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“No, but you’ll catch up.”
I turn my head to look at him and am rewarded with an expression of interest I’d like to see repeated more often from Mr. Sionnach Loho. Catching up could be a very interesting prospect.
Even though I still have scads of questions about the soulfall and where our travels may take us, I resolve to appreciate these moments of pause. To be honest, I’m not certain I’m ready for the hard truth of his answers. “Tell me about your family.”
A crease forms between his brows. He wrestles with the question. After helping himself to my coffee, he leans back. “There was only Ma, Da, and me. No brothers or sisters.” He grins. “Lots of responsibility on one lad to make them proud.” His gaze drifts and after a tiny shake of his head, he keeps talking. “I helped Da work the sheep and what crops our small farm could manage. Ma was a wonder with herbs. We’d take what little we grew to market and got by. There’s a peace to working the land I loved until…” He trails off then shrugs.
I’m tempted to make a comment about his farm-bred muscles. So in his lifetime, Sion had been steady and hard-working, the qualities I’d always admired in academic types. Maybe under all his impatience and obfuscation, I sensed that about him. Does a soul call to another soul even when the mind hasn’t caught up or yet approved?
I munch on a tomato. “I don’t have any siblings either. I’m adopted. It was just my grandmother and me. She was a gifted gardener like your mother.” Thinking about the perfect tomatoes Máthair grew makes it hard to swallow. I grab the water bottle. “She died a few months ago. I’m still dealing with it.”
When I look back at Sion, I catch the sheen of tears in his eyes. His parents are lost to time. We both breathe into the moment, appreciating and accepting the bond of individual sorrows. We do share common ground apart from our celestial purpose—singularly focused lives, his with the land, mine with my research and teaching.
My academic interest flares. Here I have a man that’s experienced two centuries of history, not to mention otherworldly responsibilities. I may never have this opportunity to probe again. “Who taught you how to Veil travel?”
Sion huffs. “One of Finnbheara’s lackeys. It was more of a shove than a lesson.” A look of guilt plays across his face. “Och, I suppose I’ve done the same to you.”
“Not gonna argue with you there.”
He looks exhausted. I’m not the only one who could use the downtime of the train ride. I decide not to pry any more for now. It’s satisfying that our night of Veil travel erased his initial disappointment in my abilities to help him with the soulfall. I’m accepted and possibly more. It’s a place to start. Whether my pull to Sion is survivor passion or the rush of a shared goal, the next few days might provide more clarity or at least give me space to examine my feelings—and his— more closely.
I pat his knee. “So, our budding relationship—how do we play it? Besides the fact we’ve apparently been married since the 1500s.”
He rubs his nose. “We keep playing it. Your people thinking we’re together will make it easier to travel.”
Back to business. “Not much at sweet talking are you, husband?”
Sion takes my hand and kisses it. “Not so. Ms. Duir, would you do me the honor of a proper date?”
His lips against my skin send pinpoints of warmth flowing through me. “What do you have in mind?” The memory of our first kiss, at least the preferable second half of it, sets off pulsing heat low in my belly. I suppose it may be the only one I ever get from Sion unless we’re performing for the benefit of others.
Sion locks his hands behind those sweet curls. “Hmm? What do you say to a train ride to Dublin?”
I clasp my hands to my heart. “How did you know that’s always been my dream date?”
We both laugh.
Sion grips my leg above the knee. “See, I’ve just learned more about you.”
“Without a vision.” His expression goes from relaxed to pinched. I regret spoiling the mood, but in the spirit of getting to know one another better, there is one last thing I need to be truthful about. “Last night you admitted concern that Finnbheara sent you a weakling.”
He looks stricken. “I wish I’d kept that bit to myself.”
I lay my hand on his chest, enjoying the contour of those farmer muscles. “You’re not entirely wrong. Will you help me be stronger?”
He takes my hand and thumps it over his heart. “Swear by my hundred thousand heartbeats, I will.” Too soon he breaks contact, reaching into his pocket to extricate Strongbow’s chainmail. He dangles the three rings between us. “Now, how shall we go with these?”
Chapter 14
The King of Leinster
Colleen and I stare at Daniel Maclise’s massive painting The Marriage of Strongbow and Aoife in the National Gallery of Ireland while we wait for the rest of our group to assemble. One of the docents in the gallery provides a full dose of Strongbow. Armed with a new set of corroborating details on the guy, I’m even more convinced it’s a crime against nature the man’s poor squire is condemned to a soulfall for stealing from a self-aggrandizing English amadán.
Colleen pitches her voice low so as not to disturb the docent. “Remind me not to hire this Maclise guy to do my wedding portrait.”
“Good call.” The painting is a disturbing tangle of depression. Writhing bodies of the defeated and tortured Irish surround the happy couple of Strongbow and his Irish princess bride, Aoife. The cruel groom smashes a Celtic cross under his boot. Ugh, what a devil.
Jeremy Olk arrives with postgrads in tow. Caught up in his professorial glory, he usurps the docent’s narrative. Even though the woman backs off graciously, his rudeness bothers me. After all, we’re guests in her domain. This isn’t a part of Jeremy I’m a fan of. His sarcastic response at Charleville Castle after Sion’s beautiful solo was off-putting, as was the condescending you he leveled at him this morning. I’m tempted to intervene, playing it off as if Jeremy was unaware of his slight to the docent. Since I may be treading a fine line for Jeremy’s approval after my defection to the train with Sion, I keep quiet.
