The Irish Warrior Part 3

"That is not possible!"

He looked at her with something approaching mild curiosity. "No? And yet"-he pointed to the parchment-"here is the doc.u.ment, and"-he moved his fingertip her direction-"there are...you."

"Oh, no, this is not possible. possible."

"So you say."

Her mind spun away from coherent thought. This was madness. And yet...And yet, forced betrothals happened all the time. Simply not to her.

She'd spent the last ten years ensuring no one could do anything to her ever again. She'd built a business, created a world, where she would never be beholden again. Never need again. Where she was in complete control.

It was crumbling to the ground.

She could feel her heart beating, hard in her ears. Thud, thud, thud. Thud, thud, thud.

"I will not sign," she said dumbly.

He blew out a small breath, an impatient sound. "Certainly you will." He drew close enough for her to smell the leather of his hauberk. It creaked with newness.

"But why?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "Why marriage?"

"To ensure you stay. Or rather," he added in a fit of clarification, "to ensure my rights in retrieving you, were you to decide to leave." He took a step closer. His gaze slid slowly down her skirts. "And you must know, Senna, you are very beautiful."

"I-I cannot. Make dyes." It was fully a whisper now.

"Have faith." His body was almost touching hers. "You can do anything I tell you to do."

She smelled sweat and drink, ale perhaps. He lifted a hand to brush by her cheek. She jerked away. He stilled, then very deliberately rested one knuckle against her jaw. She stood rock still, but a strand of hair by her cheek trembled.

He smiled, very faintly. The moment stretched on. Sweat began to dribble down her chest. She had to actually will her gaze to stay on his, the muscles in her eyes straining to break free. She started to feel dizzy.

But something about the whole strange, silent encounter seemed to improve Rardove's humor, because he smiled. Taking her by the hand, he pressed his lips to her skin.

Senna stared at the back of his head, bent over her hand, stunned and reeling. She was saved the need for a response by a soldier approaching the dais.

"My l-lord?"

The baron paused, mouth still over her hand. "What is it?"

"We found a second contingent of Irishmen. Small, like O'Melaghlin's. Headed south. They appeared to be scouting out villages along the way."

Rardove's body stiffened. His pale eyes were blank as they pa.s.sed hers and settled on the soldier, who appeared ready to empty his bladder in fear.

"Where is Balffe?" Rardove asked softly.

"He sent me, my lord...to tell you...we captured one, but there's something afoot. Balffe said to"-he gulped audibly-"to remind you we're not prepared to withst-"

"You've captured one?" the baron interrupted.

The man-at-arms nodded. The iron rings of his hauberk glittered dully in the firelight.

"Question him. Find the others."

"Aye, my lord."

"Then kill him and send his head back to The O'Fail in a chest, to show what I am am prepared for." prepared for."

The soldier nodded and hurried out of the hall. Senna stared after, disbelieving her senses. This was lunacy. She could not survive here. She wouldn't last a month. A week. Another hour. hour.

She slowly withdrew her hand from Rardove's.

He levered his gaze up to her face. "It doesn't do to let small insurrections grow into large ones, does it, Senna?"

It was probably for the best she was struck completely mute. She shook her head, her gaze riveted on his chin. An act of will made her lift her eyes to his. He watched her in silence. Predator. She felt like a creature much much smaller than he, and the sensation made her angry. smaller than he, and the sensation made her angry.

"We understand one another, Senna?" he asked quietly.

She nodded.

Rardove gestured to the dais table. "Be seated, then, and indulge yourself. The meat was slaughtered just this day."

He barely inclined his head and a knight materialized at her side. Strong arms propelled her inexorably toward the table, where she seated herself and fussed with her skirts, her breath coming short and shallow.

The trestle before her was heavily laden. The scents of warm duck and b.u.t.ter with cooked greens wafted into her nostrils, but the thought of eating made her ill.

A goblet of wine was placed at her hand. This I will drink, This I will drink, she decided, desperate for something in her belly. She inhaled the ruby liquid, but the rich color belied its true nature. It was bitter and greasy, and she grimaced as she swallowed. she decided, desperate for something in her belly. She inhaled the ruby liquid, but the rich color belied its true nature. It was bitter and greasy, and she grimaced as she swallowed.

