The Irish Warrior

“Why?”

She gave a sad smile. “You do not know?”

Their faces were inches apart, his eyes filled with fury. “Och, lass, why did you have to need me so much?” he muttered in a low growl, then forced her mouth open with a blistering, hot, hungry, angry kiss. Just as swiftly, he broke it off and dropped her back to her feet.

“I told ye men were fools, Senna.”

The masculine rasp came by her ear. “I did not think you meant you,” she whispered brokenly.

“Och, I am the worst sort of all, a rúin. I look good.”

He disentangled his fingers and everything was cold where he’d been touching her, even the strands of her hair. The back of her head felt as if a door had swung open, and everything dark and nighttime swooped in.

“’Tis time, Senna.”

“Time for what?” she said dully.

Above his shoulder, the moon had risen above the squat round tower in the background, cut black against the sapphire sky. “To answer yer questions. And see the king.”

“The king? Why?”

“The Wishmés.” Whatever was going on inside him was unreadable through his eyes. They were as magnificent and remote as a mountaintop.

“You told him. You did not wait for my consent.”

“It was that or have him send ye back to Rardove.”

She looked at him for a long minute. Her fingertips were cold. “You knew I would, didn’t you?” she said flatly. “You knew, in the end, I would make the Wishmés for you.”

He turned away. “I knew nothing.”

“No? Well, you know now.”

Chapter 48

Finian escorted her to the king, not looking back to see if she followed. He could hear her well enough, and he couldn’t show her his eyes just now or else the thin screen of control he’d erected by dint of controlled fury would be kicked to the ground, and he’d be naked before her, his every yearning and shame exposed.

He showed her to the king’s bedchamber, which, like most bedchambers, doubled as an office. The antechamber held a fireplace, a cistern, a small table, and a few low benches. Finian invited her to sit, which she declined, invited her to eat, which she declined, and offer

ed drink, which she vehemently declined.

“Whisky?” Finian suggested, trying to offer something that would alleviate a bit of the furious hurt in her eyes. Or perhaps lessen the blows to come.

She aimed him a withering look. “I think not.”

“’Twill go easier…” He didn’t finish. Senna did not take lesser blows. She stood straight, with that tilt of her chin, and got punched back by the waves of the world. And every time, she stood up again. Senna would not appreciate a ‘lessening.’ He could not change that. He did not want to.

The king was sitting back, watching their charged interchange. Abruptly, he leaned forward. “Why do you not sit with me, lass?”

She angled her chin up, lifted her skirts and sat. Finian shook his head.

“How much do you know about the Wishmés, Mistress Senna?”

“Nothing a’tall. As I told Lord Finian. And Rardove.” She folded her hands primly on the table in front of her. She looked as prim as an iridescent dragonfly. “No one seems to believe me.”

“I believe you,” Finian gruffed. The king lifted an eyebrow and he subsided. He propped his shoulder on the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. Senna glared at him.

The king handed the dye manual to Finian. Senna was glowering directly into his eyes though, boring into them with silent fury, so she didn’t witness the transfer.