Her crystal blue eyes shot to him.
Oh, yes. It seemed she did like that name, he mused. He wondered if Sitric would ever figure that out, should matters improve. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“After giving it more consideration, I’ve decided that I do wish to discuss your offer of aid, if it still stands.” She sat straight as the back of her chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her face expressionless. Diarmid certainly had his work cut out for him. She was a perfect princess, but Sitric didn’t want a princess. He wanted a bride.
“It does,” he assured her, keeping his voice low. He doubted Sitric would be nearby, but he also doubted his friend would appreciate Diarmid’s efforts to entrap him in a marriage he obviously didn’t desire.
She bit her bottom lip, the first sign Diarmid had ever seen of true emotion in this woman. He couldn’t take his eyes off the soft, pink flesh of her lips. Couldn’t stop imagining how they might feel beneath his own.
“What did you have in mind?” Her hesitant question interrupted his wildly inappropriate musings.
“Before I know what we must work on, I need to know what happened with Sitric just now that changed your mind,” Diarmid replied gently, knowing she’d not like that idea. “In fact, if you could relate to me what’s happened each time you’ve spoken with him, that would help me greatly in deciding what to do next.”
Cara looked down at her hands, rolling her damned lips together. “I can’t seem to let him touch me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Diarmid fought the images that came into his mind at the word ‘touch,’ focusing instead on the intricate carvings on Cara’s chair. “Touch you how?”
“At all.” Her voice held a note of defeat he’d never heard before. “He tries to hold my hand, and even when I want to lethim, I pull it away. Or, rather, it pulls itself away, regardless of my wishes. And this last time, when I finally offered my hand, truly determined to let him hold it…” She stopped, still staring at her hands, as though she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
Diarmid said nothing, simply waited. He knew she’d tell him when she was ready.
“He tried to kiss it, and it surprised me.”
He found the thought of Sitric’s lips on her hand oddly unsettling. “And you pulled it away?”
She sighed. “Is that even something you could help me with? I fear I’ve already made too great a mess of this to clean up.”
“We have no choice but to try.” Diarmid walked over to her, crouching before her chair so that their eyes were level with one another. “Your sister is counting on you,” he reminded her gently. “And Brian ordered the Fianna to see you betrothed to Sitric, to help keep this tenuous peace in place. So, whether we fear failure or not, you and I are going to try to fix this.” He stood, not wanting to create too serious a mood. “But first, I’m taking a bath.”
A very, very cold bath.
Chapter Eleven
Cara ventured intothe main hall for her midday meal while she waited for Diarmid to bathe. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she held when she poked her head into the building to find Sitric nowhere in sight. She wasn’t frightened of him—not in the least. But she wanted her next interaction with him to go well, and for that to happen she needed to work with Diarmid first.
She was just finishing up when Diarmid wandered in to retrieve her, smelling faintly of sage, his wild, chestnut waves still damp. He wore a fresh shirt and trews, both of which fitted him tightly enough to display the mountains of muscle that lay beneath. They returned to the guest hall, where they were assured of privacy while the Fianna trained.
“Alright,” Diarmid began cheerily, rubbing his hands together, “I propose we begin with hand-holding.”
“I’m going to need you to clarify—” Cara thought for a moment, “Well, every part of that statement, actually.”
“You told me that you wanted to let Sitric hold your hand, but that you kept pulling it away because it made you uncomfortable. Is that right?”
Cara nodded.
“I suggest that, as I practice with sword and spear, you practice whatever challenges you until it becomes second nature. So,” Diarmid sat in one of the small seating areas, at abench that could fit them both, and offered her his hand. “I’m going to be needing that hand of yours.”
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered. In spite of her protest, Cara sat beside him, placing her hand in his. Aside from the debacle with Sitric over the past two days, this was the first time she’d let anyone so close. Diarmid’s hand, rough from hours of training, dwarfed her own. She felt the heat from his body, could sense the space he consumed beside her, could hear his steady breath.
“We could play a game,” he suggested.
“Absolutely not.”
“There’s a child’s game that involves moving your hands out of the way before—”
“Let’s start with this for now,” Cara insisted. Some long-lost part of her, the soul of the child she’d once been, screamed at her for being such a bore.
Diarmid nodded his head, but his feet began wiggling. Cara noted that he looked everywhere except at her.
