Chapter Seven
Laughter erupted as Dallan dropped the knucklebones again.
“I’ve never seen you so deep in your cups that you can’t play properly,” Conan snickered, smacking his friend’s back while Finn swapped Dallan’s ale for water.
“How dare you!” Dallan protested, a sloppy grin sliding around his face.
“It’s for my wife, not you,” Finn assured him. “She’ll kill me if you die of drink.”
“You’re married?” Emer turned a curious look to Finn, her head tilting and bringing her black locks with it.
“Aye,” Finn replied, giving Dallan a shove, “to his sister.”
“And I’m married to his sister,” Illadan added, pointing at Finn.
“She just had their first child,” Conan offered, knowing Illadan would never boast but it needed doing. He’d seen the look on Illadan’s face whenever he held that little girl. “Liadan.”
Emer aahed just as he expected from any woman who heard about a new baby.
But Alannah simply nodded her congratulations.
She was unlike any woman he’d ever met, and not just because she dressed like a man.
He couldn’t put his finger on it, but she felt different, she moved through rooms and conversations like a queen, like she had complete control and she knew it.
“Are you all married?” Emer asked, looking from one man to the next.
“Ardál and I aren’t,” Conan answered with a pointed look to Alannah.
He was going to crack her shell if it killed him.
He’d made excellent progress since they’d started their game, but she was a challenge and he was more than happy to accept.
He didn’t miss the conspicuous elbow bump that Emer gave Alannah’s side after he answered.
Alannah grabbed the knucklebones and tossed her hand, catching them in spite of being three drinks deep into the night. For a woman who seemed so in control, she played awfully coy with what he felt was clear interest. Perhaps she genuinely didn’t return it.
But there was only one way to find out.
“Do you know how to use that sword you carry?” he asked as she made her next toss.
She dropped it.
He rolled his lips to keep from laughing at the fury that speared him from her sapphire eyes. She could glare at him all day if it meant those gorgeous eyes were on him.
“Why would I carry it if I can’t use it?” She passed the knucklebones to Emer, her eyes never leaving Conan.
“To discourage trouble.” He crossed his arms and leaned away from the table, looking as cocky as he could to prick her temper into action.
“Yes, I can use it.”
“Show me.”
“I could demand the same.” She crossed her arms to match his.
In spite of her trews, sword, and fire, she still looked every inch a woman, down to the strong but feminine shape of her arms, folded in defiance. He’d never dare to call her a girl. He doubted the word could ever even slip out on accident, for there was no mistaking the difference in her.
Conan rose, unable to keep the grin off his face. “Happily.” With a spring in his step at the thrill of the chase, he headed to his room to retrieve his sword.
*
“You know he’s after you,” Dallan slurred, clearly having lost his sense of decency with one of his cups of ale.
Alannah’s chest felt like it was filled with air, like it could take off into flight, even though she knew that was a ridiculous notion. “I highly doubt that.”
Why on earth would he chase her when Emer was such a catch? Petite, demure, a veritable ray of sunshine, and easily the prettiest girl in Ath Luain with her round face and dark hair. Not to mention her sister could cook well enough to serve a king. Her hand pies were legendary.
Oran was the only man who’d gone after Alannah, and he was clearly insane.
Alannah was skilled in many ways. Charming men wasn’t one of them.
But a round of sparring with someone who, by the looks of it, could prove a true challenge, sounded promising. Her brothers had been gone for six years, and even though she could convince Glasny to go a round or two on occasion, she was sorely out of practice.
Conan returned, sword in hand. He carried it like an extension of himself, as though it weighed nothing when Alannah knew perfectly well that a blade that size would be exhausting to wield without constant practice. Perhaps they were a band of mercenaries who’d retired as bards?
Shaking her head, Alannah gave up trying to make sense of their odd guests for the evening. If they were staying a month, she’d have more than enough time to figure out why they could fight like warriors but play like bards.
“Have fun,” Emer told her as she stood to follow Conan out the door.
She took him to the small patch of dirt behind the barn where she practiced the skills she needed to protect Emer.
The days of rain had turned it into a mud pit, her calfskin boots squelching and popping with each step.
Sword in hand, she turned to the side and bent her knees, as her brothers had shown her.
They’d given her a light sword so she could hold it with one hand, meaning she need not face her opponent fully and could make herself a smaller target.
An approving smile lit Conan’s face. Her pulse raced in response.
Damn, but he was handsome. She’d been in a man’s bed before—as soon as she realized she’d never marry she decided she didn’t particularly care what anyone else thought.
Not that she was jumping from one to the next or flaunting any of her fun.
But it had been a long time. She hadn’t thought of anything but the business and her sister since they opened the place. And that was four summers ago. No wonder she was swooning so easily.
He did her the decency of attacking instead of asking if she was ready or talking down to her, which she appreciated.
