Diarmid was long gone.
Chapter Thirty
Diarmid tossed andturned, sleeping fitfully. He’d grown used to it, over the years. His nerves never bothered him before a battle, but such energy rushed through him at the anticipation of it that he hardly slept at all, even after such a satisfying night with Cara.
He rolled over for the hundredth time, his chest swelling as he listened to Cara’s slow, measured breaths. Would she ever grow to love him? He knew now with a certainty that terrified him that he’d fallen irrevocably in love with his princess. But was she even capable of loving him? Or had her heart been broken too badly the last time?
Normally he would go for a walk when he had such troubles resting. Or bed a woman, he mused, but he’d already done that. And the only woman he wanted in his bed was currently fast asleep in it. Pulling the covers up around her shoulders, Diarmid slipped out of bed and dressed in silence.
He brought his sword and dagger with him, as he did anytime he went out alone at night. Dyflin wasn’t a dangerous town by any means, but the good folk who lived here weren’t the only ones around. Hundreds of men came and went daily from the ships in the harbor. Diarmid believed them good to a man.
He brought his weapons in case he was wrong.
The buxom maid was still tidying the hall when he opened his door. “They’re not making you work through the night, are they?” he asked.
She laughed. “No, I couldn’t sleep. Too much excitement, I’m afraid.”
“You and me both.”
Strolling down the wooden logs that lined the sodden roadways, Diarmid inhaled the sharp tang of the sea air at midnight. It had gone cold quickly this year. His hot breath left a trail of white wisps as he wandered the sleeping town. This had been a good decision, clearing his mind before they left in the morn. He could take a brisk walk and get his head on straight, returning to the room before Cara woke.
He still hadn’t decided if he had the heart to wake her when he left. Hopefully she’d wake on her own and save him from the matter entirely. Diarmid also couldn’t suppress his concern that she so easily doubted him. At every turn, every new development, it seemed that he had to convince her that he hadn’t failed her in some way.
The masts of the great sea-faring vessels had just come into view when shouts rang out from further down the road. From The Broken Oar.
Diarmid jogged down the logs, wondering what drunken bastard was itching for a fight before they sailed to battle. He arrived to find Sitric and Conan arguing with a sailor so deep in his cups that even a rope couldn’t have saved him had he fallen overboard. That he could stand and converse at all, based on the slur of his speech and lean of his body, was nothing short of miraculous.
Surveying the situation further, Diarmid noted that two of the alehouse’s serving women surrounded Maeve, whose dress was torn open straight down the middle. Between the terrified, furious looks on their faces and Conan’s death glare—the one he used beforeactuallykilling someone—Diarmid could surmise what had happened.
Sitric and Conan had the sailor cornered. He wouldn’t be getting away without paying for his crimes. But the women, particularly Maeve, actually shook with fear. He approached them slowly, greeting them from a safe distance.
“Are you alright?” he asked, keeping his voice soft, light. “Do you need to see a healer?”
“We got here just in time,” Sitric called. “These fine young ladies came to the holding to request aid. Luckily Conan and I had the good sense to stay up all night to finish ourhnefataflgame.”
Diarmid looked at his brother doubtfully. “Conan doesn’t even know how to play that game,” he chuckled. “How could it possibly take you so long to beat him?”
“Obviously, he taught me to play first.” Conan grumbled a colorful curse before turning back to the sailor, who’d stood up and was attempting to charge Conan. His brother’s foot connected with the man’s chest, sending him back to the ground.
“Go find out what ship he’s from,” Sitric ordered Conan. “Diarmid and I will mind him.”
Conan ran off toward the harbor with a nod, and Diarmid turned back to Maeve. “Are you alright?” he asked again.
She shook her head.
“We need Niamh,” Diarmid told Sitric.
“She’s not injured, she’s shaken,” Sitric argued. “Just sit and talk with her.”
Diarmid doubted that she’d have any interest in speaking with a man at the moment. “Let’s get you inside, and into some fresh clothes.”
Maeve led Diarmid through the hall and out the far door. A small, square cottage lay at the back of the property, with a sloped, thatched roof and only one door instead of the standard two. Her companions opened the door for her, revealing a smallspace where the women no doubt came to get away from the noise and demands of the alehouse.
“I’ll stand out here while you help her,” Diarmid told them, taking a post in front of the door. “Do any of you know how to fight?”
“No.” One of the other women answered. Marga, he thought her name was, though she’d never been the one serving their ale. “We’ve never had anything like this happen before. We’ve never needed to know.”
Diarmid wished he weren’t on his way out of the town, else he’d stay with them until that ship left. He doubted the sailor would be back, not once Sitric and his captain had spoken with him, but his shipmates might get it into their heads to seek vengeance, however unmerited.
