The Irish Warrior

“But I thought—You were to be…” Her words trailed off.

“I’ll never be king here, Senna. I made my choice.”

She stared at the castle behind him, then forced herself to meet his eyes. “A choice between a woman and a kingship. Some would say ’twas an easy choice.”

“Oh, aye. Simple enough for me.” He ran his palm over the side of her head. “I suppose ye’ll have to make yer choice now, Senna, knowing I’m not to be a king after all.”

She pursed her lips, as if considering the matter. “I have always heard ’tis best to keep royalty at a distance.”

“Have ye?”

“You, I shall keep close.”

He slid his hand to the back of her head and pulled her forward. “Will ye, now?”

She rested her arms around his shoulders. “I made my choice in a stinking old prison. I’m fairly certain you were there. Do you not recall?”

He smiled faintly, but, still cupping the back of her head, looked down into the valley below. “A prison is a prison. Free air has a different odor. I’ve seen men in cellars make vile, regretful choices.”

She entwined her fingers behind his neck. “But, Finian, what you saw was a woman in a cellar.”

His blue gaze came back down, his smile deepending as his eyes searched hers. “Well now, that is so. And she was a fair staggering thing.”

She disentwined her fingers to wave her hand, her face flushing. “Enough of that.”

“Nay, not enough.” He ran his hand down her neck to her shoulders in a manner she knew far too well.

“Cease,” she protested, but she didn’t mean it, and he knew. He caressed her shoulders in deep, circular motions, massaging. A prelude.

She bent her head to the side and closed her eyes, but still said sternly, “You shall not be let off so easily. We were speaking of plans. Instead of being a king now, you shall be a spy?”

“Tend toward calling me a diplomat when we travel. It’ll sound less treasonous if anyone asks.”

She opened her eyes, smiling widely. “I am to come with you.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “For certes.” He ran his lips over her cheek, then slid them down to her jaw. “I’ve been looking for ye my whole life, lass. Dye-witch or no, I’m not letting ye go. Kings can want ye; I have got ye.”

“Good,” she whispered.

He bent to her lips but she put a hand on his chest stilling him.

“And are you never going to ask?” she said in a low voice.

“Nay.”

“You do not want to know how I did it?”

He was quiet, then reached into his fur and held up the small scrap of Wishmé-dyed fabric she’d carried out with her that day at Rardove’s, and given to him. A gift of nothing, she’d laughed. He had not joined in, she recalled.

“I think the dyes are a thing rare and astonishing,” he replied slowly, handing it to her. “Like their maker. Ye wish to tell me, so do.”

“’Tis a secret. You cannot tell a soul.”

He smiled faintly.

“I followed my mother’s recipe. ’Twas the simplest thing in the world.”

“Is that so? Five hundred years of Irish dyers do not agree.” He rested his hand between her shoulder blades, a gentle touch. Unconsciously, she was certain, he started rubbing.