“You’ll find them there,” she said sweetly, tilting her head to the side. Her tunic slipped farther down her arm.
“But ye might have fit more, had ye not brought the clothes,” he tried to explain.
“Mm.” She tipped her head to the side. The sight of the pale smooth skin of her shoulder drew his eye briefly, then he looked back to her decidedly mischievous eyes. Mischief suited her. “Anything else, man?”
“Nay. A man would be traveling lighter, there’s the difference,” he grumbled.
“Then dig farther and see what else a woman brought.” Her voice danced with laughter.
Out came, as she had said, dried berries and meat, bread and cheese. There was flint, some toiletry items, rope, and several clean linen squares. Then his hand alighted on a cool, hard surface. Realization dawned before he even saw it. He threw his head back and laughed as he lifted the flask of whisky into the air.
“Praise God, ’tis uisce beatha! Senna girl, I promise to never judge yer decision-making again.”
He laughed, and she laughed, too, so for a moment she was scared by neither the people hunting her nor the people who would never hunt for her. He could see it in her bright energy, the simple happiness pouring out of her.
She dropped to her knees next to him. Digging eagerly through her own pack, she pulled out a twin flask of the drink, which she held in her bandaged hand. His eyes dropped to the sight. He dragged them back up when she spoke.
“I saw these flasks, and the whisky. Rardove mentioned it was his best. Some I gave to the guards, laced with valerian root. These, I brought for us.” She grinned and tapped her flask to his.
Hearing her tale of small defiance, watching her face dissolve into laughter, Finian was gripped by a sense of affection and something else.
“Ye’re a brave woman, Senna,” he said gruffly.
“Not a bit. Although, with enough of this,” she indicated the flask with a t
ip of her head, “I suppose I could become brave.” She lifted it higher and looked at him, a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “Shall we?”
He grinned. “Indeed. A little bravery might go a long ways, Senna.” Holding up his flask, he uncorked it. “To my savior.” He tipped it in her direction, then downed a huge swallow.
“Warrior,” she said, lifting the flask toward him, returning the toast. Raising the bottle to her lips, she threw back a draught. Her shoulder tipped back as she arched her throat to swallow. Long reddish hair fell to the top of her rounded buttocks, which were pressed into her heels as she knelt beside him. He gritted his teeth. Strong, long legs. Bright, dauntless eyes. Passionate spirit.
This woman had not been crafted by God to run ledger rows.
He threw back another portion, then smacked his lips. “Aye, ’tis a good drink, but my brewers do a better job,” he claimed. “’Tis smoother than this.”
Her eyes were spilling over, her reply a wet sputter. “I hope that is so, Irishman, for this is harsh to my tongue.”
She smiled at him and the pace of his world dropped to a slower beat. Her hand was on her waist, thumb behind her back, slim fingers curled over her ribs. Where he suddenly wanted his fingers to be with strong, surprising force.
He shoved to his feet. “Time to go, lass.”
Chapter 18
They walked through most of the night. The moon was high and lit their way. Mostly they skirted the edges of fields and farms, staying just inside treeline, small, shadowed figures no one would notice. They hardly spoke, until they finally stepped out onto a path rutted from the passage of generations of people and sheep and cattle.
“No choice now, Senna,” he murmured. “We’ve got to follow the road awhile. Stay to the edge, and help me find something.” He was already bending low, looking into the ditches.
“You lost something out here?”
“I didn’t lose anything. I know right what they are. Yarrow and comfrey root. And a bit of your valerian dust should do us well, if ye’ve any left.”
“For my hand,” she determined glumly.
“Just yer fingers,” he said, scanning the ground. “We’ll leave yer hand be.”
“You could leave me be. My fingers, my hand, the whole lot of me.”
“Do not be afraid, a rúin. I’ve healed wounds before—”