by Kris Kennedy
He eyed her head skeptically. “With that hair?” Her hand shot up to touch her scalp. “Och, not a bit of it, Senna. That sort of magnificence will mark ye like a scent across the path of a fox. And a ship? Ye think ye’ll gain berth on a ship?” He snorted, ignoring the bright pink blush rushing over her cheeks. “Ye’d be raped before ye hit the end of the quay. And anyhow,” he added, more mildly at her shocked gasp, “I like yer company.”
She jerked, startled, he was sure, by the rapid succession of compliment, threat, and veiled admission of…something.
“Cannot yer father manage your terribly important business for a bit?” he demanded irritably, to shove off the…something.
“I manage the business.”
“Och, ye’ve made that abundantly clear, lass. And what does yer father do, while ye’re managing his business so awfully well?”
“Gamble.”
Finian felt his mouth opening in amazement, not so much from the news, for that was common enough, but from witnessing the brittle pain it nailed onto her spirit like a stake. Her body had gone stiff. Hard, no dents, she suddenly looked impermeable, like stained glass. Many bright colors, all seared in place.
He pursed his lips, then said gently, “Ah, Senna. That bug stings hard.”
A blindingly bright smile ripped up the corners of her lips. “I know.”
His heart did a little tumble. She was a woman-child, and whatever hurts she spoke of now, he was certain many more lurked in the shadows of her heart. Every penny that came in, counted in her silent ledger, must have been a coin measured against the rest of her life.
And her father was a fool.
“Senna,” he said carefully.
Woodenly, she looked over, the edges of her mouth still tipped up in that false smile, like a painted marionette.
“Men are fools,” he said in a low voice. “Ye’re to remember that, above all other things.”
She was quiet for a moment; then, to his surprise, she laughed. And such a laugh it was. Quiet. Pretty. Natural.
“Truth, Irishman, I suspected as much,” she said, a smile dipping into her words like an oar, pushing them along. “But ’tis good to have it confirmed by one of their kind.”
Ah, this one was a keeper. For someone.
“I suppose I can spare a few days,” she allowed in a regal tone, as if it were up to her whether they came or went from Dublin. “But I can’t spend too much time with you, traipsing about these hills. My reputation, you understand.”
“Before the next full moon, I’ll have you bundled on a ship, Senna. My reputation cannot stand the strain of it either. Being seen with an English wool merchant?” He gave a little shudder.
She laughed, but his gaze lingered on her dirty face and limbs, her hair, long free of its confining braid, and her bright, intelligent eyes. A cord of worry unraveled in his heart. This woman had more wits, more bravery, more ingenuity than most battle commanders he knew, yet there appeared to be no one to seek her out, worry about her.
Just someone who, in all likelihood, wanted to kill her right now. And the man who’d abandoned her to him.
And Finian was to sail her away to England? To what end? Her father’s home couldn’t be an option any longer, not after this escapade. Neither was wandering the Ulster hills for twenty years. Travel, then? To where? With what money?
With no resources, no family to hand, and no connections, she was in a more precarious situation than if she’d stayed in the squalor of Rardove. She belonged nowhere.
Still, he decided as he reached for the leather straps of the bag she’d shoved on his back before leaving the prison, to say she was without resources was to be more foolish than the swiving bastard who had beaten her beautiful and burning body.
“Now, tell me, lass,” he said, hoping to entertain her, whatever was required to keep her smiling, because it was a travesty what someone had allowed to be done to her, so that she could ice over with such chilling efficiency. “What have ye put in these bags ye’ve made us carry all these miles?”
She moved through the springy turf, her footsteps soft and muted. She stopped in front of him. He looked up, trailing his gaze over her filly-long legs, hugged tight by the hose, over her curved hips, and up the length of untamed curls.
“Rocks?” he asked. “All yer pretty baubles?”
One chestnut eyebrow arched up. Indomitable. He grinned.
“I don’t believe in baubles.”
“One doesn’t believe in them,” he said, amused. “They simply are.”
