Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

"S top crying, sweetheart," Arabella said. "You're going to make yourself sick and that will bring my mother. She'll force terrible tonics down your throat to cure you."

Dera was laying on her bed in her tiny chamber at Narborough. When she'd lain down on it only minutes earlier, she'd no intention of doing anything other than silently licking her wounds, but her emotions had the better of her. She lay on her side, facing the wall as the tears trickled onto her pillow.

Arabella sat next to her, her hand on Dera's arm.

"Dera?" she said gently. "Please stop crying. Brend was simply afraid for you. You frightened him, I suppose, but what did you do to frighten him so? Did you truly have a knife? Won't you tell me what happened?"

Dera sniffled. "I know you mean well, but I don't want to speak of it," she said. "Please, Bella. Just… leave me alone."

Arabella sighed heavily, patting Dera one last time before standing up. Her gaze lingered on her friend, thinking that she should perhaps bring her some wine to steady her nerves. Clearly, something terrible had happened that Arabella hadn't been witness to and Dera wasn't willing to speak about it. With a lingering look at her sad friend, Arabella quit the chamber.

The castle was quiet at this hour as the men worked outside and the servants were below in the hall, preparing it for the evening's feast. Arabella was just coming down the stairs as Cort was coming up. They met somewhere in the middle of the wide spiral staircase.

"Are you well after the fight, Cort?" Arabella asked. "I did not have a chance to ask you before we left Lynn."

Cort smiled weakly. "I am very well, thank you," he said. "I came to see how Dera is. Has Brend been to see her?"

Arabella shook her head. "Nay, he has not," she said. Then she hesitated before speaking again. "What happened in Lynn that has Brend so upset? Why did he shout at Dera so?"

Cort was careful in his reply. "Did you ask Dera?"

"She says she does not want to speak of it," Arabella said. "I am going to fetch her some wine to calm her. She has been weeping since we returned."

Cort scratched his chin absently, his gaze moving to the top of the stairs. "May I speak with her?"

Arabella shrugged. "She is in the small chamber to the left of the stairs," she said. "What are you going to say to her?"

Cort fought off a smile. "I am going to ask her to run away with me since you have been untrue to me," he said. "Truly, Bella, I am crushed. You chose Brend over me?"

It was the first time he'd brought it up to her, what he knew about her relationship with Brend, and Arabella's face turned bright red as she averted her gaze.

"I do not know what you are talking about," she said.

Cort laughed softly. "Not much, you don't," he said. Reaching out, he tipped her chin up gently so he could look her in the eyes. "If you had to throw me over for someone, I suppose that I am glad it is Brend. You know I adore him like a brother."

Arabella grinned, greatly embarrassed, and fled down the stairs, leaving Cort chuckling as he made his way up.

The corridor was dim and cool, with spots of sunlight coming in through cracked doors from other chambers. There were five on this level, all of them around a small central corridor, and Cort went to the door that Arabella had indicated.

Softly, he knocked.

"Lady Dera?" he said quietly. "May I enter?"

There was no immediate reply, but he heard movement. Suddenly, the door was flying open and Dera was standing there, quickly wiping the tears from her red-rimmed eyes.

"If you've come to shout at me, don't bother," she said unhappily. "Brend did an efficient job of it."

Cort cocked an eyebrow. "I did not come to shout at you."

"Then why are you here?"

"To see how you were feeling."

Dera had her defenses up. "I am feeling well, thank you."

"You have blood all over your dress."

She looked down at herself, quickly, as if only just realizing that was true. There was blood on her arm, her chest, and down her skirt.

"I… I will wash it away," she said. "You may go, Cort."

He didn't budge. Instead, he folded his enormous arms across his chest and leaned against the doorjamb.

"You realize that Brend had every right to scold you," he said quietly. "So do I. It was my opponent you killed."

She stiffened and turned away from him. "I told you that I didn't need another scolding."

"And I am not scolding you," he said. "I am simply making a point. Where did you get the knife?"

She was at the window by this time, looking out over the blue expanse of sky. "The same place you purchased the garbage."

"They gave it to you?"

"I took it."

Cort watched her as she gazed from the window. Honestly, she didn't look like any warrior he'd ever seen. She was pale and beautiful, with slender arms and lovely hands, and nothing like a warrior legend. She looked like any sweet, delicate lady he'd ever seen.

But the truth was that she wasn't a delicate lady.

She was a killer.

