Soon, with the bottom of his shirt torn into strips and wrapped around her feet, they walked north away from the glen.
She never complained and never slowed unless he did, but Breac could read the exhaustion in her eyes, those luminous eyes that seemed to show her emotions. But he found himself easing the grueling pace he’d set for most of the morning and watching from the corner of his eyes for any sign she could not continue.
And cursing himself as he did.
When she stumbled for the third time, he stopped.
Wiping the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand, he looked up at the sun and knew it was almost at its highest in the sky. There was another eight or so hours of light, another eight or so hours of walking, left in this day. One glance at Aigneis told him she could not do it. Breac handed her the skin with the last of the watered ale.
“There is a village another hour’s walk from here,” he said, still not certain of what he would do. “Can you make it there and we will stop for food and rest?”
She swallowed another mouthful from the skin and gave it back to him. “I will,” she answered.
Not “I can,” but “I will,” as though sheer force of will would drive her along. And, from what he’d seen of her this last day, he was certain it would. Breac slung the skin over his shoulder and nodded, more confused about her than before.
And more confused over his path.
From her bearing and the softness of her hands, he knew she was noble. She had not worked the fields or labored as a goodwife in a croft. She had lived with others doing the work for her, yet she had been exiled. Nothing made sense to him about her.
The lust and desire he felt at times he could understand—he was a man with needs of the flesh and eyes in his head to see her womanly form. Sleeping next to her in the night, his body reacted as it should—he woke hard and ready to couple with the woman at his side. His prick did not need to know more than that she was there.
His mind though struggled with the confusing knowledge, or lack of it, about her. The most vexing thing was his reaction to her and this fierce growing need within him to protect her. Breac must make a decision about her by the time they reached the village or he would lose too many hours today.
With at least an hour of time to think on the matter, he stood and began walking along the rough road, expecting that she would follow.
Aigneis kept her gaze on his back and took one mindless step after another along the road. She would recover, she knew she would, but each time she was injured, it took longer and longer. Every year away from the Sith, her body returned back to its human frailty. And she’d noticed the biggest changes after seven years.
Her obvious health and vigor gave Donnell hopes for a child, a son, an heir to his and his father’s lands and power. Though he knew it not, she believed that the ease with which she’d borne children, sons, for the Sith prince would happen again with Donnell. Seven years they tried and failed and his disappointment became sharper and angrier with the passing of each year.
Part of her hoped for children, to fill the emptiness within her for the ones she’d lost. Part of her was pleased she did not conceive when faced with Donnell’s bitter anger and unfaithfulness. Then, three years ago her husband began his pursuit of a new wife and his plan to rid himself of Aigneis. The worst betrayal was her father’s support for breaking the marriage contract.
Tears gathered in her eyes and she wiped them away. The Sith prince had warned her about Donnell, but Aigneis did not heed the warning of what was to come if she left the Sith world. Taking in a labored breath and letting it out slowly, she brought her attention back to the road . . . and to the man before her.
She knew he watched her as they walked, discreetly so that she would not notice, but she had. The cant of his head as he led her down the road belied his seeming inattention to her. And each step he took that did not leave her behind made her wonder more about this Breac.
Most men, nay all men, she knew would never have stepped into the situation that presented itself to him in the middle of nowhere. Facing down armed men on a mission from their lord? Saving a stranger, a woman, from a fate decreed by her rightful lord? Staying at her side with no reason to? She shook her head. This Breac was different from any man she’d ever met and part of it was some sense of his deep and abiding honor.
Even now, when his purpose, whatever it was, should take him swiftly away from her halting steps, he waited for her and adjusted his pace so she was not left behind.
Aigneis thought on his actions and the words he’d spoken in the night as they walked toward the village ahead. Fenella. Sick. Dying. The thought of this woman dying terrified Breac and tore his heart apart. Again, his honor was clear in his actions.
Thinking about him was easier than considering her own life, her own sins, and her own future, so she did that as they walked. About an hour later, he finally stopped and held out the skin to her to drink.
“Finish it. The village lies ahead and I will get more,” he said as though in answer to her unspoken question. She lifted it up and drank every drop she could squeeze from it.
He took it from her. Lifting the two other sacks from his shoulder, he placed them on the ground and motioned for her to sit. “It should take me about an hour to return,” he began to explain. “Stay here, out of sight, and you should be safe.”
“Wait,” she said, as she placed her hand on his arm. “Why are you helping me?” He startled at both her touch and her question. Then she dared to ask more. “Who is Fenella?”
He drew back quickly, stumbling over a small rock in the path behind him. Regaining his balance, his eyes took on that stark, empty expression of guilt and sorrow. “How . . . ?”
“You spoke her name in your sleep,” she said, shocked at the extent of his sorrow. “Is she the reason for your relentless pace?”
