Irish Moon (17 page)

“Avoiding and redirecting will only delay
your problems. And in the meantime, you’ll create far more of
them.”

She wasn’t listening. She
wouldn’t. He was looking to fight
,
but if she didn’t respond, would he not give up?
The heat was leaving the water. Two more minutes, then she’d wash
and dress. It wasn’t a lot to ask.

“Truly, Breanne, what would Heremon
think?”

Her eyes flew open. She ground her teeth. “If
you continue your games with me, Finn, I swear I will not only
never practice a rite on your behalf again, but I may lay another
curse upon you.”

“Aha, she speaks.”

Water sloshed over the tub’s edge as Breanne
sat upright. “Aye, she speaks. And may you hear my words. I warn
you, Finn, play with me no more.” She scrubbed her elbows.

“Fine. I will not. I will ask you, though,
because I must. I have seen the stranger. I know he is among us. I
need to know what you are doing about it.”

“What am I doing about it? There is naught to
be done. He has no consequence outside of being in Heremon’s care
at the time of his demise.”

“Then why does he stay?”

“How should I know? He is no longer my
concern.” She stepped from the bath. “My concerns lie in choosing a
husband, lifting your curse.” Helping Rose. Avoiding that man.
“Heremon’s death has been decided as accidental. We must move
on.”

“I’ll move on when he is gone from here. Or
when I am.”

“That is your choice. But do not force your
choice on me.” She whipped four thick strands into a fishtail
braid. “We need to attract goodness, purity, forgiveness or we’ll
never return you to where you belong.”

“Don’t forget basic skill and a good dose of
talent.”

“Why
,
you vile beast, I ought to toss
you out on your ear, the ungrateful way you
treat
—
.”

“Breanne?” It was Rose. “Are you all
right?”

Adjusting her dress, Breanne opened the door.
“I’m sorry, I lost track of time soaking. Can you fasten this
broach for me, Rose?”

“Talking to yourself is one thing, Bree. But
yelling at yourself is another.”

“I wasn’t yelling at myself,” Breanne said.
“I was yelling at Finn.”

“Ah, well, then. Nothing mad about yelling at
an animal, is there?” Rose fixed the pin through the fabric.

Breanne glowered at Finn, daring him to speak
up now, in front of Rose, but knew full well he wouldn’t risk it.
Perhaps she should take to sharing her chambers and garner further
silence. He’d choke to death on his mean, unlived words.

“There.” Rose smiled and brushed Breanne’s
shoulders. “I don’t know how to bring up our earlier conversation
smoothly, but I need to finish it with you.”

“Not here,” Breanne
blurted. “On the way, if you please, Rose. I hate being late and
not having seating to choose from.” Safely down the corridor she
said, “I know you haven’t said it and I don’t want you to have to.
I wouldn’t feel right
,
though
,
if
I didn’t try to dissuade you, and at least ask you try a tonic
first.”

Rose sighed and took her hand as they reached
the hall. “Aye, Breanne. I’ll try one. But, if I make my choice,
I--.”

Breanne put her hand up. “Say no more. I’ll
ready one and we’ll go on from there.”

Ignoring the center of most diners’ attention
proved harder every day. Three uneventful days later, he still drew
eyes wherever he walked and not just Breanne’s. Rose practically
gawked at Ashlon Sinclair whenever present, making Breanne’s
disassociation of him all the more difficult.

“He’s a man without a home, Bree.” She
clucked her tongue. “If Ryan doesn’t return soon, I may entertain
thoughts of making one for him.”

“Rose, do you hear yourself? I thought you
loved your husband.” Her reprimand fell on deaf ears and Breanne’s
decision to keep her distance from the man was all the more
reinforced.

“Ach, now, Bree, looking at a man with open
eyes does not mean my love is less for Ryan. And my current peeve
with him and his prick have cleared my vision a bit. Don’t be such
a prude.”

Breanne saw no way to explain she was not
being prudish, but prudent. If Rose knew the devastating effect
that man’s kiss had on Breanne’s sensibilities, she might
understand. And that would not happen. That kiss would remain a
secret buried away with all her others.