"Your motives were noble," he said as he came into the chamber, quietly shutting the door. "I understand you only meant to help. That is an honorable intention. But the reality is that you plunged into a fight of six fully armed knights and you could have been killed. That is why Brend scolded you; he was terrified that he was going to lose his sister."

Dera could hear his voice, soft and sweet and low, behind her. She'd also heard the door shut quietly so she knew they were alone in the chamber. Something about that was terribly exciting, which distracted her from the hurt she was feeling. Now that hurt was coupled with the thrill of being alone in a chamber with Cort de Russe. He was handsome and charming, brilliant and strong. He was an elite among men.

But he was also English.

If only…

She couldn't even entertain the thought.

"Before the fight started, you said you wanted to know about Ireland from my perspective," she said, turning to look at him. "Do you still want to know?"

He looked at her, surprised at the change in subject. "Now?"

"Why not?"

After a brief moment's thought, he sat down on her bed. "Go head," he said. "Indeed, I do want to know."

When he sat down as if making himself comfortable, Dera eyed him. "Standing by the door is one thing," she said. "But sitting on the bed is quite another. If Lady Alais finds you here alone with me, she will not go easy on you."

He grinned. "I know," he said. "But the old girl needs something to liven up her dreary life, so let her fume if she finds me here. It would be worth it."

Dera struggled not to smile. "Worth it to see her angry with you?"'

"Worth it to be alone with you."

The humor in Dera's eyes faded. "Me? Why me?"

Cort simply shrugged, giving her one of those flirtatious looks that seemed to work wonders on every woman he met. "Tell me about Ireland," he said, avoiding her question. "Let me learn something from you that I did not know. Let me learn what they teach women in Ireland that would cause a woman as beautiful and strong as you to risk her life in a fight."

Dera was unsure what to say, mostly because she was starting to become nervous. Worth it to be alone with you. Is it possible he could have meant such a thing?

Surely, it was only idle flattery.

… wasn't it?

She came away from the window.

"I am happy to tell you of my land," she said. "But I cannot believe you would call me beautiful and fine after everything that has happened today. Truly, the entire day has been filled with disaster."

"I've had worse."

"But I haven't," she said. "Can we start over? Can we pretend we just met one another and start over?"

He smiled at her. "I do not want to start over," he said. "I want to remember a courageous lass who ate garbage."

She started to laugh. "It was shameful. I should not have done that."

"I'm glad you did."

"Are you? Why?"

"Because I do not know many English lasses who would have had the courage to do that. I told you that you have my respect. I meant it."

"Eating garbage has your respect but killing a man does not?"

His smile faded. "I will repeat what I told you," he said. "You came to a swordfight with a knife. Was that foolish or brave?"

"I went to help," she said seriously. "All I wanted to do was help. I could see you fighting a man who wanted to kill you and it made me want to kill him, and I did. I do not regret it."

He stared at her a moment before his smile returned. "My lady, how chivalrous," he said. "You wanted to kill for me."

Her cheeks flushed, realizing what she'd said. "You have been very kind to me, Cort," she said. "May I call you Cort? Not many people have been kind to me since I arrived. They hear my Irish speech and immediately turn their backs on me. As if I am lower than the earth they walk upon."

There was sadness in her words. He could hear it. A young woman transplanted into the land of strangers and enemies. Rebel or not, he could only imagine how she must have felt. It certainly didn't help the situation. He patted the bed next to him.

"Sit down," he said softly.

Dera did, looking at him attentively. He took a moment to study her, the gentle slope of her face, the brightness of her eyes. Truly, she was an exquisite creature in every sense of the word.

"You may call me Cort," he said quietly. "And you are not lower than the earth we walk upon. You are an equal as far as I am concerned, and so is your brother. But I want to know about this lady who knows how to use a knife so well. Who taught you such skill?"

"I have always known how to defend myself," she said, averting her gaze. "I learned to fight from my brothers. Declan didn't think it was seemly for a woman to know how to fight, but Finn and Ardie would fight with me and teach me things."

"What about your parents? What did they think?"

She shrugged. "My father let me do as I please, but my mother tried to balance my education," she said. "As my brothers let me fight, she would teach me to cook and sew. She tried very hard to make me a lady."

"I think she did a fine job," he said. "But given what is happening in Ireland right now, I do not think that learning to defend yourself is unseemly. From what I've seen, you've had the opportunity to use those skills."

