The Irish Warrior (3 page)

The shiver became a cold chill down Senna's spine. ‘Dye-witch,' people had said for a thousand years, as a way to insult. Or, depending on the whims of the local parish or lord, as a way to get a person killed. But, for those who knew such things, ‘dye-witch' was a term of respect bordering on awe.

Senna so desperately wished she was not one of the ones who ‘knew such things.'

“Oh, dear, my lord,” she said briskly, “I believe there has been a misunderstanding. I am here about the wool.” She extended the account ledger in her arm.

His gaze lowered briefly, then came back up. “There is no misunderstanding, Mistress de Valery. I have the Wishmé mollusks. I need the dye they create.”

“Oh, my lord, the Wishmés are legend. Only legends.” Ones she recalled her mother telling her by firelight. “Nothing about them is true—”

“They are real, Senna. Your mother's treatise clearly outlines that.”

She practically recoiled. “My mother's
treatise?
”

Her mother? What did Rardove know of her mother? And what did her mother know of
treatises?
She'd known nothing but immoderation. Overweening fervor. Passion. She left the family because of it, ran away when Senna was five. Left Senna in charge of a one-year-old brother and a father descending into the vortex of heartbreak and gambling that had been slowly killing him all the years since.

She'd left it all to Senna and never come back.

Her mother knew nothing of documents, nothing about managing things. Corraling and harnessing the frightening forces of the world. She knew only about running away. And she
certainly
knew nothing about
documents
.

That was Senna's realm.

“And Senna?”

She jerked her attention back.

“The Wishmés are real. They are valuable. And I need you to make them into a dye for me.”

She clutched the account ledger to her chest, feeble armor. She could not make dyes. They could offer her
chests
of gold that would save the business forty times over, and she would still not be able to dye. She'd spent her life avoiding it.

The question was: what would the stranger before her do when he understood that?

At the moment, he was simply watching her, but with a hawklike intensity that did not bode well for creatures smaller than he. Senna figured she would come to his chin. In slippers.

“Have you a suggestion on how to proceed, Senna?” His voice was calm, as if they were discussing the menu for the evening meal. Perhaps…her.

She wiped her free hand on her skirt. 'Twas time to prove herself reasonable enough not to be splayed and boiled as a first course.

“Have you attempted dog whelk? Or mayhap woad. Its colors are deep and rich, well suited to the fibers. Surely it can produce what you are looking for.”

By the look on his face, Rardove did not agree.

“Sir, 'tisn't possible for any person with a will to craft the Wishmé dyes. Only a very certain few can—according to legend,” she added hurriedly, then tacked on, even more hurriedly, “which I know only as a result of being in an associated business, you understand, and hearing such things. But even if I wished to dye, I could not do it, just so.” She snapped her fingers. “Such craftsmanship takes years of study. I cannot fathom why you think I can make them—”

He snapped his fingers back, right in front of her nose, then grabbed her hand, overturned it, and pressed his thumb against her inner wrist, over the blue veins that ran beneath her skin.

“Your blood makes me think it, Senna,” he said in a low voice. “They say 'tis in the blood.”

Her mouth fell open. Terrified, she yanked on her hand. He released her.

Continuing to back up, she put her hand on the edge of the dais table for support, ledger clutched to her chest. Fast, frantic chills shot through her, like small, darting arrows, poking holes in her composure.

“Sir.” She swallowed. “Sir.” She was repeating herself. That could not be good. She never even quoted prices more than once. “Sir, you must understand—”

“I understand. You do not.” He turned so his back was to the hall, reached into his tunic, and pulled something out. “This is what the Wishmés can do.”

That was all he said, all he needed to say. Everything else came from the scrap of dyed fabric in his hand. Slowly, she set the ledger down and reached for it.

It was…stunning. Luminous, a kind of deep blue she'd never seen before, so brilliant she almost had to shield her eyes, as if it were emitting light.

Dog whelk could not create this. Neither could moss, or madder, or woad, or anything on Earth. This was straight from God.

“'Tis beautiful,” she murmured, running her fingers almost reverently over the edge of the dyed weave. “On my wool, it would be something the world has never seen.”

An odd look crossed his face. “Where will you start?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She moved her hands in a helpless gesture. “I do not know.”

But she did. A churning hot spot in the center of her chest seemed to be actually pulling her back to the dye hut, to the room with mortars and pestles, the lichen and bark that could be magicked into things of such beauty.

Just like her mother. Shame sizzled thin, hot rivers of self-loathing down her throat.

