King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

She felt him press kiss to the top of her head. “Sleep, love.”

“Say that again.” It was barely breath now.

“Sleep, love.”

“Just the love.”

“Love.”

As she slipped into the deep violet land of sleep, she trailed her fingertips across his chest.

“You need only to stop looking for others to be great, my love, and all will be well. You are great.” Her fingers strummed across his chest. “My lion-heart.”

Chapter Forty-Three

TADHG LAY ON HIS BACK, palms crossed beneath his head, staring up at the smoke-blackened rafters that crisscrossed the ceiling.

Maggie was right. About everything. As usual. Which could, he reflected somberly, become a problem over time.

But tonight, it might just save their lives.

He knew now what he needed to do. He did not need a great man with titles or armies at his command. He needed a simple man who wished to do something good, but did not have the means.

Tadhg’s task was to give those means.

He slipped out of the bed, glancing down at Maggie, hard asleep. Let her sleep. She’d been subjected to so much since he’d come into her life, so much worry, so much running, so little rest.

Let her rest now. He’d be back before she awoke.

He dressed and unbarred the door. A pulsing orange light rose up from the banked fire in the huge fire trough of the high-ceiling common room below. He glanced back. She was on her side, one arm bent above the furs, a hand tucked beneath her pale cheek. Hair spilled over her face and shoulders like dark, slippery strands of silk.

He pulled the door shut behind him. Swiftly then, he found the innkeep and explained his need, both to leave and then return without fanfare, but, he promised, the gratitude of a king, if only the innkeep was willing to be patient a few more days.

He was.

Moments later, Tadhg was gliding down the streets, staying to the edges, his bootsteps barely scraping against the darkness as he made his way to the quay. There were occasional nighttime disturbances, a distant argument in a suddenly-lit bedroom window, the intermittent barking of dogs, but otherwise, it was him and the small, intermittent snowflake that still drifted down from a flat grey sky, as if the storm was exhausted to find it still needed to snow, but was doing its best.

When he reached the quay, he made his way to the only building still lit at this hour, the dockmaster’s hut.

He stopped beside it and peered cautiously through the horn window.

Lit by the lamps within, it glowed in amber-gold translucence. Through it, he could discern the shadows inside only as smears, but he was fairly certain there were four man-shaped smears, heaped like piles of old clothes on the floor, and one man-shaped smear, sitting upright in a chair against the wall.

He heard someone fart, then a low mutter, “Accursed Frenchmen.”

He smiled, swept up a pebble from the ground and tossed it at the window. It clattered lightly.

The sitting figure straightened with a jerk.

He tossed another. Then a third. No more. Now, he waited.

The smeary figure continued sitting smearily, then rose and came to the door. It cracked open, and the dockmaster’s face peered out.

Tadhg waved.

His eyes widened, then he glanced rapidly up and down the deserted quay, cast another look over his shoulder, and stepped though the door, pulling it shut behind him.

“What the hell…?” the man whispered, coming to him. He wrapped his arms around his body, for the night was cold. “I see you did not take my advice.”