Cara couldn’t possibly change her mind now, even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t. “What of the runes?” shechallenged, knowing how he trusted them. “They agreed with me.”
Sitric flashed her a grin that put her in mind of Diarmid. Again. “They didn’t, actually.”
“What?”
“I planned to go along with whatever you said,” Sitric admitted. “But the way they fell, they very clearly told me you should marry Diarmid. And, I must say, I’m inclined to believe them.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Another round formy friend!” Dallan called, waving Maeve over and slapping Diarmid on the back.
Diarmid didn’t want another round. He didn’t really want much of anything. Except Cara, and even that he wasn’t certain about any longer. “Do you think we drink too much?” he asked no one in particular.
“Good God.” Conan nearly choked on his ale. “Alright, first, you know they water it down, right? It’s like we need to drink two cups to actually have one. And second, aren’t you the one who claims there’s no point to life if you don’t enjoy it?”
“It’s possible to enjoy things other than drinking,” Diarmid tried, wondering which of his friends would disagree first.
To his surprise, it was Finn, whom he’d always considered the most reasonable of the bunch aside from their fearless leaders. “It’s not possible to drink less while being hosted by an Ostman,” he said. He didn’t even sound like he jested. “My father always said drinking with a man is the best way to get his measure.”
“That, actually, explains a lot about Sitric,” Dallan replied, furrowing his brows as his dulled wits contemplated the idea. “At least you won the wager,” he added, his voice too cheery.
“That’s true!” Finn jumped on that small victory. “You don’t even have to pay for these drinks.”
“I didn’t actually.”
This time, Conan actually did spit out his drink. “What was that?”
“I went thirteen days,” he told them, desperately trying to keep the memories of Cara from intruding. “Not fourteen.”
Dallan swore an oath. “Truly?” his incredulous voice would’ve been fodder for teasing if the topic were different.
Only Finn didn’t look surprised.
“Does Sitric know?” Conan’s brows furrowed.
Diarmid did take a drink then. “He does.”
Silence descended as his three companions looked at one another. Diarmid couldn’t bear to see their faces, knowing he’d failed them as well.
He’d failed everyone, it seemed, though at least he hadn’t completely ruined their mission in the end. When none of them spoke, Diarmid couldn’t take it any longer. “I’m sorry I failed you,” he said, not meeting their gazes.
Every single one of them reached for him, Finn and Conan leaning across the table to give his shoulders an affectionate shake. “Don’t say that,” Conan ordered. “You’re a rogue and a drunkard, but I won’t let you lie. You did no such thing.”
“He’s right,” Dallan agreed. “Everything worked out in the end.”
Except it hadn’t.
Cara was marrying Sitric instead of Diarmid. She wouldn’t even have a civil conversation with him, believing that he left to bed another woman that night. Even if he had refuted it, she’d not have believed him.
Cormac hadn’t spoken with him since yesterday, at this same table. He’d finally been getting to know his eldest brother, the one who’d always been so different from him. Diarmid had managed to destroy that bridge before he’d even finished building it.
They were right, he supposed, that at least the mission had succeeded. When they arrived in Dyflin, Diarmid believed the only commitment he was capable of making was the oath he’d sworn to Brian, his oath into the Fianna.
As he sat listening to his friends try their hardest to cheer him, laughing and joking and celebrating their victory at The Broken Oar, Diarmid determined there was one other commitment he was prepared to make—a marriage to Cara.
With no hope of such an outcome before him, Diarmid supposed he’d have to make do with a successful mission for the Fianna. Though, at this point, he wouldn’t hesitate to exchange one for the other.
*
