And yet… if Astrid had a husband like Marcán, certainly his attention would be welcome. He was intelligent, respected, an exceptional storyteller. The taleshetold never bored her. She hugged herself, swamped with emotions.
Astrid pressed her lips together and moved away from the roundhouse, heading down the road to Diarmuid’s little home. No one would look for her there, and she needed time to think, to consider Marcán’s words and actions in this new light.
* * *
It wasn’t until the cock crowed that Astrid finally stirred. She’d fallen asleep in Diarmuid’s bed, exhausted in both body and soul. No daylight showed around the door. It must still be raining, and the damn rooster didn’t even know whether it was morning.
Poking around the fire, she hoped for a spark but found none. She shivered from cold. She’d missed the evening repast to avoid Beibhinn, something she could not regret, but her stomach was growling now. That she’d slept like the dead should have been a reprieve from her troubled thoughts, but she hadn’t stopped dreaming. And all her dreams had been of Marcán.
She now saw every past encounter in a new light, including the game of Pull the Ribbon,in which he’d given Astrid her first kiss.He had wanted desperately to kiss her, and that was why he’d tried to convince Diarmuid to back down. He hadn’t wanted their kiss to be so contrived, so public. And Astrid had believed he was angry!
Did a more naive woman even exist? But what to do now? She’d clearly seen his interest in her, but she had no way of knowing if those feelings persisted. Astrid went back to the bed, pulling the red squirrel covering atop her. At the Meic Murchadha, he’dcarriedher to the healer in his strong arms, seen to all her needs, and kept her in his sights the entire time. Had he merely been acting the part of her leader and protector, or was there something more?
Her heart soared at the very idea of having a man like Marcán care for her. She would be treated like a special treasure. Never yelled at in anger. Never pushed around. He would hold her in his heart. Except it might be too late…
Years had passed since that day near the honeysuckle bush. She had been so mean to him, snapping at him, even fighting him when he sought to protect her from Pádraig. The tears slid down her cheeks to disappear in her hair.
And she might be forced to marry someone cruel like Pádraig. No! Never him! But to remain alone? That was no life. Happy couples smiled and laughed. They touched each other in love. And if she had children, they would laugh with her and hug her and love her. Her mother never hugged anyone, not even little Fergus, but her father had. He’d hugged all of them, even taking Fergus up on his shoulders to march around the village. Certainly Marcán would be that type of father. And whenever Astrid’s mother had been cruel to her, her father had stroked Astrid’s hair as if to say, “Take none of this to heart,a ghráidh.”
“The loss of something I didn’t even know I had would be the cruelest of all fates.” She whispered the words aloud, giving them the solemnity they deserved.
A loud knock on the door startled her into sitting up. No one knew she was here. Who would they be looking for? Not her. She decided to remain quiet. The knock came again, even more insistent.
“A-A-Astrid?” It was Faolán.
She snuggled under the covers, turning away from the room, feigning sleep. The door opened. Faolán walked in, but he wasn’t alone. Quieter footsteps came closer, but someone was waiting at the door.
“Astrid?” She was so surprised to hear a woman’s voice, one she didn’t recognize, that she sat up. The lovely Daimhin stood there—a dark mantle covering her, her long, shiny hair glistening with rain. She really was quite attractive, even with a slight darkening on her jaw. “Did I awaken ye?”
Astrid pushed down her hair, trying to sit up despite the softness of the bed. “I have overslept.”
Daimhin smiled. A genuine smile. “I understand. This rain…”
Faolán stood at the door, hand still on the latch, and Astrid seethed inside. God help him if he thought to leave her here with this woman. She sought solitude, and both of them were interrupting that. Astrid slid her legs to the side of the bed, preparing to stand, but Daimhin put her hand out.
“Ye need not rise for me.” Again she smiled. “My father wished to extend a personal invitation to ye to attend a feast in three days’ time.”
Astrid tucked her legs back under the covers. A quick glance toward Faolán showed no sign he was going to come to her rescue. “To what purpose?”
“My father has been very ill, and he was not able to properly greet ye the last time ye were with us. My brother has… shown an interest in ye, so my father wishes to meet ye.”
Swallowing was difficult. Faolán crossed his arms, his eyes squinting as if he were observing a hare gripped in the claws of a hawk, waiting to see if the hawk would be successful.
“Me? And my mother?”
Beibhinn had told Astrid she’d been to visit Doran, theriof the Meic Murchadha and Pádraig’s father, while Astrid was with the healer.
“Oh, she could come, but ’tis ye he wishes to meet.”
They had met several times. There was more that Daimhin wasn’t saying. “Please give yer father my regards, but I am not able to come at this time.”
It would not be seemly to disclose any personal situation to a rival clan, even if they were peaceful at the moment. She did not expect Daimhin to question her further.
“Unable for what reason?”
Astrid flattened her lips. “’Tis best not to discuss these things now, but do extend to him my appreciation for the invitation.”
Laughing slightly, Daimhin glanced down before facing her again, her bottom lip between her teeth. “I would call it more of a summons, Astrid.”
