After devouring half his meal in record time, Diarmid once more looked up to where Cara sat near Sitric. She’d lost his attention. Diarmid waited until she locked eyes with him, then motioned that she ought to speak with him. Her lips tightened and she inclined her head to Gormla, with whom he now spoke, facing away from Cara. She needed to interrupt politely. Warmly.
Diarmid decided Cormac would make a fine example. He made a show of placing his hand on his brother’s arm until Cormac turned away from his conversation with Illadan.
“What?” he asked before following Diarmid’s gaze to Cara. “Ah.”
She frowned at Diarmid, but took an uncharacteristically deep breath. Then she placed a hand on Sitric’s arm—winning his full attention and a brilliant smile in the blink of an eye.
That same, unfamiliar twinge shot through his chest again, making it ache with—Lord Almighty, was thatjealousy? Diarmid immediately dismissed the idea. Why would he possibly be jealous of Sitric’s smiling at Cara? He didn’t even like her. Aye, she was stunning, but Diarmid had bedded many a beautiful woman. Admittedly, none so beautiful as Cara, but at least they knew how to relax and enjoy themselves.
Thankfully, even if he was tempted by her—which he wasn’t—he had his wager to keep him from making any truly terrible decisions. And his unflinching dedication to his mission. And the fact that the woman literally turned her nose up at the hintof intimacy. And, most importantly, that she was an important pawn in Brian’s political scheme to unite all the kingdoms. Thank God he had all those reasons to maintain the boundaries already in place, to keep his hands off Cara outside of helping her with Sitric.
“Your efforts appear to be paying off,” Cormac remarked. The loud conversations about them ensured no one overheard. “Though you’re looking at her the way Dallan looks at Niamh.”
“I thought it more akin to the way you look at Astrid,” Diarmid replied.
Cormac took that opportunity to glare pointedly at the redhead across from them, who stuck out her tongue in retaliation before turning back to Niamh. “If you mean looking at her as though I wish she were a man so I could challenge her stubborn arse to a duel, then perhaps.”
“Niamh fought a duel. I don’t see why Astrid couldn’t. She certainly seems capable of handling herself.”
“Indeed,” Cormac grumbled, taking a generous bite of the savory fish.
“Friends,” Sitric began, his voice rising above the myriad conversations across the table. “I’ve been thinking that perhaps we ought to make the most of your stay in Dyflin. I can think of no finer a visit than drinking, feasting, and fighting with friends.”
The room went silent.
“Fighting?” Illadan repeated.
“Aye,” Sitric’s catlike smile reeked of subtlety. “I can’t have Brian’s best warriors growing stale in my keeping.”
“We’re flattered that you think you could dull our blades, Sitric,” Dallan said to his cousin. “We’ve only been here two days, and we trained for one of them.”
“True,” Sitric mused, “but you haven’t been in a battle—a real battle, not that skirmish where you rescued dearest Cara,” heshot a pointed look at Conan, who had been about to protest, “in months.”
“What is it you want, Sitric?” Cormac’s even tone cut through the discussion.
“The same thing as Brian, in this instance.” Sitric took a swig of his ale, looking from one man to the next. “When last I saw him, Brian mentioned that he was having some difficulties moving enough men north to properly convince Ulaid to bend the knee.”
Everyone knew that, Diarmid nearly spoke aloud. Eochaid, the man to whom Aodh had planned to gift Cara, was perhaps even more a thorn in Brian’s side than the High King himself—the one who held the title he so coveted.
“And this,” Cormac continued, his voice giving away nothing, “has naught to do with the blood feud you now have with Eochaid, I suppose?”
“One does not negate the other,” Astrid chimed in, her piercing golden eyes pinned on Cormac. “We can seek vengeance whilst furthering your king’s campaign.”
“The Fianna should not invade another kingdom without Brian’s consent, regardless of his intentions.” Cormac’s tight tone brought a grin to Diarmid’s face. That woman was easily getting the better of his brother—a feat he could watch all evening. He’d spent the better part of his childhood trying to upend his older brother’s unwavering calm. And here Astrid sat, making it look easy.
“It wouldn’t be the Fianna,” Sitric said. “It would be the men of Dyflin. We could dress you as one of us, and none would be the wiser. We will arrive on ships, leaving no question as to who called the raid.”
It was a risk, Diarmid knew, but a relatively small one. More than likely Sitric intended to raid some of the monasteries or small holdings along the coast or just inland. The likelihood theyran into anyone who would recognize them, particularly beneath an Ostman’s guise, was low indeed.
“We shall consult amongst ourselves and give you our answer in the morn,” Illadan declared.
Sitric nodded in agreement, but it was clear he’d hoped for enthusiastic agreement, not measured contemplation. He took another drink from his drinking horn, his mood subdued.
In the midst of the debate, Diarmid noticed Cara shifting her weight on her seat. Having Sitric frustrated by their conversation would not make her task any easier. He saw the same realization flit across her features, so he raised his hand just above the table, wiggling his fingers and giving her the most deliberate look, that he hoped implied she ought to grab Sitric’s hand. The gesture would show her support, as well as some much-needed affection.
She shook her head ever so slightly, just enough for Diarmid to notice.
He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at her, nodding once again toward Sitric.
