Cara’s hands grew cold and clammy as she noted the look of regret that flashed across Sitric’s grim features. Before the words left his mouth, she knew his answer.
“I’m afraid I must decline it.”
“What?” Illadan’s genuine surprise only made her feel worse. “Why?”
“I’ve decided that I’ve no wish to marry,” Sitric declared, “especially because some king with an over-inflated ego decides I should.”
“Perhaps it’s best if we don’t relay his exact phrasing,” Diarmid suggested, breaking the silence that followed Sitric’s statement.
Cara knew that was not the reason, though she was grateful for Sitric’s discretion.Shewas the reason he decided he didn’t want to marry. She saw his brows furrow deeper and deeper with each word she spoke to him, each time she pulled away from him. But she didn’t know how to fix it, or, indeed, whether she even could. Unable to bear her embarrassment any longer, Cara excused herself and hurried to her own quarters.
Knowing she’d failed both her family and her king.
Chapter Seven
The princess mayhave been made of ice, but Diarmid certainly wasn’t. No matter how much she irritated him, Diarmid couldn’t sit idly and watch her fail. The desolate look on her face when Sitric had refused the betrothal made his own chest ache. Not only that, but the tension amongst his fellow Fianna filled the room as each one realized how little control they had over the success of this mission. They had brought the princess to the king, aye. But not one of them could force him to agree to the betrothal. As he watched Cara flee the awkward situation, Diarmid decided he had to do something to help.
The question, waswhat?
“Sitric,” Illadan began, his tone betraying his intentions.
Sitric held up a hand, interrupting Illadan. “I know what you would say, but I think it’s best left for another time. You and your men, as well as the princess, are welcome to stay as long as you’d like. My home is your home until you are ready to return. But my mind is made up. The princess leaves with you when you go.”
All the men had spent time with Sitric in one capacity or another when he’d come to visit Brian’s fortress in Caiseal for Finn and Eva’s wedding. They’d even fought by his side in the battle just before that. But Diarmid had always got on particularly well with Sitric. They shared a thirst for life that could not be quenched. They craved adventure, pleasure, fun. They lived through many of the worst things in life, yet they onlysaw the best. Perhaps his sense of kinship to the Ostman king was one-sided, but Diarmid guessed that it was Cara herself, and not simply the idea of marriage, that fueled his refusal. As Diarmid drank and laughed alongside the men, a plan began to form in his mind. One that would take both time and tact to implement.
First and foremost, he needed to get Sitric alone, to be certain his instincts on the matter were correct. He doubted Sitric would speak ill of the lady in front of a dozen men, but alone he may be able to pry the truth from him.
It wasn’t long before the bell sounded for dinner, sometime in the midafternoon. They’d arrived at Dyflin midmorning, and in half a day the entire mission had gone sideways.
Diarmid’s respect for Cara grew tenfold when, after that harsh rebuff not an hour earlier, she returned to join them for the meal. With her hair down. Not entirely unbraided, but she’d loosened some of the ties, letting a portion of silken black hair fall in waves down her back.
That something so subtle affected Diarmid’s lust so profoundly was a testament to the fact that he should never have agreed to this infernal wager. If he’d been able to bed a woman in the past two days, the sight of some uptight princess letting her hair down would certainly not be getting his blood boiling. He threw back a long, deep drink of ale. And then another.
Cara, Niamh, Dallan, Astrid, and another woman sat at the far end of the table in what seats remained open, opposite Sitric and most of the Fianna. Diarmid spent much of the meal observing Cara and Sitric, their mannerisms, the looks they shared—which were few and frigid. He even watched how they spoke with those close to them. And in every conceivable way, they were hopelessly opposite. Where Sitric leaned to the man beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder and belly-laughing at a jest, Cara sat straight as a board, forcing Niamh to lean nearerto her for them to have a private conversation. Not once—not one time—did Cara’s perfect lips break into a smile.
Distracted by his little game of observation, the meal flew past and what seemed like minutes later, folk began leaving the table. Some went into the seating areas that lined the sides of the long hall. Others got out game boards and went to find playing companions. Still others stayed put and raised their horns for more ale. Servants came to clear plates and cups and spoons, wiping the table with wet cloths and sweeping the wattle-covered floor below.
Diarmid strode over to Sitric, grabbing his arm and dragging him from conversation. “What say we forget this lot and go steal drinks from the alehouse and kisses from the maids?”
Sitric’s roar of laughter had Diarmid grinning like a fool as they hurried from the hall. “Come,” Sitric whispered, in the loudly hushed tones only a drunk man could manage, “I know a place you’ll like.”
They left the palisade that marked the borders of Sitric’s holding, following a winding path of sodden split logs down the gently sloping hillside. The sun had not yet set as they wandered the streets of Sitric’s town, folk still hurrying to finish their labors before darkness descended.
“This is the woodcarvers’ hall,” Sitric said, gesturing to a building as they passed. It looked much the same as Sitric’s own hall—indeed, all the buildings did—except far smaller. “They train men from all over the island in intricate carvings.”
“I’ve heard much of the skill of the craftsmen of Dyflin,” Diarmid replied. And he had. Woodcarvers, leatherworkers, metalsmiths—all spoke of Dyflin as a mystical land filled with the most talented artisans. “More oft than not, when I compliment a smith on his work, he tells me he studied in Dyflin.”
“Aye, he probably did,” Sitric told him, pride filling his every word. “Hundreds come through each year. Some stay a sennight, others for months at a time. A few stay for good, though most prefer to bring their newfound skills back to their own kingdoms.”
“Is it difficult? Managing the blending of two different peoples? You have many Ostmen in Dyflin, but I hear the language of Éire spoken just as much.”
“At times.” They arrived at a hall with its doors flung open, music and cheer emanating from within, a promise of merriment for the weary traveler. Or the weary king, in Sitric’s case. Hung over the doors were two halves of a broken oar. “Brawls break out on occasion, but I work to ensure they’ve more cause to band together than squabble amongst themselves. Much of the time we have peace.”
Everyone they passed greeted Sitric. Some bowed, others waved, a select few patted him on the back. Diarmid followed the Ostman to a bench in the back corner, in what would have been a seating area in Sitric’s hall. Here, it was a smaller square table. They settled into their dimly lit corner of what was clearly a popular haunt.
“What about here?” Diarmid asked as a brown-haired woman, who looked just older than Niamh, appeared with two tankards. “Do you ever have drunken sailors or merchants causing trouble?”
“Never,” the woman declared, setting the drinks down hard on the table, the frothy liquid sloshing over the side.
