“I’ll send your regards.”
“Who else?”
“Bermingham sent word.” He laid down a knave.
Her gaze, aimed at the card, flung back up. “Bermingham? He is more a snake than a man. I would not trust him in a rainstorm if he said I would get wet.”
“Sooth?”
“Sooth. If he requested a meeting, do not go.” She laid down a card as firmly as she spoke. “It is surely trickery, black and foul.”
He swept the pile up. “Interesting, for Walter seemed to believe it might be a beneficial alliance.”
“Walter? Walter said that?” She nibbled on her lower lip. “I would caution you on this matter.”
“Well now,” he murmured, throwing in another coin. “Your purposes are a mystery to me.”
“You think I would lie?”
“Think?”
A reluctant smile touched her mouth. “Well, I might. But I am not. These are things you will learn soon enough, and I would not see Rardove suffer for a few reckless deeds.”
“Such as yours?”
She arched a brow. “Mine are stubborn deeds. Yours are reckless.”
“Och, lass, you’ve been a bit reckless.”
A flush rose up her cheeks. “Yes, well, the hazard of being a marcher lord. It quite goes with the territory.”
“And you enjoy it,” he accused softly.
Startled, she widened her eyes, then another faint smile touched her mouth, lifting her cheeks. “I do,” she said fondly.
Outside a bright streak of lightning lit the sky, then a rumble of thunder followed almost at once. The storm was coming nearer. A few splatters of rain fell through the open window.
Aodh strode over and shut the outer shutters, latching them tight. Then he folded in the hinged glass windows too, battening them inside. As he strode back to the table, Katarina reclined in her seat, pulling the cards in toward her chest.
“No peeking,” she admonished.
He retook his seat with a smile.
“And what of The O’Fail?” she asked idly, tossing in another coin and setting down a king.
Half-bent to yank in the chair, he levered up his gaze. “Brian O’Fail is loyal to the queen,” he said slowly as he retook his seat, “a thousand years old, and hung with leeches most days. He has not ventured out for battle in two decades, and his sons from half a dozen wives have torn the clan limb from limb. The O’Fail has no central power anymore. They do naught but war, allying for minutes at a time to oust a common enemy, then falling upon each other again like a pack of wolves.”
She pursed her lips at the assessment. “Ah.”
“What do you know?” he asked grimly.
“More than you.”
In truth, he knew a good deal about the O’Fail tribe, for they’d once been the closest of friends and allies to the Rardove clan, surrogate families and foster fathers.
They were also disloyal, dishonorable cowards who’d not honored an alliance when it mattered most. Sixteen years ago, neither Brian the Elder nor his sons, nor any of the smaller tribes they claimed suzerainty over, came to the fight in Munster, and as a result, the Irish tribes had been wickedly outnumbered, and viciously defeated. Aodh’s cousins and uncles had died on that battlefield, his father and grandfather captured, condemned to die later as traitors.
Aodh would never call upon the O’Fail. Past betrayals aside, they could not be trusted.