Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
To warrior-princess Dara, her father’s decision to bring a Norman knight into their Irish homeland is dangerous at best. Dara distrusts all things Norman. But the king of Leinster sees Strongheart, a landless knight with superior skills at warfare, as the perfect advisor and trainer for his men.
Strongheart makes no secret of his desire to marry the princess and become Lord of Leinster. When enemies attack, he and Dara unite as they make plans to retake her homeland. During their exile in Wales, his skilled seduction and courtship proves irresistible to both her body and heart. Yet her proud and passionate nature challenges their future together.
When the battles come, the fate of both the kingdom and their love will be decided once and for all.
"If you’re looking for some hot sex . . . this could be the book for you." —All About Romance
Chapter One
"HAVE THE FAIRIES stolen your wits, Da?”
Princess Dara O’Dwyre paced the upper hall, berating her father beside her and
glaring at the Norman knight who stood below the dais. At her chilly words, the
Norman Roland de Clare saluted her with his goblet and a scoundrel’s grin,
nettling her even more.
Dara met the devilment in the Norman’s
dark eyes squarely while she continued the argument with her father. "This
stranger just rode into Leinster. We know nothing about him, yet you wish to
put him in charge of our castle defense. To be sure, Da, there could not be a
worse time to trust a stranger, especially a Norman.” Without a shred of
remorse, she spat out the last word as she would a curse. "Do we not have
enough border troubles without inviting problems inside County Wexford?”
At her harsh
words, the Norman’s bronze face remained implacable, his stance casual,
although a muscle clenched in his jaw. Dara thought it significant that while
she insulted his honor he maintained such iron control. Perhaps he wanted more
than the position of chief marshal. Only a warrior with an ulterior purpose
would endure her harangue without protest.
Conor O’Dwyre,
King of Leinster, ran his hand through his curly gray hair and sighed. He sat
for a few moments in silence, considering her argument. Unlike Dara, who’d
inherited a sharp tongue from her mother, her father always thought long and
carefully before speaking. But sometimes of late, he drifted, needing a bit of
prodding.
"Da?”
"We need his
expertise. A Norman warrior can teach us English strategy. He won’t upset
things.”
She spun on her
heel and set a hand on her hip in frustration. "The devil take him! He has
already upset things. I should be setting a trap for the raiders instead of
arguing with you.”
At her words,
the Norman warrior’s eyes widened slightly. His lips twitched, whether in anger
or laughter she couldn’t tell. With a rising sense of desperation, she refused
to allow his muscled arms and superior weaponry to impress her as they had her
father and his men. She had no doubt that on the battlefield, Strongheart was
aptly named. However, one bold man, no matter how fine a warrior, could not
save them from the constant border raids. If Strongheart thought he could ride
in, display his fancy armor, shield, and spear, and convince them to trust
him, he’d overestimated his powers of persuasion.
She raised her
hand to the four-leafed shamrock she wore at her neck, the O’Dwyre symbol of
their right to rule. The tips of her fingers traced the gold edges of the rare
emerald enamel leaves outlined in gold, inlaid with tiny pearls, and encircling
a sparkling diamond. The treasure had been handed down from one generation to
the next—her family had ruled Leinster since the mists of time.
O’Dwyres had
built Castle Ferns on O’Dwyre land. O’Dwyres had defended Leinster and died
for the right to rule from Kilcowan to Cloncurry. She and her father continued
the tradition. This was her home, her people, her family, and they had no need
of any bloody Norman to teach them to defend what was theirs.
When her father
opened his mouth to speak, she held up her hand, struggling to maintain an even
tone. "I know the plan. You will keep him so busy training the men-at-arms and
archers, I’ll barely know he’s here. That is what you always say whenever you
make a decision I do not like.”
As she stole his
argument, Conor rubbed his gray beard sheepishly. "He’ll cause no trouble.”
She rolled her
eyes and gave him a wry look. Furious that she couldn’t prevail upon her father
to change his mind, she ground her teeth together to overcome the urge to argue
further. Above all else, he had to appear Leinster’s leader. But in truth, more
and more of late, he refused to see reason. Still, she could only say so much
in the public hall, and by the prowling, predatory intelligence glimmering in
Strongheart’s dark eyes, he had knowingly taken advantage of her predicament.
She tossed her
hair over her shoulder in a gesture of defiance. "Men always cause trouble.”
"Impertinent
chit.” Her father’s affectionate grin softened his words. "The Norman is
different.”
"Just like the
last marshal you hired was different?” she asked caustically. First she’d had
to fend off his unwanted attentions. Then, the traitor had near gotten away
with their gold. "Have you already forgotten the wee bit o’ trouble he caused
us?”
Her father had
the grace to look somewhat abashed. "Lass, how could I know the man spied for
O’Rourke?”
Dara bit back a
sharp retort, suspecting there would never be peace between the clans. The
O’Dwyres would always have to fight to hold their land. She had been born in
Castle Ferns, and to her this was more than just a home. After her mother left
them, the solid castle walls of the O’Dwyre estate represented safety and
strength to her. The dark gray, ivy-covered stones stood rooted on O’Dwyre
land, linking the past with the future. Castle Ferns protected her, as it would
her children and her grandchildren. It was a comforting thought that though
O’Dwyres would come and go, Castle Ferns would always shelter them.
Strongheart’s
presence threatened their home more severely than losing a bit of gold or cows
to their old enemy O’Rourke. Wherever the hated Normans ventured, they
conquered the native people of the land, looting, raping, pillaging. Normans
had taken over Wales, and now their relentlessly greedy eyes looked westward to
the uninhabited riches of Eire. If only her father’s mind was clear, he would
see the Norman was the first of a conquering race, the vanguard of an army of
invading warriors. But age could make a fool of any man, even the King of
Leinster.
She shook off
the disconcerting thought that her father was not the wise leader he once was.
Ignoring the giant Norman who watched every sway of her hips with unseemly
interest, she stepped beside the king’s great chair, placed a hand on his
forearm, and spoke softly. "You could not know of O’Rourke’s treachery, but we
must suspect all strangers, especially a Norman.”
Her father
lowered his voice, and Dara leaned forward to catch the words meant for her
ears alone. "You are wise, my dear. Stay close to him. Beguile him with your
winning ways and learn his secrets.” Then Leinster’s king spoke loudly, so the
Norman could hear. "I shall keep close watch.”
Dara bit off a
curse. Her failure to convince her father could prove disastrous. At the
triumph sparkling in Strongheart’s black eyes, she swallowed the bitter taste
of defeat, stifling the urge to punch the arrogant Norman’s nose. "Da, have
you heard nothing I’ve said?”
"Enough! I will
hear Roland de Clare’s opinion of Castle Ferns’ defenses. Above all things, I
would keep you safe.”