He was a man with an eye for battle and he recognized someone who had fought before. Dera realized that and she wasn't going to add any more fuel to the fire. He saw her in action; she couldn't deny what he saw. But she wasn't going to confess to anything. Not even if it was true.

She lowered her gaze.

"Ireland is in turmoil right now," she said. "As a MacRohan, I am viewed as a traitor, you know. Everyone thinks my family has betrayed Ireland."

"Why?"

She looked at him, sharply. "Because we have sworn an oath to de Winter," she said as if it were completely obvious. "That makes us traitors."

"Do you think you are a traitor?"

She shook her head without hesitation. "I am not a traitor to my country," she said. "But it is difficult with the MacRohan name. Do you know there was a time when our oath to de Winter was respected? Our family was viewed with prestige and honor. There have been at least fourteen legacy knights with de Winter and almost all of them have married English brides. Marriage between the English and Irish only became illegal recently, you know."

Cort nodded. "I know," he said. "Had Bella and Brend's romance happened at any other time, it would not have been an issue."

Dera sighed faintly. "I feel so badly for Bella. She truly loves my brother."

"You do not feel pity for your brother?"

She simply shrugged. "After today, I am sure he is not happy with me, so I am not certain what I feel for him. He's… he's different than what I had expected."

"What do you mean?"

"I've only seen Brend five or six times in my life. We did not grow up together. He's very…"

"English?"

She nodded. "Aye," she said slowly, as if that was something to be ashamed of. "English."

The latch on the door suddenly lifted and in came Arabella, holding a tray with a pitcher and cups. She frowned when she saw Cort and Dera sitting next to one another on the bed.

"Cort," she hissed. "Be gone with you. My mother is on her way here."

Cort stood up quickly. "Lady Alais would not be beyond boxing my ears."

Dera was still sitting on the bed. "You just told me that you hoped to get the woman riled up because her life was so dull. Was that only talk, Cort?"

He flashed her a grin. "Of course not," he said. "I am happy to face her with my sins, but she would scold you as well and I do not think you could take another scolding today."

Dera smiled. "That is more than likely true," she said. "Thank you for coming to speak to me. I am grateful."

He was moving to the door. "This is not the end of our conversation," he said. "I will return another time and we shall continue this."

"How about later today?"

"Tell me when and where and I shall be there."

"The kitchen yard in an hour."

Cort didn't question her. He simply nodded. "If that is your wish, I shall be there."

Arabella had set the tray down and now she was waving her hands at him. "Cort, go ," she said. "Go before you are in a world of trouble with my mother."

Cort winked at Arabella and cast Dera a lingering glance before slipping from the chamber. He didn't take the stairs immediately, however. He remained hidden in a doorway until Lady Alais made her way up the stairs and into Dera's chamber. Once she disappeared, Cort quickly descended the stairs and headed out into the day beyond.

He had a date in an hour with a particular Irish lass he didn't intend to miss.

*

Dera didn't think Lady Alais and Arabella would ever leave.

Both women remained in her chamber for nearly an hour and they only departed when Dera pleaded exhaustion. It had been a trying day, she said, and she needed to sleep. They left her to rest, going about their business, but rest was the last thing Dera had in mind.

She had a man to meet.

Why on earth she should be so eager to meet Cort in the kitchen yard was beyond her. It was increasingly confusing. Certainly, he was handsome and her goal had been all along to charm the man into spilling his guts but, unfortunately for her, the reverse seemed to be happening.

He was charming her .

It just wasn't possible!

Dera talked herself into believing that he was simply falling for her somehow. Perhaps he felt pity for her or perhaps he was simply bewitched by her beauty, for certainly nothing she did today could have charmed the man. But that was of no matter; she had his attention and she intended to keep it.

She had a plan.

The day before Cort had come to Narborough, Dera had spent the day in the kitchens with Lady Alais and Arabella, making several special Irish dishes that Dera had been longing for. The remains of some of those dishes still lingered in the cold storage of the vault, as she'd hid them away so she could enjoy them in the days to come.

She was going to give them to Cort. If the man wanted to learn about Ireland, she was going to start with the food.

After Alais and Arabella had left her, she'd quickly changed out of her bloodied gown, a garment Lady Alais hadn't even commented about. The woman either pretended not to see the bloodstains or she really hadn't noticed, which Dera found hard to believe. In any case, she had said nothing.

