He raised a brow. “What’s this? The woman who’s been doing everything in her power to convince me to marry her now hesitates?” His voice held no censure, only curiosity and bemusement, a lightness she knew never came from her own lips.
“It’s just that I was expecting another few days before you agreed,” she hurried—and it wasn’t entirely fabricated, either. “I’m surprised, is all.”
“Well, in that case why don’t we wait until I return from the raid,” he offered. “It will give you the few days you’d expected, and I will focus on preparing for battle instead of drawing up a contract.”
“That would be lovely,” she agreed. “Thank you.”
He stood, smiling at her. “Excellent. We’ll discuss the details when I return.”
Cara rose with him, collecting her blanket and walking back toward Sitric’s holding by his side, trying not to let her guilt eat her up along the way.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The halls thrummedwith life. Sitric’s entire holding was filled to bursting with every fighting man who could squeeze a space for himself in the revelry. As always, the meal began in the midafternoon and lasted until near sunset. But folk arrived early and stayed long into the night, setting up contests of strength and wit and drink wherever space could be found.
The meal itself—a grand display of meats, sweets, and root vegetables that would have impressed any king—passed quickly, with minimal conversation. Every man there had spent the better part of the past two days rowing a longship or sparring in the fields. Ravenous was too weak a word for the hunger that consumed them.
Typically, Sitric would have called in a skald to play music and tell stories as entertainment after the feast. But, as he’d pointed out, he currently hosted an entire unit of skalds, since all Fianna had to learn to play the harp and perform the poems and histories of Éire. Finn and Ardál, the two most gifted bards among the Fianna, volunteered for the task.
Diarmid managed to get a seat beside Cara. It had become something of a custom, where each of them sat at the meals when all were present. But the tables were moved to make space for dancing and sport, and everyone who wanted to game had to relocate to the edges of the room where the tables had gone.
Palpable tension—and not the sort that led to Diarmid’s favorite recreational activity—filled their shared moments. Itwas his fault. He didn’t know what he’d expected when he went into that room and poured out his heart, but he realized now he shouldn’t have expected the same from Cara.
Had that not been the crux of their relationship? That she had such trouble with intimacy that she needed his help to take even the smallest of steps? Diarmid should have known admitting to something so emotional as love would take her more than a fortnight. He had years of experience to compare against his present situation, to contrast starkly the fleeting emotions he’d had for other women and the all-encompassing yearning he had for Cara. Yet, even armed with this understanding, her rejection had stung.
Tonight, he meant to make it up to her. He’d been feeling rather sorry for himself, even wondering if he’d made a mistake in taking such a risk with so much unknown, and he saw it reflected back at him in the return of her chilly demeanor.
And he simply couldn’t have that.
So he sat beside her, earning a scandalized look when he squeezed her thigh in the chaos of the seat shuffling. With a quick wink, he moved his attention to their gaming companions. It was a test of will not to turn back and see her reaction.
Sitric, Dallan, Cormac, and Conan joined them at one of the long trestle tables, drinks and knucklebones in hand. Sitric also carried his bag of runes, taking a seat on the other side of Cara from Diarmid. The other three took the bench across from them.
Finn began a dancing tune on the harp, Ardál striking up a harmony shortly thereafter. Spirits waxed as the night rode on past dusk.
“Shall we cast the runes?” Sitric asked. Though, Diarmid mused, the Ostman king knew full well none would oppose him in his own home. Or at all, really, as the practice didn’t bother any of the Fianna. Brian still employed a druid as one of his advisors, as had been recommended for generations untold. Hehad a priest as well, of course, but every good king listened to them both.
“Should we drink before or after casting them?” Diarmid asked.
Sitric laughed. “For me after. For you, both.”
Diarmid raised his mug. “As the king commands.” Dallan, Conan, and even Cormac also raised their mugs and drank deeply with him. Cara hadn’t taken a sip since they sat down.
Sitric opened the leather pouch that held his runes. He gave it a good shake before dumping the smooth, wooden pieces onto the table, inspecting them with narrowed eyes.
“Well?” Dallan demanded. “Is it awful?”
“We aren’t truly going to cancel the raid just because of a drunken rune casting,” Cormac said, leveling him a look.
“Oh, no, we would,” Sitric countered, deadly serious. “But fortunately, we won’t need to.” He stood, turning toward the center of the hall. “The runes say we sail at dawn!” he shouted, rousing the room to a raucous cheer.
Everyone in sight—except Cara—grabbed the nearest drink, cheering once more before settling back to their previous endeavors. Sitric sat again, turning to his companions. “Are you ready for two days of rowing?”
Diarmid grinned. “I should ask the same of you. We’ve been training, but I worry you’ll be so out of condition after lounging in your halls all day that your ship won’t be able to keep up with ours.”
Sitric leaned over the table, eyes narrowed, his lip doing its damndest to repress a smile. “Is that a challenge?”
“Only if there’s silver on the line,” Diarmid shot back.