While she paced
restlessly with anger she couldn’t restrain, Strongheart stood by the large
hearth, solitary as a rock island, rooted as a rowan, self-contained as a force
of nature. They glanced at each other like wolfhounds taking measure of a
menacing new rival. Sweet Jesu, the Norman knight was big! Although her father
was tall, very masculine, and a man of great size and strength, the foreign
knight towered over him.
Strongheart’s
dark hair reached to his fine linen tunic embroidered with gold thread. His
glimmering, arrogant eyes dominated his face, giving him the appearance of
always leaning aggressively forward and making him seem all the more dangerous.
His nose was bold and straight, and his cheekbones angled sharply, the hollows
almost gaunt above a sensual mouth.
His broad
shoulders left no doubt of his profession. Not even the mail that covered his
torso could hide the enormous power of his broad chest. But it was his arrogant
confidence that proclaimed him the best of warriors.
Unlike the men
of her land, he covered his muscular legs with cloth, filling his leather boots
until he strained the top lacing. As he advanced, taking huge strides, the
great bulge of his thigh muscles shifted.
Although he’d
left his lance and helmet with his mount, he carried an axe with a fan-shaped
blade, and a broad-bladed sword in a scabbard of wood was belted to his waist.
She swallowed
hard in awe of his unusual weapons, and fear chilled her spine. Irish men,
without mail or battle-axes, could not fight an army of Normans wearing chain
hauberks like his. Irish short bows, spears, and slings could not penetrate his
mail. And his longbow, carried across his broad back, was the largest she’d
ever seen.
But it was the
challenging look in his eyes that had her bracing for an attack. The intensity
of his stare made her weigh her words with care.
Suddenly
nervous, Dara ran a hand through her hair, trying to ignore Strongheart’s keen
scrutiny. Let him watch. She would not give up as long as she drew breath. "The
Normans’ greed for our land cannot be underestimated. They come seeking our
rich green pastures just like the Gaels and the Danes before them.”
The knight
approached with repressed energy, his emotions under ironclad control, his
chain hauberk reflecting the candlelight with each long stride. "Princess, let
me remind you, I am only one man.”
But quite a man
at that. A hard man seeking glory. At her first sight of him, when he’d set
down his shield upon entering the hall, her breath had caught at the width of
his shoulders and the powerful muscles of his bare forearms. When he entered a
room, all were immediately aware of his presence. He projected a virile
intensity, and within minutes of his arrival, every maid knew his name and of
whence he came.
Strongheart wore
the scars of battle on his arm and neck like marks of honor, seemingly uncaring
of his isolation among enemies, undisturbed by her mistrust. His strength
could be their undoing. All the more reason not to trust him and his piercing
eyes that reminded her of glistening black stones on a cloudless day. Although
he’d ridden onto their lands alone, he could have hidden knights and foot
soldiers in the forest beyond.
She struggled
with the almost overpowering need to take a step back. Instead, she lifted her
chin, prepared to argue as long as it took to keep Castle Ferns and its
inhabitants safe. These days her father’s perpetual optimism could be more
than irritating—it could be dangerous. "If you allow him to stay, more Normans
will follow, enough Normans that the land will no longer be ours.”
"Strongheart is
a soldier, not inclined to settling in one place, I think. I’d wager he’s never
herded, milked, or butchered cows,” her father protested mildly.
She gathered her
courage to leave her father’s side and locked her gaze with the brooding stare
of the Norman as she approached him. "Tell me you do not covet the fertile
lands of County Kildare. Tell me you do not longingly eye the abundant wealth
of Carlow, Kilkenny, and Wexford, and I will say you lie.”
Strongheart’s
coal-black eyes lit up like a banked fire, and he measured her with a hard
intensity before he answered. Dara hoped that in the end, his words would do
him no good. Her father usually indulged her behests. When she called the
Norman a liar, she thought he would shout, pound his great fist on the table,
or demand she leave the great hall.
Instead he
laughed, the deep sound rumbling in his chest, and he bowed mockingly. "I
applaud your fine hospitality, Princess O’Dwyre. If you accuse all your guests
of dishonor, the bards must sing the truth of it from Cork to Derry. Is your
shrewish tongue and lack of manners the reason you are not wed?”
"Sweet lamb of
divine Jesu!” Rage boiled in her stomach. She was all the more furious because
he had every right to fault her lack of hospitality, but she’d never admit it
to him. Nor would she admit she found him interesting—all the more reason to
send him on his way.
At his remark
about her lack of a husband, her cheeks flushed hot. How like a man to get the
situation backward. Battles had been fought for the right to claim her. The
kings of Connaught and Munster had offered for her. And he, arrogant man,
thought no one wanted her?
How
dare Strongheart stand and insult her in their castle? But worse, he’d turned
the table on her. She’d called him a liar for which he had no defense. And like
any good warrior without a defense, he’d attacked, insulting her and changing
the subject. The man was clever. But so was she.
She
swallowed the anger and allowed her father to hear her real fears. "Is it not
bad enough that traitors surround us? Must we bring one into our midst?” She
spun, clenched her fist at the Norman, and let loose her building rage. "We do
not offer food and drink to our enemies. Get out, I say!”
The
Norman’s expression did not change. He didn’t acknowledge her attack by so much
as a flicker of an eyelash. He simply turned his broad back to her.
He
might not have been so arrogant if he’d known her skill with a dirk. Even if he
had no craving for their rich lands, no good could come of his presence here.
Why didn’t her father see that the Norman represented a threat more dangerous
than Munster, Meath, Connaught, and Ulster combined?
For
now, the Ard-ri, the Irish high king, remained in Connaught, settling
the constant border disputes between the lesser kings from afar. Instead of
lessening, the old enmity between the Ard-ri and her father had only
intensified during the last eighteen years. The Norman’s presence here would
give Leinster’s enemies reason to unite, and they could not afford to take that
chance. The longstanding feuds had already taken too many innocent lives.
From
the southeast, the ambitious Borrack MacLugh, King of Munster, coveted the
rich lands and vast cattle herds of Leinster. Only an old agreement kept him at
bay. And one-eyed Tiernan O’Rourke, King of Meath, was forever a thorn in the
side of the O’Dwyres, staging quick raids across the border, leaving only
flaming villages, hungry old men, and motherless children behind.
A
Norman in Castle Ferns would escalate the confrontations. One look at the
Norman’s superior armor, and their enemies would fear Leinster’s advantage. And
what men feared, men attacked. Leinster, with her moist skies feeding lush
fields, would become a bloody battleground. Great numbers of men would swarm
over their land. Dara’s throat tightened with thoughts of never again riding
free through the open country. The armies would set fire to the crops, ransack
the villages, and ruin Leinster’s open green pastures.
Dara
prayed the Ard-ri’s army would remain in Connaught. While her family had
troubles in Leinster, they’d solve them without the high king’s interference.
She saw no reason to invite Strongheart onto their land. That her father had
even considered such a decision distressed her deeply.