After a quick wash in cold rosewater, she changed into a dark green dress, one made from sturdy wool, gathered under her breasts and free flowing. It was easy to move in as well as being comfortable. She'd hurriedly run a comb through her hair and braided it. Tossing the comb aside, it fell onto the floor but she didn't bother to pick it up. She fled the chamber for the kitchens.

The kitchens of Narborough were built into the vault level, meaning they were essentially under the keep with one heavily-fortified door that had steps up into the kitchen yard. The walls of the kitchens were earth, supported by stone, which made the two big rooms quite insulated and quite warm. They were also attached to the vaulted storage area by a heavy door that remained closed in order to keep the vaults cool for storage.

Dera descended into the steamy warmth of the kitchens, greeted by the two female cooks, sisters with a great deal of experience in cooking just about anything. They were busy with preparations for the evening meal and Dera proceeded into the vault where the Irish food was stored in covered baskets.

The first dish she came across was something called crisps. They were flat circles of dough that had been brushed with honey. When warm, they were soft and delicious, but these had been cooled for a few days, so they were hard but still delicious.

The second dish was a type of cherry bread. Literally, it was cherries, butter, wine, eggs, and breadcrumbs that had been mashed and mixed and baked so it puffed up. The top was then brushed with honey. It was a MacRohan favorite and Dera had seen it made a hundred times, usually in the summer after the fresh cherry harvest, but Narborough had bags of dried cherries in the vault that had worked just as well.

The last dish had been her favorite. It was made from fowl, in this case chicken, which had been roasted with a coating of rosewater. The chicken was then cut into little pieces and baked in small pies that were then sprinkled with cinnamon. There were a few left and Dera ate one as she piled everything into a big, straw basket. With her culinary booty in-hand, she fled from the kitchens and out into the yard.

Cort was already waiting for her.

He caught sight of her as she came up the stairs from the kitchen lugging a big basket. With a smile on his face, he headed towards her, holding up his hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun.

"I thought I was going to be alone, left to my sorrows and solitude because you did not come," he said as he went to her. "Instead, you join me with baggage in your hand. Where are you going?"

Dera realized that she was glad to see him. Just the sight of him was enough to make her grin like a fool. She rather liked the feeling that Cort seemed to give her, something giddy and warm. As if she had birds fluttering around in her belly.

It was a sweet feeling she'd never experienced before.

But, oh… such a dangerous feeling. She should have fought it. Ignored it at the very least. But she couldn't bring herself to. Not when Cort's charming grin was succeeding in melting her heart.

" We are going someplace away from Narborough so I can tell you about Ireland," she said. "You wanted to know and I've yet to have the opportunity to tell you. We keep getting interrupted."

He had a smile on his lips even if he didn't seem entirely sure what was going on. "Where do you wish to go?"

Dera nodded her head in the direction of the postern gate. "There is a very big lake out there that is fed by the River Nar," she said. "There are trees surrounding it. I thought we could sit by the lake until the sun sets and continue our conversation."

He shrugged. "As you wish," he said, reaching out to take the basket. He peered inside. "What are you bringing?"

She leaned towards him. "Irish food," she said with a wink. "I'm going to tell you about Ireland and feed you some of the food we like to eat."

"I can hardly wait."

"Then let us hurry."

With that, she headed out of the postern gate, followed by Cort and the basket. Narborough Castle sat in a clearing, surrounded by several lakes and streams, and a good-sized river feeding the extreme amount of water in the area.

As they headed to the lake, they passed through groves of trees, embraced by the willows that surrounded the large, bucolic lake. The lake itself was thick with reeds and floating lilies, and fish could be seen darting about just below the surface. Dera sat right at the edge and Cort sat beside her, putting the basket between them.

"I have not been out here in years," Cort said, looking over the lake. "I'd forgotten it was even here. I always enter Narborough through the gatehouse and the walls hide the beauty that is back here."

Dera was looking over the lake, also. "This was the very first place Bella ever brought me when I arrived," she said. "It is one of the few places I am allowed to go."

Cort glanced at her, his conversation with Denys rolling around in his mind. She is a hostage. But he didn't want Dera to know that he knew that.

Not just yet.

"I am certain it is for your own protection," he said. "You are in a strange land. Sir Denys does not wish to see you come to harm."

Dera smiled thinly as she turned to the basket and pulled back the cloth that partially covered it.

"I am in a strange land, that is true," she said. "But it is not for my protection."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I am a hostage, Cort. Surely you realize that."

