The Irish Warrior (23 page)

In the mists of a Dublin dawn, a troop of mercenary soldiers grumbled onto their horses, but every one of them knew things could be worse. The pay was good and the plunder better. There were worse professions than employment with the king's governor in Ireland.

Motionless, the justiciar, Wogan, watched from horseback, supervising the muster as the soldiers mounted up. The sound of heavy boots and creaking leather bounced back off the wall of mist.

Always a march and battle, taking here and giving there, only to have it taken back again. Irish king-making and deposing, releasing men held hostage and rescuing besieged ones, appointing good men and burying dead ones. His face revealed nothing; he was a chiseled sculpture whose craggy presence made his men mount up more quickly when his gray eyes settled on them.

King Edward would follow shortly, but Wogan had orders not to wait. The king had received news that greatly displeased him. Wogan was to begin settling the matter. Soon the Irish would understand the king's terms. They would capitulate, or they would die.

Wogan's fingertips were damp and chilled, and he blew on them absently as he straightened in the saddle. His gelding nickered at the sudden movement and skittered sideways over the wet cobblestones. Wogan spoke a soft word, and the horse quieted.

Turning, his hand in the air, he swept his arm down in an arc, and the retinue headed off into the mists. They would make good time, bound for northern Ireland where the devil-try dwelt.

They wouldn't see him coming for a long time. When they did, it would be too late.

 

When the sun was midway through its western arc the next afternoon, Finian lifted his hand and pointed into the valley below.

“O'Fáil lands.”

Senna nodded calmly, belying her fluttering heart. Her entire life had been spent on a remote manor, locked away with profit sheets and a stylus. Exactly as she'd planned it. Finian seemed to feel sad about that, that she'd somehow been injured as a result, that a loss had been suffered. But she'd never seen it that way.

As a widow, she'd made the final decisions about her life. Bought a dying business and made it thrive, raised her brother and, until their father gambled it away, ensured a rich manor remained for the ensuing generations—that would probably never come, she suddenly realized, because neither she nor Will seemed inclined toward unions. Marriages, children, that sort of thing. Being connected.

They'd been ruined for it.

Each of them lived ferociously solitary lives, connected only to each other by steely thin threads of devotion, and to their father by knotted ropes of dismay. Dread. Desolation.

Until now. Senna had let go the rope and gone over the edge of that particular, spectacular cliff with Finian.

She tried frantically to straighten the wild curls of her hair into a semblance of a braid. It helped little to realize now that she was terrified of meeting people. That her self-imposed sequestration had not simply been a preference for numbers or the clarity of a contract. It had been—and was—fear.

She admitted it now: fear had ruled her life. For good reason. There was much to fear, and it was all inside her, flowing like blood. Just like blood.

The same blood that gave her powers to create the most rare, coveted dyes in the West. Dye-witch, indeed. A dye-witch was someone who courted terrible, dangerous things, who let passion rule her life. Senna knew now she was no better than her mother.

They were met long before the castle gates by warriors who obviously knew Finian on sight. Solid muscle locked on muscle as the long-lost warriors pounded each other on the back, hooting and hollering.

“Finian O'Melaghlin, ye crooked Irishman,” roared one voice above the others.

“Ah, Saint Pat, Finian, we thought ye were dead,” said another, and she could hear the despair the thought had conjured.

A burly arm wrapped around his shoulders, and her escort disappeared beneath the hearty welcoming of those who flocked to the gates.

Someone pounded Finian on his shoulder and roared, “'Tis more than good to have ye back. 'Twas grievous when we thought ye were captured and killed with the rest.”

“'Tis grievous enough that the others were killed,” he replied grimly.

“Aye, that it is,” the other man said. “But the king has need of all his nobles, and to lose a great lord and councilor like yerself would be a loss too tremendous to bear.”

Finian grunted noncommittally, but Senna's weary eyes were yanked open by the recognizable English words. Great lord? Councilor? Her great, hulking warrior? What, with his irreverent jokes and earthy ways, favored by a king?

Lord Finian. Good Lord. He was noble.

The rest of the household greeted them just inside the inner bailey gates. Older men, women, and a bevy of children swarmed into the bailey or hung out of windows, waving and calling. Afternoon shadows stretched across portions of the bailey, and a golden glow of firelight formed a backdrop for the silhouetted figures.

Women of the household flitted and fluttered nearby, bright Irish butterflies. Senna was quick to note them pinch their cheeks and brighten their smiles when Finian's gaze turned to them. A chill of worry slunk across her breast.

Someone approached. Tall, long-haired, and kilted, he nodded levelly at Finian. “Our king will no' believe me when I tell him you made it out of yet another close call, O'Melaghlin. I was just on my way to save your sorry arse.”

