Chapter Four
“You didnot proposition the princess! Diarmid, tell me you didn’t.”
The look on his brother’s face was worth any trouble that would come of it. Cormac was livid. Diarmid sat opposite him, beside Illadan, in the only seat remaining between the two tables they’d overtaken. At Cormac’s accusation, Illadan turned an icy glare on him.
“I was simply teaching her a lesson,” he told them, knowing full well that neither believed him.
“You cannot bed her, all wagers aside,” Illadan said. “We can’t have her fawning over you instead of Sitric.”
“I doubt that woman is capable of fawning over anyone.”
“Turned you down, did she?” Cormac’s eyes danced with amusement.
“I didn’t proposition her,” Diarmid shot back, taking a large bite of his stew before he said anything foolish. If only he could stop his thoughts as easily as their badgering. For, in truth, she was precisely the sort of woman he would normally pursue. When he stopped her in the woods two nights ago, he’d been struck speechless. Until she slapped him across the face, that was, believing him an attacker.
Of course, everyone in Thurles had told the Fianna of Princess Cara’s unparalleled beauty. That was why she’d been taken, after all—she was a prize unto herself. Even so, Diarmid hadn’t expected her features to be so striking, her scent so alluring. Her hair was the color of a raven’s feathers, and her sharp tongue held all the bird’s cunning.
Eyes the color of the sea, a vibrant blue-gray, glared at him with the same iciness that emanated from every inch of her. Aye, the woman was stiff and unyielding, though Diarmid would wager those pouty lips of hers would be soft as silk. Of all her many pleasing features, however, Diarmid’s eyes were drawn most to her slim nose, with its rounded tip that was not quite upturned. Odd though it may seem, to describe anything on that frigid woman as adorable, that truly was the only word for it.
“Diarmid?”
He turned to find the innkeeper, Enat, smiling at him warmly. “Did you need something, dear?”
Though he had been rather forward with his charms in their prior conversation, Diarmid realized she was unlikely to suggest any tryst with him when he noticed a burly man glaring at him, taking silvers from someone for their supper. Her husband, no doubt. Diarmid enjoyed himself as much as the next man, but he wasn’t about to bed another man’s wife.
And he wasn’t going to lose his wager on the first day.
“My husband found a room for your women,” she nodded to the other table, where the ladies sat with Finn, Dallan, Conan, and Ardál. “I’m afraid that’s the only one we can manage, though the rest of you fine men are welcome to sleep anywhere on the property. We keep the coals warm through the night.”
“That’s perfect,” Diarmid replied with his signature grin. “Can we pay you double for your efforts?”
She smiled back at him. They always did—except Cara. “You can, but I’d prefer you lot kept guard. I’ve seen too many armies moving about, and you look like you know your way around a battle.”
“We’ll set a watch,” Illadan assured her. “All will be safe.”
After refilling their ale, Enat went to show Niamh and Cara to their room. Dallan followed, no doubt intending to sleep in front of the door. Diarmid would never cease teasing the poor bastard about going and falling in love.
“How do you do it?” Broccan asked from beside Illadan. Broccan was notoriously gruff, making him excellent at leading armies, but terrible at charming women.
“Well,” Diarmid replied, forcing a serious tone, “it can be quite tricky, you see. In order for women to cooperate, you must be nice to them.” He winked at Broccan, just to get a reaction from him.
Broccan gripped his mug as though he would throw his ale at Diarmid, until Illadan’s hand stopped him.
“Must you?” Cormac glared at his younger brother.
Diarmid shrugged. “It’s the truth. It’s not my fault Broccan struggles with his temper. Illadan will support me in this—”
“I will do no such thing,” Illadan grumbled.
“No?” Diarmid countered. “You, who is newly wed to a woman who wanted naught to do with you? You would disagree that kindness wins hearts? Or what of Finn, hm? He spent countless hours paying attention to a woman who’d fallen between the cracks, showing her kindness. Now look at them, married and all that nonsense.”
The silence that followed his argument told Diarmid he’d claimed the victory, for the night at least. He stood, throwing back the rest of his ale and checking his sword before heading for the door. “I’ll take first watch.”
The following morn,Diarmid could hardly wait to get into Dyflin and stop this incessant traveling. Though he certainly made the most of his time on the road, he grew weary of riding from dawn to dusk, hardly fighting and not training at all. But as he sat eating porridge with the other Fianna, Diarmid realized it would be long past midday by the time they reached Dyflin.
“They’re not ready to leave yet,” Dallan reported again, returning from the room where the women had slept.
“What could they possibly be doing that would take this long?” Broccan grumbled.
“They wouldn’t let me in to see,” Dallan replied, taking a seat beside Diarmid. “But my sister always took hours to get her hair braided.”
“How long do they require?” Illadan asked, eyeing the window to gauge the hour. “Sitric will want us before they dine.”
“She said they were nearly finished, but I couldn’t get anything more precise than that.”
“It won’t take that long to get into Dyflin,” Diarmid pointed out. “Once we leave, that is.”
“We cannot delay too long.” Ardál stepped in from outdoors. “Rain is coming. Unless the princess has a woolen hood, all their hard work will be for naught when she gets soaked.”
Diarmid stood, grabbing Dallan’s arm as he strode past. “Come on, if we threaten rain they may hasten.” Dallan muttered an oath in protest but stood to follow Diarmid all the same.
