EITHNI LAY UPON her back, breathing hard, and waited for the world to stop spinning. Her body felt weak and boneless, her loins still ached with pleasure. She felt completely undone—it was as if Donnel had slowly taken her to pieces and put her back together again. He had shown her what it should be like between a man and a woman. No fear, shame, or pain—just abandon.
Raising a trembling hand, she pushed her damp hair out of her eyes and glanced over at where Donnel lay sprawled on his back next to her. He too was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling fast. His eyes were closed now, with his lashes long and dark against his cheeks.
A wave of tenderness rose up within Eithni. She reached out and placed her palm upon his chest. Donnel’s eyes flickered open, and he covered her hand with his. Then he turned his head to look at her.
His expression was still tender, but his gaze was haunted. Eithni had not one regret about what had just transpired between them. How could she regret the most magical experience of life? However, gazing into Donnel’s eyes, she realized he did not feel the same way.
“I lost control,” he said huskily. “Sorry about that.”
He was so serious that she had to smile. “I’m glad you did,” she replied, her cheeks warming under the intensity of his gaze. “This has been growing between us for a while … I’m glad we gave into it. Tea once told me that desire isn’t like other emotions. You can’t wish it away, for it only gets worse if you do.”
Donnel huffed a laugh. “I suppose she should know—she and Galan had a rocky start.” His expression grew serious once more. “I’ve really made a mess of things … haven’t I?”
Eithni favored him with a soft smile. “No … not of everything.”
She slid over to him and propped herself up on one elbow, gazing down at him. He looked up at her, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You’re quite a woman. You surprised me.”
“I feel safe with you,” she replied, meaning it. “You make me feel … as if I can be myself.”
A shadow moved in his eyes, and she saw his jaw tense. Once again he was at war with himself; she could sense it.
“I can’t give you my heart, Eithni,” he said after a moment. “I don’t have one left to give.”
Eithni’s chest constricted, and the blanket of wellbeing their lovemaking had wrapped her in slipped away, making a chill feather across her skin. She had wanted to think what had just happened between them had changed his world the way it had hers. However, he still carried his wife’s ghost with him.
She did not blame him for it either, but the sting of disappointment this realization brought punctured her happiness. She had heard that Luana had been an incredible woman—beautiful, kind, and strong. Such a ghost would be hard to leave behind.
Perhaps sensing her change in mood, Donnel reached up, his fingertips tracing the lines of her face. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Like a maid of the Fair Folk … not of this world.”
Eithni heaved in a breath. A few moments earlier she would have welcomed those words, would have basked in them. Now they just made her feel lonely. She had not lain with Donnel expecting him to profess his love for her, yet his words seemed empty after what they had just shared.
Foolish girl, you know nothing of the world, she chided herself, pulling back from him. You play with fire and then are surprised when you burn your fingers.
Without another word Eithni moved away from Donnel and reached for her tunic.
The grey dawn light filtered into the hut, drawing Donnel out of a deep sleep. Yawning, he stretched, awaking slowly. A sense of wellbeing filled him this morning; his limbs felt loose, his muscles relaxed, and his mind clear.
He opened his eyes to find himself lying naked upon the pile of ferns. There was an indentation on the deerskin where Eithni had lain during the night, yet there was no sign of her now.
Donnel sat up and stretched once more. Gods, he had not slept that well in a long while. Rising to his feet he retrieved his clothing from the floor and quickly dressed. It was cold inside the hut, for the embers had died overnight. When he emerged outdoors, he saw a mantle of ominous grey cloud looming overhead. The air was damp and charged with the promise of rain.
He found Eithni before the fire outside, warming her hands over the low flames. She had not seen him emerge from the hut and had her back to him. At a glance he saw she was tense. There was a rigidity in her back, and her shoulders were slightly rounded.
Watching her, self-recrimination twisted Donnel’s gut. What was wrong with him? Last night he had crooned endearments in her ear and made love to her as if she were the only woman alive—and then afterward he had informed her he could never love her.
What insensitive bastard does a thing like that?
Him, it seemed. The words had been out before he could stop them, but that was no excuse. He could not use Luana as a justification either—she was not to blame for anything. He had poisoned his own heart with his bitterness and anger; Eithni did not deserve that. She was worth so much more. She had a good heart, a kind soul, and a passion that had surprised and delighted him.
Yet as he watched her, he wondered at the wisdom of giving into his desire for her. They had done nothing wrong—what had happened between them was as natural as breathing—but it could not lead anywhere.
Not while he felt as he did about the world.
Eithni heard him approach and turned. His chest constricted when he saw her eyes were glistening and her cheeks were damp. She’d been crying.
“Lass … I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “For what?” she replied, injecting a brightness to her voice that her eyes belied. “I’m fine. It’s just the smoke from the fire.”
Donnel crossed to Eithni, pulling her close. He folded his arms around her, noting how stiff she was in his embrace. So different to how she had been the night before. The lass was plucky and brave, yet she was also vulnerable and fragile. He should not have lain with her unless he had been prepared to give her his heart. But he could not take the words back now. Like an arrow loosed from a bow, he could only stand back and watch it find its mark.
