“I far from think of a skirmish as safe,” he said,his voice dry.
“Nay for your body perhaps, but for your thoughts. And what about you? The feelings of the child of your past, the little boy who was beaten, who hid his feelings away, and shielded himself against the scars of memories. Given a lack of a foundation of trust in your youth, it makes sense that you would avoid allowing most people to become close, more so a woman.”
He dropped dried meat strips, which would travel well, into the sack. “My feelings arena a topic for discussion. You asked a question, and I answered.” Irritated, he focused on his task, not wanting to remember the dark years of his youth, the impact they’d had on his life. If it took him longer than most to make friends, ’twas his choice to make.
He shifted to the other knee, staring into the food chest. Was she right? Had the horrors of his youth prevented him from finding love?
On a soft curse, he shoved away the questions dredging his mind. “Pick two of the blankets,” he snapped.
She didas he asked.
“Once we reach your castle,” he said, “I will dispatch a runner to return them, along with supplies and coin.”
Lathir shot him a pointed look. “I am trying to be of help to you.”
“Dinna.”
“Rónán—”
“Do you always poke into other people’s business?”
“I have been accused of prodding a bit.”
“Well, keep your curiosity out of my life. Some problems you canna repair.” Tenderness shimmered in her eyes, and he muttered a curse.
She couldn’t fix a hopeless cause. He’d seen too much, suffered too long to ever believe himself worthy of any woman. He couldn’t enter into a relationship without dragging dark thoughts from his past, a stain that would taint any attempt at a relationship with a lass.
’Twas best that he curb his foolish thoughts of her, or any lass, and concentrate ona life of war.
He stood. “I am going to fetch some wood.” Rónán tugged on his cape, grabbed his broadsword, removed the bar on the door, andleft the cabin.
He welcomed the cold slap of the wind.
The lass was naught but trouble. She made him want more; more living, more loving, more of every damned thing he’d ever denied himself.
Many of his Templar friends had found the blessing of a family, but that wasn’t a life he could choose. Lathir had accused him of shielding himself against the scars of his youthful memories. The truth.
As for trusting her…
’Twashard to give.
He’d agreed to be her friend, nothing more.
He’d lived life alone and liked it that way. With the galloglass, as a valued fighter, even after joining the Templars, it’d taken him years to allow friendships to form within the elite Christian force. But with the Brotherhood dissolved, to let a woman into his life, allow her to believe that once he laid down his sword he could be a man who could share the hidden part of himself as she would expect, nay.
He knew his limitations.
However much he was drawn to Lathir, he was broken inside. In the end, if he was foolish enough to give in, he would hurt her.
His stomach clenched at the acceptance, but it was inevitable. ’Twas best to keep herat a distance.
The tang of the sea filled the air as he headed toward a massive, dead oak perched on the rim of the slope. Its weathered roots bleached by the sun, twisted upon the frozen ground in a battle long since lost, the scarred bark a buffer against the hurl of wind as the trunk leaned at a dangerous angle toward the stone-laden beach far below.
The next storm, or mayhap the one after that, and the once grand beacon would topple to the ground and rot. Proof that naught, however strong, like the Knights Templar,lasted forever.
Rónán halted beneath the lifeless tree, wrapped his hands around a low branch, stilled.
In the distance, a cog flying the English standard sailed toward shore.