More
and more she had to cover up her father’s mistakes. Although Conor O’Dwyre had
the strength of three men, his forgetful spells came more frequently now. But
since Leinster’s men still followed Conor into battle without hesitation, the
O’Dwyres had no need of a Norman gaining the men’s allegiance, usurping her
father’s authority.
Strongheart
set down his silver goblet of wine on the great yew table, then strode toward
her father. Her heartbeat quickened in alarm, and Dara’s hand closed on the
handle of the dirk at her waist. But the Norman’s hands stayed clear of his
magnificent diamond-and-amber encrusted sword.
His
tone resonated lethal confidence. "Your men lack training. Purchasing mail for
the men-at-arms and armor for the horses is vital. And the triple rings of
stone on the southern wall need major reinforcement.”
Dara’s
stomach lurched in growing resentment and horror. His sharp eyes had assessed
their every weakness.
Stiffening
her spine, she wrapped pride around her like a cowl. "Ferns is the finest
castle in all Eire.”
Strongheart
raised a dark brow. The set of his mouth bordered on mockery, and his tone
remained dangerously even. "Pillars of bronze, roofs of tile, and gongs of
silver will not halt an army. And neither will your spiked tongue.”
"Och.
The great Norman knight has come to safeguard Leinster. If I believed that, I’d
have the sense of a flea.”
"Stop
snarling. I cannot afford a fight between you.” Her father leaned back in his
chair, rubbed his beard, and stared hard at Strongheart. By his long silence,
Dara knew he still considered the man’s suggestions.
"I
want to see what he can do. You may stay—”
"No!”
Acid burned Dara’s stomach as she rushed to her father’s side, blinking back
tears of defeat. Conor could not force the Norman on their people. Castle Ferns
would not harbor a traitor.
"You
will not gainsay me, Daughter.”
Fully
aware that tears wouldn’t change her father’s mind, she forced herself to speak
with strength. "I say what I please. We cannot afford another mistake.”
"Strongheart
can stay the night. I will decide by—”
"Raiders,”
bellowed a guard from the lower bailey, interrupting their argument.
At the first
sign of trouble, the Norman’s hand moved so quickly to his sword, his hand was
a blur. He spun, sword half-drawn from his scabbard before she could shout,
"Where?”
"Sletty,” came
the reply from below.
Conor pounded
the arm of his chair with his fist. "The thieves grow bolder; they steal our
cattle during the day.”
With a sudden
rush of panic, Dara’s blood drained from her face. Her maid Sorcha had gone
that morn to visit her brother in Sletty, less than a half-day’s ride away. At
this hour, perhaps Sorcha was already on her way back, but Dara could not shake
off the dark premonition smothering her like a cloak. Sorcha was like a mother
to her; she couldn’t bear to see her harmed.
At the news, her
father leapt from his chair with a hoarse battle cry on his lips and sprinted
down the stairs, with Strongheart close behind. Perhaps this time they’d catch
the thieves and end these constant border raids.
In the bailey,
women hugged their men goodbye and offered bread and cheese for the journey,
and children raced about the men. Below, horses whinnied at the call-to-arms.
Men cursed. Dogs barked at honking geese.
Dara ran lightly
down the steps, seized her bow, and slung it over her shoulder. She grabbed her
traveling pouch packed with clean cloths for bandages and needle and thread for
stitching. After seizing a few bundles of herbs and filling a waterskin, she
stuffed the supplies into her pouch.
She slipped a
dirk into her boot, then hurried outside to see the men already mounted and
galloping across the scrub land. But she couldn’t stay behind without going mad
with worry. Not with Sorcha’s life at risk. Dara sprinted to the stables and
bridled her red stallion Fionn. Hiking up her tunic, she vaulted onto his back.
"Go, Fionn.” She
goaded him with her heels, and he bolted after the warriors.
Her great
steed’s powerful hooves devoured the distance between Dara and the men, sending
the occasional hare zigzagging for cover. Overhead, a kestrel hovered, steadily
holding its position in the air with no more than a tremor of its wings. If
only finding Sorcha would prove so effortless.
Although her
father would not be pleased by Dara’s actions, he would not stop her. Often her
tracking skills brought them victory, especially when the raiders hid cattle in
a marsh. Besides, he knew how much Sorcha meant to her.
The sky grayed
to a weighty, depressing gloom, but no impending storm would stop Dara. Drawing
in great draughts of air, she followed the dust blowing in the eternal west
wind. Beneath Fionn’s hooves, the verdant green pastures whirled away, becoming
hilly crag. She topped a heady rise, and the wind keened, blowing her hair back
from her face and giving Dara her first clear view of Sletty in the distance.
From the peak,
the village looked deserted. Not a whiff of smoke emerged from the wattled
huts. Only chickens clucked in the empty mud lane through the village’s center.
After sending
for her father’s help, the villagers must have hidden the swine, sheep, and
milk cows in the nooks of these hills. At least the raiders had not burned the
thatch roofs. No bodies lay in the street. Perhaps Sorcha was safe.
She rode down to
join her father and his men, who had stopped to confer with the smithy. When
she advanced, the warriors drew their mounts aside, leaving her a clear path to
her father, then closed ranks protectively behind her.
BY THE ROOD!
What is Princess Dara doing on a raid? So great was Strongheart’s incredulity,
he almost shouted the words aloud. He glanced from her straight back, high
chin, and squared shoulders to the faces of the Irish men. Not one warrior
looked surprised.
From their
casual acceptance of her presence, he gathered Irish princesses rode on daily
raids, or at least Dara O’Dwyre did. Apparently riding into danger was an
everyday occurrence for the red-haired woman who rode as if she were part of
her stallion, indifferent to her tunic hiked well above her knees, revealing
delicate ankles.
If the king
risked his daughter’s life by allowing such pagan behavior, it was no concern
of Strongheart’s. Yet pretending nonchalance was proving more difficult than
he’d imagined. Neither the long hair that reached her thighs nor her hose hid
the shapely muscles with which she straddled the bare back of her huge roan
stallion.
When he caught
her fierce glance darkened with the merest hint of worry, her eyes sparkled
like the sun glinting through Leinster’s emerald forests. Her straight, short
nose seemed to turn up at him, and her full lips clamped together in
disapproval. The air crackled with tension, sizzling his flesh from his scalp
to his toes. For one brief moment, he forgot to suck in air. Then she moved on,
breaking the eerie spell she’d cast over him.
Strongheart took
a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He would have coveted the King of Leinster’s
daughter even if she’d been as gnarled as a crone. To find such an enchantress
only increased his determination to have her and her rich lands. Her ruby lips
were made for kissing, her provocative eyes flashed with clear emerald
sparkles, and her fair skin had a golden glow that made him yearn to possess
her. If he ever owned such a treasure, he vowed to guard her well. Had these
Irishmen no pride to allow a woman to ride with men into battle?
When Conor spied
his daughter, he interrupted his conversation and held out his hand to her.
"’Tis dangerous to ride alone. Why did you tarry so long?”
