Chapter 7

Astrid had stayed clear of her mother for the rest of the day. Thankfully the woman had found a place to rest from her excitement at the Meic Murchadha. Astrid had tried to rest, but the sounds of others nearby had invaded her refuge and constantly put her on alert.

Working on the evening meal with the other women gave Astrid a sense of purpose and calm. It made everything seem normal. No secrets to hide. No lies to keep straight. No one to take advantage of her.

She slammed the bread dough on the table again.

"Ye best hurry with that one, Astrid!"

Joan was gray-haired and stout, with three dark hairs adorning her chin. She was also the cook, although most of the women pitched in unless they had other duties. Joan was the one who decided who would be doing what. If she liked ye, she gave ye the job ye wanted. If she didn't like ye, it was best to watch out.

Being the daughter, and now sister, of the chieftain had many benefits. Astrid received first helpings of food, the others deferred to her for decisions over Joan, and she was given first choice whenever new provisions were acquired. Some through battle and some through merchants that traveled from town to town. Items from faraway places like fine silks, exotic lotions, and herbs. Though their visitors were few, she made the most of those purchases and even more of the spoils of war.

"What ails ye that ye're so droopy with yer work?" Joan adjusted Astrid's neckline, their eyes locking for the smallest second, before she spoke again. "Ye're usually such a fine help to me."

Astrid nibbled at her lower lip, not sure what to say. She was usually talkative with Joan. The older woman was genuinely interested in her and what she had to say. Unlike her mother, who just wanted someone to listen to her talk. But if Astrid suddenly became quiet around Joan, the woman would certainly notice it. Maybe she would even mention it to Diarmuid when he returned.

"I have my menses." Astrid looked away.

"And that usually makes ye even more talkative." The woman knew everything, so of course she knew about that, too. Joan stopped her chopping to put a hand to her hip. "That bread has done nothing to ye as far as I can see."

Glancing down, Astrid realized she'd been taking out her irritation on the overworked ball of dough. She laughed and scooped it into the waiting pan. Joan grinned as she added the pan to the overloaded hearth.

"Faolán seems quite concerned for ye as well."

Astrid scanned the area. With the rains outside, there were far more people within than was usual at this time of day. "What has he said?"

The little woman snorted. "That one talks constantly. Who can listen to him?"

She knew without looking that the woman's eyes were still on her. It was only because Joan was concerned for her, which Astrid appreciated most times. Not this time, though. Astrid need only convince Joan she was fine, and she'd stop worrying.

"Joan, I am—"

"Astrid!" Beibhinn's sharp voice rang through the hall so loudly that all present ceased talking and turned to look between her and Astrid.

Astrid's face heated.

"God in heaven, what have ye done now, darling?" Joan's words were intended for Astrid's ears alone.

"She does not like my helping with chores."

Joan winked to her and then crossed to meet Beibhinn, intercepting her before she could reach her obvious target.

"Beibhinn, are ye not feeling well?" Joan asked.

Her mother's gaze shifted to Joan, her eyes rounding, and she halted. "Of what d'ye speak?"

"Ye look a bit… mottled."

"I do?" Beibhinn reached up to feel along her cheeks and then her throat.

"Is it yer throat that's bothering ye then?"

Beibhinn put a hand to her throat as if deciding if she had difficulty swallowing. When Joan's eyes flashed to Astrid then darted toward the door, Astrid did not hesitate to accept the gift.

"I… I did feel a bit lightheaded this morning."

The voices faded behind her as Astrid made her way into the yard. She blew out a breath, hands at her hips, and wondered what her mother could be going on about now. But Astrid could certainly guess. She wanted to question her about the ride home with Pádraig. Astrid was thankful Faolán had sent him on his way and her mother had not had a chance to interrogate him herself.

Her mind is too busy.

That's how Marcán had described Beibhinn to Diarmuid. Was that two summers past? They hadn't realized Astrid was nearby. It had been extremely hot and the sun relentless, beating down on everyone and everything. Too hot even to cook or to eat. The older men had gone off to hunt in the forest, hoping to find a cool respite. The younger men had been delegated to stay behind for protection. Marcán and Diarmuid were just coming into their own as warriors at the time. Both quite impressive.

Forgotten as usual, Astrid had been lying between the rowan trees and the honeysuckle bush. The bush close enough to surround her with the flowers' sweet aroma. She had learned to lie perfectly still to keep the bees from her. The scent was intoxicating and the leaves of the bush and the trees offered plenty of shade.