Murmured conversations buzzed through the hall, punctuated by bursts of gruff laughter, knives banged against wooden plates, and scuffling boots. She became aware of the prisoners standing shackled on the floor in front of the raised dais. Chains creaked as they shifted in their irons. The baron stood at the edge of the dais, talking to his guards and one of the prisoners below them.

Senna glanced down at the doomed Irish warrior standing with chains around his wrists and ankles. His beaten face held a handsomeness that could not be disguised by the bruises.

High cheekbones and full lips. Dark, dark eyes. Her gaze trailed down. Firm, contoured neck, broad shoulders, long, tangled hair. His muscular legs extended beneath the Irish leine, leine, the short tunic he wore, and his feet were planted firmly on the rush-covered floor. Well-defined arms were folded over his chest, his shoulders thrust back defiantly. the short tunic he wore, and his feet were planted firmly on the rush-covered floor. Well-defined arms were folded over his chest, his shoulders thrust back defiantly.

But, most captivating of all, at the edges of his lips danced a smile. His mouth moved, and the baron scowled. The Irish grin grew.

Although nearly motionless, this warrior emanated energy and life. The intelligence and n.o.bility br.i.m.m.i.n.g in his eyes made her want to cry.

No. This was not right. Nothing in this sordid castle was right and she wanted no part of it.

"Eat, Senna," Rardove threw over his shoulder.

And with that, something inside her snapped like the thin, frozen edge of a pond that has borne too heavy a boot, too many times.

She lifted her chin up the smallest bit. "No."

Chapter 6.

Finian turned, his brows up, the corners of his mouth creased down. The angles of the Englishwoman's face were thrown into sharp relief by candlelight dancing through the hall. Oil lamps hung from the walls and amber rushlight glinted off her hair, making her glow in a gold-red halo.

This was the lamb?

He was impressed. Indeed, the entrance of the emerald angel was noteworthy enough, sufficient to draw his attention from the pain of his wounds and the baron's gloating. When she removed her hand from Rardove's sweaty grip, he'd been even more intrigued.

That she would now gainsay him was worth an exchange of shocked glances between him and the other Irish prisoners.

Certainly, here was bravado deserving of respect. It would not go well for her, of course, but that did not diminish the act, and was not what he would have predicted from the English, woman or man, foul race that it was. But here was spirit and defiance. And great beauty.

And she was no lamb. She was a bhean sidhe, bhean sidhe, glowing fire and defiance and wielding her disdain with a quiet dignity that made Finian blink. Twice. glowing fire and defiance and wielding her disdain with a quiet dignity that made Finian blink. Twice.

How could G.o.d, in His infinite wisdom, have given the worm Rardove a thing of such value? This must be due the devil.

But she was surely an angel, and seemed of immense value. Particularly as she stepped off the precipice of safety and plunged headlong into peril.

"No."

The low sound wafted to the edge of the dais. Rardove turned so slowly the pungent scent of a freshly extinguished wick could have dissipated by the time his angry eyes locked on hers. The entire room went still, English soldiers and Irish warriors alike.

He clucked his tongue. "Ah, Senna," he said softly. His gaze held no softness though. He could have shoved her backward off the dais with it.

Senna returned the glare, her eyes unwavering. Her heart, on the other hand, thundered a wild beat. This would never do. In a moment she would be lost to the terror wrapping around her heart. And that was unacceptable.

The backs of her knees. .h.i.t the front of the seat and the bench jerked backward as she rose. She stepped out from behind the trestle table, her fingers still wrapped around the wine goblet's stem.

The scenes of her life unraveled in a flash before her eyes, but her contrary slippered feet propelled her forward. She was mad, she knew that now, and doomed as well. But whatever was to be would be, because she could be nothing other than what she was.

"I bid you a simple enough thing," the baron said. "Enjoy the bounty of my table."

"No." Again her soft voice wafted over the heads of the b.l.o.o.d.y warriors lined up four-deep on the floor.

His eyebrows shot up, then a sinister grin slid across his handsome features. "I see you've no aversion to the wine. wine."

As if yanked by strings, she thrust out her arm. Holding the goblet in the air between them, she looked into the baron's eyes and slowly overturned the cup. Like a red flood tide, wine splashed across the floor into a huge crimson puddle.

