“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.
Chapter Thirteen
Bradana walked farup the shore past the rocks where she’d sat before with Adair, and onward. Her favored walk, this was, when she felt trapped or angry or aggravated with those around her. Now her emotions carried her like a storm, and she tried in vain to sort through them.
It seemed strange not having Wen at her side. He was her shadow and near-constant companion. But he had abandoned her for Adair.
Why?
She’d raised the hound from a pup. He preferred no one to her, ever.
She did not feel hurt by his defection so much as bewildered.Allof this bewildered her.
Aye, Adair MacMurtray possessed a rare brand of charm. It lay in his courteous manner. In his smile. In the amusement that so often sparked in his eyes.
It should not affect a hound.
Best for him to go, she determined before she’d walked a hundred paces. Though she could not agree with Kerr and Toren’s methods, their instincts were true. Kendrick should load Adair, injured as he was, onto his boat. Bid his men sail away with him.
Let them all return to their ordinary lives, what had been before—before whatever he was to her had occurred.
She did not care whether Adair’s father ever got what he was owed. Did not care if Adair returned to disgrace for having failed in his mission. She needed these outlandish and incomprehensible feelings gone, and if he went, he just might take them with him.
