STRONGHEART let her go, once again confused by her words, but pleased with his progress. She could deny her feelings all she wanted, but when they’d kissed, he’d felt her tremble, sensed her passionate nature.
Although she sought to push him away with her sharp tongue, he would not let that happen, for he recognized her words for what they were—an attempt to send him away. Despite her words, she feared him, but she feared her own passion more.
Slipping into the water to cool his lust, he swam lazily to his warhorse. Knowing that her anger was another side of her feelings for him gave him hope. But he also recognized her stubbornness. A military campaign to conquer this land would have been far easier than courting a princess, but it wouldn’t have given him the same satisfaction or pleasure.
Besides, now that he’d come to know her, he didn’t relish the thought of making war on her people. Even if she ever forgave him, which would be doubtful, Norman swords cutting through the poorly armed men of Leinster would be more massacre than battle. He had no stomach for such a debacle.
He no longer wanted to spend the rest of his life fighting. Dara had tapped all his suppressed tendencies toward a peaceful, gentle life, qualities his father had tried to squelch in him. But how many times had his father told him that only the weak wished for peace? And only the strongest warriors held the land?
He caught up with Dara in the stable, where she stood by her father, caressing the foal. After Strongheart rubbed down his warhorse, he joined the two of them, admiring the fine lines of the newest addition. The foal’s legs rarely shook when it walked, and its shiny coat glistened in the rays of sun beaming through the doorway.
“She’s a beauty,” Strongheart said to Conor, his eyes on the king’s daughter.
Dara’s head jerked up, and Strongheart grinned. By her startled expression, he could tell she knew he referred to her—not the foal. Seemingly unaware of the undercurrents, Conor continued stroking the foal. “A fine filly with good bloodlines can give one many years of pleasure.”
Strongheart agreed. “Especially once she’s properly trained to a man’s bidding.”
As Conor looked from Dara’s flushed face to Strongheart’s grin, the king chuckled with a sharpness in his green gaze that revealed his awareness of the subject at hand. “Are foreign ways different from ours? How would you tame a spirited filly, Norman?”
Wondering why the question had come now and not when he’d asked for Dara’s hand in marriage, Strongheart moved out of the shadows. Settling in the straw, Strongheart more than rose to her father’s challenge. “I’d tame her with kind words, gentle caresses, and a refusal to retreat in large things.”
“And on the smaller things?” Conor asked.
Clearly unhappy and uncomfortable with the turn in conversation, Dara’s face flamed. Even now, the tension between them stretched thicker than Eire’s mist on a dewy morn. Obviously uneasy, she gazed longingly at the door, but she didn’t dare leave.
Strongheart nodded. “The minor points are negotiable.”
“Depending on?” Conor pressed.
He sighed, choosing his words with care before he spoke. He would have both Dara and Conor understand that if he wed the princess, his word would be the final one—and yet he did not wish his to be a harsh rule. “My actions would depend upon the filly. Does she have good sense? Does she work with me or against me?”
Dara lifted her chin, a defiant gleam in her eyes. “And would you bring Norman knights to defend our land?”
Strongheart did not rise to take the bait. “That decision is your father’s.”
“Da will never permit you to bring an army of Normans to Leinster. The Irish clans will band together to oust outsiders—starting a war of unprecedented magnitude.”
Conor gave the foal a final pat and turned as if to leave the two of them alone. But he paused in the stall, piercing Strongheart with a stare that hinted at the kind of leader he must have been before his forgetful spells weakened him. “I’ve given you privacy with my daughter because she can defend herself. I think it’s time you saw her skill.”
“No, Da.”
Strongheart’s eyes narrowed. So the old man sensed the unresolved tension between them, but why did Dara protest, her sparkling eyes dulled to despair? Was Conor trying to frighten him with his daughter’s prowess? Surely he realized that once a skilled warrior recognized her skill, it should not be difficult to overpower her.