Aigneis thought he would answer. However, he opened and closed his mouth several times as though trying to make words come out before he turned and walked away. She thought to call out to him, to offer an apology to him, but within seconds, his long legs had carried him too far for him to hear her.
Unless she used the voice.
Not strong enough and not ready to reveal any more of herself to this stranger, she sat and watched him leave. Only when she spied his leather sacks did she feel comforted that he would return . . . for them.
Taking hold of them, she carried them deeper into the shadow of the trees, found a dry spot, and lay down there. Using one sack to pillow her head, she drew his cloak tightly around her and curled up to sleep while she waited. Only through sleep could she recover her strength and, if he was going to leave her on her own, she needed that strength.
When she next opened her eyes, she found him sitting nearby watching her sleep.
Breac held out a chunk of bread to her and she sat up, untwisted the cloak from around herself, and reached out for it. He did the same with a piece of roasted fowl and a small wedge of cheese. And she ate whatever he handed her, famished from both the walking since dawn and the healing that was happening within her. She stopped only when he did and washed it down with a long drink from a new skin of ale. Her stomach had not been full in many, many days and it felt wonderful.
“Fenella is my sister,” he said without preamble. “She is ill and I must return.”
“What is wrong with her?” Aigneis asked. “Has she seen a healer?” She looked around for something to wipe her hands on, but there was none. “How old is she?”
Her curiosity was rising as her strength did. ’Twas not a matter of her concern, but she was touched that he explained himself. Most men she knew . . . She shook her head.
“She is the reason for your haste and I delay you from her,” she said, finally putting some of the bits and pieces of knowledge and observation together. Climbing to her feet, she nodded at him. “My thanks for your help and for the food.”
Doubt crept into his expression now, his dark brown eyes wide an
d staring at her. He held out a bundle to her. Clothing it seemed.
“Get dressed. Then we can speak on this.”
Aigneis took the bound pile of fabric from him and turned her back. Tugging the string free from it, she found a shift, a gown and tunic, and, more surprising, a pair of stockings and soft leather shoes. The last item was a square piece of material to cover her head. With barely a glance back to see if he watched, she dropped the cloak, shrugged off his shirt and dressed in the clean garments.
Folding the fabric into a triangle, she wrapped it around her head, catching the wild curls under it and securing it at the nape of her neck. ’Twas not the jeweled circlet and fine linen veil she used to wear, but it covered the evidence of her shame and made her feel safe again. Aigneis turned back to face Breac and found him staring at her.
He’d seen her skin!
The look on his face, eyes widened in disbelief, spoke of his shock. The frown that followed told her he was trying to figure out what he’d seen only this morning and how it could be healed now. The shake of his head demonstrated how he could not believe it.
She waited for the next emotional step—the one that usually followed the disbelief, the shock, and the inability to understand.
Fear.
Hatred.
Anger.
Aigneis was tempted to close her eyes so she would not see his. To this point, he’d surprised her with his reactions to finding himself in the middle of something not of his making or concern. The intervention, the protection, and the way he saw to her needs were not what she was accustomed to facing. Now was the time when he would react as all other men did when faced with the reality of her.
Aigneis held her breath and waited and watched for the inevitable to happen.
Chapter 5
The bruises.
The lash and cane marks.
All nearly gone.
Had he only imagined them there and now saw the truth? Or had they disappeared in just hours?
How?
She’d moved quickly and he’d turned away to give her some measure of privacy, but not before catching a glimpse of her legs and her back. Now, instead of the angry red and purple criss-cross markings of punishment, her skin was nearly unmarred, nearly perfection in its creamy whiteness. Instead of a damaged victim, a woman stood in her place.
Breac considered himself a man with some intelligence, not the wisest or most knowledgeable, but he was known for his logical thinking and common sense. That was why Lord Malcolm appointed him as overseer to the village and consulted him on matters about the crops and supplies. Neither of those skills or that position helped now in the face of this incredible situation. When he met her gaze, he could see that she watched him and waited for some reaction.
“How?” he asked, the word escaping before he could stop it.
Part of him wanted to tear off her clothes to see if he mistook the shadows she stood in for changes to the color of her skin. Part wanted to run, run back to his village and to his sister and forget he’d met a woman such as this. But the part that won out was the man inside him who had seen the real pain and shame and fear in her gaze and the true injuries to her body and discovered that he wanted to banish both from her forever.
“How?” he asked again.
She looked away then and would not meet his eyes. Her hands twisted in his shirt and cloak which she held tightly, positioned almost as he would a weapon before him. She shrugged.
“I know not.”
Aigneis may not know the whole of it, but the guilt now lacing her expression said she knew some of it. And she was not going to reveal what she did know.
He swore not to allow her to distract him from his purpose and this new aspect about her threatened his will more than anything else she’d done or said. Fenella lay dying, a certainty if he did not return with the medicaments in his bag, a possibility even if he did return. So, even fascination and intrigue could not sway him from the decision he’d made on the way to the village.
