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“I take it your talk with your mother went well,” Fern added. “This must be her doing.”

Ailsa tensed. She was aware that both Kayla and Fern were studying her now, while Darach wore a slight smile. She hadn’t told them much about her conversation with Isleen—and hadn’t said anything about what had happened afterward. “We understand each other,” she said after a pause.

“So, how far ahead are we?” Darach asked then, bringing the conversation back to practical matters.

Fern glanced at him. “Somehow, we’ve bypassed Doure and Deeping Barrow. We’re just three days from Duncrag if we take the path along the Firth of Fallow.”

“When you say three days … is that on foot?” he asked.

“No, we’ll be riding,” Fern replied. “And even though the bavaan have helped us, we can’t slacken our pace. The quicker we get to Duncrag, the better.”

Kayla frowned. “But we lost our mounts, remember?”

Fern smiled. “We did, but Cern will have been waiting with Rùn and Thicket during our captivity … he’ll be looking out for my sign. Don’t worry, they’ll join us soon enough.”

And with that, the huntress turned and gave a shrill whistle.

Sliding off Rùn’s back, Ailsa winced.

She still hadn’t gotten used to riding again. Her body ached.

Rubbing her sore arse, she glanced around. Dusk was settling. It was gray and damp, and the sky pressed close, but the weather didn’t matter—not when they were leagues ahead of where they should have been.

Ailsa tilted her face up at the darkening sky, smiling. A lightness filled her chest; one that had been absent for moons now.

She felt … free.

Stepping forward, she placed a hand on Rùn’s warm neck, and the stallion snorted in acknowledgment. Her smile widened. Fern hadn’t exaggerated. Rùn, Thicket, and Fern’s great stag had found them half a morning after they set off. The horses were still saddled and astonishingly fresh, despite everything they’d endured. When Darach had moved forward to greet his stallion, Rùn had nickered, nudging him hard with his nose. “I’m pleased to see you, lad,” Darach had said fondly, stroking his muzzle.

A dark, winged shape had swooped in soon after. With a sharp croak, a raven landed on Fern’s shoulder before ruffling his feathers. The huntress had reached up, stroking his back.

Watching the huntress and her feathered companion, Ailsa had felt a tug of envy; what would it be like to have such an affinity for birds and animals?

They’d mounted up then and continued their journey at a much swifter pace.

However, now the day was waning. They could finally rest for a short while.

Ailsa swiveled then, planning to ask Darach about making camp, when she stepped into the wall of his chest. He’d dismounted on Rùn’s other side and approached her unseen.

They were hidden from view from Fern and Kayla for a few moments, for nothing but a screen of bare birches looked on.

Ailsa parted her lips to say something, but before she could, Darach lifted both hands and cupped her face. He then lowered his head, his mouth meeting hers in a slow, deep kiss.

She leaned into him, her hands rising, sliding across his chest.

For a few instants, she forgot where they were. All she could focus on was the swirl and plunge of his tongue, the rasp of stubble against her cheek. The heat of his body, and the taste of him.

Her belly melted. Her toes curled inside her boots.

Gods, she could stay like this, wrapped in him.

A clearing throat made them still.

“It’ll get dark soon,” Fern’s voice intruded. “You said you had a spare slingshot, Darach … we’d better hunt while we’ve got light.”

Making a sound in the back of his throat—something between a swallowed growl and groan—Darach broke the kiss.

Marking his hooded gaze, Ailsa’s pulse went wild. When he looked at her like that, it was hard to think straight. The urge to tell Fern to go hunting on her own reared up then, yet she pushed it down. They had to make camp, and they needed food.