The Irish Warrior

“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.”

Chapter 6