The Irish Warrior Part 33

"We've had some news ourselves," said the tall Scotsman.

Finian looked at him sharply. "Of what?"

The Scotsman's eyes drifted in Senna's direction for a moment. "Rardove has spun a fascinatin' tale about your escape."

"Is that so?" he replied grimly. "I've a tale as well. But for later," he said, pa.s.sing a sharp glance around the circle of warriors. "For now, all ye need to know is that this," he reached out to Senna, "is my savior." He tugged her into their circle.

"This comely vision was yer wings, ye lout?" one man roared in laughter and turned to her in mock reprimand.

Finian took a deep breath. "I'd have you meet Senna de Valery."

Stunned silence swept through the group. Someone said in a quiet voice, "Rardove's betrothed?"

He jutted his chin out. "She never was."

"Rardove says she was," another man said grimly.

"Rardove lies when he breathes."

"Sweet Jesus, O'Melaghlin, why is she here? here?" someone else demanded.

"She's here because I've brought her here." Finian's gaze glittered dangerously over the group, and Senna felt the tension ratchet up another notch. Her heart started that familiar thundering, and the resultant dizziness tingled at the base of her neck. The Scot who'd embraced Finian turned to her with a smile.

"Now, why would you have done such a thing as that, la.s.s, setting a scoundrel like Finian O'Melaghlin free?"

She gave a weak smile. "Had I known the depths of his depravity, rest a.s.sured I would have found another."

The crowd broke into noisy, if tense, laughter and turned to enter the keep. Finian looked down at her.

"They don't want me here," she whispered.

Chapter 42.

"Not to worry," Finian said. "I'll see to ye."

He slid his arm around her waist, laying claim in a way that might, he hoped, ward off any problems. But then, there was a war at hand, and women never fared well in them.

By keeping his arm tight around her waist, Finian was privy to every quivering muscle in her body as they climbed the stairwell into the keep. Her backbone ran in an unerringly stiff line from neck to b.u.t.tocks. He pursed his lips as they topped the stairs.

"Do ye know where my favorite place in this hall was, when I was young and fostered here?"

She jerked her head up. "Nay." Her voice was barely a whisper.

He gestured with his chin. "See if ye can pick it out."

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 disagreement 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, la.s.ses 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-a.s.sured 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 h.e.l.l, and a father who'd melted away after it happened.

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

Finian reached out for his foster father's hand.

"Jesu, Finian," the king muttered, grasping his wrist and coming around the table. "I thought ye were-" And then The O'Fail, one of the greatest Irish kings since Brian Boruma, 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 a.s.sured 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.

"La.s.s, you ought not to bend your head so," the king said. "Makes it hard to see your beautiful eyes."

Finian rolled his eyes.

"So you all do that," she replied softly, her voice a blend of seductress and innocent, so that Finian didn't know whether to guide her from the room to protect her from the onslaught of masculine attention that was about to come her way, or lay her out on a table and claim her with a roar: She's mine! She's mine!

Doubtful she'd see it as a compliment though. He kept his hands to himself.

The O'Fail scratched the top of his ear, then wiped his hand along the back of his neck. "What is it we do, la.s.s?"

"Charm. You charm us."

The O'Fail grinned. "Aye, we like to think we do our part. As do you ladies."

Senna lifted her eyebrows a delicate fraction, conveying exactly a blend of innocence and feminine command. "I do not think I have ever made Lord Finian blush, my lord, and I quite doubt I could do it to you."

Finian crossed his arms over his chest, an impermeable barrier of confident, careless warrior. The king grinned broadly at him, then turned back to Senna. "Well, you'd never know if you did it to me, now would you, under all this fur." He tugged on his beard and she smiled. The king leaned a bit closer. "But with Finian, la.s.s, you just might be able to tell."

Finian unslung his arms and stepped forward. "That's enough," he announced, putting his arms under Senna's armpits and practically lifting her off the bench.

The O'Fail was still laughing as Finian said, "The king has a council to attend, and you need to eat, Senna."

She batted his hands away long enough to turn and bow her head. "Sire, I am not accustomed to being indebted, and suspect I do not do it very well, but know this: I am grateful beyond words, and indebted to you for my life. I vow to repay it."

The O'Fail regarded her a minute before nodding, too, then Finian guided her away and sat her at another table on the other side of the room. He felt The O'Fail watching the whole time. He tromped back and they walked out of the great hall together.

"She's filled with fire," the king observed as they strode down the corridor.

"Ye've no idea."

Up ahead was the meeting chamber. Other men, young and old, were already filing inside. No one had to officially call this meeting; Finian's arrival had been summons enough. The O'Fail stopped and turned to him.

"Son, do I need to say it aloud?"

Finian met his hard gaze with one equally unflinching. "What?"

"She's got to go back."

Chapter 43.

Around the table sat The O'Fail, his chief councilors, a priest, and a group of Irish n.o.bles. Finian lounged on the bench beside Alane, his relaxed pose at odds with the roiling tension in the room.

Everyone waited when the servants brought food and drink. No one touched theirs except for Finian, but they waited as he drank half a tankard of ale. They waited as he scanned the room after meeting each man's gaze, and they even waited through his subsequent sigh.

"Rardove is ama.s.sing an army," he said. "He wants a war. I say we give it to him."

The room erupted into shouts and curses.

"There's more," he added, pushing into the noise. The room quieted. "He knows. Rardove knows about the dyes."

Silence poured out of the cold walls. He could hear the sharp drops of fresh water in a cistern at the corner of the room.

"How much?" the king asked. "How much does he know?"

"He knows they explode."

More curses, hands scrubbing jawlines, shuffling boots. Men growing more tense, wanting action. Finian let them sit with the news a minute, then said, "We've one thing in our favor."

Someone snorted. The king looked up. "And what is that?"

"This." He took the dye manual from its pouch and held it up. Bound in wood, with pages that could burn, it was as fragile as a leaf. Everyone stared as if he were holding a flame in his hand.

"Good Lord," the king breathed. "The dye manual. Turlough was sent to retrieve this."

"Aye, well, I got wind of Turlough's fate while in Rardove's care."

"And did the rendezvous yourself." The king looked at him. His bearded head nodded, the traces of a smile evident. "Well done." He paused. "You missed the wake, Finian. 'Twas a worthy one."

Finian nodded roughly. "I wish I'd have been here."

"I know."

Finian swept on. No time for mourning past losses, else there'd be many more to come. "Without that"-he indicated the manual-"Rardove cannot make the dyes. Not unless he has a dye-witch. And he doesn't."

He didn't bother to point out that they did. That he had brought back both the dye manual and a dye-witch.

The first breach in his wall. He felt the crack of disloyalty shiver down his bones.

The king reached for the bound booklet. "Hundreds of years," he said reverently, "and we have the Wishme recipe again." He cracked it open and touched the scalloped and tattered edge of a page. "Saint Brendan, Finian, this is well done." He looked up. "What else did Red say?"

"Not much. He died in my arms."

The room exhaled a reverent breath of male air, filled with the heady juxtaposition of murmured prayers for his kin and descendents to the fourth generation, fervent signs of the cross, and a boatload of creative curses, which seemed like they ought to cancel out the prayers.

"Which brings us to the only other thing we've got in our favor," the king said finally. "Rardove will not want anyone to know about this recipe. Can you fathom a hundred rebellious Englishmen in on the hunt for the legendary Wishmes?"

He looked around the room at the grim and angry faces.