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. Wouldshecome?
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.
