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“Oh, aye,” he agreed, not turning.
“How long did I sleep?”
He shrugged. “Hours.”
“We are not going anywhere.”
“Nay.” He stood, motionless, looking out at the snow.
She was tempted to point out that Sherwood would likewise not be going anywhere, but didn’t know if this would please him or not. He seemed remote, distant, hard.
But then, hardness was the story of Tadhg, from the line of his jaw to his dark eyes. And then th
ere was his armor and weapons. And the ruthlessness.
What would drive a man to such deeds as his? Criminality; it was the simplest of stories. But ‘criminal’ did not come close to describing Tadhg Nessan Cenn Nuallán O’Malley. There was more to this story, to this man. A man with such lethal potential, who did not kill the men who were hunting him.
A warrior who could read letters written to apprentices, before dropping large bags of coin atop those letters, leaving money for a woman who he had only one use for.
A man who had told her to save himself.
Why that dagger? Why his flight? Why Sherwood’s dogged pursuit?
Why the way her heart felt as if it was laced in gold whenever he looked at her?
Magdalena had been fooled by hope before, but never by a man. She knew precisely what sort of man her husband was from the moment she’d met him. She knew who Baselard the blacksmith was, who the mayor and Gustave and Edwin were; she saw men for exactly what they were. It had always been hope that had wrecked her, not men.
But none of these men had ever made her feel the way Tadhg did. And this had nothing to do with hope, for there was none with Tadhg. His mission, his future, surely his life, were just about the most hopeless things in all the world.
What Magdalena felt about him was entirely due to the sort of man he was. The hidden truth at the center of him. And how it strummed against the hidden center of her.
“How much did you leave her?” she asked softly.
He turned.
Wintery light spilled across his face and she saw, in shock, that he’d shaved. Only the faintest dusting of hair now darkened a strong, sculpted jaw. She inhaled, startled by his hard male beauty, but why? Why be surprised, when everything about him struck her like the wind?
“Who?” he asked, his voice rough from disuse.
“My apprentice, how much money did you leave her?”
He regarded her a moment in silence, then said gruffly, “It was not for her. ’Twas for you.”
“How much?”
He shrugged. “All of it.”
She felt breathless. “You left me all your coin?”
To that, he made no reply.
A spiral of heated chills swept her body. She took a step toward him. “And why did you not kill them, the soldiers in my shop?”
He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. “Is this an examination?”
“Why did you not kill them?” She took another step. “They were surely going to kill you.”
He looked away, out to the snowy grey world, and shrugged. “I made certain they could not follow after.”
