The Irish Warrior (25 page)

The room fell silent after the planning. Each man stared into the darkness, wondering if he would again see his family and friends, if he would be alive to watch summer come, or to reap the harvests in fall.

Finian sat with his head bent, the burden of the future weighing down his shoulders. The men began milling, heading for the door, talking as they went, slow and roundabout, like water eddying amid the rocks.

Senna. He would go to Senna, for just a moment.

Sitting alone in the great hall, Senna listened to the unintelligible conversations swarming around her. The great hall was filled with people, the din of conversation almost deafening to her untrained ears. She was more accustomed to the wailing winds and pattering of rain against the windows, not the sounds of people talking. Laughing.

She leaned forward, chin in her hand. The content was lost on her, as it was in Irish, but she found herself enchanted by the strange, lyrical language. And she did not need to know the words themselves to know this was a gathering like those she used to witness when she left her empty manor and visited others on business. A night where kinsmen passed along tales of politics and gossip of family, accounts of happenings both great and small.

She'd always sat stock-still in her seat, trying to be as invisible as a bug. She never knew any of the people being spoken about, and none of the happenings were ever hers. No one spoke of her, ever. She'd been as alone in her homeland as she was here, where she didn't speak the tongue.

That was a disquieting realization.

Remaining motionless, she shifted her attention whenever necessary, attending whoever was talking the loudest, laughing the hardest, or had the most people standing about, smiling. Perhaps if she listened well, tried to attend, learned how they did it…

A woman sat down beside her.

“Mistress de Valery?”

The accent was so thick it took Senna a moment to understand her own name.

“I am Mugain,” the beautiful woman said, tapping her chest lightly.

Senna smiled in reply. Her first lesson in being the sort of person who could hold a conversation that didn't involve ledgers or sheep barns.

“You are in Finian O'Melaghlin's company.”

She nodded.

The Irish woman's eyes traveled over her appraisingly. “I know Finian.”

A creeping chill slunk across Senna's chest like a nocturnal claw. “Indeed? I know little of him, and do welcome your words,” she lied with a faint smile.

Mugain smiled back. Senna's heart dropped. Here was a prime specimen of an Irish butterfly. Dressed in a red-dyed gown, while Senna sat in dirt-caked leggings. Raven-haired and glossy, where Senna's knotted brown hair dragged by her dirty ears. Curving where Senna was unerringly straight.

“You would do well to stay in his company,” the woman suggested. Her eyebrows lifted significantly.

Senna blushed. “'Tis not like that.”

“Och, but it should be,” she scolded, and leaned forward. “You trust me. I know: it
should
be.”

Senna almost groaned in misery.

The Irishwoman lifted the ladle from a vessel on the table and poured a portion of meaty stew over the day-old bread that served as a trencher, while peering at Senna. “We will talk? I would like to get to know you.”

“Indeed.” She smiled weakly, and ate with a rapidly diminishing appetite while Mugain fluttered at her side, each minute ticking by like an hour in the company of the suspiciously friendly Irish butterfly.

Half an hour later Lassar, the king's wife, approached the table. A wave of relief washed through Senna, and she almost tipped the bench getting to her feet. Lassar extended a hand and touched Senna's gently in greeting.

“A room has been prepared for you,” the king's wife said softly. “And a bath.”

A bath.

“A warm bath?” she asked without thinking. Warm water. Soap.

Lassar exchanged an amused glance with Mugain and nodded. “'Tis quite warm.”

Senna bowed her head. “I am most indebted, my lady. When Finian returns…?”

Lassar smiled faintly. “He knows where his room is.”

“His room?”

“Where Lord Finian stays when he's to visit. He said to put you both there.”

Her cheeks flamed. “I see.”

Lassar smiled gently. “'Tis said you sprouted Lord Finian a pair of wings. For that, we are all indebted.”

Senna's mouth was locked shut. This was awful and yet…what did she expect? And what did it matter in any event, her reputation? She had no life anymore. No home, no business, no lands, no coin, no relationships. She had nothing but Finian, who seemed to have everything, and need her not at all.

