The Irish Warrior

Her gaze swept the large room as they stopped in the arched doorway of his long-ago home. The great hall, three broad steps below them, was wide, clean, and bright, lit by evening light coming in through high windows and rushlights burning in iron sconces. A huge fire roared in a recessed firepit along the far wall, a blaze of light and heat. Fresh rushes covered the floor, and the room smelled comfortably of faint herbs and warm bodies.

People were everywhere, in pairs and threesomes, talking, eating, and laughing. A young couple was having a lovers’ argument in a far corner, the disagr

eement evident by a quivering lower lip and dewy, tear-filled eyes.

A group of youngsters huddled at a far table, playing some kind of game. One lad exploded into such raucous laughter he rolled backward off the bench. The others erupted after him, little volcanoes of good spirit.

Two dogs lolled comfortably by the roaring fire, crunching bones. The outline of a cat was frozen in midstride, her bright green eyes fixed on some unseen rodent threat beneath the rushes.

A herd of young men, not yet warriors but no longer boys, loitered near a group of men. They weren’t watching their elders though, who were, at the moment, the most boring creatures imaginable. They were espying a bevy of young females chattering at another table, lasses who hid their lips behind slender hands, eyed their admirers, then giggled and looked away.

Senna’s gaze swept back to him. “At the head of that table where the maidens are?” she asked, the tremor gone from her voice.

He smiled, pleased his gambit had proven successful. “Guess again.”

“At the center of the dais table, then, being self-assured and commanding.”

He shook his head.

“Tell me, then.”

“No. Ye’re to figure it out yerself.”

“I will.” She accepted the challenge with bright eyes.

“Och, how could I doubt it? Ye’re quick-witted, and if ye cannot figure it out yerself, all ye’ve to do is pull out that pretty smile and lure the truth out of some poor unsuspecting.”

It was indeed a pretty smile that brightened her now-relaxed face as Finian led her into the hall, battling back the wave of protectiveness washing through him. There were more important things to attend to just now, such as recovery of ancient Irish rights and onrushing war. He must not get distracted by Senna.

Just then, the king looked up and saw him. He went still, then got to his feet, slowly. Tablets on his lap crashed to the floor.

Finian started forward, toward the man who’d taken him in when everyone else was willing to say he was a lost cause, who’d believed in something the others hadn’t seen. To them, he’d been the son of a mother who committed the sin of suicide, right now burning in hell, and a father who’d melted away after it happened.

But The O’Fáil had brought him in, raised him up, called him son, councilor, friend. Finian had not exaggerated a whit; he owed The O’Fáil more than his life. He owed him his reason for living.

Finian reached out for his foster father’s hand.

“Jésu, Finian,” the king muttered, grasping his wrist and coming around the table. “I thought ye were—” And then The O’Fáil, one of the greatest Irish kings since Brian Bóruma, came forward and crushed Finian in a bear hug.

If Senna had seen glimpses of love from the corners of her life, then this was it in full force, bursting and unreserved. And it fell down all over Finian like rain.

The king pulled back, bearded and smiling. His hands continued to grip Finian’s shoulders. “So. You decided to visit.”

“In truth, my lord, I had nothing better to do for the night.”

The king laughed heartily, then looked around swiftly. Almost the entire hall had their eyes shifted toward them, but no one was nearby. Only Senna. His gaze flitted over her, paused momentarily, then returned to Finian. “Your mission?”

“Done, and then some,” Finian assured him in a low voice.

“Good. Good.” The king swept his piercing gaze back to Senna. “And who is your astonishing escort?”

“Senna de Valery, my lord.” Finian grabbed her hand and dragged her forward.

Above his gray-shot beard, the king’s perceptive eyes appraised her in seconds. She felt the inspection as if a hook had been laid into her, poked about, and extracted. Then the king smiled. He gestured for her to sit beside him. She did so shyly, ducking her head.

“Lass, you ought not to bend your head so,” the king said. “Makes it hard to see your beautiful eyes.”

Finian rolled his eyes.