“My horse is very fast. We will be there by daybreak.”
Pádraig disappeared inside and Astrid stared up at the night sky full of stars. This was a good idea. If they approached Diarmuid, certainly he would see the wisdom of the joining of the two clans and agree to the match. She took the weight off her injured foot. Suddenly overcome with the chill, she rubbed her arms. Pádraig reappeared, mounted, and reached down to her.
This was the ride she had hoped for earlier. Now she would learn just how it felt to be ensconced in his bonny, strong arms. She took his hand and he settled her in front of him.
“Are ye comfortable?”
“A bit chilled.”
Pádraig leaned forward, enveloping her with his heat, and wrapping her up in his fur. Very romantic. Some of her earlier excitement returned.
“That will ward off the chill.” Wrapping his arm around her hips, he yanked her closer to fit between his spread legs. His tarse poked against her thigh, and her excitement made a quick exit. She stilled, not sure what she should do. When she looked up at him, he merely smiled. “Ye’re a bonny lass, Astrid. I’d be lying if I did not admit taking ye would give me great pleasure.”
Yanking the horse’s head to the left, he jabbed the beast into a gallop, and they headed back toward Clonascra, moving away from the others.
Chapter 3
Marcán could think of no way to leave this procession without causing offense. Pádraig’s brother, Ian, had been asking him for more details about the caves, then several others had joined in, and now here they were making the long trek to the caves from the story.
“We are close?” Ian’s eyes were wide. He stood head and shoulders above the other men, his limbs long and lanky.
“Not long now.” Exhausted, Marcán could barely discern the path before him.
The mead had flowed freely in the hall, but he should not be this sotted. The others looked the same. It was as if they’d been drinking all day.
“And the blood is still on the wall?”
Legend had it that Brian Boru’s blood was still on the wall of one of the nearby caves. Marcán suspected that was what had compelled Ian to ask for that particular story.
“Ye tell me when ye see it,” Marcán said.
Admittedly, Marcán enjoyed the lad’s enthusiasm, although at the moment he wanted nothing more than to be off to his bed. It would be a long enough trip home on the morrow. With Astrid and her mother, it would be even longer. Truth be told, it was Beibhinn’s mouth that would make the trip unbearable but he wanted more time with Astrid.
When she was wed, Marcán would have no more opportunities to spend time with her. He dreaded that day, and yet being with her was also difficult. The woman thwarted him at every turn, almost as if she realized he just wanted to be around her. That could not be true though, because she seemed oblivious to his feelings, let alone the fact that he was a man capable of emotion. Of desire. If she wasn’t angry at something he said, she was angry with Diarmuid and taking it out on him.
“There it is! The cave!” Ian ran forward, tripped, and got back up. “I found it.”
The group of twenty men tramped into the cave with heavy feet. Ian yawned, a hand to the wall as if for support. “Where exactly is the blood?”
The others settled on the ground, some stretching out. Marcán struggled to fight the disorientation overtaking him.
“Toward the back.” He yawned. “See if ye can find it, Ian. I’ll wait here for ye.”
Like a bag of bones, Marcán plopped onto the ground. The distant sound of snoring carried to him, and he realized his eyes were closed.
He couldn’t remember why they shouldn’t be.
* * *
The uncomfortable trip in Pádraig’s arms seemed never-ending. He smelled of sweat and something she couldn’t name. His breath was even worse, no matter how many times he drank from his skin.
Astrid had accepted the first offer of a drink, but the moment she tipped back her head to drink from the vessel, Pádraig latched on to her flesh, sucking the skin at her neck into his mouth. His hand against the other side of her head, holding her in place, so she had no choice but to submit to him until he was finished. After that she decided to go thirsty.
“D’ye not like me anymore?” Pádraig spoke close to her ear, his hips quirking against her, pressing his unrelenting arousal against her.
“I do like ye. Ye’re a fine man, Pádraig. A good warrior. I have heard my brother say as much many times.”
Pádraig slowed the horse and watched her for so long she became uncomfortable. Did he realize she was lying? She had never actually heard Diarmuid speak of Pádraig in any meaningful way. The next thing she knew, he was pulling back on the reins and dropping from the horse.
