The Irish Warrior

“Aye, it does,” he’d agreed.

She was thinking of it now, he knew, and a moment later was proven right when she said quietly, “A week along is all I was. Ofttimes, one never even knows so soon.”

“No.” He kissed the top of her head again, and rubbed his palm over her upper arms, warming her. “We will have children, Senna.”

She smiled. “You will give me children.”

He paused. “I’m fairly certain I’m supposed to say that to ye, lass.”

“But,” she went on, lost in thought, “if I do not quicken right away, that will do for now. I must get my sheep over to Ireland, and the king has told me of your astonishing weavers. I believe we can gain them franchise in the towns. But, before all, I must meet with the mayor of the wool staple in Dublin.”

“Och, well, the woolly mayor it is, then,” he said lightly.

She narrowed her eyes. “Therefore I do not understand why you wish me to learn the names of the poets—the file?” She lifted an eyebrow to question if she was pronouncing the term correctly. He shook his head. She narrowed her eyes again. “Why must I know the names of poets from so long ago?”

“Because it matters,” he said. And he said it in such a simple, calm way, she believed him.

He was including her in every aspect of his life, his heritage and his future, sharing everything with her, accepting her involvement as natural. Desired. Which was, Senna realized, what she’d wanted all along: to be cherished, as she was.

In return, she was willing to offer much, including attempting to learn the names of centuries-dead poets. Or the entire Irish language. It was a beautiful tongue, but perilous, she realized with trepidation as she waded in to lessons each afternoon. Finian was a patient teacher. She tried to be a patient student. Her fingers had healed. Pentony was dead.

“I hope he did right by himself,” she murmured, her gaze drifting down the sloping hill below them. “I do not like to think of him suffering anymore.”

In part, she wished that because if Pentony was not suffering anymore, despite his sins, then perhaps Finian’s mother was not either. And one day, that thought might bring Finian peace.

He stood near her, towering to his full rangy height. Black, windswept hair fell across his shoulders, and he was as magnificent to her now as when she’d first laid eyes on him.

“You sent a trunkful of coin to his illegitimate child in England, didn’t you?” she said abruptly.

He started shaking his head, but she held up her hand.

“I know you did. I heard Alane speaking of it.”

He shrugged. “Ye’ll believe what ye want, Senna. Ye always do. I’ve given up trying to change ye.”

“You never began.” Her breath caught in her throat. “You are a good man, Finian O’Melaghlin.”

“And ye,” he whispered close to her ear, “are the most beautiful woman I ever did see.”

She feigned shock. “You say nothing of my goodness.”

“Aye, for I’ve nothing good to say of it.”

She laughed as he pulled her back into his embrace and they both looked out over the walls. He breathed into her hair as the chilled winds swept up from the hills below.

“Yer father asked me for something, Senna,” he said quietly a moment later. “Before he died.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Indeed? What was that?”

“To help save Scotland.”

She looked away sharply. “You owe my father naught.”

He turned her by the shoulders and peered down with those dark, perceptive eyes. “Just so. This is not a matter of a debt or a duty. Ye taught me that much.”

She nodded solemnly. “I see. Will the king allow it?”

He nodded gravely. “We’ve already spoken of it.”