Cara’s face fell. “I did.”
“Because he’s a bastard,” Diarmid growled.
Before they could continue their conversation, Sitric returned to the hall, embracing Diarmid without hesitation. When their host turned toward Cara, Diarmid saw the resigned look on her face and knew she would at least make an attempt. She stood, setting down her book, and opened her arms in the saddest approximation of a hug he’d witnessed yet. They still had work to do there, he decided. Sitric hurried to accept her invitation, his surprised smile certainly a good sign.
Diarmid fought the instinct to rush over and separate them, ignoring the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. He stood there the entire time Sitric asked Cara a similar series of questions over her book, pretending that it didn’t bother him one bit. She wasn’t his, he reminded himself, irritated that such a thought had even bubbled to the surface. She belonged toSitric.And even if, God forbid, she’d somehow pricked his interest, Diarmid didn’t do relationships.
As Diarmid wondered whether he had stood there brooding for too long, Sitric turned to him. “I was just coming to get my runes,” he explained.
“Runes?” Cara asked.
Sitric grinned at her. “Wait here, I’ll show you.” He returned moments later with a small leather pouch held closed by a drawstring. “What do you wish to know?” he asked Cara.
The princess looked confused, clearly having no knowledge of the Ostman habit.
“Will we drink too much?” Diarmid asked, coming to her rescue.
“I don’t need the runes to know that,” Sitric laughed. “But I’ll play your game.” He opened the leather bag, gave it a shake, and dumped its contents onto one of the long tables.
Cara walked over to inspect them, her eyes narrowing as she studied the odd shapes and designs, each one on its own tiny wooden square. “Fascinating,” she breathed.
“Well,” Diarmid prompted, “what do they say?”
Sitric frowned, looking puzzled. “They say no. That can’t be right.”
“Maybe they’re wrong,” Cara suggested.
Sitric looked horrified. “They’reneverwrong.”
“Will you explain them to me?” Cara asked, her eyes bright. “What do the symbols mean?”
Diarmid excused himself as Sitric and Cara bent over the table, unable to stomach the sight of them together. That was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? To help them build a stronger bond? To help Cara grow more comfortable around Sitric?
He never thought succeeding in his mission would cause him such discomfort.
It seemed Diarmid had his answer: Sitric’s attitude toward Cara was improving.
And Diarmid didn’t like it one bit.
Chapter Sixteen
“That went well,don’t you think?” Cara asked Diarmid as he snuck into the hall to meet with her for another lesson. “Maybe we don’t need to keep doing this. I think I’ve got the idea.”
Aside from the sheer mortification of needing such lessons at all, Cara knew she was growing comfortable around Diarmid faster than she was around Sitric. A fact that may be counter-productive to their goals.
Diarmid crossed his arms, leveling her a disbelieving gaze. “Nice try, princess, but you’re stuck with me until we have his name on a parchment beside yours. And,” he took a step toward her, “while dinner wentbetter, I think we’ve room for improvement.”
“But he kissed my hand!” she argued. “And I didn’t even pull it away this time.” She’d been damned pleased with herself over that one. It had taken all the effort she could muster, but she’d done it.
“You looked like you wanted to cry.”
“You said I didn’t have to smile if I wasn’t happy,” she reminded him.
“And I stand by that,” he agreed, his voice gentler. “But you need to at least look interested.”
This was becoming more of a course in theatre than courtship. She wasn’t interested in Sitric, not in the way Diarmid meant. And she didn’t have to be in order to be a good wife.
“How do you propose to teach me such a thing?” she challenged.
