Tara gasped. No! They were nearly to safety. They couldn’t be stopped now. She wouldn’t let them be. Grabbing both her reins and Roman's, she prepared to flee.
Hawk swept his sword from its scabbard, but held up his opposite hand and stayed perfectly still, facing their attacker. Off to the side, a dozen more men stepped from the woods, mere shadows in the pelting rain.
"So is the Hawk no longer welcome at Dun Ard?" Hawk asked, raising his voice above the pound of the rain.
There was a moment of silence, then, "Haydan, is that ye, lad?"
"Roderic," Hawk breathed.
The leader of the men rushed through the rain toward them. Tara remained poised and ready, but in a moment Hawk was on his feet and engulfed in a man's embrace.
"Hawk," he said. "Our Hawk has returned to the mews."
Though bigger and broader, Hawk seemed suddenly to droop in the other man's embrace.
Roderic frowned, then lifted his gaze to Tara. "What is this? What's happened?"
"'Tis Roman," Hawk said. "I came too late to assist him."
"God's wrath! Not Roman."
"Aye. I couldn’t save him, Roddy. 'Tis me own fault."
"He is dead then?"
"Nay!" Tara said, but the word was a croak of misery. "He will not die. He cannot."
Roderic's gaze caught hers again, then swept away.
"William!" he yelled.
"Aye, m'lord?" said a young man. He stepped forward, lean and small.
"Ride—nay—take Lochan's Bairn and fly ta Glen Creag. Fiona will know what ta do."
William fell back a step, his eyes going wide. "The Flame willna let me take her favorite steed."
"Buck up, man," said Roderic. "She willna bite ye. Bullock, ye'd best go with him, lest I'm wrong."
"Aye, m'lord."
"Adam, run ahead and tell Bethia that the Wolf has been struck."
Within minutes, they crossed a drawbridge. The courtyard was slick beneath Tara's mount's hooves. The keep loomed before her.
Hawk untied Roman and carried him into the hall.
Tara slid to the ground, feeling numb and worn.
"Come, lass," Roderic said, reaching for her hand.
"Nay." She drew back. For a moment of time she had hoped Roman could be hers. For a moment she had dreamed, but no more. When she loved, people died. She couldn’t risk his life.
"He'll die without ye," Roderic said.
"No." She whispered the word. "’Tis his only chance to live.”
"I know the Wolf well," Roderic said. "He needs ye."
Tara tried to turn away, but she lacked the strength to leave him. In a moment, she followed Roderic up the stairs to the infirmary.
Tara awoke with a start.
An angel stood in the doorway. "Roman!" she said. Her hair challenged the color of the fire in the hearth, and her eyes were as bright as amethyst.
Another woman rushed forward. She was taller, younger. But her hair was the same bright hue. In Tara's fatigue, it seemed they floated above the floor, ethereal, sent from heaven.
"Help him," she pleaded.
The first angel caught Tara's gaze.
"Do you love him?"
She wasn’t certain if the words were spoken or merely thought, but she was certain she couldn’t risk the truth. Silence ruled the room.
Still, the angel nodded as if she had spoken.
There was no time for denials.
The angels swept forward. They removed Roman's tattered tunic, cut away his bandages.
His wound was swollen and purple, oozing and crusted.
The taller woman gasped but the other remained steady.
"Flanna," she said, not taking her gaze from Roman's side. "I need purslane and dogwood leaves."
The younger woman straightened. "I can stay. Let me help."
"Nay," Fiona said, her own face ashen. "I need the leaves."
Flanna nodded and backed away. "What else?"
"Have Bethia bring boiling water and bandages."
Flanna nodded and disappeared.
"What can I do?" Tara whispered.
Fiona's gaze caught hers. There was wisdom and healing in the depths of her eyes. But there was more, love so vast it could encompass her even now. "Hold fast and pray, lass," she whispered.
Night fell. Morning dawned. Two days came and went, but Tara was caught forever in darkness. She remained as she was, unspeaking, unmoving. 'Twas her fault he was dying. Therefore, she didn’t deserve to touch him, but neither could she force herself to leave him.
"David MacAulay is well?" Fiona asked.
Three tawny hounds sat beside Roman's bed. Their long noses rested on his mattress as they gazed at him. Sweet Mary, Tara thought, even the dogs loved him.
There was a small group of people by the door. Tara knew them by name now. Leith was Fiona's husband, dark and solemn. Roderic was Leith's brother, the opposite in both looks and manner, his arm wrapped about his wife Flanna as she pressed close to his side.
Hawk was there, standing apart from the rest as he stared at Roman's pale face.
"Aye." Leith's voice was deep and quiet. "David is well. He has returned to his father."
Fiona nodded. The room fell silent.
Roderic drew a deep breath and absently rubbed his wife's arm. "Is there aught else we can do, Fiona? Are there other herbs that might help?"
Fiona shook her head. "His wounds are grievous, aye, but... He has been sorely wounded afore, and always he has fought back to health. But now... 'tis almost as if he does not wish to stay amongst us."
Leith tightened his fist. "Mayhap if ye tried more purslane. I could fetch—"
"I have done all I can," Fiona snapped, then stifled a sob with the back of her hand. "I’m sorry," she whispered. "’Tis not your fault. Tis only that I... I remember him as I first saw him. Brave ..." Her fingers slipped from her face. Tears washed her cheeks as she gazed at Roman's pale face. "He was so brave," she whispered. "Carrying Dora."
"The hound," Roderic murmured. He cleared his throat, but his eyes were filled with tears. One spilled past his golden lashes. "Sweet Mary, how he loved that hound."
"Enough to give his life," Fiona whispered. "It has always been thus with Roman. So easily could he sacrifice himself for those he cherished. But never could he see the good that is himself. Damn Dermid for the damage he has wrought!" she swore with sudden vehemence.
