He tore off a chunk of bread. “Traveling?”
“Traveling alone. No’ being injured. Watching those I know die. A lot of things others would consider fortunate that dinna feel so lucky.” She stared at the hunk of bread sitting atop her food, the bottom wet with a thick, brown sauce, the top dusted with spots of flour. It had been appealing when she’d first had it placed before her.
“As with being home, I’d wager,” she continued. “Many would consider ye fortunate to live in luxurious splendor, to no’ ever have to leave this quiet comfort. To have the companionship of a close friend over the years. I’m sure ye dinna feel lucky.”
Duncan scoffed and lifted a cup to his lips. His throat flexed with the swallow of ale. All of him was strong, she’d noticed. From the lined muscles of his forearms, to the powerful swell of his chest visible at the neck of his shirt and the broad expanse of his shoulders.
He’d claimed to not do much in his time at Duart Castle, but she’d seen him the prior evening in the courtyard, practicing the mettle of his sword and body on a wood frame. For his claims of inactivity, he had kept himself fine and fit.
And she had a deep appreciation for fine and fit.
“How is it?” he asked. “To be unharmed?”
The memory hit her like a punch and left the odor of blood in her nostrils.
Bodies lay everywhere in a lumpy carpet layered over the gore-soaked earth. Some cried out - for help, for their mothers, for death - but most made no sound, and never would.
“Lonely.” She bit into the warm bread. It was moist and stuck to her teeth when she chewed, before it turned to dust against her tongue and caught in her throat. She drank deeply of her ale and wished it to be a stronger spirit. Whisky. Something to burn away the recollections.
Evina set down her cup and regarded her uneaten stew. The days at Duart had left her full enough to not crave food with ravenous want at every meal. “It’s hard to watch people ye know be cut down beside ye, especially when ye understand ye might face their widows later without so much as a scratch on ye.”
She’d never spoken of her miserable life with anyone. Nor had she understood how much doing so was a balm to the ache in her soul.
“I stopped making friends,” she continued. “It hurt too much to see them die, painfully aware I couldna do anything to stop it. It was always certain I was different, but I dinna ever think.” She shook her head and gave a mirthless chuckle. “I never once considered my mother was Morrigan.”
It was unfathomable. Even now, when Gillespie and Duncan had witnessed her healing herself from the dead, when what she read made sense. Her innate proficiency with weapons and battle, the dreams she sometimes had of slender white hands washing the blood from a man’s armor and having him die in battle the next day, and the crows. They always dotted the field following a battle with their bright eyes and oily black feathers. She’d always felt as if they’d been watching her.
Perhaps they had. Perhaps her mother had too.
“I’m sure she’s proud of ye.” Duncan spoke softly.
Evina lifted her gaze to find him watching her with a soft smile on his lips. “Ye know, ye’re actually quite charming when ye’re no’ being an arse.”
He tilted his head. “That’s probably the most flattering thing a lass has ever said to me.”
Evina couldn’t help but laugh along with him.
He lifted his cup and tilted it in her direction. “A toast - to the woman ye are, and the stories ye so graciously tell. Ye take me to places I canna go.”
She lifted her own goblet. “And to ye, for the hospitality of yer home, and for the companionship which has done more for my life than any new land I’ve visited.”
They smiled over the rims of their cups and drank deep. A sudden awareness tingled over Evina like a sensual whisper over her flesh. She had always been aware of Duncan’s attention, of his presence. Now, however, without Gillespie in the room and with them truly alone, their secrets and souls laid bare, there was an undeniable intimacy.
Evina bit her lip and Duncan’s eyes fell to her mouth. He shifted in his seat and his knees brushed hers under the table. They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the meal which had grown cold.
She hardly noticed. What she did notice was how Duncan’s stare followed the movement of her hands, how his gaze lingered on her lips, how the very simple observance of such things left a hum of anticipation buzzing through her.
“It’s getting late,” he said when they’d both finished their meal. In truth, it was not nearly as far into the night as the prior evenings they’d pored over their research. “Shall I walk ye to yer chamber?”
The breath pulled from Evina’s chest. Had such a silly reaction ever happened to her before? She didn’t think so, but she did acknowledge how greatly she liked it. The heady, wild emotion in a world where she held such constant control.
“I’d appreciate it,” Evina replied honestly.
Together they rose from the table, their gazes fixed on one another with an age-old understanding. Duncan’s hand lightly touched her lower back as he led her from the table full of books and empty plates. His fingertips trembled, perceptible against the thin silk of her gown, and she remembered it had been nearly a decade and a half since he’d had a woman.
Her pulse quickened at the cherished poignancy of the moment, at how the quiver of his fingers against her back was so very endearing.
Longing heated in her veins. She wanted the explosion of his pent up passion. A shudder rippled down her spine in expectation for hands blindly tearing at clothing, mouths panting against one another, bodies so hot