She studied the floor, knowing she was red-cheeked with embarrassment. But deeper than that was a chilling sort of disquiet. She was, at this moment, beholden.

A decade of her life spent ensuring she would never be indebted, never be needful, and here she was, full of nothing but need.

Food, shelter, safeguarding. Finian.

She brought nothing, could offer nothing, had nothing.
Certainly nothing,
she thought with a tired glance around the hall,
nothing Finian could not already find, in great, willing abundance.

She was precisely what she'd spent her life endeavoring not to be: unwanted and beholden.

“Come,” Mugain was saying and, gesturing for Senna to follow, began walking away.

“My thanks,” Senna murmured to Lassar, touching her hand before following behind.

As they crossed the hall, she took malicious inventory of each seductive sway in Mugain's hips and sinking notice of the appreciative masculine glances that followed her across the room.

“Finian's room is in the tower,” Mugain announced over her shoulder as they crossed the bailey to a doorway set within the battlement walls.

“Is it?” she snapped.

'Twas quite an extravagance to have a room set aside in a castle that must be bursting to the seams with householders, retainers, and servants, never knowing when that guest might visit again. But Finian could melt the heart of an icicle, and it was clear he held an especial place in the king's heart.

They climbed the curving, narrow staircase and entered a small room set in a turret of the battlement walls. It was a medium-sized room with closely-woven wicker walls, warmed by a fire in a brazier. A narrow wardrobe sat against a wall, and on its shelves was a richly dyed tumble of linen, dark red. Block gilt embroidery decorated one visible hem, a rich extravagance. A pair of polished leather boots stood at attention beside the shelves, leather laces running up the sides, awaiting their owner.

But most wonderful, the room boasted a low-slung bed piled high with coverlets and pillows, a soft haven of scented distraction. And a bath, just as Lassar had promised. A steaming, scented tub of water that almost brought tears to Senna's eyes.

“I will help you, Mistress de Valery.”

She spun around. “No! I mean, nay, my thanks. I find myself weary,” she stammered. Good heaven, the last thing she needed was Mugain watching her undress.

“You would like to rest,” Mugain agreed amiably, with a glint in her eye.

“Aye. That's it. Rest.”

“I will go, then. I will be busy.” She winked conspiratorially.

Senna smiled in confusion. “With some secret, it looks like.”

“A secret. A present.”

“A gift? For whom?”

“For Finian O'Melaghlin.”

Her smile faded. “I am sure he will like it.”

“Och, he always does like my presents.”

Senna stilled. “Really.” Her lips froze in a glacial smile. Mugain dripped with hot honey as she returned it.

“Indeed, Mistress de Valery.”

“Senna,” she corrected vaguely.

“Lord Finian is fond of presents, Senna. I tell you this because once he and I were close, but are no longer.”

“Indeed.” She sniffed. “You tell me because you were close, or because you are no longer?”

“Both.” The raven-haired vixen leaned closer. Her smile bespoke friendship, but her eyes held an unfriendly shine.

“I thank you, I think.”

“Och”—Mugain leaned back with a flutter of her hand—“no need to thank. Finian will tell you all that he likes and dislikes.” Her gaze grew closer. “You look so much like Bella.”

“Bella?”

Mugain nodded and plucked at an invisible piece of dust on her bodice. “Bella.”

“Bella.” Senna echoed everything: the word, the inflection, the hinted seduction. The only thing missing were the claws.

“Bella was his woman for many long years. Years it has been though, and there have been others since. Strange it is, how they've all looked like her.” Mugain smiled. “Excepting me, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You know his history, do you not?”

She shook her head wordlessly.

“Mayhap I ought not be the one…” She glanced around conspiratorially. “He works his way through women like a hot knife through butter, Mistress de Valery.”

“Senna,” she choked.

“But if you stay here, you will find that out soon, and 'tis wrong of me to speak of it.” She leaned closer. “The women's looks when they saw Finian—you did see them?” Senna nodded dolefully: how could she have missed? “Once, many of them were on his arm, and do ache to be there again. Except me.” Mugain smiled brightly. “Does he find you special names? Och,” she went on, clucking at Senna's miserable, confirming nod. “Careful you, Senna de Valery. He is a good man, but a wolf with women.”

