Chapter 3

Marcán could think of no way to leave this procession without causing offense. Pádraig's brother, Ian, had been asking him for more details about the caves, then several others had joined in, and now here they were making the long trek to the caves from the story.

"We are close?" Ian's eyes were wide. He stood head and shoulders above the other men, his limbs long and lanky.

"Not long now." Exhausted, Marcán could barely discern the path before him.

The mead had flowed freely in the hall, but he should not be this sotted. The others looked the same. It was as if they'd been drinking all day.

"And the blood is still on the wall?"

Legend had it that Brian Boru's blood was still on the wall of one of the nearby caves. Marcán suspected that was what had compelled Ian to ask for that particular story.

"Ye tell me when ye see it," Marcán said.

Admittedly, Marcán enjoyed the lad's enthusiasm, although at the moment he wanted nothing more than to be off to his bed. It would be a long enough trip home on the morrow. With Astrid and her mother, it would be even longer. Truth be told, it was Beibhinn's mouth that would make the trip unbearable but he wanted more time with Astrid.

When she was wed, Marcán would have no more opportunities to spend time with her. He dreaded that day, and yet being with her was also difficult. The woman thwarted him at every turn, almost as if she realized he just wanted to be around her. That could not be true though, because she seemed oblivious to his feelings, let alone the fact that he was a man capable of emotion. Of desire. If she wasn't angry at something he said, she was angry with Diarmuid and taking it out on him.

"There it is! The cave!" Ian ran forward, tripped, and got back up. "I found it."

The group of twenty men tramped into the cave with heavy feet. Ian yawned, a hand to the wall as if for support. "Where exactly is the blood?"

The others settled on the ground, some stretching out. Marcán struggled to fight the disorientation overtaking him.

"Toward the back." He yawned. "See if ye can find it, Ian. I'll wait here for ye."

Like a bag of bones, Marcán plopped onto the ground. The distant sound of snoring carried to him, and he realized his eyes were closed.

He couldn't remember why they shouldn't be.

* * *

The uncomfortable trip in Pádraig's arms seemed never-ending. He smelled of sweat and something she couldn't name. His breath was even worse, no matter how many times he drank from his skin.

Astrid had accepted the first offer of a drink, but the moment she tipped back her head to drink from the vessel, Pádraig latched on to her flesh, sucking the skin at her neck into his mouth. His hand against the other side of her head, holding her in place, so she had no choice but to submit to him until he was finished. After that she decided to go thirsty.

"D'ye not like me anymore?" Pádraig spoke close to her ear, his hips quirking against her, pressing his unrelenting arousal against her.

"I do like ye. Ye're a fine man, Pádraig. A good warrior. I have heard my brother say as much many times."

Pádraig slowed the horse and watched her for so long she became uncomfortable. Did he realize she was lying? She had never actually heard Diarmuid speak of Pádraig in any meaningful way. The next thing she knew, he was pulling back on the reins and dropping from the horse.

"I need to take a piss."

He disappeared into the woods. When he came out a short time later, he stretched, scratching at his belly. Turning a smile on her, he moved toward her with up stretched arms.

"I've been remiss. Ye need to stretch as well."

She'd prefer they keep going. "No. I am fine."

He did not lower his arms at her refusal and his fingers beckoned to her. "Come."

Astrid could practically hear her mother's voice in her head: Do not insult the man! She leaned into his arms and allowed him to help her dismount. Then she brushed down her gown, bending her shoulders, which ached from being up against him. He was not as comfortable as she'd thought he would be. Overall, the entire ride was a disappointment.

"Share with me yer thoughts," he said.

"I have none to share."

Pádraig tipped his head, a telling smirk on his face. "I know ye well enough to know that is a lie, Astrid."

"A lie? How so?"

"Ye are always thinking. Thinking about this. Thinking about that." He came up alongside her, standing far too close. "Making yer plans."

Histhoughts were the ones to be concerned about. Chill bumps spread across her arms and she glanced around at the secluded clearing.

"Ye know me not at all. Who told ye such a thing as that?"

"Yer mother."

