The Irish Warrior Part 20

When she finally stopped shuddering, he lowered her feet to the ground. But he didn't step away, and he didn't let go. He just gave her a moment to gather herself, without allowing her to crumple into a boneless heap on the pine needles and dirt. How chivalrous.

His body was still taut with restraint. His breathing was still ragged, his muscles gilded with sweat, his eyes hard and merciless, which he'd never been before, so she was really rather concerned to find both those things now directed at her.

She pushed away. He stepped back. She stumbled only once, over nothing, then righted herself and gave her tunic hem a sharp tug down.

The world looked much the same as it had a few minutes ago. How peculiar.

Had it even taken minutes? she wondered helplessly. Or had he done that to her in mere seconds? It felt like he'd simply breathed on her and she'd come apart for him.

"Wait by the fire pit," he said curtly. She was dearly weary of curtness.

If I take off my clothes and let you have me, will you smile at me again? is what she wanted to say, which was so pathetic she almost hated herself for it. How weak she'd become in the face of Finian. is what she wanted to say, which was so pathetic she almost hated herself for it. How weak she'd become in the face of Finian.

"I'll not wait by the fire," she retorted, keeping her eyes slightly averted, her chin slightly aloft. The latter helped to remind her to maintain at least the semblance of dignity. "I'll be eating some of that game, so I'll help bring it down. I told you before, I was taught to use a weapon."

His darkness regarded her. She could feel it. "Ye also told me ye were no good at it."

She almost laughed. "I'm not good at so many things, Finian, I cannot let that stop me anymore." She turned on her heel and walked into the forest. His measured footfalls followed behind.

"In any event, I said I was no good with the bow, bow," she added, clarifying.

He pointed over her head to the right, where the sunsetting light coming down through the trees was a bit brighter. A clearing must be nearby. He looked down at her. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," she said, turning to look in his eyes, which she had not done since he made her world explode into the hot, perfect waves of pleasure still shuddering inside her, "I am fairly skilled with a blade."

He paused. "How do ye get close enough?"

"I don't." He stood with his hands at his side, bow light in hand, his eyes unwavering on hers. "I throw it," she said, and turned away.

"Senna."

She stopped but didn't turn.

"I'm sorry."

Oh, sweet Mother. He must have seen the hurt in her eyes. He was addressing it. Could she be more shamed? Perhaps she should just paint the words in her blood, to show how exposed she was. How on earth had that happened? In a matter of days. For shame. For shame, for grief, and the love of G.o.d, what had happened to her?

She nodded, her back still to him, her turn to be curt. There was a small squirrel in the tree before her.

"Did I frighten ye?"

No. I manage that quite well myself. "'Tis naught. We lost our heads." "'Tis naught. We lost our heads."

"I didn't lose my head." His low voice rode through the trees and over her shoulders.

"No?"

"Nay."

"What was that, then?"

A pause. "That was hardly my head."

"Indeed."

She heard him take a deep breath, let it out. "I think we've to admit, Senna, that touching is a rash and dangerous thing."

"Exceedingly."

"We will not anymore."

She nodded crisply. "Of course not."

"And ye've to stop..." His voice faded away.

"Stop what?"

Silence.

She raised her eyebrows at the squirrel.

He gave what sounded like a ragged sigh. "Senna, ye have to see, I'm at yer mercy."

She swallowed thickly. "One could be excused for not seeing it that way. Considering you have a bow and a sword and all sorts of muscles."

"Aye, well, this is a more difficult matter than swords and bows."

"Not to you."

For a moment, he was quiet. "Aye. To me."

She inhaled deeply, cool evening air. She let her breath out slowly, as he had, in measured degrees. "Not to me," she said, lifting her chin that extra little bit. It so often helped. It failed so miserably.

"Nay?"

"No. I trow, I can hardly recollect what we were speaking about. Can you?"

The invitation to conspiracy came out sharply. Silence stretched out between them like an open range. Her breath sounded loud in her ears. She looked over. The bow hung from his fingertips as he watched her. She could divine nothing of what went on behind his eyes.

"No," he agreed slowly. "What were we speaking of?"

"Muscles, itches, I can hardly recall."

With the casual grace of a predator, he pushed off the tree. She realized she was trembling. Her hands, her legs. He stopped inches away.

"Bows," he murmured. He swept his palm across her cheek, a swift, gentle touch, then dropped his hand. "We were speaking of being mean with a bow."

She sniffed. "Were we?"

A small smile edged up a corner of his mouth. "I am certain of it."

She met his gaze, his perceptive, ever-blue eyes, and she started to smile back.

"Oh, indeed, I am quite terrible with a bow, Finian. But then, you should see me with a blade."

Chapter 26.

The easy, sense-damaging smile expanded across Finian's face. He approved. Jesu. She was lost. It was hardly his fault she'd fallen so hard. Was he to be disapproving, so as to call up her instincts for self-preservation? Those were bobbing in the Irish Sea, fifty leagues away.

"A blade, ye say?"

Was that incredulity in his voice? Better than pity, and she did appreciate a challenge. There'd been so few to live up to of late. Despite the constant struggle of keeping the business afloat, the last true, blood-pounding challenge had come when the business had been saved, twice, when she was fifteen.

