The Irish Warrior

“I thought ye only just arrived to be made a baroness.”

She leaned a tiny bit closer. “I do not fancy his wine.”

“Aye, I noticed that.”

“I do not mean to shock you, but Rardove tells lies. I am not his betrothed.”

He gave a slow grin. “Ye are surely not.”

“And I need a guide to the Dublin quay when I leave.”

“Couldn’t ye find another Irishman, or better yet a Saxon, who would be pleased to do such a task, and better able, too?”

“Mayhap. I have not looked.”

“Really?” He sat upright to regard her. A small smile lifted the edges of his lips and a tremor of unnamed excitement traveled through her body.

“Really,” she breathed, lowering her voice. She was entranced by the way his body curved over itself, his muscles tightly corded and tensed beneath what looked to be silky skin. Even in this decrepit prison he was filled with sunshine and fresh air.

“Now why would ye be doing such a thing as that, angel?” he inquired in a low tone.

“In the hall…you made me hold my head up. I think you would be best.” There was nothing more to say.

A genuine, pleased smile brightened his features before a grimace of pain took over. “Aye, then, lady, I’ll be awaiting yer coming, but ye’d best work quickly, as my head is being fitted for the stakes out front.”

Senna glanced over her shoulder. The guards would grow suspicious soon. “Tonight, after dark.”

“How?” he asked swiftly, his gaze suddenly hard and appraising.

Senna picked up a handful of rocks and ran her thumb over the jagged edges. “Rardove is thrashing on his sheets at this moment, clutching his belly. I expect it to last the night. Some mysterious infection of the gut.”

His eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Och, they’re terrible mysterious out here. Hit without warning.”

She gave a miniature smile. “This one did. I didn’t give him any warning a’tall.”

“I’ll owe ye my life.”

“You will be helping get back mine.”

He smiled and when she smiled in return, he sat back on his heels. “Ye’re a fair measure of beauty, ye are,” he whispered.

“What, with my bruised cheekbone?” This time she did laugh, very softly. “You must fell a great many ladies with such lies.”

The smile this earned was all charm and self-assurance. She shook her head, looking away. That would not help at all.

“Finian O’Melaghlin.”

“Senna—”

“De Valery,” he finished, his gaze traveling slowly over her face, the smile fading.

“You know my name?”

His eyes lifted back to hers. “If ye can get me out of here, I’ll have it put in a song.”

“If you can keep me alive once we’re out, I’ll write it myself,” she whispered back.

His smile returned, and her heart tripped over another beat. “I’ll remember yer name forever, angel, song or no.”