So she knows , he thought. But he shrugged his shoulders and peered more closely inside the basket. "Why on earth would you be a hostage?" he said. "MacRohan is sworn to de Winter. It is not as if you are an enemy prisoner."

She shook her head, reaching in to pull out a smaller basket that contained the honey crisps. "Nay," she said slowly. "MacRohan is not the enemy. Cort, may I ask you something?"

"If you wish."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "What would you do if France or Spain or Scotland tried to invade England?"

"Fight them off, of course."

"Then why are the Irish not allowed to fight off England as she invades our country?"

He'd fallen into that trap, realizing it too late. She was starting off the conversation with a confrontational question immediately. No gentle discussion leading into the fight; she would delve right into it. But he wasn't so sure that he wanted to delve right into it. He pointed to the basket in her hand.

"What do you have there?" he asked.

She was waiting for a reply to her question, looking at the basket in disappointment that he hadn't answered her. "These are called crisps," she said, extending it to him. "They're little dough biscuits with honey. I made them myself."

Cort took a couple but he refrained from putting them in his mouth just yet. He sniffed them, all the while remembering her last four words to him– I made them myself . If she was the rebel and killer of men that they all thought she was, then that killer instinct might very well trickle over into the food. Until he was certain that was not the case, he wasn't going to eat anything she gave him.

A pity, too.

Nothing endeared him to a woman more than one who liked to ply him with food. He was a fool for a good meal. He watched Dera and she made no move to eat her own treats, which he took as a warning. As she dug around in the basket, he pretended to eat the crisps but the truth was that he ended up depositing them onto the ground behind him when she wasn't looking. When she looked up, he pretended to be chewing.

"Delicious," he said. "And you made them yourself?"

She nodded. "Do you really like them?"

"I do."

"Then you can have all you wish."

She put the little basket with the crisps in front of him, much to his chagrin. But he smiled as he reached out and took a handful. They were hard, which meant they would crunch when chewed, so he suspected he should at least make crunching sounds so she wouldn't get suspicious. He put a couple in his mouth, chewed loudly, and then spit them on the ground behind him when she wasn't looking.

"Try these," she said, holding up a basket of what looked like a pink, spongy loaf. "It's cherry bread. Try it."

He took a piece, not hinting at the fact that he had no intention of eating it. He sniffed it as if interested.

"It smells delicious," he said. "While I eat, tell me about the Ireland I do not know."

Dera looked up from the basket, her gaze moving over the lake as she thought on his question. "It doesn't look much different from this," she said. "Lakes, homes, and villages. People going about their way of life. And the music… so much music. My brothers and I sing and play instruments. So does my mother. She has the voice of an angel."

"And you?"

She looked at him, slightly chagrinned. "All I can say is that I sing loudly and know all of the words," she said, watching him laugh. "But singing is at the heart of my people. We sing of heroes or family or lost lovers. We sing of anything at all. Some songs are sad, but some are inspiring."

Cort could see that music had touched something within her. Her entire face lit up when speaking of it, so clearly, it was a deep love. He was seeing a facet of her that he'd never seen before, this woman who could kill so easily yet had a musical soul.

There was something undeniably enchanting about her.

"Tell me your favorite song," he said.

Dera paused, thinking. "There is a song about a lost bride, which reminds me very much of Bella and Brend," she said. "In fact, when I first realized their relationship, I thought of the song. It's about a woman who falls into the well and dies, but her ghost lives on and she can hear her lover above the well, singing to her and hoping she'll come to him. It's very sad but very sweet. He won't marry unless he can marry her, so he never marries at all."

Cort's eyebrows lifted. "Ah," he said. "I hope that is not Brend or Bella's fate, but I can see the commonality. What's the song called?"

"The Groom's Lament."

"Sing it to me."

She flushed deeply. "I am not sure it will sound very good," she said. "I usually play the harp when I sing because I've never been able to sing very well without it."

He smiled to encourage her. "I'm sure you sing beautifully, with or without the harp," he said. "Let me hear you."

She eyed him. "If you wish, but you'll be sorry."

"I'll take my chances."

Taking a deep breath, she launched into the song.

One fine day, her laughter called tohim;

O'er the mountains, to the sweet and greenvale.

He answered the call and climbed themountain,

To find an angel resting in thevale.

To those who knew, the loversgrew,

And adored only eachother.

But the day came when the bride fellaway,

To a cold and dark wellbelow.