She squeezed his
hand and nodded toward the pouch stuffed with remedies tied to her waist. "I
came prepared.”
"For battle?”
Strongheart nudged his horse forward.
With a defiant
toss of her glorious hair, she squared her shoulders. "I am always ready to
defend Leinster’s assets.”
"And most
beautiful are those assets.” He ran his gaze from the tips of her smoky lashes
to her booted toes, taking in the proud tilt of her chin, the enticing curves
of her breasts, the graceful way she sat her horse.
Her eyes glared
at him icily. "I’ll slice the throat of any man who tries to take what is
mine.” Turning her horse, she gave him her stiff back.
Bloodthirsty
wench. Strange
how she objected to an honest compliment. Odd how she was savvy one minute,
guarded and cool the next.
Conor finished
his questioning of the smithy and urged his mount southwest. The band of riders
rode hard, past ruins engulfed in ivy, through a wood of oaks undergrown
with holly, and onto the upland moors.
As they rounded
a rocky crag, the path deteriorated into battle-site unevenness, and they
startled a flock of white-fronted geese and feral goats. Despite the majestic
peregrines, ravens, and sparrowheads flying above the rough terrain,
Strongheart’s gaze repeatedly returned to Dara. Keeping his destrier abreast
with her stallion, he was nearly mesmerized by the rhythmic bounce of her
auburn tresses.
With her creamy
complexion flushed from the wind and her long hair streaming like a banner
behind her, she fired his imagination. Her intelligent sea-green eyes, the
boldness of her presence, sent his thoughts whirling. What would it be like to
taste her provocative lips? To hold her naked in his arms? To watch her face
when she experienced her woman’s pleasure for the very first time?
As if sensing
his thoughts, she looked over her shoulder. He’d half-expected her to frown or
sneer, but she grinned in challenge and dug her heels into her stallion’s
sides, darting ahead.
Accepting her
silent dare, Strongheart dug in his heels, and his horse broke free of the
pack. To catch her, he used all his horsemanship to prod his steed faster.
Unburdened by saddle or armor, she rode as well as any knight, perhaps better
since her diminutive size seemed no match for the powerful stallion. Catching
her did not prove easy.
Finally he came
abreast. She rode high on the stallion’s withers, her face aglow with
exhilaration, her eyes sparkling. No matter how much she was enjoying this
ride, she shouldn’t have left herself unprotected.
"Hold up.
Conor’s men are far behind,” he shouted, his voice muffled by a strong western
gust.
She began to
rein the stallion in. And then above the wind, a woman’s scream pierced the
air, followed by several sharp curses.
Dara paled. He
expected her to draw her horse to a screeching halt. Instead, she leaned
forward, crooned in her stallion’s ears, and dug her heels into his flanks. The
horse bolted ahead, and he realized he’d caught her only because she’d let him.
In frustration
at being left to eat her dust, and worried over her safety, he yelled over the
pounding hooves, "Stop! Don’t go alone!”
"’Tis Sorcha!”
Dara shouted back, riding on without pause.
Bloody fool
woman. Would
she risk her life for a maid? As she put herself in danger, Strongheart’s gut
clenched.
Another scream
resounded from the copse of elms directly ahead of them. Through the trees,
Strongheart spied a clearing where several men squatted around a campfire. At
the northern end of the cleaning, a larger group herded milling cattle.
Dara veered
toward the woman struggling on the ground at the far side of camp. Did the
princess not realize the danger? While he would take on any man with his sword,
he estimated ten times that number in camp.
Heedless of her
own safety, Princess Dara charged straight into the group of men, scattering
bellowing cattle in every direction. With her horse at a full gallop, she flung
herself from the stallion’s back into a throng of startled men.
Strongheart’s
heart slammed into his chest. Rarely had he seen such courage in knights
wearing full battle armor. The fool girl could die before he reached her. He
raked his mount’s sides with his spurs. Without taking his gaze off the spot
where she’d jumped off her horse, he withdrew his sword and hefted his shield,
guiding his animal solely with his knees.
He dared not
risk a moment to look back to see how far behind Conor’s men lagged. As he
neared the throng, the raiders pulled back from the attacking Irish princess,
leaving him a clear view.
Sorcha lay with
her legs splayed wide, her arms held tight by two men. A huge man, naked from
the waist down, kneeled between her thighs.
After leaping
from her horse, Dara had landed atop the shoulders of the rapist. Suddenly the
man toppled, his neck spurting blood as Dara yanked her knife from his neck. He
was no longer a threat to Dara. But another raider advanced upon her from
behind.
He urged his
mount forward, but his steed would never reach her in time. "Watch your back!”
Men closed in
around him. He lost sight of her in the fray. His sword sliced through the
men’s leather armor like a knife through lard. Still, by sheer overwhelming
numbers, they forced him from his saddle and kept him pinned.
He sliced and
parried, ducking past one man only to have another in his way. The coppery
scent of blood filled the air as he fought in desperation. But no matter how
slick the grass ran with blood, he couldn’t reach Dara.
Horses milled,
circled, then bolted, all except his battle-trained mount, which held its
ground. The panicked horses stampeded the cattle, and in their fright, their
hooves knocked embers from the fire’s protective stone circle. Flames whipped
across the grass. Smoke blocked his vision. The unmistakable stench of burnt
flesh permeated the air, filling his nostrils.
And the maid
never ceased her screaming.
As Strongheart
blocked a knife with his shield, he thrust his sword into another raider’s
heart. Between parries, he searched for Dara; with each downed opponent, he
edged closer to where he’d spied her last. If she lived through this hour, her
father should beat her for risking her life so wantonly.
Where in bloody
hell was she?
Thick, dark smoke prevented him from finding her. Sparks caught one
man’s clothes on fire, and he ran wildly through the melee, his frantic howls
ignored by his fellow raiders. Strongheart stumbled over a corpse. A sword came
toward his face. With a war cry, he raised his shield, blocking the blow. A
pike stabbed under his raised shield, and he countered with the thrust of his
sword. Before the man he’d smitten fell to his back and died, another took his
place. Then, at his side, a third appeared.
Surrounded,
Strongheart struggled to regain his footing, turning in a slow circle to
protect his back. Four men attacked at once, two from the front, two from
behind. From a crouch, Strongheart lunged forward, moving his back farther from
the enemy, and simultaneously running down a forward opponent. Before he freed
his broadsword, the other two attacked from the rear.
He spun,
abandoning his sword and pitching his shield at one adversary to delay him,
then rending the second with his axe, splattering brains and flesh in a death
blow. Shifting to the side, Strongheart readied for another charge, but the
third man fled, and the fourth’s deadly strike never came. Instead, the Irish
raider collapsed to his knees with a startled look in his eyes, a knife’s hilt
protruding from his nape.
Strongheart
squinted through the smoke, searching for the fighter who had come to his aid.
He spied Dara supporting the half-naked maid with one arm. The Princess must
have thrown her dirk with the other!