Mugain got up and shook out her skirts. “Please you to tell Finian I've a present for him?”

Senna could not even look up, let alone nod. She stared at the place Mugain's eyes had been, her heart quivering in the bottom of her chest.

Senna bathed, then, still damp, stood peering out the small slitted window when she spotted Finian coming across the bailey toward the tower.

When he entered the room, it was dusky with nighttime and candle glow. The scored candle on the tabletop showed it was somewhere between Vespers and Compline.

She turned and smiled. He did not.

In fact, he scowled, then stalked to the narrow wardrobe and pulled out the layers of dark red cloth. Likely one of the knee-length
léine
she'd seen the other men wearing. He glanced at the tub briefly, walked back to the door and wrenched it open, hollered for wine, then slammed it shut again. He turned and scowled at her. Again.

“Sit, Senna. Be at ease.”

She did neither. He barely spared her a glance, just began stalking the room, a large male presence moving almost soundlessly between the shadows. After a while, the wine came, and he poured them each a cupful. He set his down without drinking.

Depositing himself on a bench, he reached for the pair of clean boots she'd seen earlier. His hair swayed beside his face, and he swept it back with an impatient, callused hand—so careless with something she loved so well.

How many nights would be like this, quiet moments spent watching Finian undress, knowing he would come soon and hold her in his arms? She could probably have dozens of them, mayhap hundreds, before he moved on to new conquests, if what Mugain had said was true. And she saw no reason to think otherwise.

To the contrary, everything Mugain said confirmed every unsettling suspicion in Senna's mind.

She picked up her wine cup. “I spent time with some people while you were in council, Finian.”

He looked up sharply. “Were they good to ye?”

“Indeed. Lassar was most kind.”

He seemed to relax and tugged off one of the old, scuffed boots he'd been wearing. “Aye. Lassar is the kindest sort of woman. I'm pleased ye passed some time with her.”

Taking a sip to steady her nerves, she cleared her throat. “I spent time with many people, Finian, not just Lassar.”

“Good.”

“I met Mugain.”

The earth-shaking news did not seem to effect any great change. He tugged the other boot off and stood.

“She said she has a present for you.”

He grunted again and unbuckled his sword belt. Off it came, followed by various other blades, all tossed with careless skill onto the bench, until it glittered with steely, deadly things.

“She said you always like her presents.”

His gaze finally flicked over. “The last gift Mugain gave me was when she was ten, and 'twas a cold shank of lamb in my bed one night.”

Senna smiled but the chill in her chest did not warm. “She is fond of you, like many others. You are well loved.”

“I grew up here, Senna.” He tugged his tunic over his head. His body was naked and perfect except for a few scars, whitened and puckered in various places across his ribs and belly. She hadn't seen them before; it had always been dark, or perhaps she'd been too distracted by the gleaming power of him. “The bonds from fosterage are ofttimes stronger than blood ties.”

She dragged her gaze from the scars. “And now you are the king's advisor. How did that come to be?”

“I advised and he found it good.” He reached for the clean boots.

She wrinkled her nose. “From a race of storytellers, that was poor indeed.”

And finally, like a rainstorm that comes in the dog days of July, he laughed. One of those deep, carefree masculine rumbles that made her heart lift and sink all at once. He got to his feet and reached for her. She went. He swept up her hair in his hand and studied her as if he was seeing something new. Then, wordless, he cupped the side of her cheek and ran his face down her neck,
inhaling her.

Something was wrong.

“Finian?”

He dropped her hair.

“Your council was troubling.”

“The times are troubling,” he replied, his voice so low she ducked closer to hear, but she almost stumbled, because he released her and stepped away, back to the bench, where he started pulling on the clean boots.

“Has this to do with Rardove, Finian?” she asked slowly.

He didn't answer.

“It does,” she said fiercely. “In which case, it has to do with
me.
”

He looked up, but his eyes were unreadable, closed off. He may as well have been gone from the room. “It has nothing to do with ye.”

