Chapter Twenty-One
Perhaps, Cara admitted to herself over dinner that eve, kissing Diarmid had been a mistake. She didn’t doubt for a moment that it had helped her grow comfortable enough with the act to attempt it with Sitric. No, that part had worked according to plan.
It was everything else that had gone sideways.
That kiss had woken something within her, something that had been stirring since she’d met Diarmid. It had all come back to her as he held her in his arms, as his lips danced with hers. Cara remembered more of the person she’d been before Torna.
It had also piqued her curiosity. Cara had expected the kiss to be as dull as all her previous experiences with intimacy had been. Though Torna had filled her with desire, the moment he’d touched her everything went cold.
She had expected to feel absolutely nothing. Instead, she’d been about ready to take her own clothes off. And she’d been devastated when the kiss had ended, leaving her oddly aware of her own body, and the fact that it was no longer pressed against Diarmid’s.
Worst of all, Diarmid seemed more determined than usual to avoid her. She promised him that if he helped her with the kiss, she would leave him alone. Apparently, that was what he wanted, though she’d rather hoped not.
She should want Sitric to accept the betrothal. She shouldn’t want Diarmid to fight for her, to show any interest in her at all. Which made it all the more infuriating that she continued to glance his way, hoping for one of those smiles.
After dinner, the servants cleared away the meal and brought out more wine, more ale, and plenty of game boards and knucklebones. Sitric, much like Diarmid, appeared determined to wring as much enjoyment from his life as possible. Though Cara wasn’t overly fond of gaming or drinking, she realized that she could learn a thing or two from their habits.
That, and the longer she stayed in the hall, the greater a chance that Diarmid would have to acknowledge her eventually. Cara didn’t know precisely what she wanted with him, she just knew that she couldn’t lose the first friend she’d made in five years. Not yet.
When she didn’t rise to leave for her room, Sitric looked at her askance, smiling. “Are you going to join us?”
“I’ve not played a game since I was a child,” she told him. “I thought it was time to give it another try.”
She dared a glance at Diarmid, who still didn’t look up.
“I’d suggest knucklebones, then,” Sitric said, emptying a small leather bag that sat before them. Five white bones tumbled onto the worn tabletop.
“We take turns trying to play the trick. If you fail, you take a drink. If you succeed, everyone else does. Of course, if you’d rather not drink, I’d be happy to drink your share.”
If she was going to play, she was going to do it properly. She’d not had a lick of drink since that night. Surely, one game wouldn’t kill her. “I prefer wine, if that’s acceptable.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Diarmid’s head spin toward her.
“For the first round, you toss them up, then catch them. Like this.” Sitric threw the bones and caught all five in his hand, just as he’d instructed, before handing them to Cara. Everyone at the table took a drink.
“It seems to me,” Cara observed, ignoring the warm, tingling trickle of the wine down her throat, “that someone with larger hands is at an advantage in this game.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Sitric agreed. “And you’ll be at a further disadvantage since we’ve been playing every night,” he chuckled.
Cara took the bones from Sitric, testing the weight of them in her hands. There was nothing for it. She tossed them, just as she’d seen Sitric do, and dropped all but one. The table erupted into shouts for her to take a drink, which was oddly comforting in spite of her horrendous failure. She felt a connection to the other players as they laughed and waited their turns.
“You made it look deceptively easy,” Cara accused Sitric, taking her second drink of wine in as many turns.
He grinned at her, the same sort of grin she loved when it came from Diarmid. With Sitric, though she was glad he enjoyed himself, it didn’t ignite those same desires within her. “Well, I am amazing,” he boasted, his tone indicating he jested. Everyone at the table laughed again.
She passed the bones to Astrid beside her, who also completed the trick with no difficulty. As did everyone else around the table.
When they reached Diarmid, Cara’s focus naturally went to his hands as he played the trick. But the sight of his hands sent her mind to another place entirely—a riverbank, where those hands squeezed and caressed her, where his lips devoured her. He cupped his hand around the bones, passing them to Cormac as she fought the heat rising within her.
By the third round of the game, Cara realized she’d either need to take Sitric up on his offer or withdraw entirely. The tricks had only gotten more difficult, and Cara had long since accepted that she’d be the one drinking on her turns.
“One more round,” Sitric announced, passing her the bones, “then I’m to bed.” He reached an arm around Cara’s shoulders, setting her on edge. Less so, admittedly, than if she’d not had an entire cup of wine already. Instinctively, she turned toward Diarmid.
He’d been watching, she realized, the muscles in his jaw so tight she could see them working from across the table. His nose flared as he stared at Sitric’s arm.
Cara took a deep breath and, instead of ignoring the weight of the arm about her shoulders, she closed her eyes and imagined—nay, remembered—how Diarmid’s arms felt wrapped around her only a few hours earlier. When she opened them, she realized everyone stared at her. They couldn’t possibly know what she’d been thinking, she assured herself, all the while growing more and more conscious of their unwanted attention.
“It’s your turn, princess.” The word rolled out of his mouth so softly, his voice so rough, Cara could almost feel him whispering it against her skin.
It took her several seconds, after the desire flashed through her and she overcame the shock of him actually speaking to her in public, to realize what he’d said. She looked at the bones before her on the table and picked them up, muttering an apology.
Sitric squeezed her shoulder supportively.
Diarmid looked ready to murder him.
Cara forced herself to stop imagining Diarmid’s lips on hers and to focus on taking her turn. Which she failed miserably. She took another sip of wine, passing the bones again to Astrid.
Across from them, Cormac’s attention slid from Cara—who hadn’t realized he’d been watching her—to Astrid. By the end of the round, Finn was declared the champion for the evening, earning him several bawdy jokes about his dexterous fingers that appeared to deeply upset Dallan.
Niamh rubbed Dallan’s shoulders, giggling and whispering something to him that seemed to assuage him. When Niamh noticed Cara watching, she leaned toward her. “Finn is married to his sister,” she reminded Cara. “He can be a bit touchy about it, especially when he’s in his cups.”
Cara had completely forgotten that, though they’d mentioned it several times on their journey to Dyflin. The room cleared, the conversation steadily falling from a roar to a murmur. Sitric bid her goodnight with a sloppy smile, heading for his room. All his warriors and many of the Fianna had departed for their own beds. Cara’s face fell when she realized Diarmid had already gone.