Finally, her
father’s men charged, the king roaring his fierce battle cry, his men taunting
their enemy with death. Conor’s men-at-arms surrounded the wood, trapping the
men fleeing with the cattle. Their foes stood no chance of victory since they
were afoot. Fire and smoke flushed the raiders straight into Conor’s converging
men.
Strongheart
retrieved his fallen sword, but before he reached Dara’s side, a raider grabbed
her from behind, tearing her from the maid. Sorcha cried out, stepped toward
Dara, and then collapsed to the ground.
With his arm
locked around Dara’s throat, the raider forced her toward a rearing horse tied
to a fir. She struggled, stomping the man’s instep, jamming her elbow into his
gut. Although her struggles delayed her captor a moment, the leather armor
protected the man from her blow.
The man pressed
a knife to Dara’s skin. Strongheart’s heart shot straight to his throat. He
dared not close on him, for he could lose her before her next breath.
Her attacker
backed away. "Drop your sword, Norman.”
Strongheart
threw down his weapon. Slowly, he shrugged his shoulder and eased his bow into
his hand.
Ever the
fighter, Dara raised her knee and slid her hand to her boot.
Her captor
jerked her upright, but her struggle to reach the weapon she’d hidden there was
just the distraction Strongheart required. In an instant, he drew the bow.
"No.” Dara’s
eyes widened. For the first time since her capture, fear flickered across her
horrified face.
A woman had no
place in battle. Especially this woman.
Strongheart
loosed his arrow.
Chapter Two
WITH THE KNIFE
at her neck, Dara faced death from the raider behind her, as well as from the
Norman before her. Strongheart’s arrow flew straight toward her. Terror
squeezed her throat.
The arrow
struck, its immense force knocking Dara to her knees and freeing her from the
man clutching her throat. Behind her, the raider shrieked his death knell.
Turning, she
gasped in pain as her hair caught on the shaft, and she yanked the trapped
locks loose. The Norman’s great arrow had narrowly missed her, piercing the
raider’s right eye, killing him instantly.
Ignoring her
nausea at the gruesome sight, she rolled free, scrambling for the dirk hidden
in her boot, at the same time frantically searching for Sorcha. She spied her,
but before she could reach her, another Norman in battle garb galloped into the
smoky clearing and abducted the maid.
Tears threatened
to spill down Dara’s cheeks. She had come so close to rescuing Sorcha only to
lose her to another bloody Norman. Strongheart had lied. As she’d suspected, he
had not come alone. He may even have conspired with their enemy and set a trap
for her father and his men.
Fear rose up to choke her. She fought the urge to aid Sorcha. Against
mail,her small dirk would do no good. She had to reach her father’s men and bring
help before the fire spread. Picking up her skirts, Dara sped through the
bushes, desperate to lose herself in the smoke.
"Gaillard,”
Strongheart commanded to the heavy-set Norman, "take the maid from the woods.”
Terrified she’d
never see Sorcha again, Dara sprinted from the burning grasses and into the
smoking trees to hide. If Strongheart meant to kill her, he would use his bow
again. Her shoulders tensed, expecting an arrow between her shoulder blades,
but she kept her feet racing.
Trees burst into flames around her, and fiery sparks flickered dangerously close to her
skirts. Branches crackled overhead. Hot air seared her lungs, and she placed an
arm over her mouth to block the hellish smoke. Still she coughed and feared
he’d track her by the uncontrollable hacking breaths. With a sick feeling of
failure churning in her gut, she realized the fire had outrun her. A spark
almost caught at the hem of her tunic. She wouldn’t reach Da in time to warn
him. Within moments she would succumb to the smoke.
A horse’s hooves
thudded on the ground behind her, and she glanced back in confusion. Strongheart
galloped toward her, his hand empty of a weapon, his arm outstretched.
If she stayed in
the clearing, the flames would engulf her. Clasping Strongheart’s large hand,
she jumped. With his great strength, he lifted her easily onto his horse.
She scrambled
for balance to ride pillion behind Strongheart and caught sight of the other
Norman as he encircled Sorcha’s plump waist with powerful hands, lifting her
onto his massive thighs. Then Strongheart’s destrier bolted forward. Dara
clutched his mailed sides, scarcely able to wind her arms around his thick
chest.
During the short
ride out of the wood, Dara tried to breathe in clean air and expel the smoke.
But when her father and his men spied them and let out a cheer, she still
hadn’t drawn a clear breath or put her spinning thoughts in order.
As Strongheart
reined in his mount, her father approached, his eyes dark with concern,
trailing Fionn behind. Her heart lifted at the sight of her horse, and while
she decided what to say, she dismounted to inspect her stallion, running her
hands over his flanks and down his legs.
Conor spoke
gruffly, but she heard the distress in his tone. "Are you hurt?”
She coughed.
"No, Da.”
"You should beat
her,” Strongheart said, seeming to take pleasure in taunting her while she had
not the breath to answer, "until she cannot sit that horse for a week.”
Conor cast Dara
a fond grin. "The lass is wild like her mother. Both of them have a propensity
for trouble.”
Dara hid her
face against Fionn’s warm flank. I’m not like her. I’m not. What Dara
had done was for another. Her mother only pleased herself.
Strongheart
scowled at her as if she were a temperamental child. "By the rood! Your
daughter could have been killed. Riding straight into the enemy is a fool’s
scheme.”
Hiding the hurt her
father had caused by mentioning her mother, she forced a demure smile and
mounted Fionn, preferring to argue from the back of her horse, where she was
closer to eye level with the Norman. "I had a plan.”
"Really. What
was your plan?” The Norman’s every word reeked with skepticism.
She cocked her
chin at a saucy angle and confronted the Norman with a brazenness she was far
from feeling. "While you distracted the men, I’d save Sorcha.”
His frown
vanished, wiped away by astonishment. "You were so sure I would defeat them
all?”
She met his
arrogant gaze with one of her own and shrugged with casual indifference. To
let him know she was shaking inside would be revealing weakness to the enemy.
"Either your fighting skills or your death”—she paused for emphasis—"would have
created the diversion I needed.”
His jaw
clenched, his mouth tightening a fraction more. "You little fool! You had no
way of knowing how many men waited inside those woods. They could have killed you.”
She shook her
head, struggling to keep her tone even in front of the others. But she hurled
the words at him like stones. "My face is well known. At worst, they would have
held me hostage. It was you who almost killed me with your arrow.”
Dara expected an
angry denial. Instead, he stared at her with a slight hesitation in his
hawklike eyes before breaking into a mocking grin. "You will learn not to doubt
my skill. My shaft always finds its mark.”
While the men
around them chuckled at his boast, she stiffened her spine. Despite her best
intentions to remain above his stable-yard humor, heat rose to her cheeks.
She’d made a grand mistake in the clearing, throwing her dirk into that raider
to aid Strongheart.
Twisting on
Fionn’s back, she faced her father and pointed an accusing finger at Strongheart.
