The Irish Warrior

Finian followed the invisible trajectory drawn by the toss of her hand, to the small cluster of women, some barefooted, watching them in silence.

“No,” he said slowly. “Not nearly so much.”

Her bright smile nearly blinded him. If she’d been within reach, he might have swept her up in his arms for a kiss. But she turned and walked back to the cluster.

“We have to pay for our drinks, and we’d like two more,” she said. “This should settle for those, and mayhap just one more thing.”

They stared at the lumpy purse like a cat had just delivered kittens on their counter. The owner reached out and swept it up. She peered inside, then lifted her head.

“What do you want?” she asked slowly. Suspicion filled her already guarded eyes.

“More drink,” Senna said. “And a way out of town, without being discovered.”

Silence reigned. No one asked how she came by such a rich bag of coin, out of the nighttime, and yet had no horse of her own. A handful of causes would certainly have already come to mind. But they did not ask a single question. They did look at Finian, though.

“Who’s he?” asked the owner, hooking her head his direction.

Senna glanced over briefly. “He’s my…”

Finian waited to see how on earth she would describe him.

“My Irishman.”

He grinned.

The group of women giggled, sounding genuinely, playfully feminine for the first time since they’d entered the tavern. “Where can I get one of them?” one of the girls whispered, and the group broke into tinkling laughter again.

Senna bent closer. “We’re in Ireland,” she murmured. “They’re everywhere.”

“Not like that,” one said.

The owner was holding Finian’s eye. He nodded, acknowledging her silent regard. For a moment she didn’t move, then a slim, elegant fingertip lifted briefly off the counter. She turned back to Senna.

“The guards change their posts in about an hour,” she said, her voice like plush felt. “Ofttimes, we have need to escort guests home after the gates are shut for the night.”

Senna looked shocked at the extravagance. “How much do you charge for that?”

Esdeline smiled her mysterious smile. “Indeed, they pay.”

Senna harrumphed. “I should hope so.”

“My wagon coming through the gate should not draw any undue attention. Tonight, you”—she pointed to Senna—“will escort him.” She gestured to Finian.

When Senna came back to the table, he reached for her hand. She slid it into his, and he stroked his thumb over the center of her palm slowly.

“That was a kindness,” he said quietly.

She shrugged, but shifted her eyes away. “’Twas only coin.” Her voice hardly caught at all. “And truly, Finian, it hardly seems likely that—”

She stopped. They all heard it at the same time.

A low rumble, coming closer. The clatter of hooves into the stable yard, the sound of men, drawing nearer.

One of the women hurried to the door and pulled it open an inch. She slammed it shut at once and spun around, her face frightened. “’Tis the whole bleedin’ regiment!”

“Quick, get the bag,” snapped the owner, and the women went into motion, hurrying the pouch of money off the counter. One woman beckoned to Senna and Finian, by the back door. Senna hurried over while Finian strode deliberately to Esdeline.

“Lady,” he said in a low, swift voice, “all those things ye spoke of, if Senna says ye need them, then so ye do. But I’m telling ye, ye also need a protector. Send word to The O’Fáil. Mention my name. Say I told ye I owe a debt, and to send a guard. One of my personal guard. Ask for Tiergnan—he’s a monstrous hulk of a beast, but gentle inside.”