She’d rather expose her studies than reveal
that kiss. A shiver tickled her neck at the memory.

“When will Ryan return?” Breanne asked,
trying to change her mind’s course.

“Tomorrow mayhap.”

“Can you tear your eyes
off of him long enough to eat then
,
Rose, or shall I find better company?”

“Ah, don’t be jealous, Bree. He’ll not
replace my affection for you.” Rose poked her in the ribs, finally
facing the food rather than Sinclair’s direction.

A round of deep laughter echoed from the
king’s table. She should have known. Sinclair looked to be telling
some splendid joke, by his animated gestures. She shouldn’t have
looked.

He was something to
behold. Tall, broad, masculine. She remembered the hard muscle
under those ill-fitted clothes, likely lent him by
Quinlan
,
as
they’d become so disgustingly chummy of late. Everyone had taken to
speaking in English, a sure sign he was in the vicinity, even
Rose.

“He may stay, I’ve heard, to work and earn.
I’d imagine he’d be able to meet Brehon law requirement sooner than
most. Picture that blood joined with the clan’s.”

“Will you tell him?” Breanne told herself
Rose’s moan of approval was for the sweet bread she chewed, rather
than the fantasy of Sinclair.

“Of Sir Sinclair,” Rose said. “I don’t doubt
he’ll already know. And of other things, not yet.”

“But the tonic helped, did it not?”

“Aye,” Rose said. “But two days is not enough
to judge, Bree. Do not badger me of it. Rest you’ll know first as
my progress goes.” She kept her voice low and warning.

Breanne knew better than to press the
delicate affair further than the dangerous length she already had.
A rumble of applause grabbed her attention back to Sinclair, saving
her from finding a neutral topic.

“I wonder what he’s told them,” Rose said,
audibly awestruck.

“I don’t.”

“Why do you dislike him so? I’d thought at
first you’ve just been sour, and then that you wanted my attention,
but now I wonder.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I do not even
know the man to have chosen between like and dislike.” She filled
her mouth and shrugged.

“I think you have.” Rose’s
gaze narrowed. “I believe you’re quite decided and I mean to know
every last detail
,
Breanne O’Donnell.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“You’re the only person in the room not
reasonably taken with Ashlon Sinclair, the only one among four full
tables that looks upon him with scorn. I’ll know why? Or shall I
ask Sir Sinclair?”

“No,” Breanne said. “Don’t look at me that
way, Rose. All right, I admit it, I know the man. Now, if you
please, remove that gloat from your face or I will not tell you a
single detail.” A fine sweat broke under Breanne’s bodice. Another
lie. More than a lie, a full fabrication. She’d better start
writing these things down else forget what was what.

“I met him the day he
arrived. He
—
.”

“By night? Oh my,” Rose said.

“No, not night. By day,
he
—
.”

“But he arrived well into the evening meal,
remember, brought by Quin?”

“Aye. Well, I expect it
was not
the
day
he arrived then
,
but the following day.” She rolled her eyes, but was glad for
the time she’d just earned to think up her web to weave. “I bumped
into him, literally ran straight into him, turning a corner on my
way to the kitchens. I was hungry for eggs and though it was past
breaking my morning fast, I couldn’t give the idea up.”

“Does he smell good?”

“How should I know?” Breanne shifted. Her
mind filled not with memory of his scent, but of the way he’d
tasted. Sweet. She remembered the surprise of the taste after
rinsing his gullet with bitter broth, wine, meat, where had his
sweetness come from?

“You ran into him. Did he smell badly, clean,
manly?”

“Clean,” she said. Spicy. Earthy. Her thighs
tingled. “He smelled clean, and as I was saying, I had a taste for
eggs, scrambled with a bit of cheese. I turned and ran straight
into him.”

“And what happened then? Did you fall?” She
leaned closer. “Did he catch you?”

“No, I did not fall. I am
not clumsy, Rose. What happened was Sir Sinclair looked at me
stone
-
faced and
said not a word.” She would burn in hell for certain, telling such
a giant fib. But Breanne could not exactly speak the
truth
,
that she’d
felt as though she’d collided with him. Or that it had
not
hurt. It had felt
good, familiar. Staggering.