The groom searched, singing her namealoud,

But the spirit from the well could notanswer.

She died that day, but her heart remainedtrue

To the groom from o'er themountains.

The ghost in the well was the bride, you see, the lass with heart sotrue;

Her groom died alone, upon his lips was the song, to call to his angel in thevale.

Now a ghost at the bottom of awell.

She had a sweet, breathy voice, not very strong, but it was in tune. The music to the song was mournful and haunting, and she sang it well. Cort thought that it was incredibly charming.

"You sing very sweetly," he said. "I should like to listen to it again."

Dera was so embarrassed that she couldn't even look at him. "Not again," she said. "Unless I have accompaniment, it is difficult for me to sing. I fear it wasn't very good."

"It was marvelous," he assured her. "Whoever tells you that you cannot sing will have to answer to me, even if it is your own brothers. I will take them to task."

She smiled bashfully. "You are going to swell my head," she said. "But I thank you for it. Truly, there is much song in my land, and so much of it is old and mysterious. Songs carried down through the centuries. Ireland is an ancient land that has been untouched by many of the people who have invaded England."

"For example?"

"The ancient Romans never invaded Ireland like they invaded England," she said. "My father told me it was because they were discouraged after dealing with the Scots. They didn't want to fight any more rabid Celtic tribes."

Cort lifted his hand to gesture as he responded, but he realized he was still holding the uneaten cherry bread. If he liked her treats as much as he said he did, then he knew he needed to take a bite of the bread so she wouldn't get suspicious.

"That is true," he said, taking a big bite. "But the Northmen came to Ireland just as they came here."

Dera nodded and looked back to her basket. Cort hadn't even chewed the bread; he turned his head and spit it out like a cork popping from a bottle and Dera was none the wiser.

"They did come, that is true," she said. "But Ireland remained untouched for the most part by all of the armies who came to England. We have such ancient ways that belong only to us. It is something to be shielded and cherished. That is why we are so protective of our country– to keep it safe for the generations of Irish to come. Why should England want any part of our country?"

Cort had enough of his fake eating. As it was, there was a pile of half-chewed food behind him that looked like vomit that he hoped she wouldn't see. He didn't want to eat her food, but he didn't want to insult her, either. He leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his big body in the hopes of hiding the pile of masticated edibles as he pondered her question.

"It is not that simple," he said after a moment.

"Then explain it to me. Please."

He eyed her. "Ireland cannot peacefully govern herself."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Do you have one king? One country? Of course you do not. You have dozens of warring tribes, running around killing one another. Ireland has always been filled with men willing to kill each other and divide one another. Ireland is divisive with or without the English, Dera. Surely you know that."

"But it is our country," she said passionately. "If we are to divide it, let it be by us. We do not need interference."

Cort looked at her. "Then let me put this in a way that makes sense," he said. "England is a country under one king. France is under one king and so is Spain. These countries are strong because they are united. There is order and there is law. These countries have exports and economies so they can make money for themselves and for their people. They are civilized. Now, just how civilized do you think Ireland is with a bunch of warring tribes determined to kill each other? There is chaos. That is no way for a country to exist. England is trying to help Ireland, Dera, by bringing that order so Ireland can thrive."

It was a way of putting it that Dera hadn't thought of before. He had some good points, but she wasn't going to admit it. She had come out to the lake to convince him that Ireland needed to be free, not the other way around. He was trying to force her to see the need for England's intervention and that wasn't something she was willing to accept.

"You said yourself that if another country tried to invade England, you would fight them off," she said. "Why is it wrong for Ireland to want to be free of England?"

Cort's gaze lingered on her for a moment. "You came here to tell me about Ireland," he said slowly, "but what you have done is leapt to the defense of your country as if I am the one to personally blame for the English occupation. England has been in Ireland long before I was born and long before you were born, too. Like it or not, it is the way things are."

He was giving her the reality of the situation and her cheeks turned red, embarrassed. She averted her gaze, clearing her throat softly.

"I did not mean to make it sound as if you alone are guilty for anything," she said. "I suppose I am simply trying to understand why. I thought you could help me."

"And I thought you were going to tell me more of an Ireland I do not know. I would rather talk about that."

She looked at him, then, realizing she had to take another angle in the conversation if he was going to see her side of things. Condemning England hadn't convinced him.

Perhaps something else would.