He pulled at the fabric in her fingertips. She let it go and pushed back her shoulders. “Lord Rardove, I deal in wool. That is what we discussed in our correspondence.”

“Indeed. Just so.”

“Just so, then. I am here to strike a bargain that will be lucrative for us both. Perhaps if I show you some of the accounts I brought with me, you will see the benefits. Or,” she added, not liking the way he was looking at her and not the ledgers, “perhaps you would prefer to simply reconsider the arrangement, and I can hie myself back to the ship.”

“Or perhaps we ought to take care of this other little matter straight away.” Rardove gestured toward the shadows.

Pentony emerged from within them somewhere—
He is a wraith,
Senna decided—with a scroll of parchment in hand. Her response spoke to her shattered emotional state though, for upon sight of the steward's cadaverous figure, Senna smiled. He looked at her somberly, without a hint of recognition. She might be a table cover. Or a blot of wax on one. A mess.

She looked back to Rardove. “Other matter, my lord?”

He gestured impatiently to Pentony, who scanned the document in his hands, then began reading parts of it aloud.

“Senna de Valery, merchant of wool…Lambert, lord of Rardove, on the Irish marches…union in wedlock…banns posted…”

Senna's mouth dropped open and she almost fell to her knees.

“That is not possible!”

He looked at her with something approaching mild curiosity. “No? And yet”—he pointed to the parchment—“here is the document, and”—he moved his fingertip her direction—“there are…you.”

“Oh, no, this is not
possible.
”

“So you say.”

Her mind spun away from coherent thought. This was madness. And yet…And yet, forced betrothals happened all the time. Simply not to her.

She'd spent the last ten years ensuring no one could do anything to her ever again. She'd built a business, created a world, where she would never be beholden again. Never need again. Where she was in complete control.

It was crumbling to the ground.

She could feel her heart beating, hard in her ears.
Thud, thud, thud.

“I will not sign,” she said dumbly.

He blew out a small breath, an impatient sound. “Certainly you will.” He drew close enough for her to smell the leather of his hauberk. It creaked with newness.

“But why?” she asked, almost in a whisper. “Why marriage?”

“To ensure you stay. Or rather,” he added in a fit of clarification, “to ensure my rights in retrieving you, were you to decide to leave.” He took a step closer. His gaze slid slowly down her skirts. “And you must know, Senna, you are very beautiful.”

“I—I cannot. Make dyes.” It was fully a whisper now.

“Have faith.” His body was almost touching hers. “You can do anything I tell you to do.”

She smelled sweat and drink, ale perhaps. He lifted a hand to brush by her cheek. She jerked away. He stilled, then very deliberately rested one knuckle against her jaw. She stood rock still, but a strand of hair by her cheek trembled.

He smiled, very faintly. The moment stretched on. Sweat began to dribble down her chest. She had to actually will her gaze to stay on his, the muscles in her eyes straining to break free. She started to feel dizzy.

But something about the whole strange, silent encounter seemed to improve Rardove's humor, because he smiled. Taking her by the hand, he pressed his lips to her skin.

Senna stared at the back of his head, bent over her hand, stunned and reeling. She was saved the need for a response by a soldier approaching the dais.

“My l—lord?”

The baron paused, mouth still over her hand. “What is it?”

“We found a second contingent of Irishmen. Small, like O'Melaghlin's. Headed south. They appeared to be scouting out villages along the way.”

Rardove's body stiffened. His pale eyes were blank as they passed hers and settled on the soldier, who appeared ready to empty his bladder in fear.

“Where is Balffe?” Rardove asked softly.

“He sent me, my lord…to tell you…we captured one, but there's something afoot. Balffe said to”—he gulped audibly—“to remind you we're not prepared to withst—”

“You've captured one?” the baron interrupted.

The man-at-arms nodded. The iron rings of his hauberk glittered dully in the firelight.

“Question him. Find the others.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Then kill him and send his head back to The O'Fáil in a chest, to show what I
am
prepared for.”

The soldier nodded and hurried out of the hall. Senna stared after, disbelieving her senses. This was lunacy. She could not survive here. She wouldn't last a month. A week. Another
hour.

She slowly withdrew her hand from Rardove's.

He levered his gaze up to her face. “It doesn't do to let small insurrections grow into large ones, does it, Senna?”

It was probably for the best she was struck completely mute. She shook her head, her gaze riveted on his chin. An act of will made her lift her eyes to his. He watched her in silence. Predator. She felt like a creature
much
smaller than he, and the sensation made her angry.