Her other brow arched up, as doubtful and pretty as the first. “I wouldn’t know.”
He snorted. “I’ll show ye, one day. Now, what’s this?” He reached in and extracted a lump of putty soap. “Soap?”
She crossed her arms over her chest with one eyebrow hitched a little higher, silently inviting him to continue his survey.
Next out was a pair of breeches and a tunic, and he barked in laughter. “Ye’ve had us lug around clothes?” He was indescribably touched. “’Tis the epitome of a womanly thing to do,” was all he said.
“A womanly thing?” Her voice was deep with suppressed laughter.
She stood with her hands on her shapely hips, her hair tumbling down around her, and he was shocked at the jolt of commingled desire and tenderness that coursed through him.
She was smiling, her teeth bright white against the dirtiness of her face. But her lips were still rosy and aching to be kissed, her breasts still full, her legs still strong and primed to be wrapped around his hips, he thought helplessly, running his hand through his hair as he bent back to the bag.
“What else might a man have brought?” she pressed.
“Och, mayhap weapons—”
“But I did. Did I not find you your very own sword, master? And a knife for us both, and a belt full of arrows?”
“That ye did.”
“Tell me, then: what else would a proper-thinking man have provisioned for?”
“Foodstuffs,” he suggested, a dark eyebrow arched in vague warning.
“You’ll find them there,” she said sweetly, tilting her head to the side. Her tunic slipped farther down her arm.
“But ye might have fit more, had ye not brought the clothes,” he tried to explain.
“Mm.” She tipped her head to the side. The sight of the pale smooth skin of her shoulder drew his eye briefly, then he looked back to her decidedly mischievous eyes. Mischief suited her. “Anything else, man?”
“Nay. A man would be traveling lighter, there’s the difference,” he grumbled.
“Then dig farther and see what else a woman brought.” Her voice danced with laughter.
Out came, as she had said, dried berries and meat, bread and cheese. There was flint, some toiletry items, rope, and several clean linen squares. Then his hand alighted on a cool, hard surface. Realization dawned before he even saw it. He threw his head back and laughed as he lifted the flask of whisky into the air.
“Praise God, ’tis uisce beatha! Senna girl, I promise to never judge yer decision-making again.”
He laughed, and she laughed, too, so for a moment she was scared by neither the people hunting her nor the people who would never hunt for her. He could see it in her bright energy, the simple happiness pouring out of her.
She dropped to her knees next to him. Digging eagerly through her own pack, she pulled out a twin flask of the drink, which she held in her bandaged hand. His eyes dropped to the sight. He dragged them back up when she spoke.
“I saw these flasks, and the whisky. Rardove mentioned it was his best. Some I gave to the guards, laced with valerian root. These, I brought for us.” She grinned and tapped her flask to his.
Hearing her tale of small defiance, watching her face dissolve into laughter, Finian was gripped by a sense of affection and something else.
“Ye’re a brave woman, Senna,” he said gruffly.
“Not a bit. Although, with enough of this,” she indicated the flask with a t
ip of her head, “I suppose I could become brave.” She lifted it higher and looked at him, a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “Shall we?”
He grinned. “Indeed. A little bravery might go a long ways, Senna.” Holding up his flask, he uncorked it. “To my savior.” He tipped it in her direction, then downed a huge swallow.
“Warrior,” she said, lifting the flask toward him, returning the toast. Raising the bottle to her lips, she threw back a draught. Her shoulder tipped back as she arched her throat to swallow. Long reddish hair fell to the top of her rounded buttocks, which were pressed into her heels as she knelt beside him. He gritted his teeth. Strong, long legs. Bright, dauntless eyes. Passionate spirit.
This woman had not been crafted by God to run ledger rows.
He threw back another portion, then smacked his lips. “Aye, ’tis a good drink, but my brewers do a better job,” he claimed. “’Tis smoother than this.”
Her eyes were spilling over, her reply a wet sputter. “I hope that is so, Irishman, for this is harsh to my tongue.”
