Chapter 8

Astrid was not able to avoid her mother once she had returned to her regular duties. The woman was unrelenting in her praise of Pádraig, and Astrid cringed every time she spoke of him, wondering yet again if she should confess what he had tried to do. Hoping to find peace and some time to think, she retreated to their garden.

Faolán found her there. He was relentless. "H-have ye told Beibhinn about Pádraig yet?"

"I heard ye have said something to her."

He frowned. "I-I gave no details."

"And I told ye. Nothing happened." Astrid usually enjoyed working in the garden, but there was no peace to be found here today, not with Faolán trailing her, insisting she talk of things she would rather forget.

"A-and I-I know ye l-lied. Someone should be told the truth, or h-he will get away with i-it a-again and again."

Astrid snapped the peas she sorted with a vengeance. They would be a nice addition to the evening meal. "How d'ye know 'tis not the case even now?"

Damn, he had done it again, getting her to make a near confession.

She looked up at him, but his expression was unchanged.

"What I meant to say is that if Pádraig is such a vile man, surely he will be vile to someone else as well." No, that wasn't exactly what she had meant to say to him either. "Stop, Faolán. Do not speak to me of this again."

"There's been word. D-Diarmuid has located A-Aednat."

Astrid's joy could not be contained. "Is she unharmed?"

"I-I do not know for certain, but I-I did not hear she w-was hurt."

"That is wonderful news." Astrid squeezed her hands together.

Faolán was more reserved, giving her a cursory glance. "D-Diarmuid will be r-returning, A-Astrid."

Tears flooded her throat, but she swallowed them down. "Ye need to let this go, Faolán. No good will come of it."

"Punishment that i-is due for a w-wrong done to u-us? O-or d'ye argue 'twas not w-wrong?" His eyes narrowed as he continued to watch her. "A-am I-I m-mistaken in a-all this? Y-yer mother speaks h-highly of the man. D-did I-I-I-interrupt what ye had a-agreed to?"

Damn tears. She swatted them away, gazing anywhere but at him. People were coming out of the roundhouse now, no doubt in expectation of Diarmuid's arrival. Some were glancing toward them with curiosity. Her shame was all encompassing. The only way to get Faolán to drop his inquiry forever would be to claim she'd sought the attentions that had been forced upon her, but she could not do it. She could not stand to see the look of disappointment in his eyes.

"Ye did not," she said softly. "I cannot speak to my mother's choice of whom she will praise. Suffice it to say, she is not always correct. Neither in those she condemns nor in those she praises." Her voice trembled. "I thank ye that ye came when ye did."

She opened her mouth, struggling for control, turning away from the crowd gathering behind her. Faolán's eyes never wavered from her.

Shouting started behind them. "'Tis Diarmuid!"

Cheers went up. Astrid wiped at the tears.

"D'ye see his wife?" someone asked.

"I believe I will always be alone." Astrid struggled to not sound quite so pathetic.

"Ah, and there is Marcán." Another said.

Her gaze turned toward the procession, and when she turned back, Faolán's eyes narrowed.

"Shall we?" Astrid asked.

"Let us w-welcome A-Aednat back."

Faolán put a hand to the small of her back and they moved to the front of the crowd. Marcán had dismounted to come up alongside Diarmuid, who was holding his wife in his arms, a stern look on his face. A hush fell over the crowd, the people no longer certain a celebration was in order.

Astrid willed her new sister to stir, anything to indicate she was still alive, but she did not. With the greatest gentleness, Marcán took Aednat from Diarmuid, holding her against his chest. The look in his eyes was hopeless.

Aednat teetered at death's door, but Marcán could find no injury to cause it. Black Oengus, the bastard who'd kidnapped her, had held her in a throat clutch, which could mean her neck was broken. Even now her head rolled against his shoulders.

"Bring the healer." Diarmuid gave the order as he dismounted.

Marcán's concern for his friend was great. His lovely bride had not yet awakened, her face pale. When Diarmuid moved to retrieve her, Marcán said, "Allow me to relieve ye, Diarmuid. Ye've held her the entire way, surely ye can take a rest."

"I cannot." The pain in Diarmuid's face pulled at Marcán, and he relinquished her without further comment.

Astrid's light hair caught his attention. She stepped closer, and he sighed. The mere sight of her was as refreshing as sunshine on a rainy day.

"I will bring the healer to ye," Astrid said.

That her eyes did not glance his way was not a surprise, but still he watched her until she disappeared into the roundhouse.

Some of the men in the procession were still bleeding from wounds they'd received in the battle against Aednat's kidnappers. That bastard Black Oengus was dead, but his men had escaped. That and Aednat's injury made the whole battle seem like a loss, but they had indeed been the victors, without a single loss of life among their own warriors.

At the back of the procession were the spoils. Women and children who had been left behind by the defeated warriors. The children were wide-eyed with fear, but most of the women knew the way of it. Some of Marcán's own clansmen had slaked themselves on the women by this time. That was the way of battle. Diarmuid had been beside himself with concern for his wife, so Marcán had protected the women who were not willing. Most were willing, which made it go easier for them.

Black Oengus's clan had been without a home, running from capture most of the time, but the man had nonetheless possessed powerful ambitions, envisioning himself as the next High King of éire. He had enlisted the help of a witch, and it was the old hag who had told him of the legend regarding the Great Healer. The man hadn't known for certain if Aednat was the one, but the uncertainty hadn't deterred him from stealing her away. He would have used her in front of the entire clan in an attempt to steal her power. He and Diarmuid had witnessed his rough treatment of Aednat as they were preparing to attack the camp.