They hurried to the ladies’ door, at the far end of a corridor that ran the length of the common room. Diarmid rapped his knuckle loudly several times. “Ladies, we come bearing news.”
The door flew open, revealing an exasperated Niamh. “Well?”
“It will rain soon,” Dallan told his betrothed as Diarmid craned his neck to peek around Niamh. “She’ll be a drowned rat instead of a royal prize if we don’t get out of here soon.”
“What did you say?” Cara appeared beside Niamh, her dark brows furrowed against moon-pale skin.
“Did you apply powder?” Diarmid asked, reaching a finger to brush some of the white dust from her cheek.
She batted his hand away. “Of course, I did. Should I not dress my best before meeting the man I’m meant to impress into marriage?”
“Aye, but,” Diarmid began, considering how to explain without it seeming an insult. He took in her carefully powdered and painted face, the pink dusting on her high cheeks, the red tint to her full lips. She looked bewitching as ever. No, her powders weren’t the problem. It was her hair.
Those shimmering, blue-black locks were braided and pinned up, not a single strand left to hang about her face or shoulders.
“Well?” Cara pressed, folding her arms across her chest. Her full, rounded chest. Diarmid had to force his focus back to her face.
“I did my best,” Niamh said softly. “I’m not trained as a lady’s maid.”
Diarmid dove in, against his better judgment. He was here to see her married to Sitric, after all. “It’s just that I don’t think Sitric is the sort who appreciates such a formal appearance. You’d be better off leaving your hair down.”
Cara’s blue eyes blazed, those tempting lips tightening into a thin line.
Beside him, Dallan choked on a laugh. “Are you actually giving a princess advice on how to present herself?”
“I spent several nights with Sitric when last he visited,” Diarmid defended. “He and I have a good deal in common, and he always went after the women who appeared more…”
“More?” Cara demanded, her eyes looking about to burst into icy flame.
Dallan shook his head. “You’ve done it now.”
“Fun-loving?” Diarmid tried. He’d wanted to say less uptight, but he doubted she’d take that well.
“Are you suggesting that a woman who wears her hair in braids cannot have fun?”
Diarmid ran a hand through his hair. “No, no,” he lied. Not any woman, but this particular woman. “Of course not. You know what, forget I said anything. You look breathtaking either way.”
The men excused themselves hastily, before Diarmid could dig a deeper hole. The women promised to be down momentarily.
“I’ve never seen you flounder in a conversation with a woman,” Dallan commented quietly, before they rejoined the rest of the Fianna.
“I’m trying to help her,” he grumbled. “Sitric won’t be thrilled about marrying a woman made of ice, princess or not. You know that, too,” Diarmid accused. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because, apparently, I’m wiser than you,” Dallan retorted. “And because, no matter how loose that woman wears her hair, Sitric will see her serious demeanor the moment he speaks with her. It’s not as though her hair could hide that.”
Dallan was right, though Diarmid wasn’t about to tell him that.
As promised, the women appeared in the common room shortly thereafter, looking radiant and ready for a royal visit.
“Diarmid!” Enat, the innkeeper, called, running to catch him before he walked out the door. “I wanted to thank you for all your help last night.”
Diarmid caught Cara watching the exchange from the corner of his eye. And decided he couldn’t resist teasing her further. “It was my pleasure,” he purred, throwing Enat his most wicked grin.
“If you ever need to stay in áth Cliath again, you come find me.” Enat turned away, leaving Cara glaring daggers at him for the second time that morn. Diarmid determined that was simply her natural state—irritated indifference.
“Something wrong?” Diarmid waited for Cara to join him, walking into the street just behind him.
“Yes,” she replied tightly. “You’re despicable.”
He pretended to drive a dagger into his heart. She didn’t even smirk, only looked down her nose at him.
“Enat doesn’t seem to think so,” he observed when she didn’t elaborate.
“Do you take anything seriously?” she asked at last. “How can you live your life so carelessly?”
Diarmid considered answering her honestly, telling her that he took everything—including his trysts—with the utmost seriousness. He had fun, but he took great care that no one’s heart was broken in the process. He joked with the Fianna, but he would take an arrow for any one of them without hesitation. He made light of their quests, but he took an oath to King Brian, and he meant to keep it.
But telling Cara any of that would mean that her opinion of him mattered. And that was something he would never admit. Instead, he prodded her further.
“Some say the best cure for distress is humor,” he quipped.
“Are you ready, Cara?” Illadan called, motioning for the princess to join him by her horse.
“Yes.” She held her head higher than strictly necessary, picking up the hem of her gown as she walked away from Diarmid. “Unlike some people, I take my responsibilities seriously.”
Diarmid shared an exasperated look with Dallan.
He’d never been more grateful to have escaped arranged marriages altogether. From the day he took his oath as one of the Fianna, Diarmid could only ever marry for love, meaning his parents could no longer arrange a match for him, or any of his brothers for that matter. And though he’d never much cared for the idea of having only one woman for the rest of his life, he was particularly grateful that he’d not been saddled with someone as cold and unfeeling as Cara.
Thank God for that. He watched Illadan help the princess seat herself on the horse, counting both his blessings and the hours until they were finally settled into Dyflin.