But best not to think of that rescue just now. Or ever again.

"You sound doubtful," she said instead.

His lips pursed, but his fine eyes contained a smile. An appreciative, if slightly incredulous one. "Not many people can toss a blade, Senna."

She arched an eyebrow. "Watch," she said, focusing on the goodness of his smile in this moment, not all the terrible things that could be, that had been, that would, no doubt, be again one day soon.

"Oh, la.s.s. Ye've no idea how I watch ye."

She turned away, her cheeks flushing.

"There's a meadow ahead," he said. "Come sunset, it should be filled with-"

"Rabbits."

She cut wide around the meadow, keeping to the wood, and emerged at the edge of the small clearing. Like a miracle, four or five hares sat in the center. They nibbled at the gra.s.s and hopped lightly about in the slanting golden light.

Moving stealthily around a tree trunk, Senna positioned herself in a crouch, squinting against the evening glow. The now-ubiquitous tall gra.s.ses hid her as she knelt and pulled the long leather thong from her pouch. Somewhere in the woods, Finian was also fitting his bow. Who would bring down supper first?

She lifted her face and felt the breeze while she pulled out the curved hilt from its sheath, feeling with her fingertips, unconsciously recalling lessons from her youth. Her injured hand healed apace since Finian's ministrations. And she hardly noticed it now. A long wavy reed brushed against her cheek as she made final adjustments to the curved wood handle in her palm.

Slowly she stood, lifted her arm, elbow bent, blade by her ear. One of the rabbits stopped, his black nose in the air, sniffing madly.

She half closed her eyes, all her attention narrowed into that one small spot. In her mind's eye, she sighted a line between the blade and her quarry. Her body hummed. The rabbit seemed to freeze. He looked huge. Unmissable.

She snapped her arm forward. The blade hurtled across the clearing, tossing off orange glints as the blade caught and reflected the sunset. Its humming thrummed in her ears, then the rabbit thumped to the ground with nary a sound.

Senna was rather more noisy.

She leapt up and screeched. The remaining rabbits scattered like swarming minnows, and she danced in a wild, high-stepping little circle, laughing. After years of minimal practice, through the turmoil of the past few weeks, and before the uncertain future that was now her life, she could take care of her own needs and survive.

Beholden to no one.

Finian watched from beneath a tree on the opposite side of the clearing. As she floated back into the woods, rosy with pride and clutching the rabbit by the ears, he moved soundlessly to intercept her. Every so often she lifted the rabbit level with her eyes and stared at it with profound satisfaction.

Her grin stretched from ear to ear when he stepped into her path, bow in hand. The sandy yellow haze of sunset lit her in a latticework of golden green dapples.

"Good G.o.d, woman," he said in a husky voice.

She nodded happily. "I know."

"Ye're good," he said. But what he was thinking was, You're marvelous, magnificent, frightening. You're marvelous, magnificent, frightening.

He wanted to pull her to him, make her remember very well what they'd been talking about in the wood, relight the fire in her that would make her body melt for him again. Instead, he simply said, "Very, very good."

She grinned.

"All I ask is that, next time, ye try to not not alert the English garrison in Dublin as to our whereabouts." alert the English garrison in Dublin as to our whereabouts."

She blushed around her smile. He reached for the rabbit and she pa.s.sed it over, long ears first.

"That was foolish of me, Finian. I was far too loud. I simply felt so, so..."

"Just so," Finian echoed, smiling faintly.

She began to reach for the rabbit, but he lifted it into the air, just out of her reach. "Ye brought him down," he said. "I will clean him up."

She stood and stared, then her grin grew. "Irishman, I believe you are right."

He strode back to their camp. "Usually."

After cleaning and skinning it, he spitted and cooked it over their small fire. Senna leaned so far forward to watch she was practically sitting in his lap. Finian did not ask her to stop.

"Mmm," she sniffed, her nose in the air. "It smells good." She pulled her pack close and loosed the leather thong tie. She fumbled inside and extracted a small pouch. "Herbs."

"Herbs? You've got herbs in there?" He tried to peer down into the dark, shapeless leather satchel, but she playfully s.n.a.t.c.hed it away and held it close to her chest, as if to hide the contents. "What else have you got, Senna? I could use a pot, for boiling water."

"Next time." She slid the tips of her folded hands into the warmth between her thighs and leaned forward demurely. "For now, you'll just have to make do."

With ye? he thought. Make due with her vibrant, spirited, startling self? he thought. Make due with her vibrant, spirited, startling self?

This had gone beyond playful flirting; what he was doing with Senna had a rock-hard purpose. He had no idea what it was, but he recognized the feel of it. It was memorable. Like going to war. Like preparing for battle by painting himself for the journey to the afterlife. Like diving off the cliffs near his home into the churning blue sea below when he was fifteen, with his mates, and knew he was invincible.

But still, those moments took decision. The plunge had been intentional. And always, there was no turning back.

He did not want that. He could not swim back up from these depths.

Cutting several slits crosswise along the cooking hare, Finian shoved handfuls of the herb mixture inside the marbled meat, then smeared a thin layer over the outside with his palm. With a flick of his wrist, he turned the hare. A bit of fat dripped off into the fire, where it sizzled and flashed into a brief flame. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Senna lick her lips.