Page 143 of Song of the Dark Wood

“Now, my love, as I remember, I told you that I would make this marriage official on the altar of the Temple of the Mother if we made it out of this alive, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word.” Conor grinned.

Rowan arched an eyebrow. “Well, if you insist. It might no longer be my job, but I’d still prefer to keep the Wolf happy.”

“And I you,” he said, sweeping her up into his arms as she laughed and carrying her back toward the wreckage of the Temple of the Mother.

Rowan leaned her head against Conor’s shoulder and smiled to herself. She’d broken every rule and lived in full rebellion, and she’d been lucky enough to live to tell the tale. She’d make the most of her life for Orla and Aeoife and every Maiden that came before them. She made a silent promise to herself that she’d stay wild enough for all of them.

36

CONOR

Six Months Later

Conor’s boot slid in a mud puddle while his wife was greeted with a path of ferns to cushion her bare feet. The forest sprouted flowers around her path, pressing them to caress her arms, branches bending low to comb her hair. The affectionate way the Dark Wood responded to her still shocked Conor.

A bush of wild roses shot up from the side of the trail. They bloomed rapidly and sent a rush of sweetness into the air.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful,” Rowan murmured, bending to breathe them in, her unbound hair falling in front of her shoulders.

“Sure, give her roses while you give me mud,” Conor grumbled.

Rowan giggled. “Is it roses you want, my love? I’m sure the forest will accommodate.”

The branches and bushes around them shuddered before climbing vines of bloodred roses shot up the tree trunk beside Conor.

The Dark Wood might have been an extension of his magic, but it was Rowan’s care that brought it to life. It was the way she’d secretly poured all of her love and hurt and hope into it. It was the magic in her heart. Of course it liked her better.

She continued walking, passing through the gates of Wolf’s Keep, which were now girdled in vines of climbing florals. She walked into the Dark Garden, singing a soft lullaby, her voice floating through the flowers and shrubs, carried on a spring breeze that ruffled her hair and the hem of her pale green dress.

Conor wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed the top of her head, and she sighed into the end of the song. Never could he have predicted being so undone by a woman.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said.

Rowan sighed in satisfaction and leaned against him. She’d already lost focus as his fingers slid down her bare arms.

“You just like to distract me,” she murmured as Conor’s lips brushed her neck.

“It’s only because you smell like dessert,” he teased. “It makes me want to check if you taste as sweet as your scent suggests.”

Rowan shivered, pressing her back against him harder as his hand ran down the front of her body.

“Conor! Behave yourself,” she said, craning her neck to look at him. Her tone was scolding, but her eyes were bright with delight.

“Impossible when you’re so tempting, lass,” he said. Her hand cupped his face as he lifted her into a kiss, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Conor was happily lost in her, but Rowan pulled away before things became too intense.

“You have to stop seducing me in the garden. If Charlie or Cade catch us out here again, they are going to move out of the keep,” she murmured.

Her resolve crumbled as Conor went on kissing her. He loved having that power over her but loved it more that she had the same power over him. His wife was a goddess, both in his mind and in the minds of the people of Ballybrine, though they argued over her true title.

Was she the goddess of death? Goddess of balance? Goddess of the woods? Goddess of rebirth?

Perhaps she was all of those things, but to Conor, she would always be the only goddess he ever wanted to worship, and her power grew as tales of her courage spread.

After Rowan and Conor fought for Ballybrine and the ships full of refugees poured in, faith was at an all-time high. The people had borne witness to a new deal between the Crone Mother and the Wolf. There would be no more spirit singers sacrificed to the god of death. It was too late for Orla and Aeoife, but they would be the last to pay too high a price for Conor’s youthful foolishness. But as long as the people believed, the Wolf and his red-cloaked wife would carry the souls of their loved ones from the realm of the living to the realm of the dead.

He wasn’t sure what they’d done would be enough. His dreams had not stopped, but they also hadn’t become worse, so perhaps it was enough for now.

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