AllFreeNovel
Share Us
King Edward would follow shortly, but Wogan had orders not to wait. The king had received news that greatly displeased him. Wogan was to begin settling the matter. Soon the Irish would understand the king’s terms. They would capitulate, or they would die.
Wogan’s fingertips were damp and chilled, and he blew on them absently as he straightened in the saddle. His gelding nickered at the sudden movement and skittered sideways over the wet cobblestones. Wogan spoke a soft word, and the horse quieted.
Turning, his hand in the air, he swept his arm down in an arc, and the retinue headed off into the mists. They would make good time, bound for northern Ireland where the devil-try dwelt.
They wouldn’t see him coming for a long time. When they did, it would be too late.
When the sun was midway through its western arc the next afternoon, Finian lifted his hand and pointed into the valley belo
w.
“O’Fáil lands.”
Senna nodded calmly, belying her fluttering heart. Her entire life had been spent on a remote manor, locked away with profit sheets and a stylus. Exactly as she’d planned it. Finian seemed to feel sad about that, that she’d somehow been injured as a result, that a loss had been suffered. But she’d never seen it that way.
As a widow, she’d made the final decisions about her life. Bought a dying business and made it thrive, raised her brother and, until their father gambled it away, ensured a rich manor remained for the ensuing generations—that would probably never come, she suddenly realized, because neither she nor Will seemed inclined toward unions. Marriages, children, that sort of thing. Being connected.
They’d been ruined for it.
Each of them lived ferociously solitary lives, connected only to each other by steely thin threads of devotion, and to their father by knotted ropes of dismay. Dread. Desolation.
Until now. Senna had let go the rope and gone over the edge of that particular, spectacular cliff with Finian.
She tried frantically to straighten the wild curls of her hair into a semblance of a braid. It helped little to realize now that she was terrified of meeting people. That her self-imposed sequestration had not simply been a preference for numbers or the clarity of a contract. It had been—and was—fear.
She admitted it now: fear had ruled her life. For good reason. There was much to fear, and it was all inside her, flowing like blood. Just like blood.
The same blood that gave her powers to create the most rare, coveted dyes in the West. Dye-witch, indeed. A dye-witch was someone who courted terrible, dangerous things, who let passion rule her life. Senna knew now she was no better than her mother.
They were met long before the castle gates by warriors who obviously knew Finian on sight. Solid muscle locked on muscle as the long-lost warriors pounded each other on the back, hooting and hollering.
“Finian O’Melaghlin, ye crooked Irishman,” roared one voice above the others.
“Ah, Saint Pat, Finian, we thought ye were dead,” said another, and she could hear the despair the thought had conjured.
A burly arm wrapped around his shoulders, and her escort disappeared beneath the hearty welcoming of those who flocked to the gates.
Someone pounded Finian on his shoulder and roared, “’Tis more than good to have ye back. ’Twas grievous when we thought ye were captured and killed with the rest.”
“’Tis grievous enough that the others were killed,” he replied grimly.
“Aye, that it is,” the other man said. “But the king has need of all his nobles, and to lose a great lord and councilor like yerself would be a loss too tremendous to bear.”
Finian grunted noncommittally, but Senna’s weary eyes were yanked open by the recognizable English words. Great lord? Councilor? Her great, hulking warrior? What, with his irreverent jokes and earthy ways, favored by a king?
Lord Finian. Good Lord. He was noble.
The rest of the household greeted them just inside the inner bailey gates. Older men, women, and a bevy of children swarmed into the bailey or hung out of windows, waving and calling. Afternoon shadows stretched across portions of the bailey, and a golden glow of firelight formed a backdrop for the silhouetted figures.
Women of the household flitted and fluttered nearby, bright Irish butterflies. Senna was quick to note them pinch their cheeks and brighten their smiles when Finian’s gaze turned to them. A chill of worry slunk across her breast.
Someone approached. Tall, long-haired, and kilted, he nodded levelly at Finian. “Our king will no’ believe me when I tell him you made it out of yet another close call, O’Melaghlin. I was just on my way to save your sorry arse.”
Finian turned. “The day I need a Scot gallowglass to save my arse ’twill truly be a sorry day.”
“A regular day,” retorted the other, crossing his arms. “A day like any other. I’ve saved you too many a time to count.”
Finian snorted. “Ye’ve drunk me under the table too many times to count. Saved me? I think not.”
