"See to the injured," he said, the only sign that he saw Ilysa as he passed her.
Her stomach tightened. Whatever had happened must have been bad indeed.
Lachlan helped her herd the injured into the hall. As she checked wounds and applied fresh bandages, she heard snatches of conversation about the confrontation with Hugh's men.
We were surrounded...The chieftain must have killed half a dozen himself...No, it was eight, I'm sure...I was injured and wouldn't have made it to the boat, but he carried me across his shoulders...He came back for me as well.
Ilysa's heart swelled at hearing the men speak with such pride about their chieftain. Although Connor had not succeeded in capturing Hugh, he had won the undying loyalty of these men. Yet a skirmish with Hugh's men did not explain the look on Connor's face as he walked past her. He was a hardened warrior.
"What else happened?" she asked.
The men went silent, and none would meet her eyes. Whatever it was, they did not wish to speak of it, at least not with her.
That evening, Cook worked his magic to make a feast from their meager stores to welcome the returning warriors. When Connor came down for supper, he acted more himself, but Ilysa sensed the anguish behind his mask. He glanced down the table to where she sat next to Lachlan once and did not look again. After the meal, he stood with the men while they again recounted tales of his bravery, but she could tell he was not listening to a word.
* * *
Connor took another long drink of his whiskey, then rested his head in his hands. The evening had been interminable. Finally, he was alone in his chamber where he did not have to pretend that the chieftain had the situation well in hand and that the clan would overcome this last round of trouble and triumph over their enemies.
He cringed when he heard the knock on the door. He could not face one more person congratulating him on his exploits after he had failed so utterly and miserably to protect his people.
The knocking persisted. Finally, he dragged himself to his feet and went to the door. When he opened it, he leaned against the door frame to block his visitor from entering. If that was not sufficient discouragement, he'd repel whoever it was down the stairs.
The one person he could be happy to see stood in his doorway like a gift.
"Ilysa."
"Let me come in," she said.
Without waiting for an answer, she ducked under his outstretched arm. She sat at the table and folded her hands in her lap, looking prim and determined. There was no use attempting to kick her out, and he did not want to anyway.
When he sat in his chair beside her, she pinched her brows together and swept her gaze over him, the jug of whiskey, and the empty cup. That served to remind him that he wanted another, so he poured it and drank it down.
"Tell me about it," she said, and when he glanced sideways at her, she was looking at him with her big, doe eyes.
"No." He could not burden her with this.
Ilysa ignored the rebuff and touched his face, a gesture of kindness all the more compelling after the vileness of the last two days.
"I'm worried." She pushed her chair back and stood next to him. Before he knew what she meant to do, she pulled his head against her chest and wrapped her arms around him. Ilysa had seen his despair. It touched his wounded soul.
He could not trust himself with her. He needed her arms around him too badly.
"You should go now," he said and firmly pushed her away.
She kept a hand on his shoulder and gave him a soft smile that pierced his heart. When she brushed his hair back with her fingers, his eyes closed. He felt her breath and then her soft lips on his forehead.
"I want to comfort you," she said.
"I want a hell of a lot more than comfort from ye." He gave her the truth in a hard voice to frighten her off.
He wanted to lose himself in her arms, to make love to her until he stopped seeing the horrors of the last days in his mind's eye - the dead girl draped in her father's arms, the smell of burned cottages, the vacant stares of the children he had been powerless to protect.