The flush on Dara’s face receded, leaving her wan, and a slight tremor shook her body. With hands twisted in her tunic, she obediently walked out of the stable to the target area, her head down. What was wrong?
Conor’s face was set in an implacable line, his shoulders straight like a man not to be denied. But his green eyes, normally so much like Dara’s, had narrowed to icy flotsam, colder and more bitter than a dying man betrayed by his best friend.
“I have already seen her skill with a dirk,” Strongheart said in an attempt to avoid unpleasantness and a demonstration of skill that she obviously didn’t wish to give. “She killed an attacker during the raid to save Sorcha.”
Neither father nor daughter answered. Outside, the sultry heat cooked them, but it was the unspoken words between Conor and Dara that beat upon him. There was much more going on here than a show of skill.
Having no liking for mysteries, Strongheart vowed to spear the heart of the matter. But how could he solve the puzzle when he didn’t know the right questions to ask? Looking from the stubborn jaw of the father to the matching jut of the daughter’s chin, he doubted either would answer his questions.
As they approached the practice area, a level field of straw and wood targets, several men-at-arms roused themselves to watch the exhibition. Strongheart noticed Gaillard ambling from the direction of the stone rings about the castle, Sorcha by his side.
As if by magic, maids walked down from the castle to watch. Wagering started, the men betting how many targets, if any, Dara would miss. Strongheart glanced again in her direction and noticed that although her face remained pale, her spine had stiffened, and she held her chin high but avoided his gaze.
Yet he sensed there were pressures battering at her that he could not guess. Was she embarrassed her skill with a dirk might exceed his? That didn’t seem like the woman he’d come to know. He recalled the proud flash of her eyes when she’d spoken of using the dirk to defend herself or those she loved.
Was she afraid of failing in front of an audience? Strongheart’s fists clenched and unclenched, wishing he could help her, but that was impossible since he had no understanding of what was wrong. He knew only that he wanted to comfort her, kiss away her distress and tell her he would take care of her.
The exhibition had a feeling of ritual. After the men set the targets between trees, each progressively smaller and farther away, an assortment of dirks were placed by Dara’s hand. She picked up each one, hefted its weight in her hand, then moved on to the next until she held a fistful of weapons.
She worried her lip in total concentration, her focus so total, she appeared to have banished the audience from her mind. Planting her feet shoulder-width apart, she stood with her knees flexed, elbows tucked close to her tunic, and relaxed, her expression reminding Strongheart of an experienced warrior preparing for battle.
Around them, the betting ceased. The crowd’s murmurs decreased to silence. Not a leaf stirred. At least she would not have to contend with the wind throwing off her aim.
With her left hand, Dara casually flicked a blade end over end at the closest straw target. About the size of a man and twenty paces away, the target would test an adequate warrior’s skill. The gleaming weapon reflected a rainbow of sunlight before arcing into the straw’s center.
Several heads in the crowd nodded approval, the faces clearly expecting no less than perfection. Without hesitation, Dara hefted the sec
ond knife and threw it straight into a thick tree trunk marked with a ribbon. Quickly she demolished two more straw targets before pausing.
When she hefted the knife with her right hand, Strongheart’s eyes widened. He hadn’t realized until now that she’d taken the easier targets with her weaker left side. But those easy targets were the size of large kettles and over forty paces away.
Strongheart spied only four more targets, but Dara had seven dirks left. Were they extras in case she missed? He dared not ask the question aloud and risk distracting her.
The next three dirks found their targets. From the corner of his eye, Strongheart saw the betting reach a fever pitch, but he couldn’t take his gaze from Dara. Never had she looked so provocative, the sun shimmering upon her red hair, sweat glistening on her skin, and he found it strange to find her unusual skill so appealing.
The last target seemed impossibly tiny, but due to her earlier precision, she still possessed four dirks. Dara rolled her shoulders, let her hands slacken at her side, and jiggled her wrist to loosen tense muscles. Unlike the previous throws, this time, she took careful aim at an impossibly difficult-to-hit target. The silent crowd held its collective breath in the sultry heat of late afternoon.
