toss a glorious gift back into the face o’ the gods?”

“’Tis a cruel gift. An unwelcome one.”

“Do no’ say that. Bradana—”

She made to rise. “I maun go.”

He held her there with the strength of his grip. “Nay.”

“Adair, do no’ do this to me, I beg.”

“I do naught. Naught more than ye do to me.” But he let go of her hand.

She sprang to her feet, then turned and faced him. “I canna stay. Ye maun see that. ’Tis impossible. Wen, come.”

The hound did not stir from his place beside Adair.

“Wen! Please.”

The hound tipped up his head and looked at her but refused to move.

“Och!” She gave a choked cry and hurried out, the last Adair saw of her a mere flicker of shadow against the sunlight.