thought he would speak. The hardness of his grip on her arms changed. But she could not have moved away from him. She did not have the strength. Her breath was coming in gut-wrenching gasps so that he must think she was ill. Mad. Both.
She got the last words out.
"I realized. So I went back where I belonged. To Hun."
She saw his eyes go totally blank. Lifeless. Black. It was terrifying. His eyes were not like that. They were gold. Gold never changed. It was imperishable.
"I made my decision," she said, through the rawness inside her chest. She could not breathe. "That was my choice."
His hands let her go and the shadows were not just around him. They were everywhere. She was falling.
CHAPTER FOUR
Alina woke with her head wedged against his chest. She could not move because his arm, heavy, immobile, lay across her waist.
She should leave him be, after what she had said. She wanted to leave him. She wanted to crawl away into some black pit and never come out.
She raised her head.
There was something wrong with the light Pearl-grey. Cold. Not the golden, heavy warmth of late afternoon.
"Brand…"
He did not move. Nothing. She stared round wildly at the wrong shapes of the trees. They were not as she remembered. She could not hear the stream. She had no idea where she was. It was like trying to wake out of a nightmare and being unable to.
Her head twisted. Her arm sought instinctively for the now familiar shape of his body. Cool. Almost…cold. A scream, raw and with the power to tear, lodged itself in her throat. And then she felt it: the faint, soft edge of his breath against her cheek.
"Brand…"
But he still did not move. He was deeply, numbingly asleep.
He should not be so cold. She pulled the thickness of the cloaks that covered them tighter round him. There was a fire nearby. Still burning. Full consciousness hit her. The campfire. His men. They were there. Shadowy shapes moving in the half-light. Morning.
He must have brought her here from the glade. And she had not known, could not remember. She still had her nun's clothing and over that, the heavy cloaks. His.
He had taken her shoes off. Her feet were buried in his legs. The solidness of his body curved round hers. They lay, tangled like awakening lovers in the midst of his men.
"He is ill. Is he not?"
The familiar voice, low, sibilant with the sounds of Craig Phádraig, was right beside her.
"Cunan!" Hound. Her brother's breath touched her skin. She could not suppress her startled gasp and she saw the small reward that gave in the triumph of his smile.
She drew away, struggling to raise herself between the lissom heaviness of Brand's body and the tight aggressive barrier of her brother's.
Hellhound. The keen-boned face and the intensity of his eyes suited the name. Her father's unquestioning slave. In his person he managed to combine unbending loyalty with the ability to tear people's guts out when necessary. She swallowed. Her mouth felt as dry as wood shavings.
She sat back, putting a hand to her face, trying to disguise the shudder. She felt appalling. Her eyes burned and her bones ached from the hard ground, from yesterday's exhausting ride.
"Cunan, why are you—"
"How ill?'
The eager, knife-sharp eyes watched not her, but the sleeping form beside her, with an attention that was spine-chilling. The words
more ill than he knows, perhaps dangerously so
, died on her lips.
Cunan was her brother, as much so in her mind as Modan, even if he was not legitimate.
But he was her father's man. His loyalty to that did not include allowance for his sister's shameful and inappropriate attachment to a Northumbrian.
Past attachment.
She moved her hand, as though she would shield the sleeping face of the Northumbrian, as much as her own face, from Cunan's gaze.
"I have tended the wound. It will heal. There is a touch of fever, but that is as you would expect."
She shrugged, to emphasize the carelessness of her words. The movement made the cloak
She got the last words out.
"I realized. So I went back where I belonged. To Hun."
She saw his eyes go totally blank. Lifeless. Black. It was terrifying. His eyes were not like that. They were gold. Gold never changed. It was imperishable.
"I made my decision," she said, through the rawness inside her chest. She could not breathe. "That was my choice."
His hands let her go and the shadows were not just around him. They were everywhere. She was falling.
CHAPTER FOUR
Alina woke with her head wedged against his chest. She could not move because his arm, heavy, immobile, lay across her waist.
She should leave him be, after what she had said. She wanted to leave him. She wanted to crawl away into some black pit and never come out.
She raised her head.
There was something wrong with the light Pearl-grey. Cold. Not the golden, heavy warmth of late afternoon.
"Brand…"
He did not move. Nothing. She stared round wildly at the wrong shapes of the trees. They were not as she remembered. She could not hear the stream. She had no idea where she was. It was like trying to wake out of a nightmare and being unable to.
Her head twisted. Her arm sought instinctively for the now familiar shape of his body. Cool. Almost…cold. A scream, raw and with the power to tear, lodged itself in her throat. And then she felt it: the faint, soft edge of his breath against her cheek.
"Brand…"
But he still did not move. He was deeply, numbingly asleep.
He should not be so cold. She pulled the thickness of the cloaks that covered them tighter round him. There was a fire nearby. Still burning. Full consciousness hit her. The campfire. His men. They were there. Shadowy shapes moving in the half-light. Morning.
He must have brought her here from the glade. And she had not known, could not remember. She still had her nun's clothing and over that, the heavy cloaks. His.
He had taken her shoes off. Her feet were buried in his legs. The solidness of his body curved round hers. They lay, tangled like awakening lovers in the midst of his men.
"He is ill. Is he not?"
The familiar voice, low, sibilant with the sounds of Craig Phádraig, was right beside her.
"Cunan!" Hound. Her brother's breath touched her skin. She could not suppress her startled gasp and she saw the small reward that gave in the triumph of his smile.
She drew away, struggling to raise herself between the lissom heaviness of Brand's body and the tight aggressive barrier of her brother's.
Hellhound. The keen-boned face and the intensity of his eyes suited the name. Her father's unquestioning slave. In his person he managed to combine unbending loyalty with the ability to tear people's guts out when necessary. She swallowed. Her mouth felt as dry as wood shavings.
She sat back, putting a hand to her face, trying to disguise the shudder. She felt appalling. Her eyes burned and her bones ached from the hard ground, from yesterday's exhausting ride.
"Cunan, why are you—"
"How ill?'
The eager, knife-sharp eyes watched not her, but the sleeping form beside her, with an attention that was spine-chilling. The words
more ill than he knows, perhaps dangerously so
, died on her lips.
Cunan was her brother, as much so in her mind as Modan, even if he was not legitimate.
But he was her father's man. His loyalty to that did not include allowance for his sister's shameful and inappropriate attachment to a Northumbrian.
Past attachment.
She moved her hand, as though she would shield the sleeping face of the Northumbrian, as much as her own face, from Cunan's gaze.
"I have tended the wound. It will heal. There is a touch of fever, but that is as you would expect."
She shrugged, to emphasize the carelessness of her words. The movement made the cloak
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