He grinned at her, the same sort of grin she loved when it came from Diarmid. With Sitric, though she was glad he enjoyed himself, it didn’t ignite those same desires within her. “Well, I am amazing,” he boasted, his tone indicating he jested. Everyone at the table laughed again.
She passed the bones to Astrid beside her, who also completed the trick with no difficulty. As did everyone else around the table.
When they reached Diarmid, Cara’s focus naturally went to his hands as he played the trick. But the sight of his hands sent her mind to another place entirely—a riverbank, where those hands squeezed and caressed her, where his lips devoured her. He cupped his hand around the bones, passing them to Cormac as she fought the heat rising within her.
By the third round of the game, Cara realized she’d either need to take Sitric up on his offer or withdraw entirely. The tricks had only gotten more difficult, and Cara had long since accepted that she’d be the one drinking on her turns.
“One more round,” Sitric announced, passing her the bones, “then I’m to bed.” He reached an arm around Cara’s shoulders, setting her on edge. Less so, admittedly, than if she’d not had an entire cup of wine already. Instinctively, she turned toward Diarmid.
He’d been watching, she realized, the muscles in his jaw so tight she could see them working from across the table. His nose flared as he stared at Sitric’s arm.
Cara took a deep breath and, instead of ignoring the weight of the arm about her shoulders, she closed her eyes and imagined—nay, remembered—how Diarmid’s arms felt wrapped around her only a few hours earlier. When she opened them, she realized everyone stared at her. They couldn’t possibly know what she’d been thinking, she assured herself, all the while growing more and more conscious of their unwanted attention.
“It’s your turn,princess.” The word rolled out of his mouth so softly, his voice so rough, Cara could almost feel him whispering it against her skin.
It took her several seconds, after the desire flashed through her and she overcame the shock of him actually speaking to her in public, to realize what he’d said. She looked at the bones before her on the table and picked them up, muttering an apology.
Sitric squeezed her shoulder supportively.
Diarmid looked ready to murder him.
Cara forced herself to stop imagining Diarmid’s lips on hers and to focus on taking her turn. Which she failed miserably. She took another sip of wine, passing the bones again to Astrid.
Across from them, Cormac’s attention slid from Cara—who hadn’t realized he’d been watching her—to Astrid. By the end of the round, Finn was declared the champion for the evening, earning him several bawdy jokes about his dexterous fingers that appeared to deeply upset Dallan.
Niamh rubbed Dallan’s shoulders, giggling and whispering something to him that seemed to assuage him. When Niamh noticed Cara watching, she leaned toward her. “Finn is married to his sister,” she reminded Cara. “He can be a bit touchy about it, especially when he’s in his cups.”
Cara had completely forgotten that, though they’d mentioned it several times on their journey to Dyflin. The room cleared, the conversation steadily falling from a roar to a murmur. Sitric bid her goodnight with a sloppy smile, heading for his room. All his warriors and many of the Fianna had departed for their own beds. Cara’s face fell when she realized Diarmid had already gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
He had toget out of that hall. Sitric was his friend, a man he truly respected, whose company he enjoyed more than most. Yet it was all he could do to keep from leaping over the table and ripping his arm off of Cara. And punching him in the face while he was at it.
Worse, Diarmid knew it was Sitric’s arm, not his own, that actually belonged there.
“Where are we going?” his brother Conan asked, hurrying to catch up with Diarmid as he stormed down the hill and away from Sitric’s holding.
“Diarmid needs a night out,” Cormac answered for him, appearing on his other side.
“Diarmid needs a good fight,” Diarmid grumbled at his brothers.
“I’ll fight you,” Conan offered cheerily. “I never tire of beating your sorry arse.”
They’d made it halfway down the hill, the first houses as far before them as Sitric’s lay behind, when Cormac pulled Diarmid to a halt.
“It’s better to let it out,” Cormac advised. “No judgment here. Right, Conan?”
Conan looked like he might make another jest, until he saw Diarmid’s face. “Right,” he agreed. “What am I missing? I feel like you both know something I don’t.”
Cormac shot Diarmid a pointed look. “Let it out.”
“I can’t stop thinking about her.” Diarmid pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to stop helping her. I can’t take it any longer.”
“Maybe I can help her instead,” Conan offered. “Are you just talking with her?”
“He’s not,” Cormac said.
Conan’s eyes went wide. “You’re not bedding her, are you? Sitric will—”
