Her father patted her back awkwardly. “Dara, ’tis the only way. Surely you see we need the Normans?”
Raising her head, she ignored the tears spilling down her cheeks. “Will they leave us when you ask it? Or will they use Leinster as a base to subdue the rest of Eire?”
“Leinster is enough for one man, Princess,” Strongheart spoke softly. With hand outstretched he offered her a bouquet of white campions with yellow eyes amid their petals. She pictured the flowers growing in a field above a thousand graves and recoiled.
Fear and anger stabbed like a dirk in her gut. “How can I believe you? You know how I feel about inviting Norman armies into Leinster, so you did not mention your plan. What else have you not told me?”
Strongheart shook his head sadly. “Once we defeat O’Rourke and MacLugh, no king, not even the Ard-ri, will challenge my right to hold you or Leinster.”
Her hands bunched into fists. “If you defeat the kings of both Munster and Meath, what will prevent you from conquering their lands and then Connaught, Ulster, and the Pale?”
“My self-restraint.”
“Och, we already know you have none. You go after what you want and take it—that is your way.”
At her insult, Strongheart tossed his rejected blossoms onto the mattress, his face tight and pinched, his eyes hard. “I am a man of my word.”
Pain rose up to choke her, and she responded through broken gasps. “You lied by omission. If I had known your intentions, do you think I would have welcomed you to my bed?”
Her father shook his head, looked from one of them to the other, and left the room. The door shut with a click as hollow as her heart, leaving her alone with the Norman. She didn’t want to face him, didn’t know pain could be so sharp. She’d fallen in love with him, and now she would have to give him up or risk plunging her country into civil war.
Lord, help her. Where would she find the strength to leave him?
Chapter Sixteen
DARA SAT ON the bed hugging herself, refusing to look at Strongheart. A sharp rap on the door followed by Gaillard’s murmured voice barely registered in Dara’s thoughts.
“What is it?” Strongheart called.
Gaillard spoke from the hallway. “DeLacy and Conor require your presence.”
To make their war plans, Dara thought miserably. How many more people must she lose to war and greed?
“Can they not wait?” Strongheart measured her for a moment, then held out his hand. She ignored him, and his eyes darkened with her reflected pain.
He would leave her to hire his army, plan his battles, and create a war the likes of which her countrymen had never seen. As much as she longed to return home to Castle Ferns, she couldn’t face years of border raids, starvation, and death. With superior Norman weapons and mail, Strongheart could conquer her country, but outnumbered, the Normans would have difficulty holding the land. There would never be peace. Once again Eva’s innocent face rose to haunt her. Dara would not be like her mother and yield to a passion she couldn’t control.
Gaillard’s voice grew urgent. “A messenger leaves within the hour to raise mercenaries.”
The Norman reached to cup her chin. “I will be but a moment.”
She jerked away, her throat aching, her voice bitter with defeat. “Go. Go do what you do best, Norman.”
An uncertainty crept into his expression. His hand dropped to his side. “We will talk later.”
Her hands twisted in her tunic, and with her head dropped, she hid her face behind a veil of hair. “Your words will change nothing,” she said brokenly, “not when your actions speak so loudly.”
“Strongheart,” Gaillard insisted, “you must come, now.”
“I will send Sorcha to you.” The Norman left her, and for once her eyes didn’t follow him out of the room. Perhaps she no longer loved him?
Not so, her heart whispered back.
When Sorcha entered the room, Dara sat in the same position, her knees drawn to her chest, rocking. Her eyes remained dry. Tears would come later when she recovered from the shock.
Warm brown eyes full of concern, Sorcha sat on the bed and took her into her arms, rocked her as if she were still a child. “There, now. Everything will be fine.”
“I fell in love with the Norman,” Dara blurted the words, taking little comfort in Sorcha’s hug.
Sorcha smoothed the hair back from Dara’s face. “Och, it had to happen sooner or later for ’tis the way of the world. Did Strongheart bring you these lovely white campions? Why, the man must be in love with you.”
As she tried to maintain her fragile control, Dara’s stomach clenched tight. “Strongheart intends to lead a Norman army into Leinster.”
Sorcha’s full lips thinned. “There’s naught wrong with recapturing your birthright. Do you not want to go home?”
“More than anything.” In her heart she’d always been afraid, but now panic rooted within her. Without the familiar solid walls of Leinster around her, waves of dread swept through her. She faced a lightless future, her throat raw with unuttered screams of protest. “Strongheart will not stop with regaining Leinster. Why should he? With the army he will raise, he’ll have all of Eire at his feet.”
Sorcha frowned. “The Ard-ri will not yield without a fight.”
“Aye.” With a moan of distress, she wrenched away from Sorcha’s arms and paced the room before she yielded to compulsive sobs. “For that reason, I must give the Norman up.”
Sorcha’s forehead creased. “I do not see why you must sacrifice—”
“Without me, Strongheart has no legitimate ownership to the land. Whether I marry him or not, his claim cannot be legal except by the sanction of the Ard-ri.”