"Philip, can ye see that the hostages are fed?" Marcán asked the warrior who came up behind them.

"Hostages or slaves?"

Marcán glanced toward the sorry group, barely clothed, and scrawny from a lack of food. "They have nothing and no one, or they would not have been with the likes of Black Oengus. Treat them as slaves and distribute them accordingly."

"I will question them about relatives and have word sent."

"And ye will see to their care. I will attend Diarmuid." Marcán had chosen Philip for this duty because he had a kind heart. He knew Philip would not allow them to be abused.

Philip ushered the women and children inside the roundhouse, but Marcán paused to take a deep breath to settle himself. He was exhausted. Blood and mud spattered his clothes, the scent wafting up to him. His mail, removed by this time, was in an even worse condition.

The horses were being seen to. He couldn't even remember the last time he had eaten. The battle had been tough against surprisingly well-trained warriors. They had fought like men with nothing to lose. Worthy opponents.

Not long after, Marcán finally settled himself on the garden bench. He nodded to the men who wandered past. Their arms around their smiling wives, who were no doubt relieved their husbands had survived another battle. Children skipped alongside them, laughing. Their loved ones had been there to greet them.

The thought made him feel more alone than he had in a long while.

"Mead?" It was one of the women from Oengus's clan. She had long, auburn hair and bright green eyes. A pretty lass with a brazen look. Marcán glanced around, searching for Philip, but saw no one with her. He frowned.

"Philip told me to bring this to ye," she explained before he could question her.

"My thanks." He drank it down without ceremony, he was that parched. Closing his eyes, he struggled to stay awake.

"I can bring ye more." The lass stood before him still. "Ye look to be done in."

Marcán was not about to get into a discussion with a slave. He preferred to stay away from them in general. "I do not believe Philip wanted ye to tarry here."

With a nod, she turned about just as the door to the roundhouse swung open. Like a cool breath of refreshing air, Astrid came toward him. She noticed the other woman, surprise evident, and seemed to assess her as they crossed paths.

Marcán dropped his head in his hands.

"Thank ye for bringing Diarmuid and Aednat back to us." Astrid settled beside him, leaving a discreet distance between them. "Ye look done in."

He smirked. "I have heard as much."

"Is there anything I can get for ye?"

Somewhere in his mind, he struggled to determine if her behavior was as unusual as it seemed.

"I need to see to Diarmuid," he said.

"Surely he can wait until ye've at least rested?"

He must look near death to elicit that type of concern from her. He tried to rally, but found he could not even lift his head.

So he simply sighed, a heavy sigh. "Unfortunately, I am not convinced his lady will survive."

Astrid stood. "Oh no!"

His eyes flew open, rounding. She clutched her arms to her chest, her face a mask of dread.

"Oh, Astrid." He gripped his hands to keep from reaching for her. "Forgive my heartless words. Ye do not need to hear such things." He was babbling like a damn fool and shook his head. "Please do not feel ye must stay here with me. I am fine, but I am not fit company."

The auburn-haired lass returned. Closing the door behind her, she waited until Marcán's eyes found her. Then, a fresh horn in her hand, she approached him with determined steps. Looking into her eyes, he knew her willingness. Suddenly, it seemed to matter very little that she was a slave. He needed to be close to someone now, if only to convince himself he was still alive after seeing so many dead.

"My thanks." He sipped from the horn, his gaze never wavering from the lass.

Astrid coughed beside them. "Well… I will return inside. Maeve is with Aednat now. Ah"—she turned to the lass—"Merewyn? Is it?"

"I am called Merewyn."

Marcán was not surprised that Merewyn's smile was so fetching. In fact, there was nothing about her he did not care for. This may be a slave he took for himself.

"Ye've been given to me," Astrid said.

Astrid would own her? Then she would definitely be off limits and his disappointment was acute.

Something stirred at Astrid's tone. It had sharpened. Marcán looked on, intrigued by this unexpected turn of events. So much so he felt a second wind, his tiredness leaving.

He sipped at his mead, the lass's eyes on Astrid alone now, her backside to him. A fine arse, but when he glanced at Astrid, he found his gaze returned. His chest tightened. That was the face he wanted to see looking up at him as he sought his release. Those were the eyes he wanted to see closing in passion as he rode her. That was where he'd prefer to see his needs met. Raw desire slammed into him. Desperation. It wasn't possible to take a full breath.

"Ye can sit with the others and eat," Astrid said to Merewyn, "but remain there until I come for ye. Do not venture out again."

Marcán could not be certain Merewyn did not glance his way before she obeyed her mistress. His attention was elsewhere.

Astrid swallowed, her neck exposed now, the bruise he'd seen earlier barely visible. It was enough to remind him that he had things to settle with her. A good reason to keep her in his company.

"Sit." He indicated the spot beside him.

"Let me see to yer bath, Marcán."

Dumbfounded, he simply stared at her retreating back. It was usually Joan who saw to such things for Marcán. He was shown this deference as a sign of his value to the clan. An unmarried warrior was usually seen to by the king's wife, but until now Diarmuid had had no wife, and the late king's wife, Beibhinn, chose to ignore him.

The thought of Astrid helping him in his bath stiffened his prick in an instant. Followed by the realization that it would not be a good idea to allow her to touch him. The simple act of assisting in his bath could be his undoing; he wanted her that much.

The mere thought of the scent of her hair, the feel of her hands, her bosom innocently pressing against him was enough to banish his exhaustion. He was painfully hard with need for her. Standing, he turned away from the opening door. He needed to get out of this, or she would finally learn just how besotted he was with her. And she would not be happy.