Diarmuid and Marcán had taken off their léines, clothed only in their short braies, and stretched out resting—Marcán on the wooden bench, Diarmuid on the ground.

"I know she's a foolish woman. Who could believe ye were a Seer?" It was Diarmuid who'd voiced the question, of course. Astrid had often wondered at it herself.

"Her mind is too busy," Marcán answered. "She needs something to keep herself occupied. Something to keep her out of trouble."

"Ah, that one is never out of trouble. She is the reason my father always found a reason to be somewhere else."

His voice got quieter. "Kane told ye that?"

"I believe it is how he felt. He told me to either take a caring woman to wife or never marry at all."

"D'ye think of him often?"

The silence had Astrid looking toward them, waiting to see how her brother would respond. His arm was draped over his face, shading it from the sun.

"I wonder how he would have advised me in certain situations. Like when the Meic Murchadha came to offer his daughter to me. Would he have had me accept?"

Astrid had no notion of when such a visit had taken place, but she was usually sent off on some wild goose chase when anyone came.

Marcán nodded, a smile in his voice. "Daimhin? Comely. With breasts that hang like heavy fruit. More than a handful."

Astrid cupped her own breasts, which were more than her palm could hold, but surely he meant his hands. Marcán's hands were huge. She was of an age that all those changes were well underway, but Daimhin was not that much older than her. How was she so well-endowed by this time that men spoke of her thus?

"Ho ho! More than a handful, is it?" Diarmuid laughed. "And she did not mind me noticing them either."

"And what else did ye notice?"

Diarmuid turned to Marcán, a huge grin on his face. "Everything she wanted to show me. I did not refuse her."

"Ah, a true gentleman."

"I am that."

Astrid was on the verge of sleep when they finally spoke again.

"I do not wish to take a wife. Kane was so unhappy in his marriage. Why should I believe mine would be any better?" Diarmuid's words surprised her. The derb fine had to decide on their ri túaithe within the next few weeks since the death of their tánaiste. Kane's successor had survived long enough to bring word of their father's death, but the wounds he'd received were mortal. A slow, long-suffering death. Everyone assumed Diarmuid would be chosen as the next king, and it would be unusual for a ri to remain unmarried for long.

"Do not despair. Ye have not found the one who sparks yer attention and pleases ye in bed. Although ye've done yer best with the bedding."

Astrid covered her mouth. She knew some of the women were regularly taking the men into their beds, but it shocked her to realize her own brother was one of them.

"The ones I bed have bedded many before me."

Marcán said nothing.

Diarmuid shrugged. "They believe their experience will please me. What would please me more is if Daimhin would speak to me as if she were even half witted." There was a pause before he continued. "And what of ye, Marcán? The women are more than pleased with ye, but I do not see ye feeling the same toward them."

The sigh Astrid heard brought a lump to her throat, it was that sad. She watched Marcán when he answered. "The one woman I want is as elusive as smoke."

Setting her mind to the puzzle of which woman he might fancy, she forgot to be quiet when she rolled over. She could still see Diarmuid's scowl when he turned toward her. He bolted upright at the waist, ready to yell at her, but Marcán put out a hand to halt his angry advance.

"Astrid?" Marcán's voice was calm. "Come."

He sat up more slowly than her brother, his eyes on her while she scooted out from beneath the bush to stand. Her gown was drenched with sweat, flat against her. For a moment she wished she were young again so she could take off her gown as they had doffed their léines. Then she noticed Marcán's eyes, watching her. Noticing everything. The sweat puddling between her breasts and molding the coarse fabric against her, scratching her tender skin.

"Come closer, Astrid." His eyes finally came back to her face and she did as he told her.

"Ye've been told not to sneak around!" Diarmuid all but barked the words at her.

But Marcán patted Diarmuid's arm to quiet him, his eyes staying on her. One blue. One green. He watched her as she pulled the damp gown away from her chest.

"Were ye sneaking?" His voice was low and quiet, his eyes bright.

She swiped at a drip of sweat slipping down her face and then another slipping between her breasts. "No."

Marcán continued to watch her hand. "Did ye hear what we spoke of?"

"Let it be, Marcán! She's like a little rat sneaking in where she doesn't belong."

"Ye underestimate yer sister." Patting the empty bench beside him, he said. "Sit!"

"Enough, Marcán." Diarmuid directed his anger at his friend, but his friend never flinched. That intrigued Astrid. She couldn't remember Marcán ever losing his control.

