The Irish Warrior

Senna bowed her head. “I am most indebted, my lady. When Finian returns…?”

Lassar smiled faintly. “He knows where his room is.”

“His room?”

“Where Lord Finian stays when he’s to visit. He said to put you both there.”

Her cheeks flamed. “I see.”

Lassar smiled gently. “’Tis said you sprouted Lord Finian a pair of wings. For that, we are all indebted.”

Senna’s mouth was locked shut. This was awful and yet…what did she expect? And what did it matter in any event, her reputation? She had no life anymore. No home, no business, no lands, no coin, no relationships. She had nothing but Finian, who seemed to have everything, and need her not at all.

She studied the floor, knowing she was red-cheeked with embarrassment. But deeper than that was a chilling sort of disquiet. She was, at this moment, beholden.

A decade of her life spent ensuring she would never be indebted, never be needful, and here she was, full of nothing but need.

Food, shelter, safeguarding. Finian.

She brought nothing, could offer nothing, had nothing. Certainly nothing, she thought with a tired glance around the hall, nothing Finian could not already find, in great, willing abundance.

She was precisely what she’d spent her life endeavoring not to be: unwanted and beholden.

“Come,” Mugain was saying and, gesturing for Senna to follow, began walking away.

“My thanks,” Senna murmured to Lassar, touching her hand before following behind.

As they crossed the hall, she took malicious inventory of each seductive sway in Mugain’s hips and sinking notice of the appreciative masculine glances that followed her across the room.

“Finian’s room is in the tower,” Mugain announced over her shoulder as they crossed the bailey to a doorway set within the battlement walls.

“Is it?” she snapped.

’Twas quite an extravagance to have a room set aside in a castle that must be bursting to the seams with householders, retainers, and servants, never knowing when that guest might visit again. But Finian could melt the heart of an icicle, and it was clear he held an especial place in the king’s heart.

They climbed the curving, narrow staircase and entered a small room set in a turret of the battlement walls. It was a medium-sized room with closely-woven wicker walls, warmed by a fire in a brazier. A narrow wardrobe sat against a wall, and on its shelves was a richly dyed tumble of linen, dark red. Block gilt embroidery decorated one visible hem, a rich extravagance. A pair of polished leather boots stood at attention beside the shelves, leather laces running up the sides, awaiting their owner.

But most wonderful, the room boasted a low-slung bed piled high with coverlets and pillows, a soft haven of scented distraction. And a bath, just as Lassar had promised. A steaming, scented tub of water that almost brought tears to Senna’s eyes.

“I will help you, Mistress de Valery.”

She spun around. “No! I mean, nay, my thanks. I find myself weary,” she stammered. Good heaven, the last thing she needed was Mugain watching her undress.

“You would like to rest,” Mugain agreed amiably, with a glint in her eye.

“Aye. That’s it. Rest.”

“I will go, then. I will be busy.” She winked conspiratorially.

Senna smiled in confusion. “With some secret, it looks like.”

“A secret. A present.”

“A gift? For whom?”

“For Finian O’Melaghlin.”

Her smile faded. “I am sure he will like it.”