me back here.” His father briefly clasped Fionn’s shoulder, then used the touch to push him toward the steps to his room. Obedie nce propelled his feet forward.
Cleaned, shaved, and dressed in a loose button up shirt and jeans, Fionn sat at the table in the great hall finishing his dinner when his father appeared. Rordan Hughes was not a y oung man by any means but at six-foot-four , broad-shouldered and still muscle–bound, with eyes blue as ice, he commanded respect with a mere grunt. He paced before the blazing hearth , a wild look in his eyes like nothing Fionn had seen before. After his fourth pass, Rordan finally stopped and joined Fionn at his usual place at the head of the table.
“Your aunt says the lass fares well,” he said, as if speech was a hard thing.
Fionn shook his head in acknowledgement and restrained himself from sprinting to her side to see her for himself.
“You did well son…real well.”
His father had praised him? Fionn almost choked on his ale. He sat the tankard down so he didn’t spill it. He felt ridiculous drinking from the blasted things, but his father insisted his household make use of them.
“Are ye all right, lad? Ye’ve been away too long. Can’t stomach a man’s drink,” Rordan goaded, eyeing Fionn over the lip of his own tankard while he took a long swig. “Well ye are back now and won’t be staying away so long again.” He slammed the cup down like a judge banging his gavel to declare a verdict. Laird Rordan Hughes wasn’t a man who spoke much, and never about his emotions, but as the warmth of connection that only being home could stir enveloped him, muscles he hadn’t realized were tense suddenly relaxed.
Father and son sat at the table together in silence, each casting his eyes toward the stairs that led to the healing rooms. Just as the stillness became uncomfortable, the soft tap of footsteps on the stairs drew Fionn’s attention. He glanced up, met his father’s eyes. The laird heard the approach also, and they stood in unison. A girl, petite like her mother and with long golden hair, appeare d, out of breath from hurrying.
“Mother says you are to come now…both of you.”
Fionn took advantage of his immortal speed and made it up the stairs before his father. Neasa stood outside the door of what could only be Maeve’s room and frowned at her nephew.
“Where’s your father?” s he asked Fionn , as she pushed a stray hair behind her ear .
“Aye, I’m here. The lad took off before the lass had even finished speaking , ” Rordan said from behind Fionn.
“I must warn ye . . . she is well. Her body is repaired and will heal.” Neasa opened the door, but then stopped and touched Fionn’s shoulder as she had when she told him his mother had passed. For a moment he almost collapsed under the pressure of her dainty hand and all the painful memories it represented. “The lass refuses to wake up.”
As the door opened wide, everything around Fionn seemed to vanish into a tunnel that led straight to Maeve. Red hair spilled around her head in waves and corkscrew curls, a stark contrast against the unhealthy pallor of her skin . As he approached, her complexion appeared to regain its usual luminosity. Lips pinked and formed a serene pout. Heat of the likes he had never expe rienced before rushed over him.
“Just like her grandmother , ” Rordan murmured. Fionn turned to look at his fathe r out of the corner of his eye.
“I heal the body. But what ails this lass is something beyond that.” His aunt pulled the white blanket up an d folded it under Maeve’s chin.
“Come lad. There is much you need to know.” Rordan laid a hand on his son’s shoulder and urged him to leave. Fionn knelt beside the bed, clasped Maeve’s hand in his, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles befo re rising to follow his father.
Chapter Eleven
Instead of going back to the great hall, Rordan led his son through the medieval keep’s halls and stairwell to the outer
Cleaned, shaved, and dressed in a loose button up shirt and jeans, Fionn sat at the table in the great hall finishing his dinner when his father appeared. Rordan Hughes was not a y oung man by any means but at six-foot-four , broad-shouldered and still muscle–bound, with eyes blue as ice, he commanded respect with a mere grunt. He paced before the blazing hearth , a wild look in his eyes like nothing Fionn had seen before. After his fourth pass, Rordan finally stopped and joined Fionn at his usual place at the head of the table.
“Your aunt says the lass fares well,” he said, as if speech was a hard thing.
Fionn shook his head in acknowledgement and restrained himself from sprinting to her side to see her for himself.
“You did well son…real well.”
His father had praised him? Fionn almost choked on his ale. He sat the tankard down so he didn’t spill it. He felt ridiculous drinking from the blasted things, but his father insisted his household make use of them.
“Are ye all right, lad? Ye’ve been away too long. Can’t stomach a man’s drink,” Rordan goaded, eyeing Fionn over the lip of his own tankard while he took a long swig. “Well ye are back now and won’t be staying away so long again.” He slammed the cup down like a judge banging his gavel to declare a verdict. Laird Rordan Hughes wasn’t a man who spoke much, and never about his emotions, but as the warmth of connection that only being home could stir enveloped him, muscles he hadn’t realized were tense suddenly relaxed.
Father and son sat at the table together in silence, each casting his eyes toward the stairs that led to the healing rooms. Just as the stillness became uncomfortable, the soft tap of footsteps on the stairs drew Fionn’s attention. He glanced up, met his father’s eyes. The laird heard the approach also, and they stood in unison. A girl, petite like her mother and with long golden hair, appeare d, out of breath from hurrying.
“Mother says you are to come now…both of you.”
Fionn took advantage of his immortal speed and made it up the stairs before his father. Neasa stood outside the door of what could only be Maeve’s room and frowned at her nephew.
“Where’s your father?” s he asked Fionn , as she pushed a stray hair behind her ear .
“Aye, I’m here. The lad took off before the lass had even finished speaking , ” Rordan said from behind Fionn.
“I must warn ye . . . she is well. Her body is repaired and will heal.” Neasa opened the door, but then stopped and touched Fionn’s shoulder as she had when she told him his mother had passed. For a moment he almost collapsed under the pressure of her dainty hand and all the painful memories it represented. “The lass refuses to wake up.”
As the door opened wide, everything around Fionn seemed to vanish into a tunnel that led straight to Maeve. Red hair spilled around her head in waves and corkscrew curls, a stark contrast against the unhealthy pallor of her skin . As he approached, her complexion appeared to regain its usual luminosity. Lips pinked and formed a serene pout. Heat of the likes he had never expe rienced before rushed over him.
“Just like her grandmother , ” Rordan murmured. Fionn turned to look at his fathe r out of the corner of his eye.
“I heal the body. But what ails this lass is something beyond that.” His aunt pulled the white blanket up an d folded it under Maeve’s chin.
“Come lad. There is much you need to know.” Rordan laid a hand on his son’s shoulder and urged him to leave. Fionn knelt beside the bed, clasped Maeve’s hand in his, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles befo re rising to follow his father.
Chapter Eleven
Instead of going back to the great hall, Rordan led his son through the medieval keep’s halls and stairwell to the outer
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