The sarcasm she felt came through in her tone and his expression shifted to one of surprise.
“So ye no longer plot w-with her?” he asked. “D-deciding h-how best to go a-about finding a man ye should m-marry?”
“Do ye listen at the door, Faolán?”
He tipped his chin. “The two of y-ye h-have never plotted in secret. I-I show an i-interest i-in ye because I-I care. Ye do remember that I-I cared for ye? P-protected ye? With Pádraig?”
“I thanked ye for yer assistance, did I not?”
Faolán heaved a heavy sigh, as if debating how best to proceed. “I-I would take ye a-as my o-own—”
She wasn’t quick enough to hide her shocked expression from him, but he offered a small smile. An understanding smile.
“—but I-I do not believe I-I am what yer mother h-has planned for ye. She wants y-ye w-wed to Pádraig.”
Astrid dropped her gaze. His words were far too unsettling in their truthfulness.
“What Beibhinn wants is to return to the home of her childhood, return to Meic Murchadha. And she will use her own daughter to do it,” she said.
He was quiet for so long, she finally looked at him. Her pulse quickened as he studied her. “I-I w-wonder w-what w-wouldbe best for ye.”
“And why would ye do that? Why wonder such things about me?” Irritation was taking hold of her. She pressed her lips flat, not wanting to say anything she’d regret.
“Y-ye w-were missed last night.”
Her gaze slammed into his.
“I-I was sent o-out to find ye. Y-yer mother wanted ye a-at her side a-as always. She seemed l-lost without ye.”
“I am sorry. I did not know ye were looking for me.”
“Oh, I-I found ye just fine.”
The sound outside. It had been him at the door. Astrid struggled to take a breath, to stop her heart from racing and her palms from sweating. There was nothing she could say, so she waited. Her eyes on him.
“Y-ye are a good daughter, A-Astrid. Y-ye should remember that,” Faolán said. Without another word or a backward look, he headed across the field, following the ring of the embankment topped with stakes. She watched him for a long time.
Astrid was in no hurry to return to Merewyn, who was too perceptive by half. Instead, she followed the trail that led to Diarmuid’s stone longhouse. Mayhap this was where she would find Marcán. Excitement rippled across her skin.
The plan to wait until Aednat was recovered and Diarmuid had fewer worries was looking worse and worse. What if she never recovered? Were she and Marcán destined to sneak around forever, hiding their love for one another? Both Merewyn and Faolán had indicated they knew something was amiss. Who would be next?
The sight of the door opening at the stone longhouse caught Astrid’s attention. When Diarmuid came out, she felt the acute disappointment all the way to her toes.
“Diarmuid?”
He stopped and waited for her.
“How is Aednat?”
Diarmuid scrubbed his face with both palms, and they began to walk together toward the roundhouse.
“I am beside myself, but Maeve assures me her neck is not broken.”
Astrid gasped, and Diarmuid’s regret was apparent but, unlike Marcán, who usually sought to comfort her, her brother only became irritated.
“Hold yer tongue. She will recover. I need to believe that,” he said.
“As do I.” That her own brother did not recognize her concern was no surprise. He often thought the worst of her, lumping her in with their mother, who truly did not care for others. “If ye need someone to sit with her, I am happy to do so.”