"This Norman nearly murdered me.”
Her words wiped
the smiles off the men’s faces, and they rode closer, protectively. Conor
looked askance at the proud warrior, awaiting an explanation. Strongheart
didn’t alter his tone, but projected his voice so all could hear him. "I killed
the raider who held a knife to her throat.”
Dara tossed her
hair over her shoulder, glowering at them all. Rancor sharpened her tongue.
"By accident, no doubt. Your arrow missed me so nearly, I lost a lock of hair.”
Except for the
one muscle pulsing in the side of his neck, Strongheart didn’t reveal his fury
at her accusation. "If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I saved your life. Do
not make me regret it.”
As he eased his
mount closer to hers, the heat of her temper flared hotter. The lively twinkle
in Strongheart’s eyes, as if he was enjoying the argument, incensed her more.
Before she could
form the ball of spit she meant to spatter across the Norman’s face, her father
intruded. "Lass, you are skilled at the gab. Does the Norman speak truth? Or
does he lie?”
Today her father
seemed sharp, his old self, and she must use her wiles to convince him the
Norman only meant them harm. Damn this Norman rogue for encroaching on her and
her people.
"Da, how can you
ask me that?” Instead of arguing against Strongheart’s logic, she stirred the
doubts any Irishman would have had against a man from Britain. Defiant, she
gestured across the field to the other Norman, who’d followed at a slower pace,
just now leaving the wood with Sorcha. "The Norman told us he rode alone.
Clearly, he lied.”
The men murmured
among themselves. But no one reached for a weapon, out of fear or respect she
couldn’t guess.
Brilliant black
eyes glowed with the fearsome power of old granite from Strongheart’s weather-toughened
face. "I rode into Castle Ferns alone. However, no knight travels without a
squire. Once I gained your trust, I intended to bring Gaillard to the castle.”
She flashed him
a look of disdain. "We shall never trust a Norman.”
Strongheart
turned his horse toward Conor, his back straighter than an arrow. "My skill
with a bow is unparalleled. ’Tis no brag, but truth. I shot the raider without
risking your daughter’s life. Despite her determination to die a martyr, she
was never in danger from me.”
"Ha,” Dara
muttered.
He didn’t
address her. Didn’t bother to raise his voice but spoke with haughty
confidence. "Put me to a test. Should I not possess the skill I claim, you may
do with me as you will.”
Apprehension
nipped her, for surely the tall, strong, and absurdly attractive Norman would
win Conor over with his warrior skills. She had no more time to waste trying to
enlighten her father. Sorcha needed her.
Before Conor
replied, Dara flicked her reins and dug her heels into Fionn. The horse lunged
toward the deep wood. Let her father administer the test of Strongheart’s
skill. From the Norman’s immense self-possession, she knew he would succeed.
Proving his skill with the bow would only be his first trial of many. Later,
she would devise other challenges to reveal his treacherous nature.
It wasn’t just
his skill with a bow that threatened them. He might be able to hide his lust
from the others, but she knew he wanted her. She recognized the look in his
probing gaze. Strongheart was not the first man to try to use her to gain
control of Ireland’s richest county. She’d read the determination in his eyes,
the suggestive curve of his smile, noted how he hadn’t let her from his sight,
always positioning himself nearby.
Holding tightly
to the reins, she forced her thoughts away from the Norman knight. Dara raced
toward Sorcha, the woman more her mother than the one who had birthed and
abandoned her. Please God, let Sorcha not be hurt too badly, in mind or
spirit.
Fionn’s long
strides covered the field, and soon Dara drew alongside her maid. Gaillard had
ridden free of the burning wood and stopped by a stream running through the
heather and gorse. Her friend rested on Gaillard’s saddle, leaning weakly
against his barrel chest. The squire had removed his helm, revealing a shock of
white hair, a flaring mustache, and a kindly countenance.
Dara’s gaze
dropped to her friend. Never would she forget the sight of the raider pulling
his turgid flesh from between the maid’s bloody thighs. At the blood soaking
Sorcha’s skirts, she forced back a cry of dismay. Was the life blood Sorcha’s
or from the rapist Dara had killed?
Her stomach
churned at the memory of Sorcha’s screams and the spurting blood of the man
she’d killed. She’d plunged her dirk into his neck like a Viking berserker gone
mad with battle lust. Ruthlessly, she squashed down her nausea.
Although her
heart lurched at the memory, she steadied herself. Sorcha needed her. Now was
not the time to fall apart. She had to be strong for Sorcha’s sake.
Gaillard’s hefty
shoulder supported Sorcha’s head, her chestnut hair dirty and matted. "What
should we do?” he asked.
"I must stop the
bleeding.” Dara untied her traveling pouch and dismounted, then helped
Gaillard ease Sorcha to the ground. Placing her friend on the grass, she
squeezed the moaning woman’s hand. "I’m here, Sorcha. You will be fine.”
"Thirsty.”
Dara tipped a
wineskin to her friend’s full mouth, her best feature after her warm brown
eyes. As she sipped weakly, Gaillard knelt beside her. The maid opened her
eyes, looked at him, and screamed.
The knight
flinched and twisted the end of his mustache. "Lady, I mean you no harm.”
"You are safe,
Sorcha. Sir, please. We need privacy.”
Gaillard nodded
and led his horse away. Across the meadow, her father cantered into the wood
with most of his men-at-arms, leaving six men to escort them home. She easily
picked out Strongheart among the escorts since he towered over the Irishmen. He
headed toward her, sitting straight and proud in the saddle, obviously pleased
he’d proven his skill.
His warrior
abilities caused a shiver to skitter over her shoulders. As long as he remained
in Leinster, her home was endangered. Not until he left would she be satisfied.
Only Castle Ferns made her feel safe. It gave Dara the security she’d never
received from her mother. Whenever she was troubled she climbed the tower and
stared out at Leinster’s rich herds of cattle, and the walls wrapped around
her, providing solid comfort and protection. But the Norman imperiled all she
held dear.
Enough. Sorcha needed
her help. Turning her attention from the men and thoughts of war, Dara unpacked
her supplies. By the time he neared, Dara was lifting Sorcha’s skirts.
"Stop,”
Strongheart ordered. "That is no job for an untried maid.”
"Do you see a
healer nearby?” she snapped. Pushing her annoyance with him aside to
concentrate on the woman who’d taken the place of her mother, she set about
easing her pain.
Dara peeled the
bloodied skirt from Sorcha’s legs. "Leave until I am through,” she ordered, her
voice as frosty as a mountain stream.
To her surprise
and further annoyance, the Norman didn’t argue, but then he never did the
expected. He dismounted, and, from pouches tied to his saddle, he removed
strips of clean cloth as she lifted Sorcha’s skirts and inspected the damage.
Dara didn’t want his help, but with Sorcha bleeding, there was no time for
obstinacy. Efficiently she cleaned the wound while Strongheart held the woman’s
head in his lap.
