Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

  The warhound growled. Strongheart glanced around the wall at Dara, standing tall, eyes flashing green fire. Despite her aristocratic cheekbones, the graceful arch of her neck, and the delicate lines of her chin, she had a strength surprising in a woman. She’d never looked so beautiful, brazen, beguiling.

  Her chest heaved, but her voice remained firm. “A woman who can defend herself always has a choice. And I’ll not be choosing a man who resorts to force.”

  From the first he’d suspected she didn’t want the Irishman, but it was nice to hear her say the words. Especially since Conor often let her have the final say. The Norman’s hopes rose as he sensed her heart did not yet belong to MacLugh and he still had opportunity to win her.

  “So that’s the way the wind is blowing,” MacLugh spat. “You prefer the courtly ways of the Norman.”

  Did she? Was the Irish king hurling insults? Mayhap he’d picked up on the connection Strongheart felt whenever he looked at her. Had the man so easily read that he already looked at Dara as his?

  “I prefer to be left alone,” she replied coldly.

  So the lady still needed convincing. He would not have her feeling any other way, since he looked forward to changing her mind. He might have even believed her harsh words against him if he hadn’t recalled her response to his kiss and the warmth in her eyes when she’d spied the sprig of flowers by her plate.

  MacLugh leered at her bodice. “You’re ripe for the plucking, and I’m just the man to do it.”

  Morcolle barked a warning. At that moment, Gaillard and Sorcha rode into the bailey, and Dara glanced their way. MacLugh lunged, grabbed the wrist that held Dara’s knife, and squeezed until she dropped her weapon to the muddy ground.

  Strongheart stepped into view, advancing with sword in hand. At his sudden appearance, MacLugh swung Dara in front of him, using her as a shield. Anger, not fright, raged in her eyes. If MacLugh had seen her face he might have anticipated her continued resistance. But when she kicked his shin, she took him by surprise, and he let out a muffled curse. Her elbow slammed into his stomach, and his arm loosened around her neck.

  Dropping to the mud without hesitation, she rolled, coming to her feet with dirk in hand. MacLugh drew his sword, and Strongheart had seen enough. Even a seasoned warrior wouldn’t think a dirk equal to a sword.

  Strongheart stepped in front of Dara. Behind him, Dara let out a sigh of protest, but Strongheart kept his gaze on the Irish king, waiting for the man’s attack.

  From his opponent’s stance, Strongheart surmised the other was well versed with a blade. With a surge of anticipation, the Norman looked forward to defeating Dara’s enemy and freeing her of any betrothal promises to this man. From the lust in the king’s eyes, which was slow to die despite the challenge of combat, the Norman realized this man wouldn’t relinquish his passion for Dara until his last breath.

  Killing the man would set her free to wed another. Him. Balancing on the balls of his feet, the Norman breathed calmly and cleared his mind for battle.

  Dara slipped around him, her eyes flashing fierce with suppressed rage. “The first man to strike a blow shall never sire a child.”

  Dara threatened a vital part of the combatants’ anatomies, and Strongheart liked her threat not one whit. Hoping his countenance didn’t appear as astounded and worried as MacLugh’s, the Norman kept his blade raised but heeded the warning. Yet he didn’t lower his sword.

  Before either warrior responded, another horse, its rider wearing the colors of Munster, thundered into the bailey. “Raiders to the north! Thank the saints, I have found you, MacLugh. O’Rourke is raiding the north border.”

  MacLugh’s men, roused by the rider’s shouts, poured into the bailey and mounted. With a salute of his sword, MacLugh backed away from Strongheart. “Another day, Norman.” Leaping upon his horse, the King of Munster dug his heels into his mount and departed in a great splash of mud.

  Annoyed by her interference in the quarrel, Strongheart turned to Dara and sheathed his weapon. When he saw her lower lip tremble and the trickles of rain running over her mud-splattered face, her hair cascading over her shoulders in wet disarray, he tempered his anger.

