He probably shouldnot have done that. No, he absolutely should not have done that. The intoxicating combination of alcohol and desire got the better of him. He’d meant what he said, that he couldn’t continue to meet with her, but he’d barely managed to get away without kissing her. Even now he could see the unmasked desire that had set her gaze afire. Aye, Diarmid needed to stay far away from Cara and the temptation that followed in her wake.
Conan’s strike hit true, the flat of his sword smacking against Diarmid’s arm. Around them, the rest of the Fianna sparred—a blessed reprieve from their runs through the bog.
“Where is your mind today, brother?” Conan taunted. “It’s hardly a victory when you’re not even fighting me.”
“It’s only a victory when I’m not fighting,” Diarmid shot back, shaking out his sword arm. “Let’s go again.”
True to his threat, Diarmid bested Conan on the next two bouts, momentarily able to get his mind off the temptress. His victory proved short-lived, however, for before they’d even stopped for the midday meal she appeared outside the main hall, once again heading straight toward him.
“My apologies for the interruption,” she called as she approached. “Might I borrow Diarmid?”
Had she not heard him last night? Had she not seen his struggle? Before he could refuse, Cormac readily agreed to herrequest. Diarmid hadn’t spoken with him yet, so Cormac had no idea that he could no longer help the princess.
Unable to do aught else, Diarmid followed Cara to the edge of the field where the Fianna continued their sparring. The sound of steel striking steel ringing, ensured their conversation remained private.
“I need your help,” she said, as though last night had never happened.
Diarmid crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you not hear me last night?”
She worried her bottom lip, the most vulnerable behavior he’d witnessed from her yet. “I heard you.”
“Then you know my answer.”
“Diarmid.”
He liked the sound of his name on her lips far too much. “Cara.”
“I can’t do this without your help. Please.” Her pleading look threatened his resolve. “At least walk with me and let me make my proposal. Like we did the other night.”
“Fine,” Diarmid allowed. He could manage a walk in the daylight. At a respectable distance. “But it will be a short walk.”
“Of course,” she agreed too readily.
The icy princess he’d traveled here with would have pushed harder. She was up to something. Ignoring his misgivings, Diarmid walked beside her toward the gate out of Sitric’s holding. She turned toward the overlook, not speaking a word until they were nearly there.
“I walked up here with Sitric this morn,” she said at last.
Dark clouds hung low, speeding toward them over the roiling sea. Diarmid felt it adequately reflected his current mood—brooding and ready to burst.
“Did it go well?” he asked. After his failed attempt at bedding the serving maid, Diarmid had finally understood the dangerof their arrangement. He was developing feelings for Cara, only one step short of forming a relationship. And that was out of the question for more reasons than he cared to count.
“It did, I think,” she replied. “But it got me thinking about my future with Sitric.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me, princess.”
“Well, you won’t be here for it. Once the betrothal is in place, you’ll leave with the Fianna. And I’ll be left to deal with the truly uncomfortable parts on my own.”
Diarmid’s heart stilled. He ceased his study of the darkening sky to stare at her in genuine shock. “Are you propositioning me?”
A crimson flush swept up her cheeks, but she stood unflinching, the wind whipping her gown into a frenzied dance. “If I have this much trouble hugging and having open conversation, how much harder would it be to let him touch me? You’re preparing me for everything except the true challenge—living with the betrothal. He said he wanted a bride who leapt into his bed,” she choked out the words. “As it stands, I’d be running the other direction.”
She took a step toward him.
The heavens chose that moment to open above them, a sharp, cold downpour soaking them to the bone. Cara’s dress clung to her, her sodden black hair emphasizing the shape of her breasts with agonizing precision.
Diarmid’s clothes were soaked, but his mouth had somehow gone dry. In a complete turnaround, she was actually propositioninghim. Cara, the woman who couldn’t bear to be touched and who’d done naught but chastise him for taking women to bed.
“You said yourself that you wanted to bed me,” she pressed when he’d still made no effort to respond, “which leads me tobelieve it would be no great burden to you. And it would be a great help to me.”
