THE FIRELIGHT CAST a golden veil over the faces of the men seated around the fire. The eve was warm, and so the warriors sat on their cloaks rather than wearing them around their shoulders. Their faces flushed from the fire—and with a good meal and ale inside them—Wid and his men relaxed around the hearth.
The crackle of flames accompanied Beli’s voice as he sang them a ballad about the beauty of the mountains upon their isle.
I see the mist covered mountains
High peaks with lonely slopes
I see woods, I see thickets
I see fair, fertile fields
I see the deer on the ground of the corries
Shrouded in a garment of mist.
The atmosphere was very convivial. Even Eithni, who did not usually like strong drink, had downed her fair share of ale. She had washed down the slabs of bread, butter, and boiled eggs she had eaten with glee. Her stomach stuffed and limbs drowsy, she now leaned up against a rock a few feet from the fire.
Beli sang on, his voice rising as he described the bleak yet starkly beautiful mountains of their homeland. Eithni wished she had her harp, that it had not been crushed underfoot at The Gathering. She wanted to play it now, to lose herself in the music.
Eithni’s gaze traveled around the fire to where her cousin sat next to Donnel. The latter looked as if he was about to fall asleep. Like Eithni, he was not used to eating so much and had not touched ale for some time.
Eithni’s attention rested upon Donnel. It had been a while since their kiss and the words that had passed between them afterward. She had regretted her frankness at the time—for there had been an awkward tension between them for a spell—yet after a day or two they slipped back into their usual routine.
However, Donnel kept his distance from her now, and Eithni took care not to accidentally brush up against him in the hut or to do anything to put him on edge. She had not knowingly done so before, yet ever since that day in the forest she was aware of the attraction between them.
It lay dormant now, but the ghost of it was always there, coloring every interaction.
Still, Donnel seemed determined to ignore it.
His behavior saddened her, as much for him as for herself. The kiss had been freeing for Eithni, unlocking a fear that had gnawed at her ever since she had left Dun Ardtreck.
The fear that she would go mad with terror if a man ever touched her again.
Beli finished his song, and the warriors around the fire pit applauded him.
“How long will you stay?” Donnel asked Wid when the cheering had died down. “It’s good to have company again.”
“A few days if we can,” Wid replied. “We’ve come to the glen for some hunting. Yet there doesn’t seem to be much prey about. Have you hunted it out?”
Donnel grimaced. “Hardly … the deer seem to have moved on this year.”
Wid gave a shrug. “We’ll try our luck again tomorrow.”
“Can I join you?” Donnel asked. “Stalking deer on my own gets tiresome.”
Wid grinned back. “Of course … I’d take offence if you didn’t join us.”
Eithni watched them, a smile curving her lips. She was glad Donnel had male company again—even if it was only for a few days. She and Donnel had fallen into a comfortable routine, but he was used to having other warriors around. She had suspected he missed his brothers, and his ease with Wid confirmed it.
Donnel liked to think he needed no one. He thought he could cut himself from everything that made life worthwhile, yet it was like trying to hold back the tide with your hands—impossible.
Having Wid here will do him good, she thought, leaning against the rock sleepily. He spends too much time on his own during the day.
The heat of the fire, a full belly, and a skin of ale all had a soporific effect upon Eithni. She worked hard during the day and usually crawled onto her ferns early. This eve though, she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. The rumble of men’s voices lulled her, and before she knew it she drifted off to the sound of Beli beginning another song.
When she awoke again, Eithni found herself pressed against a man’s chest.
She stirred, looking up to find herself in Donnel’s arms. He was carrying her toward the hut.
“Donnel,” she mumbled, still half-asleep. “The others … I need to organize furs for them.”
“They’ve brought their own and will sleep outside around the fire,” he replied. “Don’t worry about them.”
He ducked inside the hut and carried her across to the mound of ferns covered with deerskins in the left corner of the space. “You’re exhausted, lass,” he murmured, his voice a low caress. “Get some rest.”
Donnel lowered her onto the furs and released her. A sense of loss swept over Eithni as he stepped away; waking up to find herself in his arms had bathed her in warmth. Now that she was away from the fire and the heat and strength of his body, she shivered. The evening had been warm earlier, but now the air had cooled.
“Here.” Donnel lay something heavy over her. “Your cousin brought us furs. You will be more comfortable now.”
Eithni wanted to thank him, but sleep was pulling her under once more, and her eyelids felt incredibly heavy. Moments later she sank into a deep sleep.
Donnel stepped away from Eithni and watched her sleeping face. The glow of the moonlight through the open doorway illuminated the sweetness of her features, captivating him. For a long moment he stood there, observing her.
She’s lovely.
Eithni made keeping his distance very hard. It was not her fault—ever since their kiss she had kept away from him—it was his. He found it hard to concentrate whenever she was near, found himself staring whenever she was not looking his way. He had awoken the sleeping beast with that kiss, and despite his adamant words to Eithni, it would not go easily back into its cage.
The Reaper take him, he wanted her.