She smiled at him and the pace of his world dropped to a slower beat. Her hand was on her waist, thumb behind her back, slim fingers curled over her ribs. Where he suddenly wanted his fingers to be with strong, surprising force.
He shoved to his feet. “Time to go, lass.”
Chapter 18
They walked through most of the night. The moon was high and lit their way. Mostly they skirted the edges of fields and farms, staying just inside treeline, small, shadowed figures no one would notice. They hardly spoke, until they finally stepped out onto a path rutted from the passage of generations of people and sheep and cattle.
“No choice now, Senna,” he murmured. “We’ve got to follow the road awhile. Stay to the edge, and help me find something.” He was already bending low, looking into the ditches.
“You lost something out here?”
“I didn’t lose anything. I know right what they are. Yarrow and comfrey root. And a bit of your valerian dust should do us well, if ye’ve any left.”
“For my hand,” she determined glumly.
“Just yer fingers,” he said, scanning the ground. “We’ll leave yer hand be.”
“You could leave me be. My fingers, my hand, the whole lot of me.”
“Do not be afraid, a rúin. I’ve healed wounds before—”
“I am not. Afraid.”
He looked over his shoulder. She was staring at him coldly. “Ah. Ye sounded it.”
“You misheard.” He returned to his searching. “Yarrow needs to be made into a tea,” she pointed out a moment later. “Comfrey wants hot water, too. We’d have to build a fire, and that would be unsafe.”
He crouched beside the ditch and gently pushed under the delicate ferns, brushing them aside. He’d found what he was looking for. “I can make a fire ye wouldn’t see till ye stepped in it, Senna.”
“Oh.”
They followed the narrow rutted path for maybe half a mile, before they skirted back into the forest. They walked until the moon was dipping below the tops of the trees before he stopped them for good. Senna bent her knees and dropped to the ground, unconsciously cupping her injured hand in her good one.
Finian knelt beside her, bending over her hand, pulling it gently from her grasp with soothing, wordless sounds. After a moment, he looked up. “’Tis poorly set.”
She bit her lower lip and scowled. “What does that mean?”
“It means ye can leave it as ’tis and it will heal crooked, if at all. Or I can reset it.” He sat back on his heels and regarded her levelly.
“That doesn’t sound pleasant. What do you know of such things?”
“Nay, ’tisn’t pleasant.”
“What do you know of setting bones?” she prompted sharply.
He lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “Ye learn many things, living as I have.”
“That is your answer?” She scowled. “Pah, you probably know nothing of it.”
“I know more than ye.”
She sniffed.
He sat back. “I suggest ye leave it, then. What does it matter if yer fingers cannot move as ye want them to, and are misshapen without need? Or mayhap oozing pus.”
He settled himself on a hummock beneath the branches of a nearby tree, watching her out of the corner of his eye.
She sat, stiff as a wagon spoke, glaring at a bush some ten paces off. Without her bright, engaging chatter, sleep layered quickly into his blood. Thick, heavy waves of it. He closed his eyes.
“Finian.” Her plaintive voice curled across the meadow.
“Aye?”
“I lost my comb.”
“Ah,” he replied slowly, unsure what response was called for.
“My hair is so tangled.”
There was quiet for a few moments. She played with the hem of her tunic.
“Finian,” her small voice called out again.
He raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“I need a bath.”
He rolled his eyes. “My apologies. I forgot to carry yer tub with us.”
“I do not like how you Irish folk place your rivers and streams. They are most inconveniently arranged. In England, there is one every few yards, at the least.”
Unlike the one they’d crossed yesternight, he supposed. “I’ll be sure to take ye to one as soon as I can.”
She was quiet a moment. “Promise?”
“Aye,” he replied gruffly. He closed his eyes.
A few moments passed. “Finian?”
“Senna?”
He opened his eyes and looked up. The leaves of the giant oak tree were dark above, and all around, stars dotted the sky.