Astrid's chest tightened at the betrayal. "I do not know what she was talking about. Ye know how mothers are."

"I do." He crossed his arms about his chest. And waited.

He had a stern expression and she felt the weight of his judgment. "What is it ye wish to know?"

"Have ye changed yer feelings toward me?"

She glanced around, wary about sharing what she was actually thinking. "Ye have been a bit more forward than I expected ye to be."

"Have I?" He moved in closer, his eyes rounded with concern. "Forgiveness, please."

His expression did not waver as he slid a finger along the curve of her face, his eyes holding her gaze. "I did not mean to offend."

"No offense—"

He placed a finger to her lips, silencing her.

"Never offend." The tip of his finger traced her lips, and he dropped his gaze to follow the movement. "Never offend. Not luscious Astrid."

Luscious? Not an endearment she would have chosen for herself. A shiver shook her when he licked his lips. She would have spoken, but he again held a single finger to her lips.

Pádraig moved in to kiss her, and she closed her eyes, her breath trapped in her chest. She was petrified of what he was about to do. Surely whatever Marcán had seen her do to indicate her willingness earlier, she had not done it again. She couldn't have. She had only sat upon a horse, her hands on her lap, facing front, while he rubbed himself against her and she pretended not to notice.

Near panicked, she tried to turn her head away, but his mouth kept following her.

"Please." Her voice reflected her fear.

"Yes." He murmured against her lips.

"Umm."

He slipped his tongue in again, and his hands were suddenly at her breasts. She tried to grab the fingers groping her, working the neck of her gown lower. She should have been measuring each word, watching his expression, listening for the quickening of his breath.

Speaking with his lips still against hers, he said, "Yer breasts are as sweet as overripe peaches. They beg for me to pluck them."

One strong arm snaked around her when she tried to pull away, yanking her up against his body, his tarse most prominent.

He groaned low in his throat. "Let me feast on ye."

When he finally released her lips, she gasped as his mouth latched onto her suddenly exposed breast. His other hand grabbed lower, where no one had ever touched her.

"Stop, Pádraig!"

Her voice was loud and shrill. He rubbed between her legs, ignoring her. When he put his teeth to her breast, she cuffed him.

"Ow!" Pádraig pulled back, his mouth gaping open and a hand to his ear. "What did ye do that for?"

Astrid was beside herself, shifting her clothes back into place, including the neckline of her gown, which refused to be returned to its higher position.

"Ye are nothing but a tease, ye little bitch!" Both his tone and his words were insulting.

She gasped, her eyes widening with her hurt and fear. He was breathing heavy, and the bulging of his knee-length léine left little doubt of his intent.

"Marcán protected ye once, but ye have no protection now." Pádraig crushed her flush against him, his mouth chasing hers when she twisted to avoid his kisses.

"Stop!" Her voice echoed back from the trees around them.

He shoved her away. She fell into a heap on the cold, hard ground, her face covered with tears and her stomach ready to be violently sick.

"Enough!" Pádraig stood over her, his hand rubbing his rod, his chest heaving. "I know ye want it."

She shook her head, scooting away from him. He kept on her, closing the distance between them. When he yanked up his léine to grab his hardened length, she couldn't look away. It was like a snake ready to strike at her.

"D'ye fear so for the loss of yer maidenhead, Astrid?" With a firm grip, he fisted himself. "Ye can still pleasure me."

She shook her head.

"Open yer mouth."

He moved in closer and she covered her mouth, her throat tight.

"Then let me help ye," Pádraig said.

"H-hello?" a voice called out from the distance.

Pádraig turned away, a look of exasperation on his face, and covered himself.

"Is au-aught amiss?"

Astrid recognized the voice—Faolán, a warrior from her own clan. He had to be securing their boundaries. She'd believed they were close to home, and this confirmed it. When he broke through the trees on his mount, she was just standing. Unassisted. Pádraig stood a few feet from her—a hand on his jutting hip, annoyance radiating off him.

"A-Astrid?" Faolán jumped off his horse, his concern apparent. He hurried toward her, but Pádraig interceded.