Marcán's eyes did not leave hers, not even when he spoke to Diarmuid. "Ye make me even hotter with yer growing irritation. Calm yerself."

"I am for the shade of the ráth," Diarmuid said.

"The animals are hot, so the stable is hot!" Astrid spat the words at her brother, who just shook his head.

That got her a chiding expression from Marcán, and her face heated. He had included her and even stood up for her. Then she had immediately acted like the child her brother thought her to be. Mayhap Diarmuid was correct about her. When she turned away, Marcán put a finger to her chin and gently turned her face back to his.

"When the men are returned, I am going to the lough, Marcán. Mayhap when ye are done here ye will join me." Diarmuid delivered the words like an ultimatum before he huffed off.

Astrid scrunched up her face and stuck her tongue out at his retreating back.

Grinning, Marcán said. "Is that a show of proper respect ye give yer brother?"

"He does not deserve my respect."

He held her gaze. "Every warrior deserves respect from ye."

Astrid stopped just short of rolling her eyes, and he smiled as if he knew that. She remembered the warm feeling that had bloomed in her chest. She'd liked that he knew her so well he could guess what she was going to do.

"Can I come to swim at the lough with ye?" The words tumbled out before she'd given them enough thought, but she wiped at the sweat dripping from her chin. And waited for his answer.

He dropped his head, the first time he'd stopped watching her. His wide expanse of chest grew even wider, and when he looked up again, he had a hard expression. Tight. As if he were flinching. Uncomfortable. He must have realized Diarmuid would not be happy with him if he said yes to her.

"Ye best not, Astrid. Not this time."

So she did roll her eyes and didn't care what he thought about it, but he surprised her by reaching out to caress her cheek. His eyes intent on her.

Now, all these years later, Astrid put light fingers against her cheek, imagining his caress again. Suddenly overly aware of everything around her and at the same time nothing at all, she saw again that intent gaze on Marcán's face, the way he'd glanced at her lips. The way he'd looked at her that day…

Her jaw dropped.

Reality slapped her in the face.

When he'd glanced at her lips, she'd assumed it was because he saw crumbs. She'd wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Astrid had a hard time catching her breath.

She was truly an idiot. And Marcán?

"Oh." She groaned, standing alone in the yard while everyone else went about their duties.

Marcán had wanted to kiss her. She was the girl he'd mentioned—the one he fancied. The thought sent heat rippling through her innards.

Only she had badly misunderstood him at the time. Diarmuid treated her as a nuisance more often than not, and she'd assumed his best friend felt the same way—at once fond and annoyed.

She had been too young to understand his feelings.

Her mother told her often enough how demanding husbands could be. Her advice was that it was best to marry a warrior since he would spend much of his time away.

And yet… if Astrid had a husband like Marcán, certainly his attention would be welcome. He was intelligent, respected, an exceptional storyteller. The tales he told never bored her. She hugged herself, swamped with emotions.

Astrid pressed her lips together and moved away from the roundhouse, heading down the road to Diarmuid's little home. No one would look for her there, and she needed time to think, to consider Marcán's words and actions in this new light.

* * *

It wasn't until the cock crowed that Astrid finally stirred. She'd fallen asleep in Diarmuid's bed, exhausted in both body and soul. No daylight showed around the door. It must still be raining, and the damn rooster didn't even know whether it was morning.

Poking around the fire, she hoped for a spark but found none. She shivered from cold. She'd missed the evening repast to avoid Beibhinn, something she could not regret, but her stomach was growling now. That she'd slept like the dead should have been a reprieve from her troubled thoughts, but she hadn't stopped dreaming. And all her dreams had been of Marcán.

She now saw every past encounter in a new light, including the game of Pull the Ribbon,in which he'd given Astrid her first kiss.He had wanted desperately to kiss her, and that was why he'd tried to convince Diarmuid to back down. He hadn't wanted their kiss to be so contrived, so public. And Astrid had believed he was angry!

Did a more naive woman even exist? But what to do now? She'd clearly seen his interest in her, but she had no way of knowing if those feelings persisted. Astrid went back to the bed, pulling the red squirrel covering atop her. At the Meic Murchadha, he'd carried her to the healer in his strong arms, seen to all her needs, and kept her in his sights the entire time. Had he merely been acting the part of her leader and protector, or was there something more?

