Chapter Eighteen
“More ale!” Cormac called, waving over—yet again—the buxom serving girl. Serving woman, Cara corrected herself, for no girl she’d ever met had such sizeable curves.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, snapping a steamed mussel in half.
“It really is,” Astrid agreed, not so quietly as Cara. “Two grown men falling over themselves because her breasts are the size of these rolls.” She grabbed one of the honey oat loaves from her plate with much the same irritation Cara felt.
“They really are though,” Cara looked between the loaves before them and the maid bending to fill Diarmid’s drinking horn.
“Diarmid’s had a long day,” Niamh said, low enough that the men across the table wouldn’t hear. “Let him have his fun. The maid seems to be enjoying the attention.”
Aye, that she did. Her sugary smile and flushed cheeks filled Cara with the urge to snap apart all the shellfish within reach. The eager woman laughed as Diarmid whispered something in her ear, flashing her that grin that always set off a swarm of butterflies in Cara’s stomach.
They were supposed to meet tonight, but it looked to Cara like Diarmid may be making other arrangements for his evening.
Diarmid never spoke to her at their meals, she realized as she continued to watch the garish show before her. In fact, since they arrived in Dyflin, he only ever interacted with her when he came to meet with her. He hadn’t even looked at her or greeted her when she’d come into the hall to dine. Cara couldn’t decide what irritated her more—that Diarmid apparently had no interest in socializing with her, or that she cared enough to notice.
The latter, she decided, breaking apart another mussel. She shouldn’t care a whit whether Diarmid spoke with her, or noticed her, or smiled at her. She should be entirely focused on whether Sitric did those things.
“You should see your faces,” Gormla called across the table, clearly amused by Cara’s burgeoning anger. Sitric’s mother turned to Diarmid and Cormac. “I don’t think the ladies approve of your antics, boys.”
For the first time the entire night, Diarmid looked straight at her. Cara felt his gaze course like a lightning strike through her. His hooded eyes, both cloudy and bright at once, searched her face before looking back to the maid. The look on his face roused a long-forgotten ache deep within her.
Cormac leaned over to whisper something to Diarmid, who frowned at him in response. Cormac shrugged, turning back to them. “I don’t know why they should care at all.” He speared Astrid with a dark glower.
“They shouldn’t,” Sitric agreed, placing his hand on Cara’s and also giving Astrid a sharp look. “Let our guests enjoy themselves, sister. They’ve agreed to fight with us, after all.”
The weight of Sitric’s hand startled her, but she managed not to pull it away or jump. She didn’t like the familiarity of the movement, the possessiveness of it. Cara kept her attention fixed on Diarmid, once again imagining it was his hand covering hers. Her racing pulse slowed, and she managed to relax into her chair a bit.
It grew more and more difficult to deny the very obvious and very problematic truth—that Cara didn’t want to belong to Sitric.
And she didn’t want that maid to belong to Diarmid.
She managed to get through the remainder of the meal, watching as Diarmid shamelessly pursued the serving maid, his brother doing his utmost to assist in the wretched endeavor. Cara waited until the plates were cleared from the table and the knucklebones brought in to rise from her seat.
“Stay,” Sitric pleaded, giving her hand a gentle tug. “You should stay and play with us.”
“I will another time,” she promised. “I’m afraid I’m too weary tonight.”
He smiled up at her, releasing her hand and turning his attention to his guests.
What was wrong with her? Cara brooded over her ridiculous feelings as she retreated to her room. Sitric was, by any standard, a remarkably handsome and charming man. He was young, fit, a strong warrior and a stronger king. He was one of the wealthiest kings, with access to trade routes the world over. She was nothing short of lucky that he had been the man chosen for her to wed. She should want to marry him. Perhaps that would come in time.
Or, perhaps those feelings she sought would hit her when the Fianna finally left.
When one of the Fianna finally left.
Trapped in her room, unwilling to face her riotous thoughts, Cara made her best attempt at going to sleep, ignoring the roars of laughter and the sounds of merriment coming from the other side of her door.
Some hours after she’d finally managed the feat, a soft knock woke her. Cara sat up, looking out her window and deciding it must be past midnight. Only one person would come calling so late, and she wasn’t entirely certain she wanted to open the door for him.
After a second knock, more insistent sounding, Cara relented and went to the door, frowning at Diarmid. “What do you want?”
