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Chapter 39
Finian stopped them on a small rise of land. In the distance, Senna could see occasional glints of silver, as the currents of a small watercourse flowed between trees.
“Up, Senna.”
She looked around. The leaves of the trees were obviously green, but in the night, the branches were more of a dark black mass. “Up what?”
He pointed high, to a small wooden platform set in the upper branches of a tree.
“A deer blind!” she exclaimed.
“One thing I can honestly give thanks to an Englishman for.”
They climbed the rope ladder leading up to the blind. Senna pushed through the hole at the top and scooted backward to make room. His head popped up through the opening in the platform. He pushed the rest of the way through, then pulled the rope ladder up behind and shut the trap door.
It was a wooden platform, about three long paces wide, cut out like a crescent moon around the huge bole of the tree trunk. The leaves rustled every so often on a light breeze. Otherwise the night was utterly still.
He sat at the edge and hung his feet over the side, as the nighttime winds swept over the land like feathers. He looked at Senna, lifted an arm, half curved, and crooked a brow. She smiled and scooted to his side. He dropped his arm over her shoulder and lifted his hand, pointing into the valley below.
“Do ye see those lands, Senna?”
“I do.”
“They’re yer brother’s.”
Her smile faded. “What?”
“Did ye not know he has lands here?”
“No.” She looked over. “Will does not speak of his pursuits, ever. I know nothing of what he has gained. Or lost.”
“No? Well, I do not need anyone to tell me. Yer king took the land, gave it to someone he owed a favor to. Yer brother, in this case.”
They stared at the manor be
low. The forests around had been hacked back a good league. A tall motte was built up in the center of the clearing, and atop its rounded hump sat the manor house. A spiked wooden palisade encircled it.
A few outbuildings showed here and there, and a few homes and barns—a small village—huddled at the base of the motte. No villagers could be seen at this late hour, but evidence of their existence was in the tipped cart, which was spilling hay, outside a small stable.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Do ye still wish to go home, Senna?”
“Oh.”
“What’s it to be, lass? Run yer business, count yer coin?”
“’Tisn’t like that,” she said dully. It was exactly like that. “What other option have I?”
“Ye could stay with me.”
She knew she must appear shocked, lower jaw dropped, her eyes wide, but she couldn’t hide it. Finian returned the look, utterly impassive. He might have just asked her to pass a plate of bread.
“Pardon?” she managed.
He scooped a heavy swath of hair into his palm and leaned forward to kiss the side of her neck, soft as mist. Whispered, rough-edged, his words came against her skin as he moved down her neck. “Will ye stay with me?”
“I—I—”