"This woman, she
is dear to you?”
Dara bit her lower
lip. "Sorcha has been both friend and mother to me. Without
her...” As the woman moaned, Dara choked on unshed tears.
"When men are
without honor, my lady, then they are little better than animals.” Big hands
stroked Sorcha’s forehead, and Strongheart’s voice softened. "Take a tunic from
my bag and place it under her hips. Raising the wound may stop the bleeding.
And there is salve. Apply it generously to the wound.”
While she
worked, she thought upon his gentleness and generosity, so different from the
warriors she knew. He offered the maid a sip of wine and hummed a lullaby. Dara
cared not why a knight stooped to helping a servant woman, but was thankful he
distracted Sorcha from her pain.
When Dara
finished her ministrations, her hands were shaking. Why could they not live in
peace? Men fought the battles, but it was the women and children that suffered
most. Long ago Dara learned that tormenting herself over the way of the world
served no useful purpose.
She had done all
she could there and knew she should be thankful Sorcha slept. "She must not be
moved.”
"We cannot stay
in the open until she heals. Tomorrow, we will carry her to Ferns.”
Thankful he
didn’t ask whether Sorcha would live, Dara used a waterskin to rinse the
bloodstains from her hands, wishing she could wash the memories from her heart.
The raiding beasts had held Sorcha down, uncaring of her protests, laughing at
her screams.
The brutality of
the rape had brought out a matching savagery in Dara, one she’d long suspected
lurked inside her, waiting for the right moment to erupt. Her blood had boiled
so hot, her passions had soared so fierce, she feared she’d never tame them.
She took in a
deep breath and stared off into the mist, vowing never again to lose her
self-control. Her hands and feet felt icy, her entire body numb, but she
couldn’t suppress the mad terror of her thoughts.
During battle,
she’d turned into a wild animal, surging with primitive impulses she
recognized all too well. She’d believed she’d conquered the wild temperament
inherited from her mother. Finding it unvanquished twisted her stomach with
revulsion.
She had to
conquer the passion that overwhelmed her, if not for herself, then for the
good of her people. From her experience, bloodlust always led to trouble. Eire
would need all the cool heads available to keep the minor skirmishes from
breaking into all-out war. Strongheart’s presence could only cause the balance
of power to tip out of kilter. Fear of the Norman might cause all Leinster’s
enemies, MacLugh, O’Rourke, and the Ard-ri, to unite and invade
her home.
Why was the
Norman here? Did he spy for his British king? Although her father did not yet
believe her, the Norman would bring change to Eire’s shores. She wanted him
gone to avoid war. If he stayed, she sensed another peril, one of a more
personal nature. His combination of strength and gentleness appealed to her on
a level she didn’t want to admit—not even to herself.
She stood alone
for a long time while the villagers brought food and supplies and the men
pitched camp. Sorcha lay under a mantle, sleeping. The wind keened, bringing
chilly air, but Dara barely noticed the dropping temperature or the dark
clouds scudding in from the west.
Several men
approached, but when she didn’t answer their queries concerning her comfort,
they left her alone. Strongheart soon joined her, and then she shivered.
Without a word, he removed the cloak from his hauberk and placed it over her
shoulders, wrapping her in warmth, his male scent mixing with leather and
engulfing her in a cocoon of heat. He stood close, peering at her intently. For
a moment she ached to rest her head on his chest and take comfort in his
strength, but she resisted the temptation. She would always resist.
He spoke softly.
"Rape is not an act a lady should witness.”
"I’m told men
cannot control their passions.” And neither can I. She did not regret
avenging Sorcha’s pain. When her dirk plunged into the raider’s neck, fierce
satisfaction had surged through her. What kind of woman was she to allow a killing
rage to overwhelm her usual good reasoning?
"’Tis no wonder
you are cold.” Strongheart took her elbow and led her gently to the campfire.
He found her a place on the far side of the fire, across from the men roasting
a haunch of beef.
Since she had no
desire to discuss her failing self-control with him, Dara let the Norman
believe witnessing the rape was the only thing upsetting her. If he thought his
kindness would warm her to him, he’d learn differently. Other men had been
kind, and she’d sent them on their way.
His sudden
thoughtfulness only heightened her suspicions, since after she’d accused him
of attempting to kill her when he loosed his arrow, he had no reason to treat
her gently. But after all she’d been through this day, she didn’t have the energy
to fight him now.
Pulling herself
from the comfort of the fire, she examined Sorcha. The maid slept lightly and
the bleeding had stopped, so Dara returned to her place by the fire with a
lighter step. When Strongheart offered her a cup of ale, she drank deeply, and
the cool draught quenched her parched throat.
Strongheart
handed her a trencher piled high with bread, meat, and cheese. "How is she?”
"Better, I
think.” The meat smelled so tempting, Dara picked up a piece and dropped the
morsel onto her tongue. She fanned her mouth to cool the hot meat, and the
Norman smiled at her.
At her first
glimpse of his beautiful white teeth gleaming in the firelight, she stopped
fanning her burning tongue and stared. His entire countenance changed with his
smile, the harsh planes of his smoke- darkened cheekbones softened, and the
fine lines at the corners of his black eyes made him appear younger. If before
she’d thought him attractive, now she found his smile devastating.
He removed his
mail and hauberk, revealing a jagged wound on his muscular arm, and her gaze
lingered on his broad chest tapering to a flat stomach and long, powerful legs.
She’d assumed he’d come through the skirmish unscathed and wondered why he’d
risked his life for her. His actions bespoke a courage and determination which
she found intimidating and ominous.
Seemingly
oblivious to her suspicions, he set aside the most tender pieces of meat for
her without commenting on her prodigious hunger. She needed no further
reminders of her unusual sensual appetites. They shared the trencher in silence
until the last morsel of food disappeared.
She finished her ale, staring into the fire. "Your arm needs stitching.”
At the husky
turn of her voice, his eyes glittered with smoky intensity. "Are you offering
to sew my wound?”
She nodded,
surprised she’d agreed, knowing it would have been churlish to refuse.
He rose to his
feet with the grace of a wolf awakening after a nap. "I would bathe before you
tend my wound.”
Bathe? Her mouth
dropped open. He might as well have said he would fly. Strange men, these
Normans.
It was common
knowledge that dirt protected against all manners of illness and evil spirits,
so he could not know of her penchant for soaking in a tub. She, at least, had
the sense not to flaunt the teachings of the church by bathing openly.
While he
disappeared into the darkness, she again visited Sorcha. Her friend continued
to sleep, and Dara didn’t disturb her. Returning to the fire, she made her
preparations, laying out needle and thread, healing herbs, and her wineskin.
One of her
father’s men approached and spoke softly so no one else could hear. "Lady, your
father commanded us to give you privacy with the Norman. We will remain within
shouting distance should you have need of us.”