The hall behind him had gone eerily quiet, not a soul in sight. It seemed the games had finally ended. Diarmid didn’t grin at her, and he didn’t look the least shaken by her frigid tone.
“Sitric missed you this evening.”
“I was tired,” she lied. “Are you already finished with your most recent conquest?”
He stepped towards her, his wide shoulders filling the doorway. “You’re jealous.”
“What would give you such a notion?” She crossed her arms in an effort to disguise her discomfort.
“I saw the look on your face at dinner.” His voice, normally honey-smooth, came out low and rough. “I know it well. It’s the same one I wear when I watch Sitric put his hands on you.”
Cara couldn’t breathe. He stepped even closer, so near that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the intoxicating scent that made her want to lean into him.
“I’m here to marry Sitric,” Cara whispered.
Diarmid’s throat bobbed. “Aye, you are. That doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”
She forced herself to take a deep, shaky breath. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“When I thought it was just me, that going so many days without a woman to warm my bed was creating this desire for you, it was challenging. But knowing that you desire me also, that’s dangerous.”
“I don’t desire you,” Cara retorted, too quickly to convince even herself.
“No?” He stepped fully into her room, shutting her door behind him. His powerful arms rose up on both sides of her, pinning her against it. “So you don’t want me to kiss those pouty lips of yours, to taste you until you melt into my arms? To lay you down on that bed and let my fingers, my mouth, pleasure you until the only name you can remember is mine?”
He had won. Whatever game they were playing, Cara could hardly remain standing, let alone form a coherent thought after that vivid picture he’d painted in her mind. Forget the butterflies, her body was filled with fire, an aching inferno that wanted Diarmid to do every single one of those things.
“Ah,” he purred, finally tossing her the wickedest grin she’d seen yet. “So you can blush, princess.”
She saw now how he’d become the rogue of the group. “In my limited experience, none of those things are particularly pleasurable.” Though he’d certainly made them sound that way, Cara knew better. She’d only shared her bed with Torna once, and that had been enough for her to learn that lovemaking was something to be endured at best.
“As I said before, whoever he is, he deserves a sound thrashing.”
Cara couldn’t agree more.
“So,” he continued, “are you still going to deny that you were jealous? Or shall I keep going?”
“Fine!” Cara hissed. “Perhaps, I did not like watching you make eyes at that woman and smile at her. Happy?”
“Do you know why I went after her in the first place?”
“Because your lust is insatiable and your roguishness knows no bounds?”
“Because every morning when I wake, I wonder when I will get to see you that day. Because every time I do see you, it takes every measure of will that I possess to keep my hands off you. Because every night when I lay awake in bed, I imagine how you would look lying naked beside me. And I thought that maybe, just maybe, taking another woman to my bed would rid me of this infernal desire for you.”
Cara’s mouth had gone completely dry, her cheeks burning. “And did it?” She didn’t want to hear about it, but she couldn’t continue wondering.
“I wouldn’t know,” he answered. “When I should have invited her back to my room, I couldn’t do it. All I could think of was that look on your face, and how I would feel knowing you’d bedded Sitric.”
She couldn’t take much more of this conversation. It was tearing her apart in ways she hadn’t imagined were possible. “I don’t want to bed Sitric,” she admitted, hardly able to believe she was speaking such intimate thoughts aloud. “Every time he touches me, I endure it by imagining it’s you.”
His hand left the wall beside her, moving slowly toward her face. She didn’t flinch as his rough fingers brushed her cheek, the muscles in his jaw going taut as a bowstring. Her eyes went to his lips, wondering for the first time how they would feel pressed against her own. When his hand cradled the side of her face, she leaned into his tender touch, his thumb caressing her. Cara told herself it was only because she’d been working with him, deliberately growing accustomed to his touch, that she now craved it.
But even as his gaze fell to her mouth, his eyes clouding with desire, Cara knew it was not so simple as that. In the same moment she thought he would finally kiss her, his hand slipped from her face and he took a step back.
“I cannot be the reason this alliance fails.” His voice broke as he said the words. “I came here to tell you that I can’t meet with you anymore, and I felt you deserved the truth of it.”
She knew he was right. This was the responsible decision, creating distance so he didn’t jeopardize all they worked towards.
Yet, for the first time since Torna, Cara found she didn’t want to be responsible.
She wanted Diarmid.