Claiming Her

A secret little smile touched her mouth. “It would depend upon the one.”

He greatly liked when she smiled. “I think you will find sixty men of use, Katarina.”

“To what end would I use them? I have no troubles with the Queen of England.”

“Perhaps in your troubles with the Irish, then.” He smiled.

Her eyes grew fierce, no longer filled with graceful consideration; more like the woman he’d had to back up against a wall. She leaned forward, toward the table, toward him, as if she could not be reclined any longer.

Good.

“Your boldness implies a certain ignorance of what is to come, Aodh Mac Con, so allow me to enlighten you. Sixty-odd men will never hold the line against the forces the Queen of England will be sending to Ireland once she learns of your deeds here.”

“No doubt. That is where you come in.”

“As your consort?” she said sharply.

“As the sword wielder. And wheel-lock-gun wielder. And the snaphances,” he added in an admiring tone. “Five of them.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “I, fight on your behalf?”

“You would not?”

“Are you mad?”

“’Tis quite an array.”

She looked at the guns. “Is it?”

“’Tis.”

She glanced into the depths of whatever wine was left in her goblet. Probably none. “Would you say that if I were a man?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “I would ask where your lance was.”

Her head came up swiftly. “Then you see, there are different rules for women.”

“There is a difference between a rule and a regularity, Katarina. You are highly irregular.”

She laughed then, amusement yanked unexpectedly from the depths of her, apparently, for she looked as surprised by it as he. It was a goodly thing, this laughter. Musical and low, almost throaty. Pleasing. Very. As was the faint flush that washed across her pale cheeks.

Her laughter faded to a pretty smile, then she turned away, presenting him with the perfectly acceptable substitute of her high-cheeked profile, the fine upturn to her nose, the fitting squareness of her chin, the ashen sweep of long lashes.

“You’ve no idea how many times I’ve been told that, Aodh Mac Con, if not quite in that way.”

“And were they all as pleased by it as I?”

Her body became a study in frozen moments: fading smile, furrowed brow, deep brown eyes, turning to his.

“I thought not,” he said briskly. “I am unsurprised. They’ve no idea what to do with you.”

“Who is ‘they,’ Mac Con?”

“Every man you’ve ever met, Katarina. Everyone but me.”

He could almost feel the chills race across her skin. Silence spread, except for the crackling fire. Then she leaned forward and rested an elbow on the table, considering him from across its length, somewhat like a battle commander in a war tent. It was an uncommonly uncomfortable moment, this woman’s appraising, clever gaze inspecting him.

“You do not like Ireland overly much, do you, Aodh Mac Con?”