Faolán shoved the man away, paying him no heed in his hurry to get to Astrid. "Wha-what has ha-happened here?" His gentle hand wiped at her tears.

Pádraig jerked him about. "Naught ye need to concern yerself with."

Faolán's punch landed squarely in Pádraig's face and the man dropped to the ground.

Astrid gasped. "Oh, no, Faolán. Do not—"

Pádraig growled as he stood, driving into Faolán's middle with enough force to take him down.

"No!" Astrid yelled, but there was no indication either man heard her.

Sitting atop Faolán, Pádraig hit him with solid fists to the face and then the stomach. But it was not long before Faolán once again got the upper hand, flipping Pádraig off him.

Faolán stood, blood dripping from his nose, and yanked his opponent up by his léine, hitting him in the stomach hard enough that he doubled over. Pádraig's moan of pain did nothing to stop his assault.

Finally, Faolán withdrew his sword, stepping far enough away that the point touched Pádraig's chest, remaining there even as the winded man slowly righted himself, his arm still wrapped around his middle.

"Let. Me. Hear. It. From. The. Lass!" Faolán said.

Astrid's jaw dropped. She had never heard the man speak without a stutter before. Faolán remained still. Unyielding. Unmoving. Waiting. When Pádraig gave a curt nod, Faolán glanced at her.

"Wh-what is amiss here, Astrid?"

Pádraig opened his mouth, but Faolán was quick to press the tip of the blade in, piercing his skin. Blood trickled through his léine. Pádraig's fierce anger was frightening to behold and Astrid feared for Faolán.

"Faolán. Ye know this man is the son of the ri túaithe."

"He i-is the son. That d-does not give him the sa-same rights as the father."

Leadership was not decided by birth. That would never protect the clans. The tánaiste, the next in line, was always named at the time of the anointing of a new king. Someone who was able and ready to take over should the king die. Pádraig had been far too young at the time of his father's anointing to have this position.

"Please." Astrid was not sure what to say to get Faolán to back down. Running Pádraig through would cause even more bloodshed. It would be the start of a war between their clans. "I… He was bringing me home."

Faolán's eyes narrowed, remaining on Pádraig. "Wh-why did I he-hear ye c-call out ‘stop'?"

"I… I needed… needed him to… stop."

"And wh-what was he d-doing that ye wa-wanted him to stop?" His voice was menacingly quiet.

If Astrid spoke the truth, she had no doubt Faolán would run his sword right through the man's chest. Then there would be hell to pay.

She clenched her teeth. "I needed to relieve myself."

Pádraig and Faolán turned to her as one, their shock obvious.

"He thought I could… wait, but I could not." It was impossible for her to say any more. Not when the scream she wanted to let loose was stuck in her throat. When she saw Pádraig's smug smile, she forced herself to look away. It was either that or she would throw herself against the man, beating him with her fists, ordering Faolán to finish him off.

Faolán lowered his sword with great reluctance, and Pádraig had him in a throat clutch in a flash. "Ye impudent dog! Ye'll regret this with yer last breath!"

Before Astrid could fully react, Pádraig had shoved him to the ground. Faolán's sword clanged harmlessly beside him.

"Enough, Pádraig."

Turning to her, the anger disappeared from his face. He smiled at her. A beaming smile. His eyes bright.

"As ye wish." He extended his arm to her, as if he were escorting her to a celebration in their honor. "Come, let me see ye home."

Faolán stood slowly, his gaze upon her. Watching her. Boring into her. He had not believed her story at all. He knew better. He was a warrior. And he was of her clan.

Mayhap not all clans care so strongly for their women, but we do.

She wanted so badly to cringe from his touch, but if she refused Pádraig's hand now, Faolán would have confirmation that she had lied. He would come to her defense, even if it meant his doom. He would fight Pádraig, and regardless of who won, what she had feared would happen a moment earlier would indeed come to pass. Her entire body stiffened with revulsion. She had trouble getting her arm to rise to meet Pádraig's, her hand to touch his hand, but somehow she managed. When Pádraig lifted her onto the horse, she turned her face away.

"Well done." Pádraig's softly spoken words were for her ears alone.