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“Closer to fifteen. He is quite virile,” she added absently, tugging at her gown.
Aodh’s finger crooked under her chin and tipped it up. “Quite, is it?”
She shook her head. “Not very. Not at all.”
“We’ll talk more about this later.”
She smiled and let him adjust her hood. “There is nothing to talk about.”
A figure appeared on the highest step of the castle, in front of an arched, carved oak door.
“That is he,” she murmured. “The O’Fail.”
Tall, long-haired, neatly bearded, and expensively booted, wearing a deeply dyed cape that was tossed off to the side, revealing armor and a sword and two pistols, he was the epitome of a marcher lord. Precisely the man you hoped to lure into an alliance. If he could be lured.
They began the trek up the stairs. Aodh lifted Katarina’s hand and guided her up, then passed her on ahead of him when the stairway narrowed. Tension emanated out of him like sound.
“Katarina,” The O’Fail welcomed her as she joined him on the top step, his Irish accent so thick it always took a moment to acclimate. She took the hand he held out and began to curtsey, but he lifted her back to her feet and, leaning forward, kissed her cheek.
She could almost feel Aodh behind her starting to ignite.
The O’Fail must have felt it too, for he moved his gaze to Aodh as he stepped onto the landing too. For a moment, the two Irish warlords looked at each other, The O’Fail over a decade older, but still in his prime. Behind Aodh trailed a row of retainers, clad in armor and Rardove colors.
“Some laid wagers you’d never return to Ireland,” The O’Fail said quietly. “That you were content to be cosseted by a queen instead of settling for an Irish kingdom.”
Aodh smiled, but it was cold. “’Tis true, I do not settle. Unlike some.”
The O’Fail’s hooded eyes narrowed. “Your meaning?”
“You well know my meaning. An oath is hard work. Some are content to settle for scraps, for whatever they are given by others.”
Katarina felt the beginning of true fear.
But she could do little other than step between them and wave a pistol about, and as it had not yet come to blows, that seemed a bit excessive. Barring blows, or perhaps including them, these two would simply have to work the matter out.
Up on the walls, the O’Fail soldiers stood, bows aimed at the armed band standing on the castle steps.
The O’Fail considered Aodh. “What you speak of, Con, was a long time ago. Your father and grandfather joined a rebellion that was not theirs, when they were not ready. Rash and reckless, as ever they were.”
“Brave,” said Aodh, his voice granite hard.
“Aye, very. Enough to put the rest of us to shame,” he said, and reached for Aodh’s wrist.
Aodh grasped The O’Fail’s in return.
“As were you, Con,” he said, gripping Aodh’s arm tight. “I saw you on the field that day. Fourteen-year-old berserker, you were. We were sore sad when you went to England, and the Red Queen took you.”
“I am back now.”
“I am glad.” The O’Fail drew Aodh forward into a hard, swift embrace. “If it interests you, I laid my money on you and Ireland,” he said when his mouth was by Aodh’s ear. “I knew ’twas but a matter of time before you came home again.”
He clapped Aodh on the back twice, then released him. “Your father and grandfather had high hopes for you, which you seem to have realized.” His gaze grazed the tattoos visible on Aodh’s neck before it swung back to Katarina. “Although I admit to being surprised the lady acceded so readily.”
She sniffed. “Firstly, I was tricked.”
“And secondly?”
She sniffed again. “I was convinced by various…persuasions.”