“We understand one another, Senna?” he asked quietly.

She nodded.

Rardove gestured to the dais table. “Be seated, then, and indulge yourself. The meat was slaughtered just this day.”

He barely inclined his head and a knight materialized at her side. Strong arms propelled her inexorably toward the table, where she seated herself and fussed with her skirts, her breath coming short and shallow.

The trestle before her was heavily laden. The scents of warm duck and butter with cooked greens wafted into her nostrils, but the thought of eating made her ill.

A goblet of wine was placed at her hand.
This I will drink,
she decided, desperate for something in her belly. She inhaled the ruby liquid, but the rich color belied its true nature. It was bitter and greasy, and she grimaced as she swallowed.

Murmured conversations buzzed through the hall, punctuated by bursts of gruff laughter, knives banged against wooden plates, and scuffling boots. She became aware of the prisoners standing shackled on the floor in front of the raised dais. Chains creaked as they shifted in their irons. The baron stood at the edge of the dais, talking to his guards and one of the prisoners below them.

Senna glanced down at the doomed Irish warrior standing with chains around his wrists and ankles. His beaten face held a handsomeness that could not be disguised by the bruises.

High cheekbones and full lips. Dark, dark eyes. Her gaze trailed down. Firm, contoured neck, broad shoulders, long, tangled hair. His muscular legs extended beneath the Irish
léine,
the short tunic he wore, and his feet were planted firmly on the rush-covered floor. Well-defined arms were folded over his chest, his shoulders thrust back defiantly.

But, most captivating of all, at the edges of his lips danced a smile. His mouth moved, and the baron scowled. The Irish grin grew.

Although nearly motionless, this warrior emanated energy and life. The intelligence and nobility brimming in his eyes made her want to cry.

No. This was not right. Nothing in this sordid castle was right and she wanted no part of it.

“Eat, Senna,” Rardove threw over his shoulder.

And with that, something inside her snapped like the thin, frozen edge of a pond that has borne too heavy a boot, too many times.

She lifted her chin up the smallest bit. “No.”

Finian turned, his brows up, the corners of his mouth creased down. The angles of the Englishwoman's face were thrown into sharp relief by candlelight dancing through the hall. Oil lamps hung from the walls and amber rushlight glinted off her hair, making her glow in a gold-red halo.

This was the lamb?

He was impressed. Indeed, the entrance of the emerald angel was noteworthy enough, sufficient to draw his attention from the pain of his wounds and the baron's gloating. When she removed her hand from Rardove's sweaty grip, he'd been even more intrigued.

That she would now gainsay him was worth an exchange of shocked glances between him and the other Irish prisoners.

Certainly, here was bravado deserving of respect. It would not go well for her, of course, but that did not diminish the act, and was not what he would have predicted from the English, woman or man, foul race that it was. But here was spirit and defiance. And great beauty.

And she was no lamb. She was a
bhean sidhe,
glowing fire and defiance and wielding her disdain with a quiet dignity that made Finian blink. Twice.

How could God, in His infinite wisdom, have given the worm Rardove a thing of such value? This must be due the devil.

But she was surely an angel, and seemed of immense value. Particularly as she stepped off the precipice of safety and plunged headlong into peril.

 

“No.”

The low sound wafted to the edge of the dais. Rardove turned so slowly the pungent scent of a freshly extinguished wick could have dissipated by the time his angry eyes locked on hers. The entire room went still, English soldiers and Irish warriors alike.

He clucked his tongue. “Ah, Senna,” he said softly. His gaze held no softness though. He could have shoved her backward off the dais with it.

Senna returned the glare, her eyes unwavering. Her heart, on the other hand, thundered a wild beat. This would never do. In a moment she would be lost to the terror wrapping around her heart. And that was unacceptable.

The backs of her knees hit the front of the seat and the bench jerked backward as she rose. She stepped out from behind the trestle table, her fingers still wrapped around the wine goblet's stem.

The scenes of her life unraveled in a flash before her eyes, but her contrary slippered feet propelled her forward. She was mad, she knew that now, and doomed as well. But whatever was to be would be, because she could be nothing other than what she was.

“I bid you a simple enough thing,” the baron said. “Enjoy the bounty of my table.”

“No.” Again her soft voice wafted over the heads of the bloody warriors lined up four-deep on the floor.

