The Irish Warrior Part 35

"Och, but it should be," she scolded, and leaned forward. "You trust me. I know: it should should be." be."

Senna almost groaned in misery.

The Irishwoman lifted the ladle from a vessel on the table and poured a portion of meaty stew over the day-old bread that served as a trencher, while peering at Senna. "We will talk? I would like to get to know you."

"Indeed." She smiled weakly, and ate with a rapidly diminishing appet.i.te while Mugain fluttered at her side, each minute ticking by like an hour in the company of the suspiciously friendly Irish b.u.t.terfly.

Half an hour later La.s.sar, the king's wife, approached the table. A wave of relief washed through Senna, and she almost tipped the bench getting to her feet. La.s.sar extended a hand and touched Senna's gently in greeting.

"A room has been prepared for you," the king's wife said softly. "And a bath."

A bath.

"A warm bath?" she asked without thinking. Warm water. Soap.

La.s.sar exchanged an amused glance with Mugain and nodded. "'Tis quite warm."

Senna bowed her head. "I am most indebted, my lady. When Finian returns...?"

La.s.sar smiled faintly. "He knows where his room is."

"His room?"

"Where Lord Finian stays when he's to visit. He said to put you both there."

Her cheeks flamed. "I see."

La.s.sar smiled gently. "'Tis said you sprouted Lord Finian a pair of wings. For that, we are all indebted."

Senna's mouth was locked shut. This was awful and yet...what did she expect? And what did it matter in any event, her reputation? She had no life anymore. No home, no business, no lands, no coin, no relationships. She had nothing but Finian, who seemed to have everything, and need her not at all.

She studied the floor, knowing she was red-cheeked with embarra.s.sment. But deeper than that was a chilling sort of disquiet. She was, at this moment, beholden.

A decade of her life spent ensuring she would never be indebted, never be needful, and here she was, full of nothing but need.

Food, shelter, safeguarding. Finian.

She brought nothing, could offer nothing, had nothing. Certainly nothing, Certainly nothing, she thought with a tired glance around the hall, she thought with a tired glance around the hall, nothing Finian could not already find, in great, willing abundance. nothing Finian could not already find, in great, willing abundance.

She was precisely what she'd spent her life endeavoring not to be: unwanted and beholden.

"Come," Mugain was saying and, gesturing for Senna to follow, began walking away.

"My thanks," Senna murmured to La.s.sar, touching her hand before following behind.

As they crossed the hall, she took malicious inventory of each seductive sway in Mugain's hips and sinking notice of the appreciative masculine glances that followed her across the room.

"Finian's room is in the tower," Mugain announced over her shoulder as they crossed the bailey to a doorway set within the battlement walls.

"Is it?" she snapped.

'Twas quite an extravagance to have a room set aside in a castle that must be bursting to the seams with householders, retainers, and servants, never knowing when that guest might visit again. But Finian could melt the heart of an icicle, and it was clear he held an especial place in the king's heart.

They climbed the curving, narrow staircase and entered a small room set in a turret of the battlement walls. It was a medium-sized room with closely-woven wicker walls, warmed by a fire in a brazier. A narrow wardrobe sat against a wall, and on its shelves was a richly dyed tumble of linen, dark red. Block gilt embroidery decorated one visible hem, a rich extravagance. A pair of polished leather boots stood at attention beside the shelves, leather laces running up the sides, awaiting their owner.

But most wonderful, the room boasted a low-slung bed piled high with coverlets and pillows, a soft haven of scented distraction. And a bath, just as La.s.sar had promised. A steaming, scented tub of water that almost brought tears to Senna's eyes.

"I will help you, Mistress de Valery."

She spun around. "No! I mean, nay, my thanks. I find myself weary," she stammered. Good heaven, the last thing she needed was Mugain watching her undress.

"You would like to rest," Mugain agreed amiably, with a glint in her eye.

"Aye. That's it. Rest."

"I will go, then. I will be busy." She winked conspiratorially.

Senna smiled in confusion. "With some secret, it looks like."

"A secret. A present."

"A gift? For whom?"

"For Finian O'Melaghlin."

Her smile faded. "I am sure he will like it."

"Och, he always does like my presents."

Senna stilled. "Really." Her lips froze in a glacial smile. Mugain dripped with hot honey as she returned it.

"Indeed, Mistress de Valery."

"Senna," she corrected vaguely.

"Lord Finian is fond of presents, Senna. I tell you this because once he and I were close, but are no longer."

"Indeed." She sniffed. "You tell me because you were close, or because you are no longer?"

"Both." The raven-haired vixen leaned closer. Her smile bespoke friendship, but her eyes held an unfriendly shine.

"I thank you, I think."

"Och"-Mugain leaned back with a flutter of her hand-"no need to thank. Finian will tell you all that he likes and dislikes." Her gaze grew closer. "You look so much like Bella."

"Bella?"

Mugain nodded and plucked at an invisible piece of dust on her bodice. "Bella."

"Bella." Senna echoed everything: the word, the inflection, the hinted seduction. The only thing missing were the claws.

