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“We repelled the invaders, triumphant in our victory. But when I returned home, I found my wife and son…” his voice quavered, his eyes dropping to the floor.

“They’d been slaughtered…their bloodied bodies thrown on the floor of the cottage.

” Ronan dropped onto the settee beside Issylte.

He leaned forward over his long legs, propping his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.

He raked his fingers through his hair in anguish. “I was not there to protect them!”

Ronan rocked back and forth, engulfed in grief, as the fire snapped and crackled in the hearth.

“There was another ship on the south side of the island. While we were all off fighting the two ships to the north, Yanna and Lo?c were defenseless. They died because I was not there to protect them. And that guilt has tormented me every day of my life ever since.”

Ronan stared into the flames, swallowing his grief with gulps of cider. He shook his hair to calm himself, fixing his gaze on Issylte, his deep green eyes blazing in the firelight.

“After the attack, many of the villagers rebuilt their lives. But I couldn’t.

I kept seeing my wife and son everywhere.

The guilt smothered me. I left our island and sailed here.

My father had come here after my mother’s death—he’d become Viviane’s lover.

I’d heard that the Lady of the Lake had established a center of healing here on Avalon.

When she commissioned my father to forge the sword Excalibur for King Arthur of Britain, he asked for my help.

I settled on this island and have remained here ever since.

After his death six years ago, I assumed his role as master blacksmith of the Avalonian Elves. ”

Ronan dropped to his knees before her, grasping both of her slender hands in his calloused ones.

His passionate eyes beseeched hers. “You cannot go back to Ireland. You must remain here, so that I may protect you… as I failed to do for my wife and son.” He kissed her hands repeatedly as he choked, his voice raw with pain, “Issylte, you cannot leave!”

She lifted his face in her cupped hands and kissed him gently. He stood, pulled her roughly into his arms, and kissed her face, hair, neck, and finally, her lips. Cradling her against his chest, he laid his head against the top of hers and whispered, “I cannot lose you, too.”

As if to compose himself, Ronan stepped back from her and wiped his hands against the sides of his breeches.

He collected the cups and returned them to the kitchen.

Noting the approaching twilight, he said with a soft smile, “Come, I will take you back now. Perhaps tomorrow, we can go into the village together.”

Issylte understood that he was vulnerable. He’d bared his soul to her and now needed some time alone. She nodded, smiling softly as she accepted his invitation. “That would be lovely, Ronan. I’d love to go to the village again.”

When they said goodbye at the entrance to Le Centre, Issylte sensed the grief weighing heavily upon him. She gazed up into his clouded eyes and whispered, “Ronan, you must heed your own advice.” He raised an eyebrow, perplexed.

“Do not blame yourself for the evil of another,” Issylte said softly.

“You, Ronan, are not guilty of the death of your wife and son. The invaders who attacked your island are responsible, not you.” He turned away, grim and resolute.

She put a finger under his chin and pulled his face gently towards her.

“You and I both must learn to forgive ourselves. Perhaps together, we can.”

She raised up onto her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips.

He said goodnight, and she watched him climb into the saddle and ride down the hill towards the forest. In her heart, Issylte prayed that, on this island of nurturing, she and her warrior Elf would find a way to help each other heal.

As the weeks passed, Ronan seemed to have put up a defensive barrier, a wall that hadn’t been there before, keeping himself shut off. Although they spent many afternoons together, he didn’t come to fetch her as frequently as before. And when he did, he seemed distant. Different. Alone.

She sensed that he felt awkward now, having exposed his vulnerability to her.

He’d lived alone for so many years, perhaps he regretted how close the two of them had become.

Perhaps he even regretted having a relationship with her at all.

He was broken, suffering. Issylte knew intuitively that he needed her healing.

So, one afternoon, when he hadn’t come to see her in three weeks, she picked a basket of apples, borrowed a horse from Le Centre and rode through the forest to his blacksmith shop.

He was bent over his forge, shirtless, covered with sweat—even though it was quite chilly outside. Hearing her horse, he looked up from his work and flashed her a smile, obviously happy to see her. The white wings of the dove in her heart fluttered with joy.

Ronan spoke to his journeymen and apprentices, grabbed his tunic, and came out to greet her.