His eyebrows shot up, then a sinister grin slid across his handsome features. “I see you've no aversion to the
wine.
”

As if yanked by strings, she thrust out her arm. Holding the goblet in the air between them, she looked into the baron's eyes and slowly overturned the cup. Like a red flood tide, wine splashed across the floor into a huge crimson puddle.

Rardove's jaw dropped. Then his face contorted and he strode across the dais until he was only inches away from Senna. His shoulders blocked her view and she could smell him—sweat, leather, anger. His breath lifted her hair in small, hot drafts.

“That wine was precious,” he said in a seething voice.

“As is my signature on a marriage deed, my lord—as precious as my blood.”

He angled his head slightly to the side, as if considering her point. “Your blood is easily spilt, Senna, that is all,” he replied, then reached out and smacked her backhanded across the face.

She reeled, cutting short a cry. Grabbing her hand, he yanked her forward again. “Do we understand one another?”

“I understand you, my lord,” she said quietly. “But I fear you do not comprehend me a'tall.” She pulled her hand free from his.

The anger seemed to wash out of him. A smile more terrifying than an outright assault spread across his face. Taking her chin between his fingers, he lifted her face. Faint blond stubble covered a chin that was not so square on close examination. He had a wide, sweeping forehead, hazel eyes webbed with thin red lines, and a well-shaped mouth that emitted such vileness it made her sick.

“If I need burrow into your very bones, Senna, you
will
heed me.” His fingers tightened and his thumb stroked her cut lip in an idle, threatening caress. “If this be your insurrection, it stops now. Do you hear me?”

She tried to turn her chin away, but his grip was stronger. “I hear you, my lord,” she said, her voice trembling.

He considered her a moment. “No, Senna. I don't think you do.”

Without warning, he slammed her backward into the wall. She rebounded against the rock. He took her wrist and lifted it up into the space between their faces.

“Is this the hand you refused me?”

Low-pitched and sinister, the question froze her blood. She clamped down on her swollen lip to keep from screaming in terror and pushed her cheek flat against the stone.

He yanked her forward and slammed her hand down onto the dais tabletop. “You will learn right quick, Senna,
that I shall be heeded in all things!
”

This last boomed in a deafening roar. Grabbing a heavy, flat nutcracker, he smashed the instrument down on her hand.

Pain ripped a blazing path through her body, flashing out to every nerve ending God had created. She slumped to the ground at his feet, huddled and whimpering and fighting tears.

The Irishman lunged for the dais. His roar was silenced as the heavy chains jerked him backward and flung him to the ground. A soldier dropped on top of him, a knee wedged in his chest. Cursing, the soldier smashed an elbow into the Irishman's jaw, then hauled him back to his feet.

The disturbance drew a brief, furious glance from Rardove, before he swung back around. “I shed your blood now,” he lectured in a calm voice from above, “to teach you the wisdom of heeding me in the future. I do not wish to maim your beautiful mouth, but if it causes more trouble, be you assured, I will.” He dropped to a knee and bent close to her ear. “
Do you think I understand you now, Senna?
”

She sat perfectly still against the wall, clutching her hand to her neck.
Silence,
she thought wildly.
No more. Not tonight.

So she nodded.

And that simple, surrendering effort took up more space inside her than all the losses all these years, more than she'd ever thought to hold inside her flesh and bones and blood. She was totally empty now. Filled with emptiness.

Rardove gestured to a servant. Gentle hands helped her from the floor. Her fingers throbbed, each wave a fierce, pounding hammer. Fighting the whimpers that
would
rise in her throat, she unfolded her body, her head held high. A length of hair wobbled free and dangled by her cheekbone.

At the far end of the hall a scuffle broke out and a courier dashed up the steps of the dais.

“My lord! A message has come.”

The baron herded the messenger into a corner. They spoke in rapid whispers, Rardove's irritable voice rising occasionally to allow bits of the conversation to drift over those nearby.

“Curse the Irish!” Some faint reply came from another member of the group. A series of curses floated away into hushed tones, and the muted gathering waited. Finally the baron turned.

“Continue with the feasting, and take the prisoners back to the cellars. Except for the O'Fáil councilor. Lead him to my office after the others have been quartered.” He leaned to Senna. “You will spend the night in the dye hut, or in my chambers. Either way, you will be working. Tonight, the choice is yours.”

Without a backward glance, he disappeared from the hall.

Senna tottered sideways a step. The front of her skirts bespoke violence: a vivid ruby trail screamed across the emerald fabric. She walked to the long dais table, hyperventilating with pain, fear, and anger.