  Stepping closer, he put a protective arm over her shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”

  Her gaze followed Sorcha, who was walking unaided into the hall. “Only my pride. I shouldn’t have let Sorcha distract me.”

  “You shouldn’t have to defend yourself.”

  She sighed and replaced her dirk. “Aye. Men shouldn’t threaten women, but they always do.”

  Stubborn woman. Why must she deliberately misunderstand him? “I meant, you should have a husband to look after you.”

  She glanced straight into his eyes, revealing unshed tears. “Why should I be tied to a man for life because of his lust and greed?”

  He didn’t bother to conceal his astonishment. “You never wish to wed? Or have children?”

  “Bairns would be nice.” For a moment she softened, but then, as if remembering she must think of her position and the political situation, she stiffened. “But a husband must be chosen carefully. I would not have a warrior husband who will bring war.”

  “Without a strong man to hold this rich land, you will lose your home.”

  She shrugged out from under his arm, straightened defiantly, and placed her fists on her hips, but he wasn’t fooled. He’d spied the pain and fear she’d tried to hide despite her cool tone. “I don’t need looking after by the likes of a Norman.”

  She spun away from him, and he would have let her go but for a question preying on his mind. “What did MacLugh mean by comparing your mother to the high queen?”

  Her eyes widened with startlement and the beginnings of erupting anger. “You were behind the wall, spying the entire time.”

  “I didn’t like the look in the man’s eyes or the danger in your being alone with him,” he admitted, watching her features go rigid as she closed her emotions tighter than a clam.

  “’Tis none of your concern,” she insisted with a stubbornness so great he wanted to shake her.

  Forcing himself to remember the confrontation she’d just endured, he tilted her chin with one finger until their gazes locked. Another woman would have tears in her eyes—in Dara he read bold rebellion. “I’m making it my concern. I’m making you my concern, Princess.”

  “No.” Wet and muddy, she stared at him with the composure of royalty that belied the rapid pulse at the delicate curve in her neck. A raindrop drizzled onto her long lashes, and she batted it fiercely away, leaving another smudge of dirt along her cheek. Never had he seen her more bedraggled. Never had he seen her more ravishing.

  Only the presence of the men in the courtyard prevented him from taking her into his arms for another kiss. Drawing a ragged breath to steady himself from rashly taking what he wanted, he called to a passing servant and ordered a hot bath for Dara.

  However reluctant he was to release her, she needed a hot bath. And she needed time. But with the castle defenses weak and the rising troubles on the border, time was the one thing that wasn’t his to give.

  ON THE WAY to Dara’s room, Lir, one of the maids, stopped her. Lir kept her brown eyes downcast and didn’t refer to the mud Dara tracked through the hall. “Neilli wants to speak with you, and”—her nose wrinkled in disgust—“the Munster men left fleas behind.”

  “They acted no better than a pack of wild hounds.” Dara swept her dripping hair from her cheek. “Spread alder leaves upon the floor. The fleas will stick. Later, we can sweep them out of the hall and burn them.”

  Before heading toward her room, she stopped in the kitchen to confer with Neilli about which of the food left over from the feast to save without worry of spoiling and which to give to the departing villagers. A groom met her in the hall and told her that one of their prize mares would soon foa
l. She asked to be kept informed before wearily heading up the stairs.

  When she reached her room, Sorcha had a fire blazing in the hearth. While her friend still looked pale, she was once again walking with brisk efficiency.

  It was too soon for Sorcha to be waiting on her. “You should be in bed,” Dara admonished.

  “And the Norman was right. You need a hot bath.”

  Dara would have given Sorcha a swift hug but had no wish for Sorcha to suffer a chill from her wet clothes. Instead, she settled for squeezing her hand. “Has the bleeding stopped?”

  Sorcha nodded, refusing to meet her eyes and see her scowl. “Take off those wet clothes.”

  Dara grinned at Sorcha’s bossiness. She truly must be better. With a wave of her hands, she shooed Sorcha toward the door. “I’ll bathe . . . if you nap.”

