The Irish Warrior

“So you all do that,” she replied softly, her voice a blend of seductress and innocent, so that Finian didn’t know whether to guide her from the room to protect her from the onslaught of masculine attention that was about to come her way, or lay her out on a table and claim her with a roar: She’s mine!

Doubtful she’d see it as a compliment though. He kept his hands to himself.

The O’Fáil scratched the top of his ear, then wiped his hand along the back of his neck. “What is it we do, lass?”

“Charm. You charm us.”

The O’Fáil grinned. “Aye, we like to think we do our part. As do you ladies.”

Senna lifted her eyebrows a delicate fraction, conveying exactly a blend of innocence and feminine command. “I do not think I have ever made Lord Finian blush, my lord, and I quite doubt I could do it to you.”

Finian crossed his arms over his chest, an impermeable barrier of confident, careless warrior. The king grinned broadly at him, then turned back to Senna. “Well, you’d never know if you did it to me, now would you, under all this fur.” He tugged on his beard and she smiled. The king leaned a bit closer. “But with Finian, lass, you just might be able to tell.”

Finian unslung his arms and stepped forward. “That’s enough,” he announced, putting his arms under Senna’s armpits and practically lifting her off the bench.

The O’Fáil was still laughing as Finian said, “The king has a council to attend, and you need to eat, Senna.”

She batted his hands away long enough to turn and bow her head. “Sire, I am not accustomed to being indebted, and suspect I do not do it very well, but know this: I am grateful beyond words, and indebted to you for my life. I vow to repay it.”

The O’Fail regarded her a minute before nodding, too, then Finian guided her away and sat her at another table on the other side of the room. He felt The O’Fáil watching the whole time. He tromped back and they walked out of the great hall together.

“She’s filled with fire,” the king observed as they strode down the corridor.

“Ye’ve no idea.”

Up ahead was the meeting chamber. Other men, young and old, were already filing inside. No one had to officially call this meeting; Finian’s arrival had been summons enough. The O’Fáil stopped and turned to him.

“Son, do I need to say it aloud?”

Finian met his hard gaze with one equally unflinching. “What?”

“She’s got to go back.”

Chapter 43

Around the table sat The O’Fáil, his chief councilors, a priest, and a group of Irish nobles. Finian lounged on the bench beside Alane, his relaxed pose at odds with the roiling tension in the room.

Everyone waited when the servants brought food and drink. No one touched theirs except for Finian, but they waited as he drank half a tankard of ale. They waited as he scanned the room after meeting each man’s gaze, and they even waited through his subsequent sigh.

“Rardove is amassing an army,” he said. “He wants a war. I say we give it to him.”

The room erupted into shouts and curses.

“There’s more,” he added, pushing into the noise. The room quieted. “He knows. Rardove knows about the dyes.”

Silence poured out of the cold walls. He could hear the sharp drops of fresh water in a cistern at the corner of the room.

“How much?” the king asked. “How much does he know?”

“He knows they explode.”

More curses, hands scrubbing jawlines, shuffling boots. Men growing more tense, wanting action. Finian let them sit with the news a minute, then said, “We’ve one thing in our favor.”

Someone snorted. The king looked up. “And what is that?”

“This.” He took the dye manual from its pouch and held it up. Bound in wood, with pages that could burn, it was as fragile as a leaf. Everyone stared as if he were holding a flame in his hand.

“Good Lord,” the king breathed. “The dye manual. Turlough was sent to retrieve this.”