The Irish Warrior

“Then sit back.”

“I am sitting back,” she retorted sourly.

“We’ll be there soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

He snorted.

“You really do snort a lot.”

“Ye complain a lot.” He nailed her with a look. “Why don’t ye take a rest? Lie on the packs, close yer eyes?”

And my mouth, she thought crossly.

In the end, they came to an unpleasant compromise, wherein Senna perched over the side and washed her face and armpits and everything she could reach by pulling things aside but not actually disrobing, while Finian sat backward in his seat and stared the other way up the river.

“I’m all done,” she sang out.

He turned in stony silence and started paddling again.

An hour later she was about to go mad. No conversation, all heat and boredom, and the only reason her belly wasn’t heaving dried bread and cheese over the side was because the tributary they traveled was shallow. The boat didn’t rock much, and rarely shot forward with any purpose. But still, it was not comfortable.

She shifted for perhaps the hundredth time, levering herself to her knees, which creaked. She groaned and put a hand to her spine. “I think my back is broken.” Her leg suddenly cramped. She grabbed it and tried to pound it out.

“Do ye know much about boats, Senna?” he asked sharply.

She eyed him. The cramp was fading. “Some.”

“Then ye likely know ye don’t want to fling yourself about like you’re in a mad carol. Or you’ll tumble over the side.”

“Is that so?” she said derisively.

A cool Irish gaze sailed over her. “Keep jostling and ye’ll find out.”

She looked at the shoreline, sliding away. “I can help, you know.”

He barely glanced at her.

“With paddling. I can take a turn.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re almost there.”

In her excitement at the news, she tried to turn and kneel on the small wooden bench. The boat eddied around a little cove just then and hit a rock, unseen beneath the water. The boat lurched, Senna slid off the bench, her foot hit the bottom of the old boat hard, in just the right way, and went straight through into the water below.

She stared in shock at her left foot, now ankle deep in the river. Water began burbling up through the hole. She turned and looked despairingly at Finian.

He had risen, paddle in hand, staring if possible with even more shock than she at the damage done. The small craft was starting to take on a significant amount of water.

“Finian,” she said helplessly.

He sighed and, dropping the paddle, gently extracted her foot from between the shards of wood. The water was filling up the craft as high as their ankles. Finian bent and lifted her into his arms, which sent a whoosh through her belly. Then he swung her over the side.

“No!” she cried out, grabbing for his shoulders.