“If it wasn’t, then he’s either a coward or a fool.” The corners of his lips curved into a playful smile. “You should be more prepared, either way. Is there anything else that you felt uncomfortable with? We don’t have much time before the bell for dinner, and you’re going to need to make one hell of an impression.”
Cara didn’t much care for his reminder. “Conversation,” she replied, determined to make the most of his help. “I never seem to say the right things. I’ve tried everything I can think of.”
“Do you ever think things, then not say them?”
Cara rolled her eyes. “Of course, I do. If everything that went through my mind came out my mouth, then I’d sound ridiculous.”
“You don’t have to sayeverything, but try to say more things.”
“That is not even a little bit helpful.”
The door into the hall flew open as the Fianna returned from their training, smelling a good deal like the swamp they’d ridden through yesterday morn, and not looking much better. Hopefully they were on their way to bathe before dinner. Cara pulled her hand back into her own lap.
“Just tell him something about you, or answer a question that you’d normally ignore. Offer up some part of yourself so he can see you’re trying.”
Cara nodded, rising to go get ready for dinner. “Thank you.”
The Fianna hurried back out to bathe, having grabbed clean garments from their rooms. Cara was grateful they’d been quick about it. Their stench alone would have sent their enemies running.
Diarmid grabbed her hand, grinning in approval when she didn’t flinch. “Wear your hair down.”
“I tried, it didn’t work.”
“You didn’t let all of it down. No braids, or I can’t promise we’re going to get anywhere.”
Cara glared at him. “Fine. No braids.”
“I’ll see you at dinner, princess.”
Chapter Twelve
Diarmid didn’t knowwhat to make of Cara. On his way into the main hall with the other Fianna, who no longer smelled like they’d brought the bog back with them, he decided that perhaps, as she’d so kindly put it, she wasn’t so irritating as he’d thought. And, if she hadn’t always had difficulty connecting with people, then it implied that something had happened—something she didn’t wish to speak of—to change that. Diarmid felt his heart kick up several paces, his chest hardening in anger at the thought of someone hurting Cara so badly she’d stopped letting anyone in at all.
“Did it not go well?” Cormac asked as he slipped onto the bench beside Diarmid.
He couldn’t remember the last time his older brother had sought him out as a dinner companion. They’d always had different circles of friends. Diarmid shook his head. “I think it went alright. I suppose we’ll see soon enough.”
Cormac regarded him thoughtfully, but said nothing. Much as Cara would do, Diarmid mused. As though summoning her with mere thought, the princess appeared at the far entrance. And Diarmid forgot how to breathe.
Those long, black locks were so dark that they somehow managed to glow a silvery blue in the firelight. Just as cool and defiant as the woman herself, they fell about her in soft curls and waves. The contrast between her black hair, her rose-red lips, and her sapphire eyes left Diarmid speechless. His gaze neverleft her as she took her seat near the end of the table where Sitric sat at the head.
A twinge of irritation burst within Diarmid as he watched Sitric smile and greet Cara. Though he had every intention of helping her charm the Ostman over the course of dinner, Diarmid found it difficult to continue watching the obvious lust in Sitric’s eyes. So he turned back to Cormac, who was once more staring at him thoughtfully.
“You know,” Diarmid offered up in a deceptively cheery voice, “it’s irritating as hell when you do that.”
Cormac smiled at him. “I know.”
“So, are you going to tell me what you were thinking, or…” Diarmid stopped when he noticed a shadow pass over Cormac’s face. Turning, he saw that Astrid and Gormla had taken their seats—Astrid between Cara and Niamh, and Gormla opposite them to Sitric’s right. “I noticed you didn’t get off to the best start with Astrid,” Diarmid said under his breath so that only Cormac could hear.
“If Sitric turns on Brian—or ratherwhenhe does—that woman will be behind it, mark my words.”
Diarmid sensed that this was a sensitive topic for his brother so, naturally, he pressed him on it, if only to take his mind off the breathtaking beauty who refused to leave it. “And this has nothing to do with the fact that she gave you a proper tongue-lashing the other night?”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Cormac snorted. “She’s nothing but trouble, regardless of who she decides is the problem.”
Though Diarmid knew his brother was the one being ridiculous, he was concerned that two people had accused him of such in one day. He dared a glance at Cara to check in on her progress. She listened as Sitric spoke with her, though Diarmid couldn’t make out the topic of conversation through the din of the other guests.Everyonewas talking. Loudly. What had begunas a gentle murmur of polite conversation, swelled to a roar as platters of food arrived and the meal began in earnest.
Cooked cod, soaked in golden butter and dressed in mustard greens. Hearty breads of every kind of flour Diarmid could name, steaming and warm. Roasted parsnip and onion, fried burdock, fresh pennycress. Strips of salted pork, wild mushrooms, and platter after platter of fruit and honey desserts.