Her heart soared at the very idea of having a man like Marcán care for her. She would be treated like a special treasure. Never yelled at in anger. Never pushed around. He would hold her in his heart. Except it might be too late…

Years had passed since that day near the honeysuckle bush. She had been so mean to him, snapping at him, even fighting him when he sought to protect her from Pádraig. The tears slid down her cheeks to disappear in her hair.

And she might be forced to marry someone cruel like Pádraig. No! Never him! But to remain alone? That was no life. Happy couples smiled and laughed. They touched each other in love. And if she had children, they would laugh with her and hug her and love her. Her mother never hugged anyone, not even little Fergus, but her father had. He'd hugged all of them, even taking Fergus up on his shoulders to march around the village. Certainly Marcán would be that type of father. And whenever Astrid's mother had been cruel to her, her father had stroked Astrid's hair as if to say, "Take none of this to heart, a ghráidh."

"The loss of something I didn't even know I had would be the cruelest of all fates." She whispered the words aloud, giving them the solemnity they deserved.

A loud knock on the door startled her into sitting up. No one knew she was here. Who would they be looking for? Not her. She decided to remain quiet. The knock came again, even more insistent.

"A-A-Astrid?" It was Faolán.

She snuggled under the covers, turning away from the room, feigning sleep. The door opened. Faolán walked in, but he wasn't alone. Quieter footsteps came closer, but someone was waiting at the door.

"Astrid?" She was so surprised to hear a woman's voice, one she didn't recognize, that she sat up. The lovely Daimhin stood there—a dark mantle covering her, her long, shiny hair glistening with rain. She really was quite attractive, even with a slight darkening on her jaw. "Did I awaken ye?"

Astrid pushed down her hair, trying to sit up despite the softness of the bed. "I have overslept."

Daimhin smiled. A genuine smile. "I understand. This rain…"

Faolán stood at the door, hand still on the latch, and Astrid seethed inside. God help him if he thought to leave her here with this woman. She sought solitude, and both of them were interrupting that. Astrid slid her legs to the side of the bed, preparing to stand, but Daimhin put her hand out.

"Ye need not rise for me." Again she smiled. "My father wished to extend a personal invitation to ye to attend a feast in three days' time."

Astrid tucked her legs back under the covers. A quick glance toward Faolán showed no sign he was going to come to her rescue. "To what purpose?"

"My father has been very ill, and he was not able to properly greet ye the last time ye were with us. My brother has… shown an interest in ye, so my father wishes to meet ye."

Swallowing was difficult. Faolán crossed his arms, his eyes squinting as if he were observing a hare gripped in the claws of a hawk, waiting to see if the hawk would be successful.

"Me? And my mother?"

Beibhinn had told Astrid she'd been to visit Doran, the ri of the Meic Murchadha and Pádraig's father, while Astrid was with the healer.

"Oh, she could come, but 'tis ye he wishes to meet."

They had met several times. There was more that Daimhin wasn't saying. "Please give yer father my regards, but I am not able to come at this time."

It would not be seemly to disclose any personal situation to a rival clan, even if they were peaceful at the moment. She did not expect Daimhin to question her further.

"Unable for what reason?"

Astrid flattened her lips. "'Tis best not to discuss these things now, but do extend to him my appreciation for the invitation."

Laughing slightly, Daimhin glanced down before facing her again, her bottom lip between her teeth. "I would call it more of a summons, Astrid."

Faolán shifted, but Astrid did not even glance his way. He had left her here to ward off this woman alone, and she would do just that.

"I am not coming, Daimhin. Ye may call it whatever ye choose, but the decision is mine."

For a moment everything seemed to stop. Astrid could not be certain if it was shock or fear she saw in Daimhin's face, but when she spoke, she was once again the gracious daughter of the Meic Murchadha. "I will be sure to tell him what ye said."

Faolán opened the door for Daimhin, and she left without a backward glance. Astrid avoided eye contact with the man, even though she could feel his gaze on her. How had he known to find her here? Was he watching her?

Dropping her face into her hands, she struggled against tears. These games could not go on. Pádraig was going to act as if he had an interest in taking her to wife? His interest had been in ravaging her. Now what game was he playing at, talking to his father? She had been foolish not to see him for the brute he was.

She pushed off the bed and went to the washstand, sloshing cold water over her face. If Astrid did not stand up for herself, she could spend the rest of her life married to a lecher of the worst kind. What she had foolishly considered an option for herself was not. It was better to be alone.