The corner of his mouth shifted, not quite a smile, but enough to suggest he heard more in her words than she intended to reveal. “I do not imagine they do.”
She set one foot in the stirrup. “Try not to stand in anyone else’s path.”
“You ride like someone who does not fear falling.”
His voice stopped her before she mounted fully. She turned her head. “I ride like someone who knows how to get back up.”
Their eyes held.
Something passed between them then: brief, sharp, and charged enough to trouble her. She mounted and turned Bríd away without another word.
Long after she had crossed the next rise, she could still feel his gaze between her shoulder blades, and it irritated her that her pulse had not yet settled into its usual steady rhythm.
Castle Ní Néill rose from the land broad, gray, and immovable, its towers rough against a sky the color of old pewter.
Reginald reined in when the gate came fully into view.
Two spearmen stood watch, their posture careless only on the surface. He had known too many guards in too many places not to recognize alertness disguised as boredom. He dismounted before either man told him to and kept his hands plainly visible. “I seek audience with whoever commands here,” he said.
One guard narrowed his eyes. “For what purpose?”
“Employment.”
The guard looked him over, then disappeared inside.
Reginald stood beside his horse and waited, the saddle pressing against his shoulder where he leaned lightly against it. He had learned patience the hard way. First impressions mattered in places like this. A man too eager invited suspicion. A man too proud invited challenge.
After a short while, two men crossed the yard toward him. One wore a short cloak and a sword and moved with the economical confidence of someone used to command. His beard was clipped close. His eyes missed little. The second man held parchment and quill. The first man greeted, “Ronan, gate captain.”
Reginald inclined his head.
“Were you expected?”
“No.”
Ronan’s gaze sharpened. It lingered on the sword at Reginald’s hip, the marks of travel on his clothes, the horse, the set of his shoulders. He was weighing usefulness against trouble. “You will give your particulars to the steward.” He jerked his head at the other man. “Barracks lodging until the council decides whether there is use for you. If you’re admitted, you’ll see Seamus.”
“Seamus?”
“Seamus commands the fighting men. I keep the gate from swallowing fools.”
Reginald nodded once. When the steward asked his name, he stated, “Sir Donal O’Raida.”
The steward’s hand paused and looked at Ronan. The name changed the air between them.
Prickles danced along Reginald’s nape, but when the steward continued writing, he brushed it off.
Reginald was assigned a narrow sleeping space in the barracks and told to present himself in the yard before dusk. After hesaw to his horse in the stables, he was crossing the courtyard when a man stepped into his path with such quiet certainty that Reginald halted at once.
The newcomer was fit and hard-looking, scarred in the way of men who had spent years proving themselves with steel. Nothing about him was ornamental. His face was weathered, his body all narrow strength and hard habit. “You are an English knight,” he said.
Reginald did not bother denying it. “I have traveled.”
“So I hear.” The man folded his arms. “Most nobles here are Irish-born. The man Lady Aingeal is meant to wed holds lands south of here. His family has been rooted in this soil for generations.”
There was an edge to his explanation. Perhaps he was suspicious of his English accent. Borders were never merely lines on a map. They were memory, blood, resentment, and belonging. Reginald knew that well enough. This knowledge could prove useful, though the timing of it sat badly in his gut.
The man studied him for a long moment.
