The Irish Warrior

How many nights would be like this, quiet moments spent watching Finian undress, knowing he would come soon and hold her in his arms? She could probably have dozens of them, mayhap hundreds, before he moved on to new conquests, if what Mugain had said was true. And she saw no reason to think otherwise.

To the contrary, everything Mugain said confirmed every unsettling suspicion in Senna’s mind.

She picked up her wine cup. “I spent time with some people while you were in council, Finian.”

He looked up sharply. “Were they good to ye?”

“Indeed. Lassar was most kind.”

He seemed to relax and tugged off one of the old, scuffed boots he’d been wearing. “Aye. Lassar is the kindest sort of woman. I’m pleased ye passed some time with her.”

Taking a sip to steady her nerves, she cleared her throat. “I spent time with many people, Finian, not just Lassar.”

“Good.”

“I met Mugain.”

The earth-shaking news did not seem to effect any great change. He tugged the other boot off and stood.

“She said she has a present for you.”

He grunted again and unbuckled his sword belt. Off it came, followed by various other blades, all tossed with careless skill onto the bench, until it glittered with steely, deadly things.

“She said you always like her presents.”

His gaze finally flicked over. “The last gift Mugain gave me was when she was ten, and ’twas a cold shank of lamb in my bed one night.”

Senna smiled but the chill in her chest did not warm. “She is fond of you, like many others. You are well loved.”

“I grew up here, Senna.” He tugged his tunic over his head. His body was naked and perfect except for a few scars, whitened and puckered in various places across his ribs and belly. She hadn’t seen them before; it had always been dark, or perhaps she’d been too distracted by the gleaming power of him. “The bonds from fosterage are ofttimes stronger than blood ties.”

She dragged her gaze from the scars. “And now you are the king’s advisor. How did that come to be?”

“I advised and he found it good.” He reached for the clean boots.

She wrinkled her nose. “From a race of storytellers, that was poor indeed.”

And finally, like a rainstorm that comes in the dog days of July, he laughed. One of those deep, carefree masculine rumbles that made her heart lift and sink all at once. He got to his feet and reached for her. She went. He swept up her hair in his hand and studied her as if he was seeing something new. Then, wordless, he cupped the side of her cheek and ran his face down her neck, inhaling her.

Something was wrong.

“Finian?”

He dropped her hair.

“Your council was troubling.”

“The times are troubling,” he replied, his voice so low she ducked closer to hear, but she almost stumbled, because he released her and stepped away, back to the bench, where he started pulling on the clean boots.

“Has this to do with Rardove, Finian?” she asked slowly.

He didn’t answer.

“It does,” she said fiercely. “In which case, it has to do with me.”

He looked up, but his eyes were unreadable, closed off. He may as well have been gone from the room. “It has nothing to do with ye.”

“Finian, I can help. I can do something. What is happening? Tell me.”