  Sorcha left the room and called back over her shoulder. “Fine. I’ll just bring you a cup of tea and then take a wee nap.”

  Nothing had changed. Sorcha always managed the last word. And her friend had also managed to follow the Norman’s orders. Who else could be responsible for the scented candles lighting the room—Or the wine goblet resting within easy reach of the tub of steaming water?

  Amidst flower petals sprinkled in the bath water, a bottle floated. Curious, Dara drew the bottle to her and found a note inside.

  How did Strongheart find time for these diversions? Since he wasn’t there to watch, she smiled and unrolled the parchment, reading aloud. “‘After your bath, Princess, I would like to take this cloth and dry you. Slowly.’”

  Wanton devil. And yet the idea sent a tingle of excitement across her shoulders and down her back. The thought of him rubbing the thick drying cloth over her bare flesh heated her blood, banishing her chill.

  Dreamily she removed her clothes, poured a goblet of wine, and eased into the hot water scented with rose petals. She lay her head back against a rolled cloth and shut her eyes. Images of the Norman assailed her.

  Sinking into the tub until the water covered her breasts, she rubbed soap on a cloth, building a good lather. She recalled the fury in Strongheart’s eyes when MacLugh had used her for a shield and had no doubts he would have defended her with his life. His big hand had hefted his jeweled sword loosely, ready to mete out death.

  Yet she also remembered those same hands gently smoothing hair off her forehead and cupping her chin. Drifting the lathered cloth over her legs, she recalled his marvelous male essence, spicy and clean, and when he’d kissed her, his mouth had been both coaxing and demanding.

  After rinsing her legs, she moved the cloth over her arms and shoulders, relaxing in the warmth of the water. The odd sensation he’d caused with his kiss once again fluttered deep in her loins.

  She swished the cloth between her breasts, wondering how Strongheart’s touch there would feel. She imagined his big hands warming her like the suds trickling over her flesh, his fingers teasing her puckered nipples into peaks of pleasure. The ache in her core deepened to a surge of heat, and this time she put a name to her feeling—desire. Desire to hold him, touch him, kiss him.

  Desire for the Norman? Her eyes snapped open. No, it could never happen. Quickly she held her breath and ducked her head beneath the water to clear her thoughts. No matter how appealing, she couldn’t allow him to seduce her with flowers, scented bathwater, and inappropriate notes.

  After downing the goblet of wine in one gulp, she set it down with a thump. She roughly lathered her hair in an effort to stop her thoughts from drifting too easily.

  From now on she must not only beware the Norman’s bold advances, she’d have to guard her thoughts more closely, for a match between them was impossible and could only lead to war with their neighbors. War with Britain. She’d have to be wary of his determined moves, suppress the part of her that was drawn to him. For the first time, she wondered if she had any more discipline than her mother. She must find the strength to resist. She owed it to her people to keep her good sense. She had to stay wise to the Norman’s tricks.

  STRONGHEART tracked the departing MacLugh clan until he was assured they’d truly left. As he turned back to Castle Ferns, the rain had stopped, but his thoughts remained dark. It would have been better for Leinster if he’d killed MacLugh. After Dara’s rejection, the insulted king would return with an army since fighting was the only way he knew. And Leinster must be ready.

  Leaving his warhorse for the groom to cool down, Strongheart sought out Conor in the stable where a mare had just begun to labor. The warm scent of hay mixed with the faint odor of manure. But the stable was warm and dry, keeping the rain at bay.

  Conor scratched between the mare’s ears and crooned softly. “Easy, girl. Save your strength.” When Strongheart entered the stall, Conor looked up, as if expecting Strongheart to seek him out. “’Twill be her first foal, and she refuses to settle down.”

  Inching his way along her flanks, Strongheart took care not to startle the animal. “MacLugh will be back. How many men can he raise?”

  “Not enough to take Leinster,” Conor assured him, his voice resonant and impressive.

  “MacLugh is ambitious.” Remembering Dara’s assessment of the political situation, Strongheart asked, “Suppose he and O’Rourke join forces?”