Dara changed her stance, placing one leg forward, the other behind, twisting her upper torso toward the target. Perspiration beaded her brow, but her hands appeared steady. With an elegant flick of her wrist, a powerful throw of her arm, and an added force from her hip, she grunted and let loose her dirk.
The blade flew through the air and plunked solidly into the tree trunk no wider than the breadth of Strongheart’s hand. The crowd sighed and murmured as one. Still there was no applause, no congratulations. The villagers crowded to one side, leaving Dara to face the trees. She lifted another knife, waiting on the balls of her feet, eyes alert.
Suddenly the air whistled, and a log attached by a rope swung out of the branches of a large oak. Dara’s wrist flicked. Before the dirk thudded into its mark, another log tied to another tree swung, then another.
Each time, Dara pivoted, took aim, and threw with the precision of a master. Never, not even by the finest English knights, had Strongheart seen such an exhibit of skill.
The crowd finally erupted into shouts and cheers. The men who’d hidden in the trees leapt from the branches. A few dogs barked, and children broke away from their mothers to run in circles, sing, and shout. Gaillard helped settle the bets. And Sorcha ordered the kitchen girls back to the castle to begin the evening meal.
But it was Dara who drew his attention. He’d expected smiles of happiness—not a blankness in her gaze, a slump in her shoulders.
Leaving the side of her proudly grinning father, she collected the dirks. Several had wormed their way so deep into the tree trunks she had to brace one foot to the tree and lean back with all her weight to tug the blade free.
Since she didn’t ask for help, he didn’t offer it. Still, he would have his curiosity satisfied. “I have never seen such skill.”
“That was the point, Norman.”
Her sharp words would not deter him. “But I saw you defend Sorcha. I already knew—”
Sighing, she yanked a dirk from one of the swinging logs. “The exhibition was not for you, Norman. But for me.”
She wasn’t making sense, but then he’d known all along that something beneath the surface had upset her. Although she spoke to him now, it was as if he were one of her father’s men-at-arms, not a man whose kiss she’d enjoyed a few hours before.
His brow creased. “Does your father wish you to think of yourself as a warrior instead of a woman?”
Her eyes were bleak. “When I was a girl, I begged Da to teach me to use the dirk. I wanted a good teacher. Da was the best. Once he had the eyes of a hawk, and he could hit targets much farther away than I can now.”
“Lady, no Norman knight could best your skill.”
“Legends of Da’s prowess will be told by the bards for generations.” She paused, her eyes focused on the point of a dirk. “He enjoyed teaching me all he knew. Of course, I’ve never equaled his distance since I lack his strength.”
“What you lack in strength you more than make up for in skill, Princess.”
She didn’t respond to his compliment. She didn’t say more, which left him just as puzzled as before. Why did she need a reminder of her own skill? The question burned in him, but as others approached he refrained from asking.
The winners offered her a share of the prizes, but she graciously refused. Waving a bandy-legged old man on his way, she teased, “Buy your wife a trinket. ’Twill make up for your coming home drunk last market day.”
Her words drew a laugh, and the crowd dispersed, the winners no doubt eager to spread tales of their good fortune. With the last dirk collected and placed in a sack, Dara and Strongheart strolled to the castle.
Sunset descended, leaving the two of them in a tense, eerie silence. His pulse raced as if he were about to enter battle. He sensed she would not like his question because a truthful answer would shred away the toughened outer layers she wrapped herself in to protect her vulnerability. But still, he had to know, even if she hated him for broaching her solitude.
“Tell me, Princess, why must you be reminded of your own skill?”
Chapter Ten
ALTHOUGH Strongheart asked his question in a voice soft as melted honey, a reply stuck tight in Dara’s throat. As they reached the entrance to the hall, the sun dropped below the horizon, leaving them in the fading light of the last rays of day.