Finian turned. “The day I need a Scot
gallowglass
to save my arse 'twill truly be a sorry day.”

“A regular day,” retorted the other, crossing his arms. “A day like any other. I've saved you too many a time to count.”

Finian snorted. “Ye've drunk me under the table too many times to count. Saved me? I think not.”

“Saved you, indeed. That's why The O'Fáil was sending me out, to save you. As usual. I was just leaving.”

“Aye, well, ye're too late. As usual.”

They stared for another moment, then suddenly embraced with hearty thumps on the back. These men did like to thump. Senna couldn't help smiling, but the smile fled when she heard Finian's low-pitched words. “The O'Fáil received word of my capture, then?”

The other man pounded him on the back, replying in a voice just as low, “Aye, we've a word: bastard.”

“I've two,” Finian said as they released. “
Dead man.
Where is the king?”

“Inside. He's been worried like a sick cat, Irish. He'll be glad you're here.”

“Maybe,” Finian said flatly. “Until he hears my news.”

“We've had some news ourselves,” said the tall Scotsman.

Finian looked at him sharply. “Of what?”

The Scotsman's eyes drifted in Senna's direction for a moment. “Rardove has spun a fascinatin' tale about your escape.”

“Is that so?” he replied grimly. “I've a tale as well. But for later,” he said, passing a sharp glance around the circle of warriors. “For now, all ye need to know is that this,” he reached out to Senna, “is my savior.” He tugged her into their circle.

“This comely vision was yer wings, ye lout?” one man roared in laughter and turned to her in mock reprimand.

Finian took a deep breath. “I'd have you meet Senna de Valery.”

Stunned silence swept through the group. Someone said in a quiet voice, “Rardove's betrothed?”

He jutted his chin out. “She never was.”

“Rardove says she was,” another man said grimly.

“Rardove lies when he breathes.”

“Sweet Jesus, O'Melaghlin, why is she
here?
” someone else demanded.

“She's here because I've brought her here.” Finian's gaze glittered dangerously over the group, and Senna felt the tension ratchet up another notch. Her heart started that familiar thundering, and the resultant dizziness tingled at the base of her neck. The Scot who'd embraced Finian turned to her with a smile.

“Now, why would you have done such a thing as that, lass, setting a scoundrel like Finian O'Melaghlin free?”

She gave a weak smile. “Had I known the depths of his depravity, rest assured I would have found another.”

The crowd broke into noisy, if tense, laughter and turned to enter the keep. Finian looked down at her.

“They don't want me here,” she whispered.

“Not to worry,” Finian said. “I'll see to ye.”

He slid his arm around her waist, laying claim in a way that might, he hoped, ward off any problems. But then, there was a war at hand, and women never fared well in them.

By keeping his arm tight around her waist, Finian was privy to every quivering muscle in her body as they climbed the stairwell into the keep. Her backbone ran in an unerringly stiff line from neck to buttocks. He pursed his lips as they topped the stairs.

“Do ye know where my favorite place in this hall was, when I was young and fostered here?”

She jerked her head up. “Nay.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

He gestured with his chin. “See if ye can pick it out.”

Her gaze swept the large room as they stopped in the arched doorway of his long-ago home. The great hall, three broad steps below them, was wide, clean, and bright, lit by evening light coming in through high windows and rushlights burning in iron sconces. A huge fire roared in a recessed firepit along the far wall, a blaze of light and heat. Fresh rushes covered the floor, and the room smelled comfortably of faint herbs and warm bodies.

People were everywhere, in pairs and threesomes, talking, eating, and laughing. A young couple was having a lovers' argument in a far corner, the disagreement evident by a quivering lower lip and dewy, tear-filled eyes.

A group of youngsters huddled at a far table, playing some kind of game. One lad exploded into such raucous laughter he rolled backward off the bench. The others erupted after him, little volcanoes of good spirit.

Two dogs lolled comfortably by the roaring fire, crunching bones. The outline of a cat was frozen in midstride, her bright green eyes fixed on some unseen rodent threat beneath the rushes.

A herd of young men, not yet warriors but no longer boys, loitered near a group of men. They weren't watching their elders though, who were, at the moment, the most boring creatures imaginable. They were espying a bevy of young females chattering at another table, lasses who hid their lips behind slender hands, eyed their admirers, then giggled and looked away.

Senna's gaze swept back to him. “At the head of that table where the maidens are?” she asked, the tremor gone from her voice.

He smiled, pleased his gambit had proven successful. “Guess again.”