He smelled of fresh sweat, leather, and smoke from the forge.

“What a nice surprise,” he grinned up at her, astride the chestnut bay.

His lips puckered as he whispered a friendly greeting to the horse, stroking the mare’s muzzle with a practiced hand.

He gestured to the men inside his shop. The metal clash of hammers and anvils thundered over the blazing forge. Issylte could feel the heat even from outside—a hot furnace in the crisp October air.

“I was just finishing up some of the weapons for King Hoel’s order,” Ronan said, wiping his face on a linen cloth. Issylte’s eyes lingered over his muscled chest—covered in dark blond hair, matted with sweat—his huge arms, his wide neck… Her mouth was dry; her legs were weak.

She sputtered, “I… brought some apples… for the horses.” Dismounting, she handed the reins to the stable hand who took them, nodding at her politely as he murmured, “My lady.”

Ronan, having wiped the sweat from his torso, donned his tunic and strode over to accept the basket of apples.

“Let’s go see Maeva and Marron,” he said brightly, taking her hand in his.

His touch made her stomach quiver as he led her to the fenced area where the horses were grazing.

At Ronan’s whistle, the two mares came trotting over, eager to have their muzzles stroked and to crunch on the crisp red apples.

“Come, let’s go inside for some mulled wine.

It will warm you up.” At her nod of acceptance, he led Issylte into the cozy cottage, took her cloak, and sat her on the settee while he stoked the fire.

Ronan went into the kitchen and poured some red wine and spices into a pan, warming it over the crackling flames.

The inviting smells of cinnamon, honey, and brandy mingled with the rich fruity scent of red wine as it simmered in the pan.

Ronan poured her a cup and one for himself, placing a cinnamon stick and a slice of orange peel into the pewter goblets as he sat down beside her before the hearth.

Issylte sipped the warm, spicy beverage, savoring the taste of cinnamon and cloves sweetened with honey, citrus, and brandy.

The earthy, plum richness of the mulled wine slid smoothly over her tongue and down her throat, a liquid warmth glowing like embers in her veins.

She purred contentedly. “Mmmm, this is delicious. Thank you.”

Searching for a topic of conversation, hoping to break the ice, Issylte said cheerfully, “Marron seems to be very healthy. When is her foal due?”

“In the spring—late March or early April.” He sipped some of his mulled wine, gazing thoughtfully at the fire. “I’ll remain here to be sure the foal is healthy, then head for Bretagne in May. I’ll sail to Armorique again, to deliver the new order of weapons and armor to King Hoel.”

“Will you be gone for several months?” she asked, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice.

“No, no longer than three months.” Ronan took another sip of mulled wine, warming his hands on the cup. He smiled at her, his white teeth gleaming in the firelight. Issylte’s breath caught in her throat.

“It takes a few days to sail from here to the mainland. After I deliver the king’s order, I plan to stop in several local villages to sell some of the extra weapons and armor that I plan to bring with me, making the voyage as profitable as possible.

I expect to be back in late July or early August. Will you miss me?

” he asked with a sly grin. His deep green eyes twinkled with impish delight.

He set his mug down on the table, took her hand, and kissed it.

A thrill of pleasure rippled up Issylte’s arm and throughout her whole body.

Wanting to touch him, yet hesitant, she pushed a strand of silvery blond hair from his forehead.

At her touch, he turned his face and kissed the inside of her palm.

“I’ve missed you, Ronan,” she whispered.

She glanced up at him from lowered eyes, her voice hesitant.

“You have seemed troubled lately.” Although her pulse raced, she waited, trying to appear patient, allowing him time to respond.

Inside, she held her breath, fearful and anxious.

She didn’t want him to push her away. She wanted him.

And wanted him to want her. To need her as much as she needed him.

She watched the flames dancing in the hearth.

He took another large swallow of wine, savoring the flavor as he licked his lips in appreciation.

He sat back, took her hand, his deep green eyes locking hers.

“Talking about my wife and son was incredibly difficult for me,” he said gently.

“I relived that anguish, and the guilt. But what has been troubling me most,” he said, gazing fiercely into her eyes, “is the thought of you returning to Ireland.”