Claiming Her

She put her head on his shoulder. “Please, tell me to hush.”

“Hush,” he whispered, and kissed the top of her head.

A few moments later, someone cleared his throat. Ré appeared behind her.

“The messenger is leaving, my lady. He requests a reply.”

“My reply,” she said, looking at Aodh, “is that he inform the queen’s representative there are unimaginable benefits to having an Irishman rule in Ireland. She cannot even consider how good it will be for England if she does this thing.”

That night, Aodh sat Katarina on his lap in front of the fire, a small group of their closest friends all around, Ré and Cormac and Susanna. Even Dickon lurked at the edges, bringing far more food than they could ever need. No one spoke of what had happened. They drank and danced and talked, and the night wended away.

But as they went to bed that night, when Aodh shut the door and pulled her under the covers, she whispered, “We are doomed.”

“You cannot give up, lass,” he said, pulling the covers up to her nose and fluffing his pillow.

“I am not giving up.” She kissed him. “I am marrying you.”

He stilled, mid-fluff. “No, Katarina, you are not.”

“Yes, I am.”

His expression flattened. “No, you’re not.”

“We are getting married, Aodh.”

“Och, you’re beautiful to me. And I’ll not have you do treason on my behalf.”

She laughed. “You were willing enough for it earlier.”

“Aye, well, I was a fool. I only wanted you then. I did not love you.”

Her heart felt both full and horribly squeezed. “We are getting married, Aodh.”

“No, we are not, Katy.”

*

THEY WERE WED in the great hall as the sun went down the following day.

As they said their vows, they could hear the sounds of the army coming down over the hills outside.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

NIGHT FELL, and the revelries continued unabated. Indeed, they may have been whipped to a greater frenzy by the approaching army. A defiant wedding, then. It fit.

Music played endlessly, and song and dancing erupted in every corner, as did much kissing. There was juggling and mock sword fights with winners and losers toasted with equal fervor; all they wanted tonight was celebration, and anything that resembled it would do the deed.

Aodh and she partook in every moment. Aodh even took to the floor, Katarina on his arm, and showed the hall a dance from England. It was a delicate, precious thing, and much as Katarina liked it, the Irish roared in laughter, and then a few worked their own booted magic on the hard plank floors, bashing away. Then after, they fell to playing ancient, evocative music that quite broke the heart, on bodhrán and flute.

And instead of escaping to their bedchamber, Aodh and Katarina stayed for it all.

Wedding night or no, they knew this night was for Rardove. With an army amassing outside the walls, they were needed in the hall. The people needed to see them, to watch them be calm and at their ease, to play cards together at the dais table, while

around them music played. They had all night—neither would sleep. They would go to their bed later. But tonight was for Rardove.

They stayed on the dais after music stopped, after soldiers and the overflow of guests were bedding down on the hall floors and bedchambers above. They stayed as long as any voices could be heard, murmuring about the army outside the gates. Bran curled up at Aodh’s feet, and Katarina stuffed a pillow under his head. They played a card game, just the two of them, while they talked of the map he’d given her and all the places he’d gone on it.

“We should mark each one,” she said, laying down a five of the trump suit, spades. “And when you were there.”