Chapter Twelve
Diarmid didn’t know what to make of Cara. On his way into the main hall with the other Fianna, who no longer smelled like they’d brought the bog back with them, he decided that perhaps, as she’d so kindly put it, she wasn’t so irritating as he’d thought. And, if she hadn’t always had difficulty connecting with people, then it implied that something had happened—something she didn’t wish to speak of—to change that. Diarmid felt his heart kick up several paces, his chest hardening in anger at the thought of someone hurting Cara so badly she’d stopped letting anyone in at all.
“Did it not go well?” Cormac asked as he slipped onto the bench beside Diarmid.
He couldn’t remember the last time his older brother had sought him out as a dinner companion. They’d always had different circles of friends. Diarmid shook his head. “I think it went alright. I suppose we’ll see soon enough.”
Cormac regarded him thoughtfully, but said nothing. Much as Cara would do, Diarmid mused. As though summoning her with mere thought, the princess appeared at the far entrance. And Diarmid forgot how to breathe.
Those long, black locks were so dark that they somehow managed to glow a silvery blue in the firelight. Just as cool and defiant as the woman herself, they fell about her in soft curls and waves. The contrast between her black hair, her rose-red lips, and her sapphire eyes left Diarmid speechless. His gaze never left her as she took her seat near the end of the table where Sitric sat at the head.
A twinge of irritation burst within Diarmid as he watched Sitric smile and greet Cara. Though he had every intention of helping her charm the Ostman over the course of dinner, Diarmid found it difficult to continue watching the obvious lust in Sitric’s eyes. So he turned back to Cormac, who was once more staring at him thoughtfully.
“You know,” Diarmid offered up in a deceptively cheery voice, “it’s irritating as hell when you do that.”
Cormac smiled at him. “I know.”
“So, are you going to tell me what you were thinking, or…” Diarmid stopped when he noticed a shadow pass over Cormac’s face. Turning, he saw that Astrid and Gormla had taken their seats—Astrid between Cara and Niamh, and Gormla opposite them to Sitric’s right. “I noticed you didn’t get off to the best start with Astrid,” Diarmid said under his breath so that only Cormac could hear.
“If Sitric turns on Brian—or rather when he does—that woman will be behind it, mark my words.”
Diarmid sensed that this was a sensitive topic for his brother so, naturally, he pressed him on it, if only to take his mind off the breathtaking beauty who refused to leave it. “And this has nothing to do with the fact that she gave you a proper tongue-lashing the other night?”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Cormac snorted. “She’s nothing but trouble, regardless of who she decides is the problem.”
Though Diarmid knew his brother was the one being ridiculous, he was concerned that two people had accused him of such in one day. He dared a glance at Cara to check in on her progress. She listened as Sitric spoke with her, though Diarmid couldn’t make out the topic of conversation through the din of the other guests. Everyone was talking. Loudly. What had begun as a gentle murmur of polite conversation, swelled to a roar as platters of food arrived and the meal began in earnest.
Cooked cod, soaked in golden butter and dressed in mustard greens. Hearty breads of every kind of flour Diarmid could name, steaming and warm. Roasted parsnip and onion, fried burdock, fresh pennycress. Strips of salted pork, wild mushrooms, and platter after platter of fruit and honey desserts.
After devouring half his meal in record time, Diarmid once more looked up to where Cara sat near Sitric. She’d lost his attention. Diarmid waited until she locked eyes with him, then motioned that she ought to speak with him. Her lips tightened and she inclined her head to Gormla, with whom he now spoke, facing away from Cara. She needed to interrupt politely. Warmly.
Diarmid decided Cormac would make a fine example. He made a show of placing his hand on his brother’s arm until Cormac turned away from his conversation with Illadan.
“What?” he asked before following Diarmid’s gaze to Cara. “Ah.”
She frowned at Diarmid, but took an uncharacteristically deep breath. Then she placed a hand on Sitric’s arm—winning his full attention and a brilliant smile in the blink of an eye.
That same, unfamiliar twinge shot through his chest again, making it ache with—Lord Almighty, was that jealousy? Diarmid immediately dismissed the idea. Why would he possibly be jealous of Sitric’s smiling at Cara? He didn’t even like her. Aye, she was stunning, but Diarmid had bedded many a beautiful woman. Admittedly, none so beautiful as Cara, but at least they knew how to relax and enjoy themselves.
Thankfully, even if he was tempted by her—which he wasn’t—he had his wager to keep him from making any truly terrible decisions. And his unflinching dedication to his mission. And the fact that the woman literally turned her nose up at the hint of intimacy. And, most importantly, that she was an important pawn in Brian’s political scheme to unite all the kingdoms. Thank God he had all those reasons to maintain the boundaries already in place, to keep his hands off Cara outside of helping her with Sitric.
“Your efforts appear to be paying off,” Cormac remarked. The loud conversations about them ensured no one overheard. “Though you’re looking at her the way Dallan looks at Niamh.”
“I thought it more akin to the way you look at Astrid,” Diarmid replied.