“No.”

“Oh, aye, not a peep. I
apologized for not seeing him there and curtsied and when I looked
up
,
saw him
completely unmoved.” Lies, lies.

“I can’t believe it.” Rose
looked past Breanne to the king’s table. “Certainly, he’s
English
,
but so
friendly that I hardly held it as suspicious. Though I can see what
you mean by stone
-
faced. I have caught a hardness about his expression. There
is passion under that cool surface, mark my words.”

Breanne gave up. Even an insult Rose twisted
into a romantic notion. Her only prayer was that Ryan would arrive
early on the morrow and put his wife right with plenty of romping
affection.

When laughter filled the room once more, she
gritted her teeth. If he wouldn’t soon be leaving on his own, she
might have to find a way to help him go.

Ashlon finished his most
recent tale among the many nightly requests Niall made. Not that
Ashlon minded. The shared stories and rapt audience reminded him of
days long past, days he didn’t realize how much he’d missed in the
last seven years. Only these men weren’t the polished, low-voiced,
winking sort. They were bawdy and blunt and refreshingly real. No
subterfuge here.

He drew attention aplenty, even hers. Lady
Breanne certainly seemed to try not to look, not to notice him. But
she failed and every instance she did, he caught. He was careful
not to meet her eye or even her face, but every turn of her head in
his direction felt a victory.

In the last two days, it became his personal
challenge. He counted the number of looks he earned and wagered
with himself how many more he’d get by the week’s end. Being so
thoroughly hidden away in the Grianan as she’d been, and as she
expeditiously retired each night, these looks were the closest
contact he’d managed. Aside from one startling moment from which
she’d fast escaped speaking to him.

But he had a plan. Quinlan
began training with him in the morn and by day
’
s end, Ashlon vowed to have roped
the man into unknowingly gaining a secret meeting with the object
of his affection.

Ashlon sat after his deep bow as the next man
stood to share. Shane MacSweeney took the focus. A few moments into
MacSweeney’s hunting tale, as fellows in arms joined in during
familiar parts, Ashlon watched her. She spoke with her friend,
Quinlan’s sister, waved her knife about, the speared meat flopping
at her gestures. Whatever she said had her flustered and her cheeks
were deliciously pink from it.

She shrugged, looked heavenward and in a
breath, looked directly at him. Her eyes widened when they met his.
Her pink cheeks flushed to red and color spread down her neck. A
slow, knowing smile formed across Ashlon’s face as he understood
the true nature of her avoidance.

The kiss. His kiss.

Her stare went to his smile. Her mouth
opened. Closed. Back to his eyes. Ashlon winked and when she
visibly gasped and turned away, triumph surged through him.

His plan dictated patience. Gaining a meeting
with her tomorrow might be too soon to hope for. But upon seeing
the naked flash of heat in those eyes, tomorrow felt like an eon to
wait.

Ashlon chuckled deeply and returned his
attention to MacSweeney in time for his apparently hilarious
conclusion. He laughed with the others and no one noticed the
difference.

Once trenchers were cleared, most adjourned
to the large hearth to hear the five bards play. Ashlon waited.
When Breanne soon retired, without a hint of expression his way, he
chuckled again. But the room was colder without her in it.

In her room, Breanne rushed to the long,
narrow trunk at the foot of her bed. Finn opened his eyes and
stretched from his usual spot. She pulled out two candles, one
scarlet and one black, her book and four carefully selected jars.
The first three items she dumped, the last four she set delicately
aside until the lid closed and she laid her spread.

“Where’s my wine?” Finn asked.

She dug the wineskin out of her cloak’s inner
pocket, sewn in for this purpose, and laid it on the floor. He
drank from the mouth, a paw pressed to the bag and she didn’t care
if he spilt. Right now, she cared only about her altar.

She set each candle to an upper corner on the
gray wool. In the first fifty pages, she found what she wanted. It
was a simple enough incantation, given to her by Heremon as a
simple starting point. While she had never worked its magic, he
hadn’t reproached her. Surely he’d held faith that she could, and
this time, she would make it work.