He did hold back though. Alannah wasn’t particularly skilled or experienced in swordplay, but she could tell he moved slower than he could, that he didn’t rebound as quickly as he would have in a real fight.
It irritated her, but even still she couldn’t keep up.
“You won’t break me,” he grinned, taunting her. “Hit harder.”
“These aren’t practice swords,” she reminded him, as though there were actually a chance she’d strike.
“If you make me bleed, I’ll buy you a drink.”
She snorted. That only meant he’d let her hit him.
“What?” he asked. “You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t trust you,” she corrected, adjusting the grip on her sword. “You’ll let me win.”
He scoffed in what was clearly mock offense. “I would never.” He held the pommel against his chest as though she’d struck him.
He was certainly dramatic enough to be a bard.
“How about this,” he began, his voice softening. “Every time you win a bout, you can choose a prize. Every time I win, you cover one of my drinks for the night. Now I have incentive not to let you win,” he grinned, his grey eyes sparkling with mischief.
Her stomach fluttered, but she ignored the rush. She’d never win if she didn’t focus. “Every time I beat you, you have to answer a question,” she decided, now invested in the game. “Truthfully.”
“Is there another way?” he teased, taking up his stance.
Her eyes rolled as she matched him, attacking first and hoping to catch him by surprise. Steel met steel, and two moves later his blade stopped in front of her throat.
“Drink one.” His voice was low, seductive.
It shouldn’t have had any effect on her after that thorough defeat.
And yet, it did.
Again, he beat her.
And again.
Alannah lowered her sword to catch her breath, noting that Conan wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Looks like your drinks are on the house tonight,” she panted.
She needed to find a sparring partner or she’d never be able to adequately defend Emer should the need arise.
“Go on,” she sighed, “tell me how a woman has no business carrying a sword she can’t wield. ”
“Is that what you believe I’m thinking?” he asked. “Has someone said that to you?”
Alannah laughed darkly. “You mean has someone not said that to me.”
His jaw tightened.
Her heart reacted. Damnit. This man.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You struggle because you need practice, not because you have tits,” he said roughly, speaking as though she were one of his men and not some lady that needed gentle treatment.
“Do you still practice?” she asked. “Even though you’re a bard?”
“Every day.” He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean ‘still’?”
“I assumed that you lot were mercenaries with a change of heart or some such. Why else would a band of giants armed as warriors walk around as bards?”
“Giants?” he laughed.
“Compared with the rest of us, aye. Poor Emer has to look straight up at the lot of you, like she’s talking to trees.”
He chuckled from his belly, a sound that brought a smile her own face.
“Aye, we’re all trained as warriors,” he admitted, “but we don’t like to speak of it.”
She nodded her understanding. That made sense. And she knew all about leaving the past behind you. “Tell me how to beat you.”
“Your technique isn’t bad, just slow. The first thing you need is to practice, every single day, until you can fight with me and not be winded. Until every swing of your sword is so familiar you needn’t think—only react.” He took up his stance. “Again.”
Alannah obeyed, knowing he did it to push her, to help her improve. This time she picked up her pace, throwing everything she had into every swing, every recovery.
He moved a little quicker, she noted with pleasure. She still hadn’t even come close to landing a blow, but he’d had to work harder to block her.
“Ask me your question,” he offered.
“But I didn’t win. I don’t need pity.”
“Think of it more as motivation. You’re exhausted, but you went again. Every time you pick that sword back up and fight me like your life depends on it, you win.”
It made sense and it hurt her pride a little less, so Alannah decided to ask her question instead of arguing. “Why are you out here with me?”
“Because you intrigue me,” he answered evenly. “Again.”
He didn’t give her time to weigh his answer, starting up the next bout before she could get control of her breathing again. Lord, this sword was heavy all of a sudden. As much as she wanted to earn his respect, she couldn’t keep going. One move in, she lost her grip on her sword.
“My win,” he grinned, picking up her sword, flipping it effortlessly, and handing it back to her. “But you’ve already covered all my drinks, so I’ll play the question game.” He paused, looking to her for consent.
She nodded, her heart hammering.
“Why are you resisting me?” He took a step toward her. “Are you really not interested?”
Alannah swallowed, her mouth going dry in spite of the damp that clung to the air. “No,” her voice cracked. “I just doubt that you are.”
“Why?” His dark brows knitted.
“Most men chase my sister. I’m not the prize.”
His jaw tightened again, as it had earlier. Lord help her, she wanted to brush her fingers on it. “They don’t chase her because she’s the prize,” he whispered. “They chase her because you’re unattainable. They’re outmatched, and they know it.”
She could hardly breathe, but this time it had naught to do with swords. “And yet, here you are. Chasing.”
His hand cupped the side of her face, rough and warm, as his eyes devoured her. “I’m not most men.”