Even fascination and intrigue wrapped in the feminine curves of this woman before him.
“I spoke with the blacksmith of the village. I know him from other dealings in the past and he is a good man.”
“The blacksmith?” she stuttered.
“Aye. Once you recover . . .” he stumbled over the words now. “He will see you to his cousin who lives north of here and will offer you a place to live. You will be safe there while you decide about your future.”
The words rushed out of him and he could see their effect on her. Like more blows raining down on her, she flinched with his attempt to separate their paths, one from the other. Then he watched her gather the shards of her pride around herself and nod in reply.
Aigneis folded the torn and dirty shirt and cloak and handed them back to him. Then she packed up the leftover food into one of the sacks and waited as he did the other. She did not say anything as he led her down the path back to the village. Her steps seemed less labored than earlier though she rarely met his gaze or said a word at all.
He tried to convince himself of the rightness of his decision. They were strangers. He’d managed to save her life. He had his own responsibilities to which and to whom he must return as quickly as possible. She could not be part of his life.
Breac walked on, trying to use those words to convince his heart that he was making the right decision, but he knew only that his heart was not listening.
Aigneis understood his reaction—she’d seen it before, whether in her father’s eyes or Donnell’s or his men’s or many others when faced with the strange remnants of Sith left in her. Most were not as honorable as Breac though, for he made arrangements for her even though he could not or would not take her with him. And though they were strangers and he’d done more than her own family had for her, she had no claim on him or his life.
So, she would honor his actions by letting him leave without question or argument. Without begging to stay with him as her heart wanted to do. She shook her head in disbelief at the very thought of it.
Aigneis had followed her heart’s desires twice in her life, and the cost turned out to be dear—first her sons to their father’s curse and then her own life to her husband’s needs. She would not do it again, no matter that he seemed honorable or good. It would not last when his wishes and needs exceeded hers.
And when that happened, she feared the possible cost of such a betrayal. What did she have left to lose? Her soul?
So, she kept her thoughts to herself and walked along the road behind him—more comfortable in the clothing and shoes he’d brought and in less pain than earlier, but more uncomfortable for knowing the truth of it.
He was just like the other men in her life.
’Twas hard to think of him like that when she noticed he still slowed his pace so she could keep up with him. And when he kept glancing back to make certain she was following. And especially when he waited for her so they could enter the village side-by-side and without her trailing like a serf.
Soon, within shockingly few minutes, she found herself standing at the smith’s cottage, watching Breac leave her behind. Aigneis had learned how low her husband had sunk in his attempts to rid himself of an unwanted wife and how low her father had in order to keep as much of her gold as possible for his own use. But this hurt her in some way she could not describe.
She only knew she was not content to stay and let him leave. His honor demanded he get back to his sister, but there was nothing to keep her from following him. And when she remembered his frantic whispers in the night that spoke of his fears for his sister’s life, Aigneis knew she wanted to be there to take the pain from his gaze and his heart when his sister did not survive.
She could not explain how she knew that, but she did. And she suspected that he did, too. So, she found herself back on the road, trying to catch up with him before the distance became too great. An hour later, she walked along the road as it curved sharply and spied Breac coming toward her. Aigneis
stopped and waited for him.
The doubts struck within minutes of leaving the village . . . and leaving Aigneis behind. Breac knew, he knew, it was the right thing to do, but something forced him back to get her. He did not own her, nor did he have any claim on her. He knew both of those things well. His heart whispered other things to him.
Finally, his practical part won out, deciding that he would ask her to come and care for his sister. It made sense. He would not have to worry about her care if Aigneis was there. He would not have to hire others to see to her during the days when he spent his hours at his duties for Lord Malcolm. He did not fool himself about the other reasons, the ones he did not think but felt through his flesh and bone.
He wanted her.
The vitality she offered. The curves of her body. The scent and creaminess of her skin. Everything about her tugged at him like an unseen cord, pulling him to her.
Even now, the thought of the way she felt against him in the night made him hard. The memory of the full breasts and hips that he saw as she dressed. The riotous silver curls—covered now—that begged him to pull off the kerchief and run his fingers through them. The mouth that could utter words and a name in a way that made him feel it instead of hear it.
All that and more and the intensity of it shocked and worried him. Not usually a man to be controlled by needs of the flesh, the power of his desire for her was something new.
He’d turned and was heading back to the village before he ever made the decision. Breac did not see her until he almost walked into her as she stood by the road. Puzzled to find her there and not in the village, he noticed she carried the sack of additional clothing he’d purchased from one of the villagers for her. Her expression gave no clue as to her thoughts or feelings as she stood there watching him approach.
Her presence answered part of the request he planned to make, for she would not be here following him if she did not wish to accompany him home. Would she?
From Undone: A Storm of Love, A Novella Page 3
