Her eyes were angry, and her shoulders had rounded to their natural bend. Relieved to see her drop the flirtatious facade, he smiled. Just in time, he noticed the flash of anger and realized his smile had been misinterpreted. She thought he was laughing at her. He caught her hand just before it made contact with his cheek.
“How dare ye!” Astrid said, letting loose her tirade.
Though striking another was a punishable offense, Marcán was more than willing to stand there and let her have at him. She did not care for him, but her behavior—willfulness… stubbornness… whatever Diarmuid wanted to label her rants—was merely an indication of the great depth of her passion. Marcán recognized it because he was the same way. Mayhap that was what drew him to her. That he would not be the one to guide her to that knowledge was like a knife to his gut.
His tone hardened. “I dare because I am here to protect ye.”
She ripped her hand out of his grasp and stopped just short of stomping her injured foot. Her voice shrill, she said, “I do not want ye to protect me! I want nothing of ye!”
Marcán debated the wisdom of continuing this discussion in front of the men shifting uncomfortably around them. The right thing for him to do would be to allow them to leave, but he did not feel so inclined. Better the men wait to learn what he planned to do to them for leading the innocent sister of a powerful, neighboringri túaitheoff to have their way with her.
“I’ll not allow any man to take advantage of ye.”
She fisted her hands to her waist, bending toward him. “They were not taking advantage of me.”
“No?”
Marcán spread his arms, his palms facing upward, indicating the men around her with his gaze. In turn, each man looked anywhere but at her. Or him. She looked at only one man. Pádraig. And when her eyes started to fill with tears, Marcán took a step closer. It was a response he couldn’t have stopped if his life depended on it. She looked so small and helpless, he wanted to pull her into his arms, stroke her hair, and reassure her she was safe and protected. That was not what she wanted, so he moved no closer.
Astrid turned on him, her mouth tight and her nostrils flaring. “Ye have no right to interfere, Marcán.”
When she would have stomped past him, she winced at the pain in her damaged ankle. He grabbed her arm before she fell. “We are not done here.”
She huffed, turning her back to all of them, but remained silent. Marcán’s palm twitched to spank that bottom, so sweetly presented. She deserved that and much, much more. Battles had been started over less than this. It gave Marcán no small relief that Astrid was showing off her worst side in front of the great Pádraig Meic Murchadha. The thought was enough to make him lightheaded. Surely now the man would keep clear.
“Well?” Marcán said to the others, widening his stance when the lightheadedness increased. Music drifted to them from the longhouse. The dancing had begun. The men exchanged uneasy glances, but it was Pádraig who finally spoke up.
“We’ve not touched her, Marcán.”
“Aye. Not even a kiss,” one of the other men said.
Astrid snorted loudly.
“Can ye see clear to allow us our leave?”
Marcán wanted to punch the man right in the face, but the sincerity he saw there soothed his ire. It was Astrid’s behavior that had led to this situation, and he knew she had no notion of what she had done.
Marcán blew out a breath. “Ye’re not to touch this one, do ye understand me?”
The men nodded while Astrid shifted, her head turned away from them.
One of the men thought to speak, a true mistake. “Yedoknow how she—”
Marcán held up a hand to halt the words. “Ye’ll not touch her.”
“We’ll not,” the man said, shifting from one foot to another. “Ye have our word.”
Each man passed by, one by one, nodding at Marcán and glancing back toward Astrid. Only Pádraig hesitated. Marcán wondered if the man was actually considering trying to take her with him. Let him try! To Marcán’s great disappointment, Pádraig continued on, disappearing with the rest of the men toward the music.
Alone with Astrid, Marcán felt the weight of her dismissal of the situation. She still had no idea what they had expected—she’d only wanted the attention. Again he cursed Diarmuid for believing he should continue to wait to marry her off. That Marcán wanted her for himself was irrelevant. He was the same as Diarmuid inhermind and wanted nothing to do with him. It was not meant to be.
Watching her stiff back, Marcán knew things had to be said that she didn’t want to hear—thingshedidn’t want to say. It was her behavior that had gotten her into this predicament, and if Marcán hadn’t arrived so quickly, she might have been ruined.
Marcán pulled at his neck, finally feeling a wash of heat from the nearby pools.
“Astrid. Look at me.”
She lifted a hand to her face, wiping her cheek. “I do not want to see ye… ever again.”
