The Irish Warrior

“Och, he always does like my presents.”

Senna stilled. “Really.” Her lips froze in a glacial smile. Mugain dripped with hot honey as she returned it.

“Indeed, Mistress de Valery.”

“Senna,” she corrected vaguely.

“Lord Finian is fond of presents, Senna. I tell you this because once he and I were close, but are no lon

ger.”

“Indeed.” She sniffed. “You tell me because you were close, or because you are no longer?”

“Both.” The raven-haired vixen leaned closer. Her smile bespoke friendship, but her eyes held an unfriendly shine.

“I thank you, I think.”

“Och”—Mugain leaned back with a flutter of her hand—“no need to thank. Finian will tell you all that he likes and dislikes.” Her gaze grew closer. “You look so much like Bella.”

“Bella?”

Mugain nodded and plucked at an invisible piece of dust on her bodice. “Bella.”

“Bella.” Senna echoed everything: the word, the inflection, the hinted seduction. The only thing missing were the claws.

“Bella was his woman for many long years. Years it has been though, and there have been others since. Strange it is, how they’ve all looked like her.” Mugain smiled. “Excepting me, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You know his history, do you not?”

She shook her head wordlessly.

“Mayhap I ought not be the one…” She glanced around conspiratorially. “He works his way through women like a hot knife through butter, Mistress de Valery.”

“Senna,” she choked.

“But if you stay here, you will find that out soon, and ’tis wrong of me to speak of it.” She leaned closer. “The women’s looks when they saw Finian—you did see them?” Senna nodded dolefully: how could she have missed? “Once, many of them were on his arm, and do ache to be there again. Except me.” Mugain smiled brightly. “Does he find you special names? Och,” she went on, clucking at Senna’s miserable, confirming nod. “Careful you, Senna de Valery. He is a good man, but a wolf with women.”

Mugain got up and shook out her skirts. “Please you to tell Finian I’ve a present for him?”

Senna could not even look up, let alone nod. She stared at the place Mugain’s eyes had been, her heart quivering in the bottom of her chest.

Chapter 45

Senna bathed, then, still damp, stood peering out the small slitted window when she spotted Finian coming across the bailey toward the tower.

When he entered the room, it was dusky with nighttime and candle glow. The scored candle on the tabletop showed it was somewhere between Vespers and Compline.

She turned and smiled. He did not.

In fact, he scowled, then stalked to the narrow wardrobe and pulled out the layers of dark red cloth. Likely one of the knee-length léine she’d seen the other men wearing. He glanced at the tub briefly, walked back to the door and wrenched it open, hollered for wine, then slammed it shut again. He turned and scowled at her. Again.

“Sit, Senna. Be at ease.”

She did neither. He barely spared her a glance, just began stalking the room, a large male presence moving almost soundlessly between the shadows. After a while, the wine came, and he poured them each a cupful. He set his down without drinking.

Depositing himself on a bench, he reached for the pair of clean boots she’d seen earlier. His hair swayed beside his face, and he swept it back with an impatient, callused hand—so careless with something she loved so well.