Cian MacCorban might be living in a medieval pigsty, but Mary didn’t plan on enduring it. After exploring the ring fort, she’d found that most of the huts were abandoned. Only Brían remained behind. She’d attempted to speak to him, but he spoke little English. It didn’t appear to bother him when she entered each of the dwellings, searching for clothing. With hand signals, she got his permission to take a primitive pair of trousers and a long tunic. She hadn’t found gowns of any sort, and was rather happy about it, to be honest. She’d only get the dress dirty.
So, she’d tied the trousers with a belt made of rope and found a pair of gloves. Holding her breath, she began the arduous process of cleaning the ring fort. She ordered Brían to haul off the loads of waste and rotten carcasses. He didn’t argue, and she suspected that he secretly agreed with her about the need to make the place more presentable.
What she wouldn’t give for some disinfectant right now. She worked hard, scrubbing at a pile of soiled wooden dishes. After that, she swept the small roundhouse and straightened up all of Cian’s belongings. She believed in order and cleanliness. Once it was done, she felt calm, a stronger sense of control.
When the afternoon waned into evening, she waited for Cian to return. Her stomach rumbled and she was thirsty, but she wasn’t about to drink the pond water. Not without boiling it first, anyway.
Brían spent the remainder of the time sharpening his sword and knives. He was a quiet man, tall and observant. Even so, he didn’t think to offer her anything to eat. She wondered if therewasany food at all. From the deserted huts, it didn’t look like it.
By the time Cian returned, Mary was having visions of her own. Hot fudge sundaes and steaming cups of coffee. Large sandwiches stuffed with meat, cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes. Chocolate chip cookies.
She was not, however, envisioning a dead deer slung across the backs of the two men. Wincing, she turned away as they prepared to dress the meat. She’d had venison before and she wasn’t a vegetarian, but it didn’t mean that she particularly liked to see where her meat came from. Plastic-wrapped packages in the butcher’s aisle at the supermarket were just fine by her.
Within another hour, the men had a large piece of meat roasting over an open fire. Cian had avoided her for most of the time, and she wasn’t sure why. Only three other men joined them, and she noticed that there were no women and children.
The deserted ring fort had a ghostly aura to it, as though the remaining inhabitants had died. Mary rubbed her arms for warmth, trying not to wonder why everyone was gone.
Cian saw the direction of her gaze, and it was then that he noticed her cleaning efforts. He spoke quietly to Brían, who nodded and pointed back to her. Mary tried to smile, but her mouth wouldn’tquite work. Cian’s expression didn’t exactly look pleased, and suddenly she was reminded of Garrett’s complaints.
Why do you always feel the need to clean up after other people? If I put my beer down, you don’t have to recycle the bottle right away.
She’d thought she was keeping her apartment clean, making it a pleasant space for both of them. It was easier to clean up along the way, rather than spend hours trying to shovel out a week’s worth of living. Efficient and tidy – that was the way she liked it.
But now, she had an Irish warrior staring at her as though she’d riffled through his undergarments. He crossed over to her and handed her a generous portion of venison on one of the wooden plates she’d scoured. The gesture was completely at odds with the grim look on his face.
Mary murmured her thanks and Cian stood in front of her as if trying to choose the right words. She avoided his gaze, afraid she’d overstepped her boundaries. When the seconds shifted into minutes, she broke the silence. “Aren’t you going to eat something?”
“In a moment.”
She dug into the venison, pretending as though the meat was the most fascinating object on the planet.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did you spend hours cleaning this . . . place? It means nothing to you.” He glanced around as though he expected it to crumble into the ground. And perhaps he wanted it to. The mess she’d tidied had represented months of neglect, like a man who didn’t care any more.
But he’d given her shelter and food, and this was a way to repay him. She’d wanted to make herself useful, bringing a little bit of his home back.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said. “I just thought it might help you.” Before he could say a word, she added, “But if you’d rather I put things back, I can. Well, probably not the trash or the animal hides. We burned those, but I could probably—”
He put his hand over her mouth, cutting off her senseless babble. “It was kind of you.”
There was a flicker behind his shielded emotions of a grateful man. And just as quickly, it disappeared. He picked at the venison on his own plate, not even attempting conversation. It was as if theman she’d met this morning had gone. Whatever he’d seen in his vision had completely transformed him. He was acting as if she had a dreaded disease and he didn’t want to be near her any more. It disconcerted her, reminding her of Garrett’s rejection.
Mary needed to lighten the mood, to somehow make him see that she wasn’t any threat. “What do you do at night, to entertain each other?”
Cian shrugged. “We’re not much for singing or storytelling. Sometimes a game of dice, if we’re feeling up to it.”
“What about sports?” At his blank look, she amended, “Games with a ball?”
Brían had overheard their conversation and spoke rapidly to Cian. A few moments later, he returned with a round leather ball. It wasn’t quite what she’d envisioned, but it might work.
She hefted the ball in one hand. It was slightly larger than a softball, and the weight was manageable. “Want to play?”
His blue eyes turned dark with another meaning, one she hadn’t intended. He looked at her as though he wanted to kiss her again and, Lord help her, she wouldn’t mind so much. Cian MacCorban was incredibly handsome, and she’d always had a weakness for a sexy knight with a sword. Or, in this case, an Irish chief.
Cian ordered the men to gather round and they each took turns lobbing the ball at a crooked fence post. Each time they missed, they took a swig of mead from a drinking horn. When her own ball fell short, Cian handed over the horn. “Drink.”
