dark eyes, he well remembered the feel of holding her in his arms. And now Branna embraced her new husband, the way she had once welcomed him.
He forced the vision away and stared down at the drawing he’d done last night. He’d caught Iseult thinking of someone, her face wistful and filled with longing. He’d also drawn her with flashing anger, her eyes sparking hatred. She intrigued him, with her beauty and spirit.
He cleaned up the fallen meat and vegetables, wondering why Iseult had troubled to make a meal for him. No one had done anything like that in a long while. She didn’t like him; he could see it in her eyes.
Kieran picked up the yew and began tracing the outline of her face upon the wood. Within moments, he lost himself in the work, cutting out the background with an iron gouge. The scent of freshly cut wood mingled with the morning air, and he took comfort from it. The tools cut into the creamy sapwood, etching out details.
When at last he looked up, it was mid-morning. He saw that someone had left a bag of supplies just outside the door. He found bread inside and tore off a piece, enjoying the taste of the fresh grain.
Near the ringfort entrance, he saw Iseult leading a mare inside. Her face was pale, and her cheeks were wet as though she’d been weeping. Unbidden came the urge to find out what had happened.
It’s none of your affair, his conscience warned. But for a woman about to marry, he’d never seen anyone look so unhappy.
Iseult pounded a mass of clay, water spattering all over the brown léine she wore. She didn’t care. She released tears, digging her fingers into the clay as though she could strangle the unknown men who had taken her son.
‘I must speak with you.’
She lifted her gaze and saw Davin standing before her. His sober expression promised nothing but grim news. ‘What is it?’
‘More raids. Father sent men to scout out what was happening. It may be the Norsemen again.’
Iseult left the fallen mass of clay and reached for a cloth to dry her hands. She supposed she should be frightened, but the stories of the Lochlannachs she’d heard seemed more like exaggerated myths, stretched to make a good tale. ‘How do you know it’s them?’
‘We know their ships,’he reminded her. ‘And for that reason, I don’t want you leaving the ringfort again. Not until we know what’s happening.’
Stay here? Iseult dismissed the idea. After her failed search today, she would have to journey further. ‘I’m going to start searching inland,’ she said. ‘No one has seen Aidan on the peninsula, and it’s time to try elsewhere.’
She saw no danger in travelling away from the coast. It might take a few days, but she could bring supplies and speak to the different tribes.
Davin shook his head. ‘Only after we’ve determined it’s safe. Wait a few weeks longer, and I’ll go with you. After our wedding,’ he promised.
Iseult shook her head in denial. ‘It’s been almost a year, Davin. If I wait too long, I won’t know Aidan any more. Even now, I can hardly remember his face.’ The familiar pain of loss was a constant ache, mingled with her own guilt for not protecting him well enough.
‘I know you’ll never forget him,’Davin said, stroking her hair. ‘But perhaps it’s time to let this go.’
‘You’re asking me to abandon my son.’The thought was like a blade to her wrists. How could he even think of it?
‘It’s hurting you, and I don’t want to see your pain any more.’ His arms moved around her waist, his hands caressing her spine.
She didn’t answer him, and he sighed, releasing her. ‘One of the ringforts was attacked, near the coast. We need to ensure that the raiders don’t come near us.’
‘As you say,’ she murmured, her voice unable to conceal her frustration.
He touched her cheek. ‘Just a few more weeks, Iseult. If you’re not ready to give up, we’ll continue your search.’
Behind his promise, she sensed his reluctance. Though he would never say it, this was another man’s child.
‘Until later,then.’The liefelleasilyfrom hermouth, but inwardly she intended to keep searching. She’d wait until Davin left and travel east, closer to Trá Li. Though she didn’t like the idea of going alone, no one else would help her. They, like Davin, believed she should give up.
‘Come and dine with my family tonight,’Davin urged.
Iseult dreaded the idea of sharing a meal at the chieftain’s table. She avoided it whenever possible, but she could not insult them by refusing.
‘You should go and see Kieran now,’ Davin said, kissing her. ‘Make sure he’s begun the carving of you.’
‘How do you know he has any skill at all? I’ve yet to see him lift a blade to wood.’ She disliked being the subject of such scrutiny, especially from the slave. He was unpredictable, fierce, and not at all humble.
‘You should see this.’ Davin reached into a fold of his cloak and withdrew a carved wooden figure of a boy. Iseult held it in her palm, struck by the intricate facial expression. The carved boy held the innocent wonder of early adolescence, coupled with a trace of mischief. When she ran her thumb over the piece, she understood what Davin had seen in it. This was a carving created by a master. ‘Was this his brother?’ she asked.
‘I suspect it might be. He wants it back, and I have promised it to him, in exchange for your likeness. If he completes the dower chest to my satisfaction, I will grant him his freedom.’
She handed the carving back to him. How could a man with such hatred in him create a work of beauty like this? Lost in thought, she was barely aware of Davin’s departure.
An hour later, she stood before the woodcarver’s hut.
Kieran sensed Iseult’s presence before he looked up from his work. The light floral fragrance surrounded her, like a breath of spring. It made him edgy, being around this woman.
At least she was betrothed to his master and was completely beyond reach. He could ignore the unwelcome awareness because of it.
‘Davin asked me to come and see that you’ve begun the carving,’ she began, stepping across the threshold without waiting for an invitation.
Of course, she had that right. He was a slave, and she would become his mistress soon enough after she wed Davin. His skin prickled at the invasion of his privacy. He preferred working alone.
He set down the gouge and flicked a glance at her. By the Almighty, she was an exquisite creature. Her light golden hair held the faintest touch of fire. It hung down to her waist, pulled back from her face with a single comb. A smudge of clay clung to her cheek, while upon her wrists he saw the faint traces of mud that she’d tried to scrub away.
In his mind, he envisaged her slender fingers twining the clay into coiled ropes. The vision conjured up an unexpected flush of heat, as he imagined her fingers moving over a man’s skin. He didn’t know where the thought had come from, but his body reacted to her nearness.
‘I’ve begun the work, yes.’ He covered the carving with a cloth, stretching his hands. The initial outline was good, but he hadn’t captured her spirit yet. ‘Was that all you wanted?’
Maybe she would leave. But no. She sat down upon one of the tree stumps. Crossing her wrists over one knee, she added, ‘I don’t like being here. But I suppose you’ll need to finish your drawings.’
The honesty did not bother him. He preferred a forthright conversation and a woman who spoke her mind. ‘I can’t say as I like being here either.’
She stared at him, as if questioning whether he was trying to be funny. Then she dismissed it, asking, ‘Did you remember to eat? Or was that too much of an inconvenience?’
‘I have