"Bella was his woman for many long years. Years it has been though, and there have been others since. Strange it is, how they've all looked like her." Mugain smiled. "Excepting me, of course."

"Of course."

"You know his history, do you not?"

She shook her head wordlessly.

"Mayhap I ought not be the one..." She glanced around conspiratorially. "He works his way through women like a hot knife through b.u.t.ter, Mistress de Valery."

"Senna," she choked.

"But if you stay here, you will find that out soon, and 'tis wrong of me to speak of it." She leaned closer. "The women's looks when they saw Finian-you did see them?" Senna nodded dolefully: how could she have missed? "Once, many of them were on his arm, and do ache to be there again. Except me." Mugain smiled brightly. "Does he find you special names? Och," she went on, clucking at Senna's miserable, confirming nod. "Careful you, Senna de Valery. He is a good man, but a wolf with women."

Mugain got up and shook out her skirts. "Please you to tell Finian I've a present for him?"

Senna could not even look up, let alone nod. She stared at the place Mugain's eyes had been, her heart quivering in the bottom of her chest.

Chapter 45.

Senna bathed, then, still damp, stood peering out the small slitted window when she spotted Finian coming across the bailey toward the tower.

When he entered the room, it was dusky with nighttime and candle glow. The scored candle on the tabletop showed it was somewhere between Vespers and Compline.

She turned and smiled. He did not.

In fact, he scowled, then stalked to the narrow wardrobe and pulled out the layers of dark red cloth. Likely one of the knee-length leine leine she'd seen the other men wearing. He glanced at the tub briefly, walked back to the door and wrenched it open, hollered for wine, then slammed it shut again. He turned and scowled at her. Again. she'd seen the other men wearing. He glanced at the tub briefly, walked back to the door and wrenched it open, hollered for wine, then slammed it shut again. He turned and scowled at her. Again.

"Sit, Senna. Be at ease."

She did neither. He barely spared her a glance, just began stalking the room, a large male presence moving almost soundlessly between the shadows. After a while, the wine came, and he poured them each a cupful. He set his down without drinking.

Depositing himself on a bench, he reached for the pair of clean boots she'd seen earlier. His hair swayed beside his face, and he swept it back with an impatient, callused hand-so careless with something she loved so well.

How many nights would be like this, quiet moments spent watching Finian undress, knowing he would come soon and hold her in his arms? She could probably have dozens of them, mayhap hundreds, before he moved on to new conquests, if what Mugain had said was true. And she saw no reason to think otherwise.

To the contrary, everything Mugain said confirmed every unsettling suspicion in Senna's mind.

She picked up her wine cup. "I spent time with some people while you were in council, Finian."

He looked up sharply. "Were they good to ye?"

"Indeed. La.s.sar was most kind."

He seemed to relax and tugged off one of the old, scuffed boots he'd been wearing. "Aye. La.s.sar is the kindest sort of woman. I'm pleased ye pa.s.sed some time with her."

Taking a sip to steady her nerves, she cleared her throat. "I spent time with many people, Finian, not just La.s.sar."

"Good."

"I met Mugain."

The earth-shaking news did not seem to effect any great change. He tugged the other boot off and stood.

"She said she has a present for you."

He grunted again and unbuckled his sword belt. Off it came, followed by various other blades, all tossed with careless skill onto the bench, until it glittered with steely, deadly things.

"She said you always like her presents."

His gaze finally flicked over. "The last gift Mugain gave me was when she was ten, and 'twas a cold shank of lamb in my bed one night."

Senna smiled but the chill in her chest did not warm. "She is fond of you, like many others. You are well loved."

"I grew up here, Senna." He tugged his tunic over his head. His body was naked and perfect except for a few scars, whitened and puckered in various places across his ribs and belly. She hadn't seen them before; it had always been dark, or perhaps she'd been too distracted by the gleaming power of him. "The bonds from fosterage are ofttimes stronger than blood ties."

She dragged her gaze from the scars. "And now you are the king's advisor. How did that come to be?"

"I advised and he found it good." He reached for the clean boots.

She wrinkled her nose. "From a race of storytellers, that was poor indeed."

And finally, like a rainstorm that comes in the dog days of July, he laughed. One of those deep, carefree masculine rumbles that made her heart lift and sink all at once. He got to his feet and reached for her. She went. He swept up her hair in his hand and studied her as if he was seeing something new. Then, wordless, he cupped the side of her cheek and ran his face down her neck, inhaling her. inhaling her.

Something was wrong.

"Finian?"

He dropped her hair.

"Your council was troubling."

"The times are troubling," he replied, his voice so low she ducked closer to hear, but she almost stumbled, because he released her and stepped away, back to the bench, where he started pulling on the clean boots.

"Has this to do with Rardove, Finian?" she asked slowly.

He didn't answer.

"It does," she said fiercely. "In which case, it has to do with me. me."

He looked up, but his eyes were unreadable, closed off. He may as well have been gone from the room. "It has nothing to do with ye."