Diarmuid raised a gloved hand to halt his word. “It seems my sister is quite different from our mother after all and chooses not to be the cyclone causing havoc. If there is trouble between our clan and the Meic Murchadha over yer betrothal, I prefer it be on my head and not yers. I need to see to this matter with Sean. Do what ye need to in my absence, but be certain to protect her from any that would harm her… as if she were yer own, even now.”
“My thanks.” Marcán clasped his wrist, pulling him closer for a hug and a slap on the back. “My thanks!”
“Do we have more cause for celebration?” Thomasina asked, Sean shifting their horse around so they were openly watching them.
Diarmuid leapt onto his horse before answering. “Indeed, but an event such as this requires time, which I will not have until my return. Let us be off so my return will be sooner.”
Marcán watched them long after they were out of his sight, thinking over Diarmuid’s warning… and his consent to allow Marcán to see to the matter as he saw fit. He would do just that. With determined steps he entered the roundhouse, his eyes seeking and finding Astrid easily among the bustling crowd cleaning up the room and preparing it for their daily duties. He stopped to watch her, contentment settling in his gut with the knowledge of Diarmuid’s blessing. Dare he share that with her? Would she be as excited as he was? She’d been quiet in the shed, too quickly running off even as Marcán had been inclined to make love yet again. Her kiss goodbye had been sweet—
He stood straighter as he remembered her kiss and parting words.
Know that I carry yer love in my heart always.
The finality of those words struck him now. With a deeply furrowed brow, she appeared upset even from this distance. When her mother came to stand beside her, that worried look only deepened, and Beibhinn’s words caused her to gawk at the woman. Before Marcán could get his feet to move closer, they both turned to him, almost as if the old woman’s words had been about him. The look of satisfaction on Beibhinn’s face only increased his trepidation, but Astrid’s expression of horror had him quickly closing the distance. Beibhinn drifted away.
“What is amiss?” Suddenly aware of the others in the room, he stopped himself from reaching out to her. “Is it washing day?”
She dropped her gaze to the material in her hand. “My mother prefers I keep to my embroidery and allow the others to see to such things.”
Her voice was tight, and Marcán’s sense of disquiet deepened. To hell with anyone watching. He touched her hand, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.
“What has ye so upset? Is yer mother causing problems still?”
Astrid’s obvious attempt at composure made him even more worried. Fear rippling through his gut, he moved in closer still. “Tell me what she has said to make ye so upset.”
“Marcán!” Beibhinn called to him with a stern tone.
He did not look away from Astrid but lowered his voice. “I can give aid only if ye tell me what is amiss.”
“Leave my daughter alone.”
The woman had the audacity to come right up to him, even pulling on his arm until he finally turned his anger on her. “Remove yer hand from me,woman.”
The sudden quiet assured him they had the attention of all in the room, but Beibhinn refused to listen.
“Do not be upsetting Astrid.” Beibhinn spat the words at him.
“Yeare the only one upsetting anyone here.” Marcán’s soft words were for her ears alone, then he met the eyes of those taking in the scene, raising his voice to them. “Move along with yer work.”
They immediately dispersed, which eased Marcán’s rapidly rising ire. Slightly. He got a quick glimpse of Astrid—her trembling lips, the huge tears slipping down her cheeks—but he kept his attention on Beibhinn. “Obey me or bear the consequences, woman!”
The old woman dropped his arm as if she’d been touching something quite repulsive and took a step back. An expression of satisfaction moved across her face and she smiled. “And ye would do well to do the same.”
When Astrid pulled her hand out of his grip, he finally looked at her. Her face was controlled now, her fingers clasped so tight they were colorless. Marcán had seen Astrid be pushed around by her mother for years. Pathetically desperate for her mother’s approval, Astrid had always struggled against Beibhinn’s dominant ways but avoided direct confrontation.
“She does not appreciate such familiarity,” Beibhinn said.
Astrid’s expression remained unchanged but for her gently flaring nostrils. Marcán recognized the anger sitting just below the surface.
While Diarmuid had once dismissed his sister as being too much like his mother—and their mother certainly believed she had bullied Astrid into obeying—Marcán had watched the fire in Astrid’s eyes for years. He knew her deep need to break away from her mother’s side. Her mother may have believed she’d cowed Astrid into approaching Pádraig about their joining, but she’d only done Beibhinn’s bidding as a last attempt to escape her clutches.
“And neither will her betrothed,” Beibhinn added.
The words felt like a fist into his gut and Marcán turned wide eyes to Beibhinn. “Betrothed?”
“Oh, did ye not hear of her betrothal to Pádraig?”
Blood pounded in his ears, and Marcán gritted his teeth before speaking. Diarmuid’s order to hold back on making the announcement until he returned tied Marcán’s hands.