“My poor colleen.” Sorcha collected the strewn flowers with a sigh. “All this is not your fault. Your father has commanded you to marry the Norman. There is naught you can do.”
Dara closed her eyes, the pain inside a sick and fiery gnawing. The weak, the old, and women and children suffered the most when men went to war. Despite his age, Donal would feel compelled to defend his home. And what would happen to the blind bard Carolan and the monks in the hills? She could not bear the thought of another child needlessly dying like Eva or another woman raped like Sorcha. She would do anything to prevent civil war from breaking out in Eire. “I can run away. Return to Ireland.”
“What good could come of such a rash action?”
Through the grief and despair, a small hope wormed its way through her misery. Perhaps she could have Leinster and the Norman, too. “If the Ard-ri sanctions my marriage, then with his help, we can regain Leinster without the use of Norman knights. We might have peace.”
Sorcha clucked her tongue. “Love has blinded you to the truth. After backing O’Rourke and MacLugh’s bid to take Leinster, why would the Ard-ri switch sides?”
“The Ard-ri once held tender feelings for my mother. Perhaps he will grant my request.”
“Surely you have not forgotten the high king has no liking for your father. He will hold you hostage,” Sorcha countered.
“The Ard-ri will not want a Norman army to invade Eire. Perhaps he will agree to a marriage between the Norman and me if Strongheart agrees to occupy only Leinster.”
Sorcha set the nosegay on the pillow, turned, and wagged a finger in her face. “You always were too brash for a woman. You cannot ride across Eire by yourself, looking for the Ard-ri. Tell your father or Strongheart your plan and send a message to the Ard-ri.”
“No.” Dara’s voice grew stronger with conviction. “They are men of war, set on fighting and revenge. While they dream of carving a kingdom for themselves, they will not negotiate.”
Sorcha sighed with exasperation. “But even if you are successful with the Ard-ri, how will you convince your father and the Norman to settle for Le
inster, when they can take all five counties by force?”
Dara straightened and lifted her chin. “Let us hope the Norman loves me as much as I love him. I may be forced to marry him and bear his children, but as long as war is more important to him than my wish for peace, he will lose my heart.”
“That is it?” Sorcha rubbed her forehead. “That’s your plan? Go to Strongheart, now, and tell him he will break your heart if he conquers our country.”
“How can I ask anything of him when I don’t know where the Ard-ri stands? As long as Strongheart thinks it necessary to defeat O’Rourke, MacLugh, and the Ard-ri to retake Leinster, he will not listen to talk of peace. The high king has sent me several messages through Mata, indicating his willingness to compromise. If I persuade the high king to negotiate, Strongheart will see things differently.”
Sorcha placed her hands on her hips. “You realize most likely your plan will fail?”
With renewed courage and determination, Dara faced Sorcha. “’Tis a risk but one I am willing to take. This is my only chance to get what I want—Castle Ferns, Strongheart, and peace. If I do not try, I will spend the rest of my life knowing I had an opportunity and failed to take it. You must say nothing until after I leave.”
“I will go with you.”
Dara opened her mouth to protest.
Sorcha prattled on without giving her a chance to disagree. “Do not argue, or I will tell your father.”
At her loyalty, warmth spread through Dara. Although guilt stabbed her for putting Sorcha in jeopardy, she would be glad to have company on the journey to Dublin.
“Thank you.” She hugged Sorcha tight, thinking this woman had done much to make up for the loss of her own mother. “Be ready to leave at midnight.”
“I will see to the horses and provisions,” Sorcha promised.
After Sorcha’s departure, Dara’s thoughts focused on Strongheart. When he returned, she would have to use all her wiles to make him believe she’d accepted the use of Norman knights. Although she didn’t relish the thought of lying to him, perhaps they need not discuss anything at all. With a smile of satisfaction, she called servants and had them fetch a bath. She put all thoughts of leaving him out of her mind. There would be plenty of time later for regrets. This would be their last night together for a while. This might be their last night together, ever. She intended to make it special.
After serving a meal of stewed mutton, peas, and beans, servants removed the leftover food and brought in a large tub. Soon a brigade of boys filled the tub with buckets of hot water. Dara plucked white petals and tossed them into the water, scenting the room.
She disrobed and eased into the hot water with a contented sigh, hoping the heat would soothe stiff muscles and infuse renewed strength for the journey ahead. She washed quickly but then must have dozed for just a minute or two, because when she awoke, the bath water remained warm.
At the creaking of the door’s hinge, she recognized Strongheart in the dim room. Without looking at her, he lit every candle in an extravagant gesture that left her heart fluttering.
Rising to her feet, she stood before him, fully naked, offering herself to his attentive gaze. His bold stare assessed her frankly, and she almost grabbed the drying cloth to hide. But when he broke into a wide-open smile of approval that sent her pulse racing, she was glad she’d dared this seduction. Holding out his hand as if she were dressed to meet the Queen of England, he helped her step from her bath onto a thick carpet.
A spark of fire smoldered in his eyes. “Let me dry you, Princess.”
