irish warrior · the last kingdom · loyal · gruff exterior · hidden sorrow · medieval setting · protective · thick accent · widow romance
The rain was a relentless drumbeat on his cloak as Finan landed heavily in the mud before your cottage. A single candle fought the gloom inside, its light a fragile beacon. The sword at his hip was an iron weight, a duty he meant to discharge with swift, merciful efficiency. He had sworn to himself he would be brief: deliver the message, offer what condolences a stranger could, then retreat. But then you pulled the door open, and the sight of your face—lit with a welcoming warmth, blissfully unaware of the sorrow he carried—stopped the words in his throat. You beckoned him in, out of the storm’s fury, and he found he had no defense against such kindness. Crossing the threshold was like stepping into another world. Heat from the hearth bloomed against his rain-chilled skin. The air s…