“Finian, I can help. I can
do something.
What is happening? Tell me.”

“I came only to make sure ye were settled,” he replied gruffly. “Stay here in the room. Ye'll hear people going into the hall. There's a feast tonight, but I'd rather ye stay here.”

“A feast—?”

“Lassar will see ye've got a pretty skirt or two, and clean things, and she'll look out for ye. We leave in the morning.”

“Where are we going?”

“Not ye.” Finian yanked on the other boot and rose. Swiftly he tugged on the dark red
léine
and belted it.

“Pardon?” she asked.

“We're going to war.” He knew his speech was clipped and brusque, and it was the only way.

“Oh, no,” he heard her whisper behind him.

“I leave first thing in the morn.” He grated the words out, glanced at her briefly, then turned for the door. “I may not—. I will not see ye before I go.”

“Oh.”

That brought him swinging back around, shocked at the fury she'd conjured with such a simple word and all its complicated implications. “I am doing my duty, Senna.” He had to smash the words out through his clenched jaw. “My duty. There is nothing else, do ye not see that? Have I not made that clear?”

She lifted her chin. “To the contrary, you've made several things abundantly clear. One, you are capable of great stupidity. Two—”

His jaw dropped.

“You have obviously been spoiled terribly, to have the arrogance to don clean clothes over that dirty body. Thirdly, you demonstrate a streak of stubbornness I had not—”

He started for the door. “Stay here.”

He made it to the threshold before he felt her light touch on his arm. “Do not leave me in this manner.”

It could have been a plea. But it wasn't. It was clear and fierce and bright and exactly what he wanted from her, and it made him turn, when what he ought to do was smash through the door and never stop going.

He had no choice.
Clear and fierce and bright
would get her killed. She would be noticed. Already the murmuring was beginning, that she'd started a war. Things could go badly. Quickly. So he met her gaze dead-on, cold and challenging, ignoring the urge to lose himself in her feminine strength.

“Listen to me, Senna,” he said coldly. “Stay in the room. If it pleases ye more, I will try to see ye before I leave.”

He pulled open the door but she appeared in front of him, blocking his path. He could plow her over, of course, but she was small and—God save him, was that a blade in her hand?

“Jesus, woman,” he snarled, but he snarled it while frozen. The blade tip hovered just beneath his chin.

“Try to see me?”
she echoed his words, rather coldly, he admitted. There was a glint in her eye that harkened to violence. Fortunately, much as she might throw a blade with skill, she was inexperienced with combat and far too furious to be effective. Or focused.

He snapped his hand up and clamped his fingers around her wrist, then yanked down. He gave a fierce shake and the knife broke loose, clattering to the floor. Still holding her wrist, he propelled her backward. When she hit the wall, he bent to her face.

“Do not ever raise a weapon to me.”

“Do not ever abandon me.” She was breathing fast, her face flushed, but her words came out slow and precise.

The wrist trapped in his grip was delicate—he could snap it with a twist—but she was staring at him with ferocity, and she seemed, as she always seemed to him, magnificent as the sun.

With a muted curse, he dropped her wrist and threaded his fingers violently through her long, damp tresses. His hands caught on knots, but he simply fisted them into handfuls and dragged them up, beside her jaw. He did not want to talk to her, answer her questions, feel anything at all. Senna's every fiber quivered for connection, and he did not want it. He was going to war. All he could manage of Senna de Valery right now was her body.

But that—that he suddenly needed with a desperation he'd never known before.

Before she could utter another maddening word, he plowed her mouth open beneath a kiss and backed her up to the low bedstead. She sat down hard on the mattress. Standing before her, he pushed her legs apart with a knee and stood between them, shoving aside the robe covering her damp body. She already had one hand on his head, pulling him down to her. He bent his hips, but remained standing. She scraped her other hand up his chest, her tongue hot in his mouth as soon as he was close enough. They were like mad things, touching each other, each feel of skin wanted and insufficient, left behind as they reached for the next.