“At the center of the dais table, then, being self-assured and commanding.”

He shook his head.

“Tell me, then.”

“No. Ye're to figure it out yerself.”

“I will.” She accepted the challenge with bright eyes.

“Och, how could I doubt it? Ye're quick-witted, and if ye cannot figure it out yerself, all ye've to do is pull out that pretty smile and lure the truth out of some poor unsuspecting.”

It was indeed a pretty smile that brightened her now-relaxed face as Finian led her into the hall, battling back the wave of protectiveness washing through him. There were more important things to attend to just now, such as recovery of ancient Irish rights and onrushing war. He must not get distracted by Senna.

Just then, the king looked up and saw him. He went still, then got to his feet, slowly. Tablets on his lap crashed to the floor.

Finian started forward, toward the man who'd taken him in when everyone else was willing to say he was a lost cause, who'd believed in something the others hadn't seen. To them, he'd been the son of a mother who committed the sin of suicide, right now burning in hell, and a father who'd melted away after it happened.

But The O'Fáil had brought him in, raised him up, called him son, councilor, friend. Finian had not exaggerated a whit; he owed The O'Fáil more than his life. He owed him his reason for living.

Finian reached out for his foster father's hand.

“Jésu, Finian,” the king muttered, grasping his wrist and coming around the table. “I thought ye were—” And then The O'Fáil, one of the greatest Irish kings since Brian Bóruma, came forward and crushed Finian in a bear hug.

If Senna had seen glimpses of love from the corners of her life, then this was it in full force, bursting and unreserved. And it fell down all over Finian like rain.

The king pulled back, bearded and smiling. His hands continued to grip Finian's shoulders. “So. You decided to visit.”

“In truth, my lord, I had nothing better to do for the night.”

The king laughed heartily, then looked around swiftly. Almost the entire hall had their eyes shifted toward them, but no one was nearby. Only Senna. His gaze flitted over her, paused momentarily, then returned to Finian. “Your mission?”

“Done, and then some,” Finian assured him in a low voice.

“Good. Good.” The king swept his piercing gaze back to Senna. “And who is your astonishing escort?”

“Senna de Valery, my lord.” Finian grabbed her hand and dragged her forward.

Above his gray-shot beard, the king's perceptive eyes appraised her in seconds. She felt the inspection as if a hook had been laid into her, poked about, and extracted. Then the king smiled. He gestured for her to sit beside him. She did so shyly, ducking her head.

“Lass, you ought not to bend your head so,” the king said. “Makes it hard to see your beautiful eyes.”

Finian rolled his eyes.

“So you all do that,” she replied softly, her voice a blend of seductress and innocent, so that Finian didn't know whether to guide her from the room to protect her from the onslaught of masculine attention that was about to come her way, or lay her out on a table and claim her with a roar:
She's mine!

Doubtful she'd see it as a compliment though. He kept his hands to himself.

The O'Fáil scratched the top of his ear, then wiped his hand along the back of his neck. “What is it we do, lass?”

“Charm. You charm us.”

The O'Fáil grinned. “Aye, we like to think we do our part. As do you ladies.”

Senna lifted her eyebrows a delicate fraction, conveying exactly a blend of innocence and feminine command. “I do not think I have ever made Lord Finian blush, my lord, and I quite doubt I could do it to you.”

Finian crossed his arms over his chest, an impermeable barrier of confident, careless warrior. The king grinned broadly at him, then turned back to Senna. “Well, you'd never know if you did it to me, now would you, under all this fur.” He tugged on his beard and she smiled. The king leaned a bit closer. “But with Finian, lass, you just might be able to tell.”

Finian unslung his arms and stepped forward. “That's enough,” he announced, putting his arms under Senna's armpits and practically lifting her off the bench.

The O'Fáil was still laughing as Finian said, “The king has a council to attend, and you need to eat, Senna.”

She batted his hands away long enough to turn and bow her head. “Sire, I am not accustomed to being indebted, and suspect I do not do it very well, but know this: I am grateful beyond words, and indebted to you for my life. I vow to repay it.”

The O'Fail regarded her a minute before nodding, too, then Finian guided her away and sat her at another table on the other side of the room. He felt The O'Fáil watching the whole time. He tromped back and they walked out of the great hall together.

“She's filled with fire,” the king observed as they strode down the corridor.

“Ye've no idea.”

Up ahead was the meeting chamber. Other men, young and old, were already filing inside. No one had to officially call this meeting; Finian's arrival had been summons enough. The O'Fáil stopped and turned to him.

“Son, do I need to say it aloud?”

Finian met his hard gaze with one equally unflinching. “What?”

“She's got to go back.”