“I need to go,” Clíodhna said. She moved for the door with Murphy on her heels, but Ronan caught her wrist.
For a moment, her hazel eyes met his—almost golden in this light—and he didn’t see Domhnall’s almost-betrothed or the careless royal he’d heard stories about. She was just a girl, concerned for her home.
The space where his fingers touched her skin was warm, and he wanted to pull her closer. To offer some sort of comfort.
He let go immediately as if burned. “My apologies. I just—are you all right?”
Her face was once again that of a dignified princess. Shuttered. “Of course. Our conversation has given me much to think about. Thank you for that. If you’ll excuse me, I have a letter to write.”
Chapter Eight
The mess hall was a chorus of noise, and filled with Draoi, daltas, and warriors. After talking to Ronan in the library, Clía had rushed back to her room to write a letter to her parents. By the time she was able to come down to eat, everyone else had already arrived. She could smell the dirt and sweat clinging to the skin of the other daltas, almost overwhelming the scent of the food on the tables.
Her conversation with Ronan wouldn’t leave her mind. He was Domhnall’s guard, guaranteed to not have a great view of her kingdom, yet he hadn’t dismissed her. He’d listened to her concerns and met them with his own.
If only he had ignored her, then maybe she wouldn’t be filled with the dread that coiled in her now. When they’d discussed their kingdoms and the threats they faced, Clía was reminded of her games of fidchell: predicting your opponent’s move, discovering weaknesses in their attack. Except she had joined the game too late.
Álainndore was weak. Perhaps not how Domhnall meant it when he broke off their betrothal, but her kingdom still lacked the training and dedication of Scáilcan warriors and the diligent care of the Scáilcan royals. With Ríoghain as their patron, Scáilca had thrived, but Álainndore had focused too much on superficialthings—fashion, gossip, alliances, and manipulation. All had a time and place, but her parents had let these elements consume the court, even themselves.
Her kingdom wasn’t prepared for war.
In the letter, she had explained her suspicions and her concerns for their kingdom. She also wrote a second missive to Ó Connor, with the same information.
She was too far from home to make a difference on her own, and there was still another problem that demanded her attention. Clía could almost hear her mother nagging:Focus on the task at hand. Her parents and Ó Connor would handle the kingdom. Her best way of helping would be to fix what she had broken with Domhnall.
Today’s training may not have gone as planned—a fact that filled her with frustration—but dinner brought new opportunities.
She spotted the prince sitting in the back corner of the room, surprisingly without Captain Ó Faoláin beside him. He was combing back his hair with his fingers, and his deep blue doublet was wrinkled and covered in a layer of dust—but the collar was neatly fixed against his neck.
When they were children, she always had to help him with his clothes. Domhnall would fuss and fight it, but she would see the gratitude in his eyes when he was impeccably turned out for every event. He had been hopeless back then. Perhaps not much had changed.
His attention was on the conversation he was having with the girl sitting across from him. When she turned, Clía immediately recognized the warrior.
Niamh Morrigan.
Perhaps he had felt unsettled by their duel and Niamh’s attack, and was inquiring after Clía’s well-being? Or they might know each other. Kordislaen had called Niamh’s father a lord—the Morrigans must be Scáilcan nobility. They could have grown up among the same circles.
But then why would Clía have never heard of her? For years, she and Domhnall shared their lives through letters and visits. He would certainly have mentioned someone like Niamh.
She pinned on her sunniest smile and smoothed her golden hair as she approached them. Here was a chance to win him back; she wouldn’t get distracted.Thiswas a type of battle she understood.
“Clía!” The corners of Domhnall’s mouth tightened when he noticed her. “I must say, I was surprised to see you today.”
“Why?” she replied innocently.
“Well, I—uh—I never thought battle was something you cared for.” He sent a glance she couldn’t read to Niamh before standing. “May we speak in private for a moment?”
Her brow arched. “Whatever for?”
“There are some things I wish to tell you.”
He saw the error in his ways. He regrets leaving me. He wants to be married by sunrise.
She shook the ridiculous notions out of her head.
“Of course. Lead the way.” She gestured toward the door, and he gently took her arm in his as they exited the hall.
Once in the relative quiet of the corridor, Domhnall dropped her arm. She stood back and looked him over once more. His lean arms, chiseled jaw, and familiar, piercing eyes. The sight of him was a comfort, despite everything.