He clamped her hips and dragged her to the edge of the bed, sliding her naked body over the furs, stretched out like a gift—a river of damp hair across the furs, her slightly rounded abdomen, long, muscular legs, and the tangle of reddish blond curls between her legs. He dragged a single callused fingertip between her breasts, down her belly, to the curls, raising throaty whimpers.

She flung herself up and impatiently fumbled with the folds of his
léine,
fingers trembling. He watched, motionless, letting her fumble with the unfamiliar layers, then he loosed the belt and stepped between her thighs. He cupped her cheek and pushed her back to lie flat on the bed, while he stood before her.

“Raise yer knees,” he ordered.

She lifted one, but before she could get it fully bent, he had his palm under it, pulling up. Her chest fluttered in unsteady panting as she tried to reach around to the curve of his buttocks to pull him forward. He bent enough to plant his free hand onto the mattress beside her head. Eyes locked, he entered her in one slow, relentless thrust. Her lips parted in a low keen.

No more questions, no more wondering on the future or the meaning of things. There was only this one perfect moment, where she would mouth his name and let him rule her. He rocked his hips forward in long, relentless thrusts. She met each one with furious abandon, her mouth open, her eyes locked on his, every shadow of her lit for him.

Her surrender came on every level, and a wave of respect corded with guilt rose inside him. She had given herself over completely to this thing with him. It felt as if he were being drowned in her; there was no breath that was not Senna-filled. She was his, to do with as he would.

He plunged again, feeling her hot, throbbing passage constrict around him. “'Tis good,” he muttered against her swollen lips.
His.

He straightened and reached for her other knee, holding it as he did the first. Standing between her thighs, her knees dangling from his upturned palms, he threw back his head and closed his eyes, centering on the feeling of being deep inside her, of loving her without words. His penetrations became rocking, furious, powerful thrusts, and she stopped even trying to meet him at the crest. She took each one with a deep-throated moan of pleasure, eyes pressed shut, neck arched, arms stretched on the bed above her head, twisting through the furs.

The muscles of his neck and arms strained, each sinewy fiber outlined and bulging as he pounded fiercely into her wet heat, hips against hips, a groan for each mewling cry, as he drove her riotously into a savage, unbridled climax.

It came quickly. She staggered over the edge and fell headlong into her shuddering orgasm, crying his name. Finian roared as he found his own cliff and tipped over it, into her, kissing her, losing himself in this brave, unexpected woman.

There was nothing he was more afraid of. Weakness followed directly from this sort of thing.

They disentangled their sweaty bodies far enough for him to fall on the mattress beside her. She smiled tiredly, but the look in her eyes closed his. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the smoke-blackened beams bisecting the ceiling.

Senna wielded some warped, shining notion about him as a man, what he was capable of, and she believed in it the way others believed in God or the power of rain. That would never do. He was built to lead his people, then self-destruct.

There was still time to make her understand there was nothing else inside him, nothing at all.

He pushed away the furs and propped himself on an elbow, then ran the back of his knuckles down her cheek in one gentle stroke.

“Ye oughn't to ever have let me touch ye, Senna,” he said quietly. “I'll ruin ye.”

She rolled toward his soft, warning words. “No.”

“There's naught to be done, lass,” he said and, pressing a kiss to her forehead, rolled off the bed and threw on his
léine.

“Finian—!”

“No more, Senna. I haven't any more.” She'd begun to rise, but stilled at his words. Her face looked shocked. Not even to sadness yet. He turned away. “Stay here in the room.”

He turned, grabbed his weapons, and swung out of the room.

Loud shouts erupted in the bailey. Finian paused, then clattered down the stairs and flung open the door just as a page appeared at the bottom of the tower, looking up, hands cupping his mouth, his face flushed red with exertion.

“A runner,” he shouted. “A runner has come! The king wants his council. Now!”

The cry was echoed through every corner of the bailey. Boots thumped and buckles clanged as men everywhere swung away from whatever task they were engaged in and made for the keep. Finian stood frozen for half a second, then swung inside and launched himself up the stairs, four at a time. He flung the chamber door open.