King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

“Back where we came from. Come, lass, let’s be quick about it.”

Hugging alleys whenever they could, moving through the crowds when they had no choice, he guided them to the gates. Swiftly, as the sun tipped from noon and sank into a low bank of clouds coming up in the west, he lead her out of town, just as soft snowflakes started to fall.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

HE TOOK THEM INTO a forest that seemed untouched by human feet since Roman times. Snow fell on them as they went. Tadhg did not speak at all and Maggie did not ask him to. It felt, after everything, silence was in order. It was enough that they were safe, alone together in this vast, wide world.

The wood was at least as dangerous as Sherwood, but out here, in the clean, fresh air, the wilderness did not seem half so dangerous as the world of men.

The sound of their flight seemed magnified in the great, waiting silence of the wood. Trees towered overhead, ancient denizens looking down at their little figures, fleeing through this untouchable, white and green vastness.

It was comforting, in a strange way, to realize the troubles that so plagued her life were not very large after all, in the scheme of time.

Here in the forest, Sherwood’s cunning was not so important, nor the mayor’s corruptions, nor the greed that plagued every corner of her life. Money and timetables and shipping schedules and unpaid bills, they all meant nothing in this vast, silent, snowy wood. The silence was enormous, broken only by the tiny scraping sound of snowflakes hitting dead leaves. The air was fresh, the trees endless, and there was only one thing to do: walk.

The clarity was almost blinding.

Tadhg never let go of her hand.

Eventually, sometime late afternoon, they emerged in a wide, snow-covered clearing, bounded on all sides by the deep green forest. Fat snowflakes floated lazily down. A line of ramshackle cotters’ huts rimmed its edge, thatch roofs heavy with snow. Some old village, abandoned years ago. A few wintertime birds flitted from tree to tree, and at the edge of the clearing, two deer picked up their heads, then went back to nibbling tree limbs.

“That one,” he said softly, pointing to one of the huts.

She pushed open the door and ducked inside.

When they first came in out of the brightness of the white, snow-encased world, Magdalena stumbled in the darkness, but her eyes quickly adjusted to the dim interior of the cotters hut. There was no window, just what light came from the fire and the venthole above.

The space was a good ten paces by ten, solidly built of sod, with a softly worn, dry earthen floor and a low partition wall to separate where the animals would have been kept. It was clean, if a bit close, and clearly unused for a long time.

Using a small hand-ax from the many weapons on his belt, Tadhg broke up the larger pieces of wood they’d collected outside, while Magdalena laid spider-thin twigs and desiccated leaves at the bottom of the small fire pit. Then he crouched in front and struck his flint stone. Almost immediately, a flame caught, clicking and snapping as it ate up the smallest twigs.

He slowly fed tiny sticks into the pit of hungry little flames, like baby birds clambering to be fed. Slow and patient, he added larger ones. Soon the fire crackled strong and bright, pushing back the darkness.

He rose and stared down silently into the flames. Heat spread in an invisible circle, radiating onto Magdalena’s knees and shins as she watched him tug off his gloves and spread his hands over the flames.

Those same competent, calloused hands had owned her body last night, alighting fires that still ached in her groin. That stern slash of a mouth had followed after, teasing and suckling and licking until her body arched—

She swayed on her feet. The erotic fantasies, the cessation of all activity after such sustained activity, the expanding warmth, the snap and crackle of the fire, all conspired to lull her into an almost otherworldly state. It was she and Tadhg and the fire, all alone in the world.

He glanced at her, then wordlessly began piling up hay discovered at the far end of the hut, where the animals would have been kept. He mounded it into a soft pile and laid a blanket from his pack atop, then held out his hand.

“Lay down, lass.”

She knelt on the crunchy, yielding pile of hay and stretched out. Her head sunk in, making a warm little pocket. She sighed. Her eyes closed.

Something heavy and warm dropped onto her. Her eyes flitted open. His cloak, a heavy, fur-lined mantle. She snuggled under it. Later, from the heavy depths of sleep, she became aware of the sound of scraping. Dragging her eyes open, she saw Tadhg, sitting on the ground, surrounded by a circle of steel blades, a flat stone in hand.

She fell asleep to the sound of him sharpening his sword.

MAGDALENA AWOKE ABRUPTLY and completely.

A low fire burned on a bed of red-hot coals, pumping heat into the room, which was dark but for a spear of wintery light from the opened front door, lancing through the warm dimness.

Tadhg stood at the door, his back to her, holding it open a crack, peering out. His hair was damp—he must have washed—and he’d divested himself of his mail, and wore only a tunic, carelessly laced, and a pair of fresh, dark hose. They must have been pulled from the pack he’d carried.

Rising, she wrapped the cloak around her and went to the door. She stood behind him and looked over his shoulder. . It was nighttime, but bright moonlight bounced against silvery clouds. Half a foot of snow had fallen. More was coming down.

“Oh no,” she whispered.