Cormac took that opportunity to glare pointedly at the redhead across from them, who stuck out her tongue in retaliation before turning back to Niamh. “If you mean looking at her as though I wish she were a man so I could challenge her stubborn arse to a duel, then perhaps.”
“Niamh fought a duel. I don’t see why Astrid couldn’t. She certainly seems capable of handling herself.”
“Indeed,” Cormac grumbled, taking a generous bite of the savory fish.
“Friends,” Sitric began, his voice rising above the myriad conversations across the table. “I’ve been thinking that perhaps we ought to make the most of your stay in Dyflin. I can think of no finer a visit than drinking, feasting, and fighting with friends.”
The room went silent.
“Fighting?” Illadan repeated.
“Aye,” Sitric’s catlike smile reeked of subtlety. “I can’t have Brian’s best warriors growing stale in my keeping.”
“We’re flattered that you think you could dull our blades, Sitric,” Dallan said to his cousin. “We’ve only been here two days, and we trained for one of them.”
“True,” Sitric mused, “but you haven’t been in a battle—a real battle, not that skirmish where you rescued dearest Cara,” he shot a pointed look at Conan, who had been about to protest, “in months.”
“What is it you want, Sitric?” Cormac’s even tone cut through the discussion.
“The same thing as Brian, in this instance.” Sitric took a swig of his ale, looking from one man to the next. “When last I saw him, Brian mentioned that he was having some difficulties moving enough men north to properly convince Ulaid to bend the knee.”
Everyone knew that, Diarmid nearly spoke aloud. Eochaid, the man to whom Aodh had planned to gift Cara, was perhaps even more a thorn in Brian’s side than the High King himself—the one who held the title he so coveted.
“And this,” Cormac continued, his voice giving away nothing, “has naught to do with the blood feud you now have with Eochaid, I suppose?”
“One does not negate the other,” Astrid chimed in, her piercing golden eyes pinned on Cormac. “We can seek vengeance whilst furthering your king’s campaign.”
“The Fianna should not invade another kingdom without Brian’s consent, regardless of his intentions.” Cormac’s tight tone brought a grin to Diarmid’s face. That woman was easily getting the better of his brother—a feat he could watch all evening. He’d spent the better part of his childhood trying to upend his older brother’s unwavering calm. And here Astrid sat, making it look easy.
“It wouldn’t be the Fianna,” Sitric said. “It would be the men of Dyflin. We could dress you as one of us, and none would be the wiser. We will arrive on ships, leaving no question as to who called the raid.”
It was a risk, Diarmid knew, but a relatively small one. More than likely Sitric intended to raid some of the monasteries or small holdings along the coast or just inland. The likelihood they ran into anyone who would recognize them, particularly beneath an Ostman’s guise, was low indeed.
“We shall consult amongst ourselves and give you our answer in the morn,” Illadan declared.
Sitric nodded in agreement, but it was clear he’d hoped for enthusiastic agreement, not measured contemplation. He took another drink from his drinking horn, his mood subdued.
In the midst of the debate, Diarmid noticed Cara shifting her weight on her seat. Having Sitric frustrated by their conversation would not make her task any easier. He saw the same realization flit across her features, so he raised his hand just above the table, wiggling his fingers and giving her the most deliberate look, that he hoped implied she ought to grab Sitric’s hand. The gesture would show her support, as well as some much-needed affection.
She shook her head ever so slightly, just enough for Diarmid to notice.
He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at her, nodding once again toward Sitric.
Finally, she nodded. He saw her hand reach for Sitric’s, which rested on the table beside his drinking horn. Sitric started, quickly realizing what was going on and flashing an encouraging smile at Cara. He whispered something to her and she nodded, though didn’t smile.
When Sitric turned his attention to Illadan, clearly still urging him to join in the raid, Cara returned hers to Diarmid. He smiled at her, but he knew it wasn’t his most convincing grin. He should be celebrating that they’d made progress after even one day, that perhaps this betrothal could work after all. Instead, that pervasive annoyance resurfaced, so much so that he could feel the blood pumping through his veins. Diarmid, inexplicably, couldn’t stand to look at their joined hands on the table, turning instead to his brother again.
“Nicely done,” Cormac said under his breath, keeping the conversation between them. “I think you should keep working with her. A few more days, and perhaps we can return to Brian with good news.”
“I can do that,” Diarmid agreed, finding he rather liked his brother’s approval. He’d even enjoyed their intermittent conversations over dinner. “I can catch her tonight once everyone’s asleep. It will be odd if I continue to miss training and she’s always missing for part of the morning.”
“I’ll have Dallan and Finn on watch for you.”
Instinctively, Diarmid turned back toward Cara to find that she was still staring at him, as though she hadn’t moved. Had she been looking at him this entire time? Those icy blue eyes appeared ready to melt as she pinned him with a gaze he recognized. It was the same one she wore when he called her ‘princess’ or flashed her a mischievous grin, her lips parted just enough to drive him to distraction. Knowing no good would come of such thoughts, Diarmid made to stand. Cara’s face fell.
So he stayed put and held her pleading gaze, wondering what on earth he’d gotten himself into.