Chapter Eighteen
“More ale!” Cormaccalled, waving over—yet again—the buxom serving girl. Servingwoman, Cara corrected herself, for no girl she’d ever met had such sizeable curves.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, snapping a steamed mussel in half.
“It really is,” Astrid agreed, not so quietly as Cara. “Two grown men falling over themselves because her breasts are the size of these rolls.” She grabbed one of the honey oat loaves from her plate with much the same irritation Cara felt.
“They really are though,” Cara looked between the loaves before them and the maid bending to fill Diarmid’s drinking horn.
“Diarmid’s had a long day,” Niamh said, low enough that the men across the table wouldn’t hear. “Let him have his fun. The maid seems to be enjoying the attention.”
Aye, that she did. Her sugary smile and flushed cheeks filled Cara with the urge to snap apart all the shellfish within reach. The eager woman laughed as Diarmid whispered something in her ear, flashing her that grin that always set off a swarm of butterflies in Cara’s stomach.
They were supposed to meet tonight, but it looked to Cara like Diarmid may be making other arrangements for his evening.
Diarmid never spoke to her at their meals, she realized as she continued to watch the garish show before her. In fact, since they arrived in Dyflin, he onlyeverinteracted with her when he cameto meet with her. He hadn’t even looked at her or greeted her when she’d come into the hall to dine. Cara couldn’t decide what irritated her more—that Diarmid apparently had no interest in socializing with her, or that she cared enough to notice.
The latter, she decided, breaking apart another mussel. She shouldn’t care a whit whether Diarmid spoke with her, or noticed her, or smiled at her. She should be entirely focused on whether Sitric did those things.
“You should see your faces,” Gormla called across the table, clearly amused by Cara’s burgeoning anger. Sitric’s mother turned to Diarmid and Cormac. “I don’t think the ladies approve of your antics, boys.”
For the first time the entire night, Diarmid looked straight at her. Cara felt his gaze course like a lightning strike through her. His hooded eyes, both cloudy and bright at once, searched her face before looking back to the maid. The look on his face roused a long-forgotten ache deep within her.
Cormac leaned over to whisper something to Diarmid, who frowned at him in response. Cormac shrugged, turning back to them. “I don’t know why they should care at all.” He speared Astrid with a dark glower.
“They shouldn’t,” Sitric agreed, placing his hand on Cara’s and also giving Astrid a sharp look. “Let our guests enjoy themselves, sister. They’ve agreed to fight with us, after all.”
The weight of Sitric’s hand startled her, but she managed not to pull it away or jump. She didn’t like the familiarity of the movement, the possessiveness of it. Cara kept her attention fixed on Diarmid, once again imagining it was his hand covering hers. Her racing pulse slowed, and she managed to relax into her chair a bit.
It grew more and more difficult to deny the very obvious and very problematic truth—that Cara didn’t want to belong to Sitric.
And she didn’t want that maid to belong to Diarmid.
She managed to get through the remainder of the meal, watching as Diarmid shamelessly pursued the serving maid, his brother doing his utmost to assist in the wretched endeavor. Cara waited until the plates were cleared from the table and the knucklebones brought in to rise from her seat.
“Stay,” Sitric pleaded, giving her hand a gentle tug. “You should stay and play with us.”
“I will another time,” she promised. “I’m afraid I’m too weary tonight.”
He smiled up at her, releasing her hand and turning his attention to his guests.
What was wrong with her? Cara brooded over her ridiculous feelings as she retreated to her room. Sitric was, by any standard, a remarkably handsome and charming man. He was young, fit, a strong warrior and a stronger king. He was one of the wealthiest kings, with access to trade routes the world over. She was nothing short of lucky that he had been the man chosen for her to wed. She shouldwantto marry him. Perhaps that would come in time.
Or, perhaps those feelings she sought would hit her when the Fianna finally left.
Whenoneof the Fianna finally left.
Trapped in her room, unwilling to face her riotous thoughts, Cara made her best attempt at going to sleep, ignoring the roars of laughter and the sounds of merriment coming from the other side of her door.
Some hours after she’d finally managed the feat, a soft knock woke her. Cara sat up, looking out her window and deciding it must be past midnight. Only one person would come calling so late, and she wasn’t entirely certain she wanted to open the door for him.
After a second knock, more insistent sounding, Cara relented and went to the door, frowning at Diarmid. “What do you want?”
The hall behind him had gone eerily quiet, not a soul in sight. It seemed the games had finally ended. Diarmid didn’t grin at her, and he didn’t look the least shaken by her frigid tone.
“Sitric missed you this evening.”
“I was tired,” she lied. “Are you already finished with your most recent conquest?”