She quivered at the memory of the last time he’d dried her and almost lost sight of her task. This night was to be for him. Grabbing up two drying cloths, she wrapped one about her hair, the other around her back and under her arms, tucking the excess cloth between her breasts.
“I would bathe you, my lord,” she said shyly, using the Norman term of address, “while the bathwater is still warm.”
He glanced at the petals floating across the surface and chuckled. “Do you wish me to smell as sweet as a woman?”
Her hands raised the hem of his shirt, her eyes downcast to the bulge in his breeches. “No one would ever mistake you for a woman.”
She removed his shirt, and as the drying cloth tucked between her breasts loosened, he stayed her hand from retying it. In a silent whisper, the cloth pooled at her feet, once more leaving her bared to his gaze. Clearly he wanted her naked. The thought of teasing him with her nudity while she bathed him tightened the invisible web of passion Dara felt spinning between them.
A brief shiver rippled through her at the pleasure of touching his chest, skimming her palms over his firm muscles, lingering at the sensitive place where his shoulder bones reached the hollow of his neck. As she dipped her hands to his flat stomach and lower to remove his breeches, she tilted her head to look into his eyes, to drink in his expression and hold it within her heart for all time.
His dark brows arched at her brazen behavior, the light of desire illuminating his smoky eyes, his smile as intimate as a kiss. Nervously, she moistened dry lips.
With her palms tingling against his hair-roughened thighs, she slid his breeches over molded muscles. Kneeling to remove them, she let out a gasp of dismay at her mistake. She’d neglected to remove his boots. So much for her well-planned seduction. Allowances for her relative inexperience at disrobing a man would have to be made.
His lips twitched, but he offered not one word of advice to help her out of her dilemma. As she stood and searched for a chair, she thought she heard him swallow a chuckle.
A giggle escaped her lips. “I take it you would prefer to bathe without your boots?”
“Aye.”
She set the chair beside her and returned to her place before him. With his breeches pushed down to his knees, she had him at her mercy. With a saucy grin, she took advantage, brushing along the inside of his knees, tracing a sensuous path of tiny circles, each caress a bit higher than the last. She teased, she taunted, but she ignored his jutting man part until his breath grew ragged.
Finally hooking her ankle around a chair leg, she shoved the seat behind him. He sat so quickly she bit back a grin of satisfaction, hoping his knees were as weak as hers.
Facing him, she grabbed the heel of his boot with the palm of one hand and the back of his calf with the other and tugged. It wouldn’t budge. She wanted to stamp her foot in defeat. The boot would not come off.
Slowly and seductively, his gaze slid over her breasts. His brow rose at her frustration, his silky tone rife with challenge. “Perhaps if you turned around?”
She stiffened, momentarily abashed. Although he had already seen and touched every part of her, an unwelcome blush burned her cheeks. He wanted her to face the other way and straddle his outstretched legs, a perfectly acceptable act—if she’d been wearing clothes.
But she wasn’t.
Refusing to allow a small difficulty to interfere with her plans, she flicked her hair over her shoulder and did as he’d suggested. If he wanted to look at her wiggling bottom, she would give him an eyeful he wouldn’t forget.
She captured his knees between hers, bent to remove his boot, arching her back a bit more than necessary to taunt him. When his palms lightly squeezed her bottom, she squealed in surprise.
He laughed aloud, his merriment buoyant. She suspected her body had gone crimson, for a heated flush engulfed her. His legs might be joined together by his breeches, but how could she have forgotten his hands were free? She should have remembered he never missed an opportunity for a caress.
As he continued to stroke her, she grew fiery hot. A warm wetness pooled between her legs, and she lost the strength to remove his boots. The tingle along her bottom emphasized the ache between her thighs. She no longer wanted to give him a bath. She didn’t want to wait another moment to have him insid
e her.
Finally she forced her fingers to remove one boot, throwing it across the room in frustration. She tried not to think about what his hands were doing while she worked on the other boot. “Are you deliberately cocking your ankle to make this harder?”
“Ummm.” His husky voice swished across her like a whisper of silk. “’Tis a beautiful view. One that deserves my full attention.”
He fondled her in much the same manner as she’d done to him. Except every so often, his fingertips delved between her thighs to play in her curls, distracting her from her task. But no matter how she wriggled, he refused to give her the satisfaction her body demanded.
She took a deep breath to steady her racing heart, gripped his boot firmly, and prepared to pull with all her might. When he pinched her bottom, she yelped, and the boot finally came off.
Dropping his boot, she attempted to rub the sore spot. His hands grabbed her waist, blocking her arms from reaching back, and his tongue licked the pain away. He hadn’t pinched her after all. “You bit me!”
“’Twas just a little nibble. I could not resist.”
Her breasts quivered, and she trembled then, knowing he would nip her again. The delicious anticipation of his caresses combined with her vulnerability held an undeniable excitement. Secure in the knowledge he would never truly hurt her, she waited, breathless, on the edge.
His tongue tickled her bottom, and at the base of her neck, a pulse beat and swelled as though her heart had risen to her throat. Occasionally his hand delved between her thighs, but never for more than a moment. Never enough to satisfy the frenzied need mounting inside her.
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