Page 14 of The Guardian

His mouth pressed against hers. It was a soft quick kiss, but nevertheless a kiss. He straightened, seeming as shocked as she was, but he quickly regained his composure and took a step back. On the other hand, Ailith was frozen to the spot.

A wide shoulder lifted and lowered. “I will wait for ye by the bakery.”

He knew she’d purchase bread before leaving the village. Ailith let out a huff. “Ye can wait all ye want. I will nae go with ye.”

“Aye, ye will.”

It was almost absurd, the image of the hardened warrior Rory perched stiffly cradling a wide-eyed Teller on the saddle as they rode.

She scanned the surroundings, doing her best to keep from relaxing into Hendry’s body.

Ailith held herself ramrod straight, not just out of aversion of the closeness, but because Hendry hadn’t the strength to bear her weight. Every step of the horse jostled his injured frame, and she could feel the slight tremble in his muscles as he struggled to remain upright behind her.

Four warriors emerged from the woods, their horses falling into step. Other than a flicker of curiosity, none addressed her.

“We didnae spot anyone matching the descriptions,” one called out to Hendry. “But a man at the pub claims he saw them two nights past.”

“They rented a room for the night. Just one room,” added another.

“Likely on yer coin,” Rory muttered with a dry chuckle as he steadied Teller, who squirmed wanting to be put down.

Hendry let out a grunt that might have passed for a curse. “They’re still on the isle, then.”

They pressed on in silence, broken only by the occasional groan Hendry couldn’t quite suppress. Each soft sound made her chest tighten. She twisted her head to look at him, her brow arched in disapproval.

“I can walk from here,” she said quietly. “My cottage is just beyond those trees. Ye need to rest, not play the martyr.”

To her surprise, he didn’t argue. His gaze dropped, heavy-lidded and exhausted, and he gave a curt nod. “Rory, we’ll stop here.”

One of the warriors dismounted and came to help her down, his hands gentle but efficient as he guided her to the ground. He then went to retrieve Teller, who wiggled, impatient to be put on the ground.

Ailith reached for the sack tied to the saddle, but her hand collided with another. Hendry’s. His fingers closed over hers.

“Be with care,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

A jolt of awareness raced up her arm. Their eyes locked. His were clouded with pain, but there was something else there too, something far more dangerous. Familiar. Longing.

She yanked her hand away, lifting the sack with a defiant tug. “Try not to fall off the horse,” she muttered. “I doubt yer pride could take another blow.”

He let out a tired huff that might have been a laugh.

She turned away quickly. She could not afford to soften.

Years ago, she’d given her heart to Hendry McNichol, and he’d shattered it like glass underfoot. She’d refused to allow him into her life ever again. He’d proven not to be trusted with her heart.

Hendry had gone to another isle, without coming to see her and when she’d gone to search him out, a warrior called Brant had told her, in a voice laced with pity, that Hendry had taken another to his bed the night before leaving.

It had been a servant girl called Una, with whom he’d often slept with. Brant had even called on his squire, who’d confirmed what the warrior had said.

She’d cried for many nights. Sleep had become a stranger. Food an afterthought. Her days had passed in a haze of silent agony, and her nights were filled with cold, empty silence.

She would not go through that again.

No matter the flicker in his eyes.

No matter the warmth of his hand.

No matter how much her heart wanted to remember the way he once looked at her.

She would not let the wall she’d built crumble. Not for him.