"Shhh." Leith pulled her into his arms. "'Tis all past, Fiona. 'Tis yer pure love that saved him. Yer love and none other's."
Fiona pressed her face against his chest. Her fingers gripped his sleeves. “But I canna save him now. ‘Tis almost as if he does not wish to be saved."
Tara said nothing. Her world had been ripped in two.
"Mayhap if we move him ta Glen Creag, ta his home, he'll..." Leith began, but Fiona shook her head.
"He'll not survive the night," she whispered.
The words yanked Tara from her trance. "Nay!" She shot out of her chair. "Nay!" she screamed. "He'll not die! He’ll not. I do not love him!"
The room went absolutely still. Five pair of eyes watched her.
"He will not die!" she croaked, backing away. "I never said I loved him. I never did."
Fiona drew herself from her husband's arms. "But you do, don't you?” she asked. “You do, but you've not said as much."
"No!" Tara whimpered and fell to her knees, fists clenched. Tears flooded her eyes. Misery drowned her. "Don't let him die! I'll leave. I'll go and not come back. I swear it."
"And think ye that will heal him?" Fiona asked.
Tara swiped the tears away. How many years had it been since she’d cried. "'Tis my fault," she whispered. "He wasn’t for the likes of me. I knew this—and yet I wanted him so. If I love, people die. Da, Mother, Cork. I knew, and yet..."
Fiona dropped to her knees. "They died because you loved them?" she asked quietly. Tara tried to avoid her eyes, tried to look away, but she couldn’t. "He’s my son," she whispered. "I deserve to know."
Tara nodded. "Make him better." She whimpered the words like a small, broken child. "Make him better, and I'll go away."
Fiona lifted her chin, and gripping Tara's hand, slowly pulled her to her feet. "You'll not go away," she said quietly. "You'll tell him the truth."
Tara shook her head and stepped back.
"His spirifs leaving," Fiona rasped, moving with her. "But love can do miracles. I've seen it afore."
"I don’t love. I can’t love. I'm not like you. I’ve done..." She shook her head, clasping her hands close to her chest. "My life has been corrupt. My love couldn’t heal him," she whispered.
Fiona's eyes burned into hers. "So ye’ve lived with evil, and yet ye long for what is good. Yer soul has not been blackened by that which ye have seen. 'Tis a special gift, Tara O'Flynn. 'Tis the gift that Roman needs. The love of a woman who has seen the darkness and fought for light. We love him, lass, but we cannot understand him, not truly, for he endured that which we shudder to imagine. But ye... ye understand him, and yet ye love him. Ye are two hearts destined to be melded. Ye belong together."
"Nay!" Tara said and stumbled backward.
"Aye, ye do," Fiona whispered. "Tell him the truth."
"No! I'll kill him!" Tara tried to escape, but Fiona held her in a hard grip.
"You are not God," she rasped. "You don’t decide who lives and who dies. But love is a gift of God. More powerful, mayhap, than any other force on earth. I'll not stand by and watch my son die while ye deny yers."
The room fell silent. Fire blazed in Fiona's eyes. The truth burned in Tara's soul. Somehow she stumbled forward and fell to her knees.
"Roman." She whispered his name. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. I did not mean to love you. I tried my best to resist but..." She laughed. The sound was warbled and painful. "You wouldn’t let me." She gripped his hand, leaning over his chest to speak into his face. "I tried to leave you." Tears dripped down her cheek and onto his hand. "Every one of me tried to leave you. Or tried to make you go away," she whispered. "You should have gone while you had a chance, but you were too noble. You had to save MacAulay. You had to save me. Thus, you tricked me into coming. You didn’t wish to die in England you said. But you would have survived. I see that now. And mayhap I saw it then, but I couldn’t bear to let you go. I told myself I came with you to see you safe to your homeland. I told myself I would leave when you were here. But it was only my weakness." She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Leaning forward, she kissed him. Tears fell on his eyelids, his nose, her hair where it fell upon his cheek. "Please forgive me. But I love you—more than life itself."
*
Tara sat in numb silence. Her admission of love had only made her pain more intense. Mayhap that was why she had denied her feelings so long—to save herself from the agony love caused.
Night ground toward morning. He wouldn’t survive the night, Fiona had said.
Why had she not been allowed to die under Dagger's sword, Tara wondered. She had lived a life of crime, but surely she didn’t deserve to watch him die. Surely not that.
A glimmer of light appeared at the narrow window of the infirmary. Tara turned toward it.
He would not survive the night!
The words rang in her mind. She tightened her grip on his fingers.
"Please!" She croaked the word. Tears fell on their clasped hands. "Please don't go without me. Please! I'll—"
His fingers twitched in hers. Tara's breath stopped in her throat.
"Roman?" She barely dared breath the word. "Roman?"
"Lass?" He opened his eyes slowly, then lay perfectly immobile, staring at her. "Am I in heaven?" His voice was a hoarse whisper.
Tara shook her head, unable to find her voice.
"Ye are here?" He raised his hand to touch her damp cheek. "Ye are here," he murmured, awe softening his words. "But I thought—I thought I had lost ye. Dagger..." He shook his head.
A sob wrenched Tara's chest. She clasped Roman's hand to her chest. "Dagger is dead. You killed him."
"But he killed you. I saw him. Ye were lost to me. I thought to die, too, to follow ye to the hereafter."
"No," she whispered. "I’m alive. But I've been a coward, afraid to admit my feelings for you. Afraid of losing you. But I see now that if I don’t risk, if I don’t admit the truth, I've already lost you." She pressed the back of his hand to her tear-drenched cheek. "I am yours, Roman, for as long as the Lord gives us, if you'll have me."