AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Bring it to her. Or bring her to me. Those are her only options now.”
Aodh clapped him on the shoulder, feeling oddly…buoyant. It was there, under everything else, deep inside him, a sense of being lifted. As if he were back at sea. Despite the fact that he had not succeeded.
Mayhap because of it.
“We wanted Ireland, Bran,” he said. “This is it.”
He took the stairs to the hall two at a time, hurtling down them.
“Good Christ, Aodh, where have you been?” called Cormac, crossing the hall, his broad, bearded face split by a huge grin.
“Busy.”
“Are you mad? When the celebration is down here?”
People roamed everywhere. As Aodh had instructed, fires roared in every trough and hearth, tapestries were being hung, servants bustled to and fro, and the scent of duck and mutton wafted in from the stone kitchens. There was an air of jubilation, even from the conquered. And why not? No one had been killed, food had been brought in plenty, and the isolation of early spring had been lessened by the influx of new people, new stories, new blood. And notwithstanding the fact that the Rardove garrison was at present being held at blade point, what could have been a night of bandages and mourning had turned into almost riotous celebration.
Rardove’s legacy—legend—was the mollusks that populated the beaches at the base of its sea cliffs, rumored to have made the finest dyes far back into antiquity. But dyes were not necessary here. Rardove had a sheepfold that produced a wool that could be found nowhere else on earth. It also had thousands of acres of land, a seafront, and a stony castle fortress that could hold off an army for years.
Years.
Rardove was a gem in the Irish mists. Cold, diamond-hard opportunity. And it moved him not at all.
“Build the fires higher,” he ordered a passing servant, and the man scurried off.
Cormac stood at his side and surveyed the bustle of the great hall. “Well, we did it.” He flung out a beefy arm, indicating the hall, then turned and yanked Aodh into a heartfelt bear hug.
Aodh grunted as he was pulled into the Scot’s chest. Eight years of service, eight years of battles and near escapes, and it still surprised the hell out of him when Cormac did these sorts of things. “Christ’s mercy,” the gravelly, emotional, muffled voice came up. “We took accursed Rardove Keep.”
Aodh submitted to the embrace—it was easier than trying to wrestle free—and Cormac’s burly arms sprang open and he stepped away, beaming. “I’m no’ ashamed to admit it, Aodh, I was skeptical about your god-awful plan at first, aye, but…” He swung his hand toward the hall, a silent, compelling conclusion.
“You’re always skeptical of my plans,” Aodh reminded him.
Cormac nodded happily. “That’s because they’re always so god-awful. Reckless and foolish with ne’er a chance of succeeding.”
“Recall to me why you join me?” Aodh moved toward on of the tables.
Cormac grinned. “Because you’re effective as hell.”
“That would be the reason.” He yanked out the bench and sat.
Cormac dropped down beside him, elbow sprawled across the table, then tipped forward and stopped a maidservant in her trembling tracks with a menacing, friendly roar. “Ale, comely lass, and in great measure!”
She stared, wide-eyed, then turned and hurried off.
Aodh sighed. “We’re to coax the people of Rardove, not terrify them.”
Cormac’s bearded face compressed in indignation. “What did I do? I coaxed. Called her comely, I did. You heard me. An’ she is.”
“You frightened her.”
Cormac swiveled to watch the girl, then shook his head. “No’ a chance. She’s been lurking around the edges for hours now.”
“The edges of what?”
He grinned. “Me.”
Aodh smiled faintly but said only, “Leave her be.”