  Conor sighed. “In that occurrence, I’d be needing a powerful ally myself. But it won’t transpire. The MacLughs and O’Rourkes have been raiding each other’s borders for nigh onto five generations.”

  The situation lent itself to perpetual warfare, with the five kings changing sides and enemies as easily as changing their clothes. Strongheart had to state his suggestion tactfully—unfortunately, convincing a man with words wasn’t his forte. “And between feuds, do not your enemies sometimes unite to take on a common foe?”

  Conor stroked his beard, his attention diverted from the mare. “It might come to pass.”

  “Perhaps you could use an ally? Someone to help hold these lands.”

  Leinster’s king spoke not with eagerness but matter-of-factly. “What are ye suggesting, Norman?”

  “I can hold Leinster for you.”

  Conor threw back his head and roared with laughter, unsettling the mare. “You are just one man. If MacLugh wants Leinster, he’ll return with the fighting men of Munster at his back.”

  Strongheart reined in his temper. “I have the funds to hire Norman knights.”

  Conor gave him a shrewd glance. “And what’s to prevent your Normans from stealing my land?”

  “Me. I want to marry your daughter.” Strongheart was surprised to find his motives came from wanting Dara and defending her home rather than thoughts of conquest. The image of her in his bed was so appealing, he ruthlessly shoved it to the back of his mind.

  Now was no time for dreaming. With the men of Leinster’s skills inadequate and their numbers too few, too spread out, holding Leinster’s vast lands would be difficult. The castle needed fortifying, and the men-at-arms needed training in warfare.

  “Dara?” The king’s eyes lit. “That little filly was meant to run wild. She isn’t ready to settle.”

  Strongheart raised a brow. “She’d tame under the right man.”

  Conor shook his head, and Strongheart knew Leinster’s king had not seriously considered his offer. “If Dara agrees, come back, and we’ll talk at greater length. In the meantime, see to training my men and the castle defenses.”

  At least Conor gave him some hope, but he’d done so knowing how set Dara was against him. Winning her was the key. But then he’d known that from the start. And while he wooed the lady, he would defend her home. “We need armor, weapons, and more horses,” Strongheart insisted, knowing he could do only so much without proper equipment.

  “I’ll consider it.” Conor turned back to the mare, ending the conversation.

  Strongheart decided against
pushing the man. Once he earned Conor’s respect, it would be easier to convince him that Leinster was in dire need of weapons and armor.

  While he now had the position he wanted, he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d strengthened Leinster’s defenses with well-trained and well-armed men. But being put in command was a start. Tomorrow he would take charge of the men.

  Right now, he intended to speak to Dara. She should still be in her bath. With a grin of anticipation, he left the barn, entered the castle, and climbed the stairs to her room, wondering how receptive she would be to a marriage proposal. Would the bath and wine have relaxed her into a pliant mood?

  He’d last seen her with mud splattered on a face tight with worry. Still, he’d noticed her wet tunic fused to maidenly curves. Taking Dara to wife and making Leinster his home brought a surge of determination, and he took the steps three at a time.

  For the first time in many years, his head and heart were in full agreement. He would have the land. He would have Dara.

  Now all he needed was her agreement. She might be stubborn, but he was prepared to storm her defenses, until her thoughts, her feelings, and her heart revolved around him.

  Strongheart knocked on her door.

  Chapter Six

  AT THE KNOCK on the door, Dara jerked awake, and the soap plunked into the tub. Gauging from the coolness of the bathwater, she’d dozed. The knock must be Sorcha returning with her tea. At the rap of another knock, she stood in the tub and wrapped her hair in a drying cloth. “Just a moment.”

  If Sorcha knew how long she’d spent in the tub, she’d be in for a scolding. Her friend had never understood Dara’s need for bathing and insisted she’d catch her death of cold. Unwilling to listen to a lecture, Dara dried off quickly, pulled her shift over her head and damp shoulders, and wriggled the material past her hips. She was reaching for her tunic when the knock sounded again.