The Irish Warrior

Finian was surprised it took as long as it did—perhaps a minute—before she found her voice. “Irishman,” she vowed hoarsely, “come a time, I will hurt you as much as you just hurt me.”

“I’ll be counting the days,” he drawled, pleased she showed fire. He must keep her in this angry state, for he still had to set the bones, lash them to hold them straight.

She was kneeling but no longer rocking. In the distance, a chorus of frog songs bubbled out of the creek. She sniffled.

“Ye’re wailing and complaining in a childly way,” he remarked coldly, to give her anger, and thereby strength.

She glared. “I neither wail nor complain—”

“Come here,” he ordered roughly, reaching out his hand, done with placating. There was a bone to be set and sleep to be had. He yawned hungrily and turned his palm up.

She staggered over, weaving as she came. She lowered herself, swaying slightly as she sat, her knees bent, legs kicked out to the side. Her hair was free of its confinement, a tumbling chestnut wave that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. She looked like she belonged in some sultan’s palace. Or right where she was, on the hills, with him.

She shook and cried out as he worked on her fingers—first whisky, then poultice, then cobwebs, then strips of linen torn from the spare tunic in her pack. She kept him informed of every bolt of fiery pain that shot through her body, but she did not move her hand until he was done, by which time she’d become utterly quiet. He lifted his head to encounter a small, shocked, tearstained face.

With a muffled curse, he held out his arms. She fell forward into them and he wrapped her up, stroking her hair and murmuring soft, soothing words for a long time.

“The yarrow should start to dull the pain soon,” he murmured eventually.

“’Tis a’ready.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

He held her tighter. Her faint words rose up some time later. “I am left breathing, which was more than I hoped for a few moments ago. My thanks.”

“Aye, angel.”

Her fingers throbbed with pain, but she suspected this was because Finian had shifted something back to right, and now the messages were flowing between her body and mind as they ought: Attend. This hurts.

In fact, many things hurt. Her fingers, her knees, due to the small jagged rock she was kneeling on, but she didn’t move. Because more important than the pain was the feel of Finian’s arms around her, the soft, gentling words he was murmuring in her ear, designed to comfort and calm. They did both.

After a while, with great reluctance, she disentangled herself from the solid warmth of him. One could not lie in a warm embrace indefinitely.

“I’m fine now,” she said stiffly. He released her silently.

Throwing herself down on the ground, she tried to sleep. She punched the sack serving as her pillow and turned on her side. Ouch. Muttering, she flipped to the other shoulder. No, that was not helpful. She flung herself on her back, feeling the earth bite into her bones, and hummed until her own off-key tune annoyed herself. She tried imagining the sounds of a waterfall, hoping that would lure her into sleep. It didn’t.

She stared up at the sky, which was lightening into predawn. It was no good, nothing helped. Tears loomed.

She heard a small movement in the grasses, then his arms were around her, pulling her backward into his warmth. He lay on his side and tucked her into his chest. As if she’d been waiting for just this, she relaxed.

“Rest, angel.” His soft, rough voice rumbled through her hair, onto her neck.

His lean, hard body was stretched against hers, heating every inch of her from neck to knees. One powerful arm was slung over her hip, the other stretched on the ground above their heads. She sighed deeply. This was beyond goodly, and more than enough to hold her pain in abeyance. Now, how had he accomplished that?

“Thank you,” she whispered just as sleep stole over her.

“Thank ye,” he murmured back. She snuggled in and his hand tightened on her hip. She fit right in.

Chapter 19

When Senna awoke, Finian was already up, standing a few feet away, kicking more dirt atop what had been their firepit. Each time his foot moved forward, the rest of his body adjusted for the movement, muscular arms out slightly, the hair beside his face—that not trapped in its binding at the nape of his neck—swaying slightly. His chiseled face was dusky with beard growth. His gaze was intent on the pit.

She sat up. He looked over. His eyes dropped to her hand. “Yer fingers?”

She thought about them, then realized the fact that she needed to think about them with purpose was a good sign. “They do not throb so much, and there’s no pock.”