Weary from the tension that had held her rigid through a trying afternoon, Dara flung her hair over her shoulder, raised her head, and gazed into his face. She was prepared to lie to him until she saw concern mixed with curiosity written across his features. Knowing the Norman would pester her until he received an answer, her thoughts raced. What could she tell him that would sound convincing?
Part of the truth might be best. Bracing her back against a warm stone wall, she fought for composure and just the right tone of indignation. “Da probably thought I needed to be reminded of my skill because of you.”
He placed one boot on a log and leaned forward, resting his forearm across his knee. “I don’t understand.”
“He taught me to fight to protect myself against men—and that was what he wanted me to remember. That the Princess of Leinster can never let herself be . . .”
“Be taken? Be forced?”
“Something like that,” she agreed, hoping he’d let the matter drop.
She should have known better. He held so still he reminded her of a cat tensed to spring on a mouse.
“Has a man forced you?” he asked, distaste evident in his tone.
“No,” she spoke plainly, attempting to keep her voice steady, hoping he couldn’t see the heat in her cheeks at discussing such a private topic in such a public place where any passerby could overhear their words. Yet no one neared the door into the hall, leaving them in a cocoon of privacy. Obviously he had not been taken in by her partial truth. But better that she satisfied his curiosity than to have him or Gaillard start questioning the villagers.
She was already having enough trouble resisting him. If he discovered her secret, she might succumb. “But many of Leinster’s enemies would try and take advantage if they caught me alone in the woods.”
He suddenly knelt on one knee and raised her hand to his lips. “I make you a promise, Princess. You need merely say the word ‘cease,’ and I will heed your command.”
Knowing he possessed such control should have reassured her. Having him at her feet should have made her feel triumph. But it did not. She felt torn, empty, drained. In the end, the final say would be hers, and she did not trust herself to summon the strength to fight him and her own passions, too.
Just outside the castle walls, a cat issued a plaint
ive meow, echoing Dara’s wish to cry out in despair. Why did it have to be the Norman that stretched her taut?
His lips touched her hand, and she forgot the warning in the cat’s cry. The tenderness of his gesture shot shivers of anticipation along her spine, setting her blood roaring in her ears. She swayed on her feet. The day’s lingering traumatic tension had left her feeling fragile and delicate. As if he sensed the weakness flowing through her, Strongheart gathered her into his arms, enfolding her protectively.
“I’m here,” he murmured into her ear. “I’ll always be here.”
She breathed in his male scent, snuggled against the hard planes of his chest, trying to believe he spoke the truth, already fighting the pain of knowing that when he didn’t get what he wanted, he’d move on. That was the way with warriors—they moved on to new conquests.
But for now she reveled in the strength of his arms and the heady touch of long, powerful arms locking her in a tender embrace. Her head rested under his chin and against his chest, her ear so close to his heart she could hear its steady, reassuring thump. Her hands went ’round his back, her fingers digging into firm flesh and holding tight. He smoothed her hair with his fingers, and as he murmured soothing sounds in the back of his throat, he calmed her as if she were an untamed filly.
Although she doubted she could ever stand within the circle of his embrace without feeling passion kindling between them, she knew his touch was meant not to arouse but comfort. She’d never imagined any man could offer her such serenity. Before she’d met the Norman she would have hooted in derision to think she’d found peace in the arms of an English knight and a man of war.
But peace with a Norman would never last. The cat meowed again, and, as if the sound broke the spell, she reluctantly pulled away. He let her go without a word, and she was about to flee into the hall and up the steep stairs to her room when she heard another plaintive cry, weaker, yet somehow more insistent.
“The cat in the stable has kittens almost ready to be weaned.” She turned in the darkness and walked with him past Ferns’ strong walls, her eyes seeking the telltale glitter of slanted cat eyes in the deep grasses of the field. “Do you suppose one of her kittens climbed a tree?”
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