“Forgive me, Eithni,” he murmured against her hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I can see I have.”
She drew away, raising her tear-streaked face to meet his eye. “I’m just being a goose,” she replied huskily. “I don’t know … what I expected. I’m a foolish woman.”
Donnel shook his head, reached down, and brushed away a tear that trickled down her cheek. “You’re neither of those things. You’re a beautiful woman, and you deserve better than the likes of me.”
He had messed up yet again. He knew it the moment the words were out. A shadow moved in those large hazel eyes, and she stepped back from him, out of his embrace.
The Reaper take him, he had never had such problems with women. It seemed that every time he spoke he dug a deeper hole for himself. He blundered about like a rampant boar in a flower bed, trampling everything.
They broke their fast together before the fire, while the clouds grew darker overhead. In the distance, thunder rumbled. It was a tense meal, and Donnel did not enjoy his smoked meat.
“Doesn’t look like a day for hunting,” Donnel observed, glancing up as the first fat drops of rain fell. “I’d better see to Reothadh. He’s not fond of storms.”
Eithni nodded. “I’ll get a fire lit inside.”
A short while later, Eithni and Donnel sat at opposite sides of the glowing hearth while the rain hissed down on the sod roof and thunder boomed overhead.
Perched upon a wooden stump, Eithni sewed together pieces of deerskin to make clothing for the winter, while Donnel carved at a large lump of wood with a knife. He was fashioning a bowl so that Eithni could use it for cooking.
They worked in silence for a while, and as they did so, Donnel’s thoughts turned inward. They did that too often these days. He had never been like that before Luana’s death. Galan had always been the one who brooded. Donnel and Tarl were more light-hearted. Brooding did a man no good—it made problems loom to monstrous proportions.
Donnel’s thoughts turned to the last words Wid had spoken to him before leaving them. He had been angry with The Wolf chieftain for speaking up—giving his opinion when it had not been asked for—but his words had haunted him ever since. The situation with their winter stores made him consider Wid’s advice once more.
You have the chance to put things right … only, you’ll have to humble yourself to do it.
After a while Donnel’s thoughts turned full circle and he looked up, his gaze fastening upon Eithni. She was bent over her sewing, her brow furrowed as she thrust a bone needle through the hide before inserting a thin leather lace to bind two sections together.
“Eithni,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the drumming rain on the roof. “Wid was right.”
She glanced up, her eyes widening. “About what?”
“What he said about me needing to put things right. I’ve known the truth of it for a while but losing half our food stores has forced me to face it.”
Eithni went still. “Will you return to Dun Ringill and speak to Galan?”
He shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t be enough. He needs more than my word. I’ve broken it too many times. I need to give him proof that I’ve changed. Loxa deserved his end, but it wasn’t for me to give it to him. Urcal and Galan were right about that … it was their decision.” Donnel paused here, considering his next words before he spoke them. “To make things right I must go to Urcal and kneel before him.”
Eithni gasped. “You want to go to An Teanga?”
He nodded.
“But Urcal will kill you.”
“I don’t believe he will. He’s rough, but he’s a different man to Wurgest and Loxa. He understands the importance of peace. He respects our tribe … or did before The Gathering. He doesn’t want a blood feud. It galls me to do so, but I must humble myself before him.”
Eithni watched him, her heart-shaped face pale in the hearth light. “Then I will go with you,” she murmured.
Donnel frowned. “That’s not wise. It could be dangerous.”
“But you said he would listen to you. Were you lying to me?”
He huffed out a breath. This woman never let him get away with anything. “No—but I’d rather not take the risk of you coming to harm. It would be best for you to return to Dun Ringill. If Urcal did turn on me, you’d be in danger too.”
She put down her sewing and glared at him. “If you’re going to An Teanga than I shall too.”
“Eithni … I don’t want to argue with you again.”
“Then just accept it … or choose another path.”
Donnel huffed. “There isn’t any. I wish there was … but this is the only way.”
“Then don’t go.” Her voice was almost pleading now.
Donnel’s gaze met hers once more across the firelight. “Avoiding the truth isn’t going to fix what’s broken in me. Do you want to continue living with an angry bitter man?”
Her mouth thinned. “I’d prefer that to a dead one.”
Donnel gave a humorless smile. “And I’d prefer not to lie awake at night worrying how to feed us, and wondering when Urcal will attack our people. I slighted him terribly, and he’ll not forget it. The man deserves my apology.”
Eithni stared at him. He could see the warring emotions on her face. He knew she could see his point, but she was also scared for him. She did not believe Urcal mac Wrad was to be trusted.
Truthfully, Donnel was not sure either. However, one thing he did know about the warrior was that pride and honor mattered greatly to him; he remembered his father speaking of it a number of times. Never wound a Boar’s pride, he had warned his sons, for he has a long memory and sharp tusks.
Donnel’s mouth twisted at the memory. His father had not been a fool. Neither Donnel, nor Tarl had heeded Muin’s words—although they would have been wise to do so.