Rardove's jaw dropped. Then his face contorted and he strode across the dais until he was only inches away from Senna. His shoulders blocked her view and she could smell him-sweat, leather, anger. His breath lifted her hair in small, hot drafts.

"That wine was precious," he said in a seething voice.

"As is my signature on a marriage deed, my lord-as precious as my blood."

He angled his head slightly to the side, as if considering her point. "Your blood is easily spilt, Senna, that is all," he replied, then reached out and smacked her backhanded across the face.

She reeled, cutting short a cry. Grabbing her hand, he yanked her forward again. "Do we understand one another?"

"I understand you, my lord," she said quietly. "But I fear you do not comprehend me a'tall." She pulled her hand free from his.

The anger seemed to wash out of him. A smile more terrifying than an outright a.s.sault spread across his face. Taking her chin between his fingers, he lifted her face. Faint blond stubble covered a chin that was not so square on close examination. He had a wide, sweeping forehead, hazel eyes webbed with thin red lines, and a well-shaped mouth that emitted such vileness it made her sick.

"If I need burrow into your very bones, Senna, you will will heed me." His fingers tightened and his thumb stroked her cut lip in an idle, threatening caress. "If this be your insurrection, it stops now. Do you hear me?" heed me." His fingers tightened and his thumb stroked her cut lip in an idle, threatening caress. "If this be your insurrection, it stops now. Do you hear me?"

She tried to turn her chin away, but his grip was stronger. "I hear you, my lord," she said, her voice trembling.

He considered her a moment. "No, Senna. I don't think you do."

Without warning, he slammed her backward into the wall. She rebounded against the rock. He took her wrist and lifted it up into the s.p.a.ce between their faces.

"Is this the hand you refused me?"

Low-pitched and sinister, the question froze her blood. She clamped down on her swollen lip to keep from screaming in terror and pushed her cheek flat against the stone.

He yanked her forward and slammed her hand down onto the dais tabletop. "You will learn right quick, Senna, that I shall be heeded in all things! that I shall be heeded in all things!"

This last boomed in a deafening roar. Grabbing a heavy, flat nutcracker, he smashed the instrument down on her hand.

Pain ripped a blazing path through her body, flashing out to every nerve ending G.o.d had created. She slumped to the ground at his feet, huddled and whimpering and fighting tears.

The Irishman lunged for the dais. His roar was silenced as the heavy chains jerked him backward and flung him to the ground. A soldier dropped on top of him, a knee wedged in his chest. Cursing, the soldier smashed an elbow into the Irishman's jaw, then hauled him back to his feet.

The disturbance drew a brief, furious glance from Rardove, before he swung back around. "I shed your blood now," he lectured in a calm voice from above, "to teach you the wisdom of heeding me in the future. I do not wish to maim your beautiful mouth, but if it causes more trouble, be you a.s.sured, I will." He dropped to a knee and bent close to her ear. "Do you think I understand you now, Senna?"

She sat perfectly still against the wall, clutching her hand to her neck. Silence, Silence, she thought wildly. she thought wildly. No more. Not tonight. No more. Not tonight.

So she nodded.

And that simple, surrendering effort took up more s.p.a.ce inside her than all the losses all these years, more than she'd ever thought to hold inside her flesh and bones and blood. She was totally empty now. Filled with emptiness.

Rardove gestured to a servant. Gentle hands helped her from the floor. Her fingers throbbed, each wave a fierce, pounding hammer. Fighting the whimpers that would would rise in her throat, she unfolded her body, her head held high. A length of hair wobbled free and dangled by her cheekbone. rise in her throat, she unfolded her body, her head held high. A length of hair wobbled free and dangled by her cheekbone.

At the far end of the hall a scuffle broke out and a courier dashed up the steps of the dais.

"My lord! A message has come."

The baron herded the messenger into a corner. They spoke in rapid whispers, Rardove's irritable voice rising occasionally to allow bits of the conversation to drift over those nearby.

"Curse the Irish!" Some faint reply came from another member of the group. A series of curses floated away into hushed tones, and the muted gathering waited. Finally the baron turned.

"Continue with the feasting, and take the prisoners back to the cellars. Except for the O'Fail councilor. Lead him to my office after the others have been quartered." He leaned to Senna. "You will spend the night in the dye hut, or in my chambers. Either way, you will be working. Tonight, the choice is yours."