Chapter Ten
Diarmid strode out to the largest clearing in Sitric’s holding, sword in hand. After so long without a battle, his need to practice only grew greater. The other Fianna had actually gotten to swing their swords when they’d overtaken Aodh’s camp. Diarmid had been sprinting through the forest after a cranky princess.
A cranky princess, who, if he was honest with himself, was truly the reason he felt like sparring at the moment. All he wanted was to get her married off to Sitric.
And out of his own head.
How he managed to be physically attracted to someone he found so irritating, Diarmid couldn’t fathom. Yet somehow, he went from wanting to get as far from her as humanly possible one moment, to imagining how she’d look lying on his bed the next. Of course, seeing her in her barely-there shift hadn’t helped at all. What really stuck with him, what truly gave him pause, was that when Cara noticed his gaze on her, pebbles had formed at the swell of her breasts. And when he’d called her ‘princess,’ those luscious lips of hers had parted, likely without her even realizing it. But Diarmid had noticed.
And Diarmid knew women. He knew that whatever cold exterior she presented to the world, Cara still had some fire buried inside her, probably much nearer the surface than any of them guessed.
The eight Fianna broke out into pairs to spar on the damp, trodden meadow between one of the smaller buildings and the palisade. Normally, Diarmid sparred with Conan, who was the middle son, born between Diarmid and Cormac. They rotated often, of course, but Diarmid and Conan frequently paired off together without giving it much thought. This morn, Cormac walked right up to Diarmid, raising his sword. Diarmid grinned at him, partly in the hopes of unnerving his eldest brother, and gave his own sword a swing to test its weight.
“How did it go last night?” Cormac inquired under his breath as they circled one another.
“Terribly, as a matter of fact.” In spite of his ill news, Diarmid kept his smile wide, his eyes narrowing in on his brother.
Cormac inclined his head, demanding further explanation. He let his sword arm relax.
“She didn’t like my plan,” Diarmid conceded. “And she wouldn’t agree to it.”
Before his brother could reply, Diarmid made his attack, earning a sharp oath from Cormac. He’d barely managed to block the strike. They sparred, each winning a bout before losing the next, until serving maids brought out baskets filled with food and a barrel of fresh drinking water. Covered in sweat and feeling more relaxed than he had in days, Diarmid joined the men as they descended upon the midday meal.
“I suppose this means we’re not welcome in the hall until we bathe,” Dallan said, sitting beside Diarmid in the grass.
“We’re all moving too slowly, growing weak after so much travel,” Illadan declared. “I think this afternoon we’ll see what it’s like to run a good distance through a bog.”
Diarmid hoped their commander jested. “I think it will be a lot like sinking.”
“Then I suppose we’ll practice our swimming as well,” Cormac replied from Diarmid’s other side.
Damn. Illadan was their leader, but Cormac and Broccan were generally regarded as the secondary commanders. The three of them had been the ones to judge the initial trials, the grueling competition to earn a place among the Fianna. If two of the three said they were running in the bog, then it looked like they were headed to the bog.
Amidst the general grumbling of the rest of the men, Diarmid spotted Sitric returning from town. Their host didn’t appear to notice them as he opened the double doors to his extravagant hall. Diarmid tore another mouthful of bread from the loaf he shared with Cormac and when he looked back up, Cara appeared. Also returning from town, her face unreadable as ever. She didn’t head into the hall after Sitric, however.
No, she moved purposefully toward the clearing where the Fianna sat taking their repast, her eyes fixed on Diarmid. He decided it was safest to stay put and see what she wanted.
She stopped just short of the circle of men, who all looked at her expectantly. “Diarmid, could I speak with you, please?”
Diarmid looked toward Cormac, who nodded his head once. “Help the lady with whatever she needs, then meet us in the bog south of town.”
Whatever she needed was going to take the entire afternoon, Diarmid decided as he rose to join her. He wasn’t going anywhere near the bog, and he certainly wouldn’t be running through it today.
He followed Cara to the guest hall, which was empty while all the guests sparred in the clearing and finished their meals. The hearth in the center had already been fed, the flames crackling happily as they devoured the fresh peat. Cara settled into a cushioned chair in one of the seating areas that lined the long, narrow sides of the hall.
Diarmid stood, not wanting to get dirt and sweat all over Sitric’s fine chairs. “What can I do for you, princess?”
Her crystal blue eyes shot to him.
Oh, yes. It seemed she did like that name, he mused. He wondered if Sitric would ever figure that out, should matters improve. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“After giving it more consideration, I’ve decided that I do wish to discuss your offer of aid, if it still stands.” She sat straight as the back of her chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her face expressionless. Diarmid certainly had his work cut out for him. She was a perfect princess, but Sitric didn’t want a princess. He wanted a bride.
“It does,” he assured her, keeping his voice low. He doubted Sitric would be nearby, but he also doubted his friend would appreciate Diarmid’s efforts to entrap him in a marriage he obviously didn’t desire.
She bit her bottom lip, the first sign Diarmid had ever seen of true emotion in this woman. He couldn’t take his eyes off the soft, pink flesh of her lips. Couldn’t stop imagining how they might feel beneath his own.
“What did you have in mind?” Her hesitant question interrupted his wildly inappropriate musings.
“Before I know what we must work on, I need to know what happened with Sitric just now that changed your mind,” Diarmid replied gently, knowing she’d not like that idea. “In fact, if you could relate to me what’s happened each time you’ve spoken with him, that would help me greatly in deciding what to do next.”
Cara looked down at her hands, rolling her damned lips together. “I can’t seem to let him touch me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Diarmid fought the images that came into his mind at the word ‘touch,’ focusing instead on the intricate carvings on Cara’s chair. “Touch you how?”
“At all.” Her voice held a note of defeat he’d never heard before. “He tries to hold my hand, and even when I want to let him, I pull it away. Or, rather, it pulls itself away, regardless of my wishes. And this last time, when I finally offered my hand, truly determined to let him hold it…” She stopped, still staring at her hands, as though she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
Diarmid said nothing, simply waited. He knew she’d tell him when she was ready.
“He tried to kiss it, and it surprised me.”
He found the thought of Sitric’s lips on her hand oddly unsettling. “And you pulled it away?”
She sighed. “Is that even something you could help me with? I fear I’ve already made too great a mess of this to clean up.”
“We have no choice but to try.” Diarmid walked over to her, crouching before her chair so that their eyes were level with one another. “Your sister is counting on you,” he reminded her gently. “And Brian ordered the Fianna to see you betrothed to Sitric, to help keep this tenuous peace in place. So, whether we fear failure or not, you and I are going to try to fix this.” He stood, not wanting to create too serious a mood. “But first, I’m taking a bath.”
A very, very cold bath.