"It is a beautiful place that is greener than anything you've ever seen," she said. "The people are fiercely loyal because they have a heritage that hasn't been clouded. It's a heritage that goes back thousands of years and it is full of great warriors, much like you."

Cort smiled faintly. "Tell me about the warriors."

Dera smiled in return, thinking of the oral histories of her people that she'd been told by her mother and grandparents on her mother's side, those who weren't sworn to de Winter.

"In ancient times, there were heroes called the túath ," she said. "These are great warriors who protect the land and the people. But even before them, there was a race of great beings called the Tuatha De Danann. They were good for the most part and they faced off against their enemy, the Fomorians, who were led by a terrible man known as Balor of the Evil Eye. There were great battles between the two that tore Ireland apart, only to be restored by the gods and goddesses that protected the land."

He was smiling as he listened to her. "I think both of our countries have been battling within themselves for thousands of years," he said. "England has her own magical beings of the past."

"But aren't they the gods of those who invaded England?"

He shrugged. "In part," he said. "I think we all have ancient gods that were the equal of each other, regardless of our countries, but then the Christians came and now we all believe in one god. The church has unified us all."

"That is true," she said. "But that is the only thing that unifies England and Ireland."

"There are other things," Cort said. "We both share Northmen ancestors. Your race is not so pure as you would like to believe. You have been invaded, as have we, so that links us as well, only Ireland has kept to her legends. Ireland considers them history."

"They are history."

"You believe those people in ancient times actually existed?"

She nodded fervently. "They made our country strong, from the beginning of time."

"They are stories, Dera," he chided, as if she were an infant to believe in such things. "There is not one man on this earth that can produce a grave of a god or goddess, and certainly not the grave of an Irish hero. It is fine to respect the legend, but to believe they were real? That is childish. Grown men and women do not believe in myths."

Dera was feeling rebuked. "Ireland has a rich history that I am proud of," she said. "You are proud of your country. Why can I not be proud of mine?"

"I never said you could not be proud, but you must be sensible, too."

Dera sat there for a moment, pondering the turn of conversation. It hadn't gone at all the way she had hoped and he'd hurt her feelings with his scolding, however gentle. Gone were thoughts of charming him, at least at the moment. Gone was the warmth from when she had sung to him. He was stubborn in his beliefs as she was stubborn in hers and she wouldn't let the man reprove her for something she felt strongly over. In fact, his entire attitude seemed to be condescending, which didn't sit well with her.

"I am sensible," she said. "I am also loyal to the land of my birth. You are loyal to England and so is my brother, but those are not my loyalties. When discussing Ireland and her freedom, you are simply regurgitating what you have heard from others, what every Englishman's opinion is. You do not know Ireland. You do not know her people and how proud and generous they are. You only know what greedy men have told you, men who covet our lands and our wealth."

Cort watched her become angrier with every word she spoke. "Greedy men are the ones who make the laws and rule the world," he said. "I would rather listen to greedy men than to barbarians who kill each other simply because it is tradition. How many Irishmen hate their neighbors because their forefathers did? How many of your lads die a fool's death against one another? There is no honor or glory in your men; no knighthood or training or military structure worth speaking of. Men do not speak of Irish warriors as the greatest in the world. They are savages to the rest of us."

Her face was red by the time he was finished. "They are savages strong enough to kill Béarla dogs," she hissed. "They kill them and rejoice in it."

Cort grinned, but there was no humor to it. "Mayhap they do, but remember this– there are more of us than there are of you," he said quietly. "The sooner you come to that understanding, the better. At least your brother has the sense to know where his loyalties should be. If you do not learn this, you are bound for trouble. As both a woman and someone born in Ireland, you must learn your place in the world."

Dera was furious. Hurt, furious, and embarrassed by the entire conversation. This was not what she had planned. This wasn't the sweet, flirtatious conversation she'd hoped to have with Cort. It had become something raw and angry. Flustered, she grabbed the basket of food and lurched to her feet, marching back towards the castle without another word.

Cort watched her go. He was still sitting on the cool grass, distressed that the conversation had gone as it had, but he'd driven it in that direction for a reason. He'd wanted to see just how far he could push her before she pushed back. He had hoped that in doing so, she might reveal her true colors.

Unfortunately, she had.

And he didn't feel good about it.

That fine-looking lass with the pale eyes had just shown him what she was made of and the more he thought about it, the sadder he became.

When Dera disappeared through the postern gate in the distance, Cort got to his feet and followed her path back to Narborough Castle.