“Did you say we were going to a town?”
“Aye.”
“Oh.” A bit of silence. “Does that seem wise?”
“Not in the least. Is that how ye think I make decisions?”
“I stand corrected. But…a town?”
“I haven’t a choice. I’ve to meet someone.”
“Oh.” She sniffed. “Someone.” Pause. “I hope she’s pretty.”
He closed his eyes. “Hard to be prettier than ye.”
That brought another round of silence. ‘Someone’ had been rather a massive understatement on his part. His contact, the spy Red, had taken a grave risk contacting The O’Fáil, letting them know he had located the precious, lost dye manual. Whoever had the manual, and a dye witch, could make the weapons. Could blow up buildings. Could win a war.
At this point, Finian would be five days late, but five days or five years, he would still follow through. And he knew Red would wait. The payoff was enormous. The risks, including death, were negligible in the face of it.
“Finian.” Her soft voice lifted again. “What were you doing in Rardove’s prisons?”
He shifted his head against the gnarled bark, finding a more comfortable spot. “Walking through a muddy river.”
“Oh. I suppose you do not mean the dampness of the cellars.”
“Nay.”
Another few moments ticked by.
“Finian?”
He dragged his eyes open. He’d been seconds from sleep. “Aye?”
“I need food.”
He bestirred himself. Grabbing their bags, he knelt at her side and rummaged through them, then handed her a hunk of bread and cheese. He watched her chew without interest. She laid her hand on her lap. The food slipped to the ground.
“Finian?”
“Senna—” he interrupted, thinking to stop her scattered, hesitant talk. Talk, or sleep. Or passion, he thought languidly, but one or another fully. He was so weary he could almost hear sleep calling to him.
“My hand hurts. Help me with it, would you?”
“Aye.” He reached for a flask. “Here.” Tugging the cork free with a muted pop, he held the vessel in front of her face.
She wrinkled her nose, pushing it away. “It stinks.”
He furrowed his brow. “Ye drank well enough earlier.”
“That was then.”
He sat back on his heels and exhaled noisily. The hair over his forehead lifted and lowered with the breeze. Senna watched with some interest.
“Drink,” he insisted, holding the flask closer to her mouth.
She sighed as if enduring the torture due a martyr, then swallowed and sputtered.
“Another.” His hand touched hers, his wide fingers curling around hers as he made her hold the flask and lift it to her lips.
She drank.
He coaxed her to take another couple long draughts; then, while waiting for it to take effect, he dug a deep, small hole and built a small fire in it, then prepared the herbs. He pounded out the root with the hilt of a blade while he boiled the water that he’d procured, then made up a poultice and a tea; then, finally, he removed the stained linen bandage from her broken fingers. It was caked with dried blood, stiff and thick and dirty.
“Ye haven’t been at washing it,” he scolded gently, his eyes not leaving her hand.
“You haven’t taken me to water,” she accused unsteadily.
He glanced up briefly. “We crossed a river last night.”
She gave him an evil look. “On rocks. We crossed a river by leaping on large rocks. That hardly counts.” She hiccupped. “Hardly.”
“’Tis a grievous wrong I’ve done, mistress. I’ll right it as soon as I’m able,” he murmured, not paying attention to his words, only her beautiful, wrecked fingers.
“I’ll remember that,” she continued through gritted teeth as his sure fingers probed hers. “I stink to the high heavens. We both of us need a bath, and instead, we jump over rocks,” she lamented in a singsong voice, then reached for the flask again, hiccupping quietly.
A smile lifted his lips, but his worried eyes and confident fingers never left her hand, feeling with his hand and his mind, seeing the bone. Let her prattle on, and let her drink.
“And after lying in Rardove’s ditch,” she went on after swallowing again, “I must smell worse than the leavings under the rushes. Why you tried to kiss me, I’ll never know.”
“I didn’t try.”
She shook her head sagely, as if lamenting the passing of chivalry. “’Tis a sad day, I tell you.”
