Chapter Twenty-Two
He had to get out of that hall. Sitric was his friend, a man he truly respected, whose company he enjoyed more than most. Yet it was all he could do to keep from leaping over the table and ripping his arm off of Cara. And punching him in the face while he was at it.
Worse, Diarmid knew it was Sitric’s arm, not his own, that actually belonged there.
“Where are we going?” his brother Conan asked, hurrying to catch up with Diarmid as he stormed down the hill and away from Sitric’s holding.
“Diarmid needs a night out,” Cormac answered for him, appearing on his other side.
“Diarmid needs a good fight,” Diarmid grumbled at his brothers.
“I’ll fight you,” Conan offered cheerily. “I never tire of beating your sorry arse.”
They’d made it halfway down the hill, the first houses as far before them as Sitric’s lay behind, when Cormac pulled Diarmid to a halt.
“It’s better to let it out,” Cormac advised. “No judgment here. Right, Conan?”
Conan looked like he might make another jest, until he saw Diarmid’s face. “Right,” he agreed. “What am I missing? I feel like you both know something I don’t.”
Cormac shot Diarmid a pointed look. “Let it out.”
“I can’t stop thinking about her.” Diarmid pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to stop helping her. I can’t take it any longer.”
“Maybe I can help her instead,” Conan offered. “Are you just talking with her?”
“He’s not,” Cormac said.
Conan’s eyes went wide. “You’re not bedding her, are you? Sitric will—”
“I’m not.”
“What happened at the river today?” Cormac asked as he resumed their journey to The Broken Oar.
“What makes you think anything happened?” Diarmid shot back. “I said the same thing to you days ago.”
Cormac nodded. “Aye, you did. But this morning, the princess hardly spared you a glance. At dinner, she couldn’t take her eyes off you. You should talk to her about that, by the way. If Sitric sees the way she’s looking at you, he’s going to figure it out.”
“I’m not talking to her again,” Diarmid replied.
Conan furrowed his brow. “Figure out what?”
Diarmid couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. What had happened to him? Where had the man gone who bedded a different woman each night?
Cormac shoved him. Hard.
“Fine!” Diarmid cried. “It’s possible that I’ve grown fond of her.”
“Good God.” Conan put a hand to Diarmid’s forehead. “Have you caught an ague? Have the fair folk gotten you? You wandered into one of their forts, didn’t you?”
Diarmid swatted his hand away. “I’m fine.”
“You didn’t smile once the entire night,” Cormac observed.
“You want me to smile as I watch him put his hands all over her?” The words came out before Diarmid realized what he’d said.
“Are you sure you haven’t bedded her?” Conan’s skepticism was entirely merited.
At least Diarmid hadn’t been that foolish.
Cormac cast him a sideways glance. “Have you?”
“I already told you I haven’t,” Diarmid replied testily. He could tell by the looks on their faces that they still didn’t believe him. “She made me kiss her.”
Conan let out an irritating laugh. “You jest.”
“No judgment.” Cormac’s clipped reminder had Conan sobering quickly. “Go on, Diarmid. Ignore this fool, I’m genuinely curious.”
“I’ve been helping her grow more accustomed to physical touch. Not like that, you arse,” he growled when a strangled chuckle escaped Conan. “Sitric hugs everyone. He tried several times to hold her hand and she struggled to accommodate him. So, I sat and held her hand until she deemed it tolerable.”
“I did notice she’d improved with that,” Conan told him. “Whatever you did, it’s working.”
“So what happened today, then?” Cormac pressed.
“Sitric told her if she kissed him, he’d marry her. More or less.” Diarmid ran a hand through his hair as he recalled their conversation. “She’d never kissed anyone before, and begged me to help her this last time.”
Both his brothers were silent until they’d nearly reached the alehouse. “You need to bed someone,” Cormac insisted yet again. “It’s always worked for you in the past, and it makes the most sense for this particular problem.”
“I tried! Don’t you remember? The serving maid?”
“Maybe she wasn’t the right woman—”
“When have you ever known me to be selective over women with breasts that size?”
“I bet they bounce nicely,” Conan added unhelpfully. “Perhaps you should go give her another try.”
Cormac moved in front of Diarmid, placing both hands on his shoulders. “Four days. One raid. Then you never have to see her again. I know that’s not what you want, but it will be easier to move on when she isn’t sitting across from you at every meal.”
“Speaking of which,” Conan said, “what’s going on with you and Astrid?”
“I loathe her almost as much as she loathes me,” Cormac replied, sounding irritated for the first time the entire night. “My deepest wish is to leave this settlement before she tries to kill me in my sleep.”
Conan wiggled his eyebrows at Diarmid with a knowing glance, earning a glower from Cormac. Diarmid had to admit that it was rare indeed to see his eldest brother so easily riled, or to have him say anything that appeared unfounded.
Conan continued teasing Cormac as they sat at a table outside, waiting for Maeve to bring their drinks. They spoke of the raid with Sitric, of the Fianna, even of their childhood and their shared disgust of their father, who had turned his back on Brian after years as an ally. For a time, Diarmid nearly forgot all about his troubles with Cara.
Cormac was right. All Diarmid needed to do was get through the next few days. Once they returned home, he wouldn’t have to see Cara again.
If only that was what he wanted.
Instead, he wanted to learn about her childhood. He wanted to learn the name of whatever bastard had used her so poorly so he could hunt him down. He wanted to know what she thought about Dyflin, about her family’s problems, about her own capture and rescue. As he sat under the twinkling stars with his brothers, letting the chill night air clear his mind, Diarmid realized that though he’d loved every woman he’d bedded, he’d not once fallen in love.
Until now.