As he stepped
back into the shadows, Dara wrapped her arms across her chest. At least her
father had listened to her words and was testing the Norman. She wondered if
Strongheart suspected, wondered if most kings used their daughters as bait. But
then, Conor was not a typical father—her mother had made that impossible.
"Beguile him,”
Conor had told her and then arranged the privacy for her to do so. Just how far
did he expect a maid to go? Somehow she didn’t think a beguiling smile and a
handful of soft words would charm Strongheart into revealing his plans.
With darkness,
the men settled onto their blankets around the fire. One man played a lyre and
another sang a love ballad. A few soon snored.
In the chill
air, Dara held her hands to the fire. The Norman must be freezing in the
stream. Perhaps he’d drown of a cramp. She sighed. She’d never be rid of him
that easily.
When he finally
appeared, she jumped at his looming nearness. He’d crept upon her with the
stealth of a red fox stalking a hare, and her heart thudded against her ribs.
At the sight of
his bare chest burnished by the light of the campfire, her eyes widened, and
she swallowed hard. He moved with an unruffled grace and a commanding
confidence, towering over her, devilishly attractive, and his sun-darkened chest
and muscular shoulders made her acutely conscious of his masculinity.
The shadow of a
beard strengthened the lines of his square jaw. Drops of moisture clung to his
damp forehead, and when she took in a deep breath to regain her calm, her
senses careened from his musky male scent.
Get hold of
yourself. She’d
seen a bare chest before. He was skin and muscle the same as any man.
Pretending a
nonchalance she was far from feeling, Dara fought to keep her voice casual.
"Sit near the fire, and I’ll look at your arm.”
He did as she
asked, flexing the muscles of his shoulders as he seated himself, then turned
his injured arm toward the fire’s light. Bathing had reopened the wound, and
fresh blood oozed from the gash.
Ignoring the
nearness of him, she concentrated on the wound. "The slash is long and deep,
but the muscle appears uninjured.”
His silence
unnerved her. As she touched his flesh, he didn’t flinch, but no matter how
gentle her touch, she knew she must be hurting him. She frowned. Beneath her fingertips,
his skin was firm and hot. Had bad humors set in?
Her hand went to
his forehead, checking for spreading putridness. He raised a brow, his pulse
quickening at his temple, but he let her touch him as she wished.
She spoke in a
cool, efficient manner, belying her urge to smooth back a dark lock that fell
over his forehead. "Are you always so warm?”
He grinned
lazily. "Warrior princesses have a way of heating my blood.”
"Let this cool
you off.” His unnervingly personal smile reminded her she must work on building
her resistance to the man. She poured wine over his wound to make the blood run
freely. "That should wash away the bad humors.”
He didn’t move,
except for his lips that split into an even wider grin. "We’ll have to work on
that temper of yours, Princess.”
"Is that so?”
She stiffened, waiting to be condemned for her unladylike behavior.
"Aye. I find
your spirited nature... exhilarating.”
She raised her
brows at his surprising gallantry. "Did you suffer a knock on the head? You
make no sense, Norman. If you find me exhilarating, then why do I need to work
on my temper?”
"Passion needs
saving for the proper moments.”
"Get on with
you.” She ignored his teasing, suspecting he wanted another reaction from her.
Well, he would not get one. She couldn’t sew him up and argue at the same time.
After patting the wound dry, she threaded her needle. "Can you sit still, or
should I call a few men to hold you down?”
"You’d enjoy
that, wouldn’t you?” he accused, his tone mild, his eyes hard, but his mouth
twitched with humor.
Could six men
hold him? She knotted the thread, then held the needle up for him to see.
"Perhaps you should not trust me with such a mighty weapon.”
"If you are as
accurate with your needle as you are with your dirk, I have nothing to worry
about.”
She pinched the
wound closed with the fingers of one hand while she sewed with the other. His
muscles tensed beneath her fingers, but he remained as still as a cairn.
"When I was a
child, I pestered Da for a fortnight until he taught me to throw a dirk.” She
spoke as she sewed, attempting to distract him from the pain, distract herself
from flesh the color of fine ale, golden and intoxicating.
His tone was
more curious than condemning. "’Tis unusual for a woman to have such skill.”
"My guards are
not always there when I need them.”
He shot her a
look that said her guards were inadequate, but he did not insult her people
aloud. "Your mother didn’t object?”
She squeezed his
skin tighter between her fingers. "I never speak of her.”
Thinking he
would ask more questions, she prepared to rebuff him. Instead, he revealed a
little of himself. "My mother died when I was still a boy.”
Recognizing the
longing in his tone, she sympathized. "Have you memories of your mother?”
"I remember
crying when I was about three years old. She swept into my room and held me
close, disregarding the stain of my tears on her blue silk dress. She always
smelled wonderful, of rose perfume and rice powder. I can’t remember her
face, but sometimes when I close my eyes, I recall her special scent and her
melodic voice.”
Was he
attempting to gain her sympathy? The circle of firelight amid the darkness
seemed conducive to sharing confidences, but not many men would lie about a
childhood story and their mothers. Despite her wish to feel otherwise, his
tender story touched her, and deep down she warned herself to beware.
"You are
fortunate. I have no memories of my mother,” she admitted and then immediately
was sorry for sharing something so personal with him.
"She died at
your birth?”
Only because she
heard commiseration in his tone did Dara resist the urge to stab him with the
needle. He couldn’t know the nature of her loss and couldn’t realize her
discomfort with the topic.
Dara let his
question hang unanswered in the air between them. After knotting her last
stitch, she turned his arm and admired her sewing. The flesh remained closed,
and though he would scar, it would be a minor one.
Turning his
shoulder to inspect her handiwork, his brows lifted at her neat stitches.
"Thank you.”
She allowed
herself a satisfied smile. "I’m good with embroidery. Did you doubt my skill?”
"I’m just amazed
you did such a painless job. Perhaps now, we can call a truce.” He reached for
a clean tunic and slipped it on.
She backed away
from his intense gaze and packed away her supplies to avoid meeting his stare.
"This conversation changes nothing between us.”
Faint amusement
persisted in his tone. "Just like a woman. So we are back to being enemies, are
we?”
She answered
quickly, fiercely, over the pounding of her beating heart. "We shall always be
enemies.”
"I saved your
life, Princess.”
"And I saved
yours. It changes nothing.” She crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest,
wary of him. The Norman’s presence could inflame Leinster’s enemies into
consolidating their forces against her clan. If his presence escalated the
constant border clashes into a war, she could lose her home. And all her life
she’d longed for peace. "You are Norman. You will try and steal the land that
is our legacy.”
His eyes had a
burning, faraway look in them, and then they focused on her, full of half
promises. "Once I convince your father of my loyalty, you will welcome my help.
If your enemies unite, Leinster cannot stand alone.”
She shivered at
words that rang like a prophecy. "If you think us doomed,” she asked in a
broken whisper, "why did you come here?”
"Opportunity.”
He winked, his expression hungry. "I’ve come to sample Leinster’s assets.”
