She was here.
She had returned.
Why?
The last time he’d been this close to her, she’d kissed him before sending him over the side of her boat to freedom. Aye, she was right—he owed her. A hearing, if naught more.
Was it that truth that kept him from turning her away?
He snagged a flask of ale and two cups from the head table and turned back to her. Stopped cold.
She sat looking as foreign as she could do, here in this familiar place. Still clad from head to foot in men’s clothing. In armor. But he knew far better than to take her for a man.
She sat very straight, almost motionless, only her eyes following him as he moved. She had removed her helmet and her hair shone pale in the low light. Long and straight. Beautiful hair.
He had seen the way she looked at him when they were outside, seared him, her gaze flitting everywhere like a touch. Upon his hair, across his bare chest and down his legs. To his lips, and fastening lastly to his eyes, compelling. She looked at him as if she wanted to—
Och, perhaps kiss him again.
He wanted to touch her. Wanted it with such incredibly intensity, he had to catch himself back and make sure he left plenty of space between them when he sat down opposite her. “Will ye drink? ’Tis no’ poisoned, I do assure ye, but was left over there from last night.”
“I will drink.”
He poured both cups, and let her choose one. Her fingers were long, tanned, and roughened by work. The sort of work a crew on board a ship would do.
He had a sudden image of them wrapped around his—
“You will be wondering why I have returned.”
“Aye. That is no’ the same longboat. A different one.”
“Ja, you are right. The boat you were aboard belonged to my faðir. This one belongs to me and my crew. A…venture, it is.”
She spoke his language very well, her accent only mildly flavoring the words. The accent was not familiar, nay, but something about sitting here and speaking with her this way was.
“A venture,” he repeated.
“Ja. We sail for gain and profit. I do not come to you, this time, seeking revenge. That does not mean I have forgotten my brother or his death. That I will never do.”
“You should know—” Quarrie started, then stopped and began again. “You should know that the man who killed your brother is no longer living.”
“Is he not?” One pale eyebrow lifted. “You did know his identity, then, when last we met.”
“I did. I was protecting him.” He gave her a level stare. “He was my father.”
“Ah.”
“He died by your brother’s hand.”
“How can that be?”
“He perished not long after you last were here from the wound he took defending this settlement. A wound dealt, in fact, by your brother just before Da killed him.”
“Ah,” she said again, and swallowed hard. “We are even then. You have lost your faðir and I my bróðir.”
“Aye, if ye want to look at it that way.”
“There is naught left for which to seek revenge and naught to forgive.” She pressed her lips tight. “It seems I made no mistake, then, in returning.”
