The Irish Warrior

It was a frighteningly clever maneuver.

“Edward will be enraged to find more Celts aligning against him, with what he has brewing in Scotland.” Rardove looked over, saw Pentony staring, and waved his hand through the air. “Write, man. Write!”

Pentony sat and dipped the tip of the quill in the inkwell, more by long years of habit than obedience. “Who?” he asked, although he already knew. He wrote slowly.

“Wogan, the justiciar. He is riding to us? Well, let us send riders to intercept him along the way, and tell him of the intrigues of the Irish.”

Pentony’s pen scratched across the parchment.

“No, I shall not wait placidly for war to be launched upon me,” Rardove said, in a voice as close to thoughtful as he could come. He ran his fingers through his beard. “Send word to all the neighboring lords as well. And all my vassals.”

Pentony’s pen scratched to a halt. He looked up slowly. “Why, my lord?”

Rardove strode to the window. He moved in and out of the narrow bands of sunlight that squeezed through the shutters. Flipping the rusty iron latch up, he flung them wide. Sunlight poured in. It hurt Pentony’s eyes.

“The lord governor of Ireland marches north,” Rardove said loudly. “The king of England is marching too. The harvest is in. It is time to make war on the Irish.”

Chapter 31

Finian lay on his back and stared at the stars. For almost twenty years, he’d devoted himself to a two-fold goal. Recov

er Irish lands, notably the Wishmé beaches, and never, ever get entrapped by a woman.

Yet here he was…

What?

Bedding a woman. He threw his arm over his face and thought it again, liking how it sounded. That’s all he’d done. Bed a beautiful and intelligent woman. Nothing else had happened.

He groaned into the bend of his arm. There was no fooling himself here. Nothing would ever be the same again. Because he’d more than bedded her. He’d possessed her. Dived into her like she was a river and he the rain.

And he was not done yet. Like water on parched skin, he was absorbing her, never even knowing he’d been dying of thirst.

She lay collapsed atop his chest, her legs draped on either side of his hips like streamers, trembling slightly. He was still inside her, and had no desire to pull out. Even now, minutes later, soft quivers still occasionally rippled through her body, caressing him softly as his fingers curled around a length of her hair, idly lifting it, then letting it fall. Even in sleep, her body still responded.

He felt her shift. She lifted her head and looked at him. He smiled faintly.

“Ye’re awake.”

She nodded.

“Will ye tell me something?”

“I will tell you anything.”

No, he thought. Do not say such things.

“What did ye mean,” he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “when ye said ye’re not an innocent?”

She nodded, as though this was what she’d expected. “I was married before.”

“When?”

“Ten years ago. I was fifteen.”

He digested this tidbit. He found he did not like its flavor. “For how long?”

“One night.”