Chapter Fifteen
After he’d cleaned up from a vicious training session, Diarmid wandered to the main hall in search of Sitric. There was still an hour or more before the servants would start getting the hall ready for dinner, and Diarmid hoped to ask him if his thoughts on Cara had changed at all.
He hoped, quite selfishly, that they hadn’t.
When he got to the hall, he was greeted by a wall of silence—a sure sign Sitric was nowhere to be found. He nearly walked straight back out, when he caught movement in the small seating area to his left.
Cara sat curled up on a bench, a blanket draped over her, a book open in her lap. She wore her hair down every day now that she’d started taking Diarmid’s advice. It cascaded over her shoulders as she leaned over the book, as black as the sky at midnight, and with the same hint of blue. His fingers twitched at the memory of it beneath them. It had been but a brief moment when he’d hugged her, but it had been long enough to confirm that those gorgeous locks were just as soft as they looked.
“I wondered what was in that sack of yours,” Diarmid said, sitting down in the chair across from Cara. “So, what magnificent tale did you haul across éire?”
Her tempting lips thinned at his intrusion, but he wasn’t about to pass up a rare opportunity alone with her. Or a rare opportunity to actually learn something about her. “The Aeneid.”
“I’ve not read that since I was learning Latin,” Diarmid mused, “but I remember that I rather enjoyed it. Why did you choose to bring that one?”
Cara sighed. “You’re not going to let me keep reading until you’ve gotten some answers from me, am I correct?”
“I’ll leave you to your story soon enough,” he promised. “It’s not every day I catch you being interested in something.”
“I chose this one because I couldn’t find The History of the Trojan War. This was the next best choice.”
“I’m surprised you don’t like the Aeneid better,” he thought aloud, straining to remember the characters and events that he’d read about when he was a lad. “There was rather a remarkable queen in it, wasn’t there?”
Cara snorted. “Are you speaking of Dido?”
“That’s the one!” Diarmid agreed with a grin. “She fled danger and founded her own city. That seems remarkable to me.”
“She also killed herself when Aeneas left her,” Cara reminded him, “in an absurdly dramatic manner.”
“And that,” Diarmid ventured, “doesn’t—resonate—with you at all?”
Cara furrowed her brows, her adorable nose wrinkling at his suggestion. “Why should it?”
“I don’t know the full story, but you sort of did the same thing when that bastard left you.”
“That is not the same at all,” she replied, vehemently. “He didn’t live with me for years as my husband. He left me after one night. And I did not burn myself on a pyre of his belongings.”
Diarmid managed not to overreact when she finally told him what had happened. Or more of it, anyway. “Dido stopped living her life after her heartbreak, in her way,” he said softly, “and you stopped living yours in another.”
Her glare broke as she digested his words. “You have no idea what happened.”
“I don’t,” Diarmid agreed. “But I’d be happy to listen if you’d like to tell me.” He had the ulterior motive of being unbearably curious, as well.
“You swear you won’t go blathering it to everyone else?”
Diarmid scoffed. “I’m offended, princess, that you think I can’t keep a secret.”
“I liked a boy when I was young, fourteen, I think. Old enough to be thinking of marriage in the near future, young enough to find the entire process an adventure. When I asked him if he would court me, he said yes and almost instantly tried to get me into his bed. I refused, of course, since I hardly knew him. And he decided maybe he wasn’t that interested in courting me after all.
“So the next year, my parents arrange a betrothal with Torna. He was handsome, charming, fun. Made my silly little heart flutter. And I didn’t want to lose him like I had the last one. So when he inevitably mentioned that when you’re betrothed, you share a bed, I agreed.” She paused, clearly distraught with the memory.
“And you lost him anyway,” Diarmid finished for her.
Cara’s face fell. “I did.”
“Because he’s a bastard,” Diarmid growled.
Before they could continue their conversation, Sitric returned to the hall, embracing Diarmid without hesitation. When their host turned toward Cara, Diarmid saw the resigned look on her face and knew she would at least make an attempt. She stood, setting down her book, and opened her arms in the saddest approximation of a hug he’d witnessed yet. They still had work to do there, he decided. Sitric hurried to accept her invitation, his surprised smile certainly a good sign.
Diarmid fought the instinct to rush over and separate them, ignoring the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. He stood there the entire time Sitric asked Cara a similar series of questions over her book, pretending that it didn’t bother him one bit. She wasn’t his, he reminded himself, irritated that such a thought had even bubbled to the surface. She belonged to Sitric. And even if, God forbid, she’d somehow pricked his interest, Diarmid didn’t do relationships.
As Diarmid wondered whether he had stood there brooding for too long, Sitric turned to him. “I was just coming to get my runes,” he explained.
“Runes?” Cara asked.
Sitric grinned at her. “Wait here, I’ll show you.” He returned moments later with a small leather pouch held closed by a drawstring. “What do you wish to know?” he asked Cara.
The princess looked confused, clearly having no knowledge of the Ostman habit.
“Will we drink too much?” Diarmid asked, coming to her rescue.
“I don’t need the runes to know that,” Sitric laughed. “But I’ll play your game.” He opened the leather bag, gave it a shake, and dumped its contents onto one of the long tables.
Cara walked over to inspect them, her eyes narrowing as she studied the odd shapes and designs, each one on its own tiny wooden square. “Fascinating,” she breathed.
“Well,” Diarmid prompted, “what do they say?”
Sitric frowned, looking puzzled. “They say no. That can’t be right.”
“Maybe they’re wrong,” Cara suggested.
Sitric looked horrified. “They’re never wrong.”
“Will you explain them to me?” Cara asked, her eyes bright. “What do the symbols mean?”
Diarmid excused himself as Sitric and Cara bent over the table, unable to stomach the sight of them together. That was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? To help them build a stronger bond? To help Cara grow more comfortable around Sitric?
He never thought succeeding in his mission would cause him such discomfort.
It seemed Diarmid had his answer: Sitric’s attitude toward Cara was improving.
And Diarmid didn’t like it one bit.