“Ready?” Sitric asked, taking her hand. “I’ve somewhere to show you that I think you’ll find enchanting.”
They walked the way they always went, out of Sitric’s holding and down the road leading into the heart of Dyflin. Countless houses came and went, the ship masts rising to their right in a harbor hidden from view. Children ran laughing through the buildings and along the roadways. Sitric was oddly quiet, not asking any questions as he usually did. He stopped outside a hall marked as a metalsmith’s shop, opening the door for Cara and following her inside.
Two guards stood at the door, nodding to Sitric as they passed. She expected a blast of heat, thinking there would be a smith’s forge running somewhere inside. Instead, she found a window-lined hall, filled with trestle tables where men sat on stools bent over their work. Scattered over the table were bowls and bins filled with bits of metal, small tools, and more gemstones than Cara had seen in one place.
“Well that explains the guards,” she said.
“Indeed,” Sitric agreed. “Though we have very few attempts at thievery.”
A small fire burned in the center of the hall, but nothing like a billowing forge. Several craftsmen waved and greeted Sitric, who took Cara’s hand to wander down the first row of tables.
“This is where they design jewelry, brooches, inlaid belts, bowls, hilts,” Sitric explained, gesturing to many of the items as they appeared on the tables. “Anything that requires finesse and sparkles enough to tempt a dragon, they craft here.”
Cara inspected a large cross, crafted of gold and inlaid with rubies, that a man was polishing. “They’re beautiful,” she toldhim. “It must require a great deal of training to make such fine designs.”
“It does indeed. And this is where craftsmen from all over the island come to do just that.” He looked over her shoulder at the golden cross. “You favor that one?”
She jumped back, hitting his chest before stepping to the side. “No,” she replied. “I mean, yes, it’s beautiful, but—”
“Which one do you like, then?”
Cara’s stomach swirled into a knot tighter than any sailor could render. “They’re all beautiful,” she hedged, sensing now the purpose of the excursion.
“So I should buy them all?” His grin was full of mischief and charm.
But he wasn’t Diarmid.
In that moment, Cara realized he never would be. “You deserve someone who will smile with you,” she said softly.
He took her hand, pulling her away from the tables. “And you deserve someone who will make you smile,” he replied. “That you even would say such a thing tells me there is hope for this betrothal yet. Perhaps in time I’ll see you laugh.”
“Even before—” she began, catching herself. “I’ve never been much given to laughter and smiles. My mother always chastised me for my serious manner, even when I was small.”
“You’re still small,” he teased. She certainly was compared with Sitric. And with Diarmid. “And though appreciated, laughter is not required.” His hand rose to her ear, tucking a strand of hair behind it tenderly.
Cara imagined Diarmid doing the same, and instantly felt less like cringing—though infinitely more guilty. Sitric deserved a woman who craved his touch as she did Diarmid’s. He was too kind to be wasted on her.
“I’ve grown fond of you and your strange habits this past sennight,” he continued. “I wish to give you a gift, to celebrate our impending betrothal.”
“But I haven’t—” she paused, not wanting to speak of such intimate things with fifty other men within earshot.
His hand moved to her face, cradling it as Diarmid had when he’d come to her room at midnight. Before he’d pinned her against the wall and made her want him so badly she still hadn’t stopped.
“I know,” Sitric whispered. “But you will.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Diarmid felt bothbetter and worse after the night out with his brothers. It had been cathartic to speak with them about Cara. Hearing their reassurance that his growing feelings would pass with time, if he could only manage a few more days, took away some of his worries. But it did nothing to ease the growing ache in his heart as he realized the only woman he’d ever truly loved was going to marry another man.
He entered the guest hall with the other Fianna, freshly washed and returning his muck-covered clothes to the box in his room. He sincerely hoped Sitric paid the launderer an enormous bonus for all the extra washing the Fianna generated. Perhaps he ought to mention that to Illadan, in the hopes the guilt of it might finally end their runs through the bog.
As the men dispersed to their rooms to wait for dinner, Diarmid halted before his own door.
It was closed.
He’d left it open. He looked about to see if Conan or Dallan had set some sort of trick for him, but both of them had already gone. Deciding that perhaps the launderer or maid had closed it on her way out, Diarmid opened the door.
Nothing seemed amiss, so he shut it behind him, thinking to lie down until the bell rang for dinner. Before he’d taken two steps, Cara popped out from the other side of his bed, where she’d clearly been crouching.