Anger won out.

She reached for a corner of the long table linen. The servants watched with wrinkled brows and wringing hands as she wrapped it around her palm twice and tugged.

One stepped up to her. He cleared his throat. “May I help bandage your wound?”

“No, thank you.” She smiled sweetly, then jerked the tablecloth off the table with all her might.

Plates went spinning into the air and a tower of fruit and sweets tumbled to the ground. A large oval platter holding an eel dish spun around twice, looked as though it might stay centered on the table, then skittered off, joining the rest of the mess on the floor. The clamor and racket thundered through the hall, drowning the incredulous gasps and shouts of the gathering.

The jug of red wine, oddly, stayed put, heavy enough to withstand the quake.

“Praise God, my lord's wine is safe,” she murmured. “'Tis a most precious spirit,” she said.

Silence reigned. The servants, soldiers, and liege men gaped. Jaws dropped, heavy boots clomped on the ground as the men shifted nervously. What to do now? The baron had left no orders, although his last actions were clear enough indicators of how he planned to treat any disobedience on the part of his new “wife.”

Still, watching her ramrod-straight back, somehow not a single man was man enough to approach her. A few servants scurried to pick up the downed items, and another ran to get water.

No one said a word to Senna.

The soldiers, after a spellbindingly long moment of indecision, went on with their task of rounding up the battered Irish warriors and leading them away.

Senna wrapped her bleeding hand in the cloth, leaving seven yards of fabric to trail out behind her, ridiculously excessive, as she walked to the window, a narrow, bailey-facing slit set at shoulder height in the wall.

She pushed open the shutter a hairsbreadth. Her hand throbbed with a fiery pain that made her breathing erratic. Blood seeped through the thick cloth. She was weary beyond words, and exhausted by the cold, hopelessness inside.

How had things come to this pass? All her efforts, to this end? It made one consider whether one ought to exert effort at all. Things went as they were meant to go, no matter how one fought against it. Destiny. Blood. Rardove had been right after all.

She lifted her unsteady hand to sweep back the hair that had escaped from the pins. Her gaze traveled dully over the room. It was arrested by the Irish warrior, the man whose eyes she'd met earlier, the one who had leaped to save her, a new seepage of blood his only reward.

Their gazes locked, and he smiled, a crooked, satisfying smile. Dark blue eyes sucked her into their depths. A surge of blood warmed her face. But more than that, the coldness inside her belly warmed, and the sounds of the hall faded away, so that the world became peaceful for a moment.

He lifted his head and jutted his square, stubbly chin. His smile grew, became mischievous, and he lifted his head another inch.

Senna almost smiled back. What was he saying?

Saying? Why would he be saying anything?

He pushed back his shoulders ever so slightly.

“Dear God!” She started in soft exclamation, her skin prickling. He'd read her thoughts.
‘Don't surrender'
his silent message came as loudly as the baron's bellow had.

She glanced involuntarily to the door Rardove had exited by, then back to the beaten warrior. He inclined his head the briefest inch.

I will not give up.
Chills raced across her skin. So be it. She would not surrender, not in this way at least. Not if this doomed warrior could attend to her need in the midst of his misery, and offer succor.

She pushed back her shoulders as he had done and met his eyes, acknowledging receipt of his gift.

 

Finian grinned. As if he hadn't known. As if he hadn't seen her head rise, watched the sparkle dance back into her eyes. As if he hadn't known the moment her drowning spirit was buoyed up.

And as he was led away, it gladdened him to know he'd had a part in keeping the flame lit in some small way, flickering in the beautiful woman he'd never met that night. He looked back, hoping for another glance of the angel fighting for her dignity in the slop of Rardove's hall.

He saw her eyes widen and, following her gaze, spied a knife lying among the litter the servants were cleaning up. His eyebrow lifted. She chose a dangerous route to rebellion. Then again, he decided, it seemed she would prove capable on most any path.

If the way were cleared. Would she be able to get her hands on the blade?

He was torn away from these musings by his captor's rough wrench, and shoved forward a few feet. Their progress was halted by a skirmish at the door leading out of the hall and the guard stopped, waiting for it to clear. Finian craned his head around again.

The chestnut-haired lady was bent over the ground, picking up a platter. She set it on the table and smiled at a nearby servant. This time his eyebrows almost met his hairline. Well, he hadn't expected her to help clean up.

Glancing around surreptitiously, she slipped the razor-sharp dagger into her pocket.

He grinned as he was hauled away.