She had fallen asleep by the fireside while the men sang, talked, and drank around her. Donnel had not wanted to wake her, so he had picked her up to carry her to her bed. It had been a mistake, for the moment he felt that warm supple body against his, the moment he inhaled her scent, his body betrayed him.
This was no good. He had put up a convincing front—and had even believed the argument he had put forward—yet his need for Eithni grew with each passing day. He did not want this, but his body had other ideas. It was betraying him. He needed to find a way to regain control, or one of these days he would throw Eithni down on the ground and take her—and there would be nothing tender about it.
Ignoring the ache in his loins, Donnel turned from Eithni and crossed to his pile of ferns, covered with the deerskins that Eithni had expertly cured. He lay down on his side, facing the door. Snores filtered in, as one of Wid’s men fell asleep.
Donnel tried to relax his body; the bed of ferns and deerskin was surprisingly comfortable. He was tired, and he ached from days out hunting, yet sleep would not come.
He needed to do something before he gave in to the beast.
Eithni said she was not afraid of him, yet he had done nothing more than kiss her. There was a heartbreaking innocence about her at times; one he did not want to destroy. She trusted him and wished to see only the good in him.
Eithni thought she could heal him, but he knew better. She did not see the blackness that rotted his heart. She did not realize that he was beyond help.
Donnel clenched his jaw and shut his eyes. I can’t have Eithni live with me any longer. She has to go.
The stag bounded through the trees, narrowly escaping the fletched arrow that thudded into a nearby tree trunk.
Wid let out a curse and pulled up his pony. He then swung down from the saddle and strode over to where the arrow still quivered in the tall pine. “I almost had him.”
“You were yards out,” one of Wid’s men called. “Are you losing your eyesight, man?”
“Belt up, Canaul,” Wid growled, yanking the arrow out of the soft wood. “When was the last time one of your arrows found its mark?”
That was a fine stag he just missed, Donnel thought bitterly. It could have fed us for a moon.
He rode at the back of the group although Reothadh chafed at the bit.
Wid vaulted onto his pony’s back and they were off again, moving through the trees. The Wolf party had stayed with Donnel and Eithni for three days now, and every day the warriors had ridden out on a hunt. Although they had not had much luck, they had managed to bring down a boar the day before. Two of Wid’s men had stayed with Eithni today, helping her to gut, skin, and hang the carcass.
Donnel had enjoyed the men’s company. Wid’s boyish exuberance reminded him of Tarl, although as chieftain of The Wolf, the young man could be serious at times, and at those moments he reminded Donnel of Galan. The reminders were painful. Until his banishment Donnel had taken the bond with his brothers for granted. The three of them had always been close growing up, and although their father had tried to pit them against each other at times—to make men out of them he had said—he had never succeeded in creating bad blood between them.
It was Donnel who had done that. Wid brought back to him all the things he missed: the banter with Tarl, the easy companionship with Galan. Without them he felt strangely incomplete.
As they traveled deeper into the woods, Wid reined his pony back so that he and Donnel rode side-by-side. “No thirst for the hunt today?” The Wolf chieftain asked. “It’s not like you to hang back?”
Donnel’s mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “I’ve done nothing but hunt for the last moon and a half. Today I’d rather watch others do it.”
Wid shrugged, smiling back. “I can see how you’d feel that way.”
Donnel watched him a moment, studying the younger man before speaking once more. “Have you seen my brothers of late?” He tried to keep his voice neutral, but his chest constricted as he spoke. He had put off asking this but could no longer wait.
Wid nodded, his face turning solemn. “I was in Dun Ringill a few days ago. Your brothers are both well … but …” Wid paused here, as if uncertain he should continue.
“But what?” Donnel asked, his voice harsher than he had intended. If anything was amiss in Dun Ringill he would know of it.
Wid’s moss-colored gaze met his. “The mood in the broch is somber,” he replied quietly. “Tarl’s humor is foul, and Galan speaks to no one. They all feel your absence.”
“It was Galan who sent me away,” Donnel ground out. “There’s no use him feeling sore over it now.”
Wid nodded, making it clear he was not going to argue with Donnel about the subject. “Aye, but words spoken in the heat of anger are usually the ones that torture us afterward.”
Silence stretched between them. The other riders drew ahead, leaving Wid and Donnel alone.
“So he didn’t send you to check up on me then?” Donnel said finally.
Wid laughed. “His pride wouldn’t let him. He’d geld me if he knew I was here.”
“But you came anyway?”
Wid huffed. “To see if Eithni was well … Tea begged me to. Galan has no idea.”
Donnel went still. This was the moment he had been hoping for. He met Wid’s eye once more. “Take her away, Wid. This is no place for Eithni, and her healing skills will be missed in Dun Ringill.”
Wid’s face grew serious. “I’ve already asked her to travel back with me, but she refuses.”
Donnel tensed. “She did? When was this?”
“Last night.”
“Take her back with you anyway … it’s for her own good.”
Wid shook his head. “I’ll not take the lass anywhere, if she doesn’t agree to go.”
A beat of silence stretched out between them before Donnel spoke again. “I don’t want her here.”
Wid shrugged. “Then you tell her that yourself.”