Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

  “Come in. Could you comb out—” Dara’s eyes widened.

  Strongheart stepped into the room, devilishly handsome. For a moment she froze, taking in his incredibly broad shoulders, slim hips, and long, sinewy legs. For an instant, his commanding air of self-confidence had her tongue-tied.

  Grabbing her tunic, she held it in front of her, but not before he got a good look. She hadn’t taken the time to dry thoroughly, and the wet, thin white linen of her shift was almost transparent. His eyes lit with intense interest. Blood rushed to her cheeks. And the sight of Strongheart’s twitching lips stoked her fury.

  “How dare you come in here!”

  He released a devilish chuckle and crossed his arms over his broad chest, a twinkle in his eyes. “Princess, I knocked, and you invited me in.”

  “’Twas a mistake. I thought Sorcha was bringing tea. Now leave,” she ordered, drawing as much dignity about her as she could under the circumstances.

  Her heart was beating too fast, and she had trouble drawing air into her lungs. The drying towel had fallen from her hair. With her locks tangled and dripping over her shoulders and down her back, she looked as disheveled as she felt.

  She needed her full concentration to match wits with the wily Norman. But how could she think when all that separated her from his gaze was sheer linen and a tunic?

  If only she could control the dryness in her throat or the sudden pounding of her heart. His ruggedly handsome face had an inherent strength she found devastatingly attractive. With the way her traitorous body responded to his closeness, she didn’t trust herself to let him near.

  “I came only to talk.”

  His words might have been meant to calm her frazzled nerves, but his size alone alarmed her. The very way he stood there and took pleasure in confronting her when she was most vulnerable had her steeling her backbone and praying for strength. When he remained standing, staring arrogantly, she reached for the wine bottle. “I’ll only tell you once more. Get out.”

  He crossed his thick arms over his chest. “Your father sent me to speak with you.”

  “Liar!” Da might suffer from spells of forgetfulness, but he would never send this man to her room.

  She cocked her arm and threw the bottle. Her aim was true. She would have hit his handsome, smiling face, but he sidestepped her throw with nimble grace and caught the bottle, his expression never changing.

  “A princess would make me a good wife.”

  “This one is spoken for.” She took a step backward, thinking from the heated look in his gaze that he meant to compromise her virtue and force her into marrying him to preserve her good name. It wasn’t fear that caused her retreat but her own raging desire surging up in response to him.

  He took two steps into the room. She retreated until her back rested against the wall.

  “MacLugh is not the man for you.”

  She didn’t fail to catch the determination in his tone. While she would never marry MacLugh, she had no intention of revealing that to the Norman. Although he stood across the room, the space between them contracted until she could feel heat radiating off him. His black eyes bored into her, and she felt impaled by his iron-hard gaze while anxiety spurted through her.

  From their first meeting she’d sensed the danger in him—his strength, his skill, his determination. The cold draft from the door carried his clean scent, and she wished to take another step away to clear her spinning thoughts. She hadn’t expected him to come here, looking better than a Norman had a right to look. And she hadn’t expected her body to betray her desire. Even now the heat intensified in the pit of her stomach, and she wondered what kind of woman she would become if she couldn’t control her body. “I do not wish to discuss my plans.”

  “You do not want to argue with me, Princess?” He threw his arms wide, then settled his hands on his hips.

  He had yet to touch her. But though she might not be experienced, she knew when a man wanted her. His coal-black eyes burned with the same intensity as when he’d forced her to kiss him. There could be no denying his desire. Or her answering response as she fought her longing to let him take her into his arms. If his mere presence almost made her lose control, she could not allow his touch.

  She choked out a nervous laugh at her predicament. To scream and alert others to her situation would bring accusations about her reputation she’d fought so hard to avoid. Although she couldn’t deny her attraction to the Norman, she feared the passion flaring like heat lightning between them more. How was it possible to feel such attraction while her mind fought the very idea of wanting him?

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” she said. “I don’t want to do anything with you.”

  The moment she challenged him, she realized her mistake. His brows raised, and his voice softened to a dangerous, husky murmur. “You enjoyed our kiss, Princess.”

  “’Twas an act,” she denied.

  “A man knows when a woman is playacting and when she feels true desire.”

  “You are wrong.” Swallowing hard, with every muscle in her body strained rigid, she clutched her tunic with fingers numbed by tension. From across the room, he’d stirred her blood, and she cursed her rebellious body for betraying her.

  “I may be wrong about many things—but not about us. You will be mine.”

  His implacable expression unnerved her, yet his softly whispered words sent a fresh wave of longing straight to her heart. She ached to surrender to her desire, rise onto her toes, press against his hard chest, and permit him to take care of her.

  “I will never be yours,” she insisted, but even to her own ears, her voice lacked conviction.

  His face set in a hard line, all harsh angles, like granite in moonlight. The flickering candles reflected the gaunt cheekbones and squared jaw, the determined tilt of his head, the carved muscle of his neck, and the etched power of his bare arms. But it was his expression that unsettled her. His ambition to have her, combined with pure ruthless wanting, shot fear through her. It wasn’t a rational fear like that of being struck by lightning, but the fear of something elemental and just as primitive—the simmering, sizzling tension between them that she couldn’t escape.

  When he finally turned toward the door, she didn’t know whether to feel relief or disappointment. And then he turned to face her again.

  “Since I’m a reasonable man, I’ll give you time to adjust to the idea of our marriage.”

  No matter how appealing she might find the Norman, she couldn’t marry him. Not when every king in Ireland would raise armies to keep a Norman from gaining Leinster’s rich lands. However, she refused to argue his suitability and the political ramifications while standing behind a tunic. Sensing he wouldn’t go until she replied, she stalled for time. “The final decision shall be mine.”

  “And Conor’s,” he agreed. “All I ask for is the chance to convince you.”

  From his insistent tone, she surmised he would not back down on this point. Still, she pushed to see how much maneuvering room he’d allow. “And if I say no?”

  A muscle clenched along his jaw. “You cannot.”

  She trembled at the intractable sound of his words. “Why is that?”

  “Your father has given his permission for me to court you.”

  She didn’t doubt him and became increasingly uneasy under his scrutiny. Her father would promise the Norman much to gain his aid. With O’Rourke stirring trouble in the north and MacLugh threatening to return, Leinster needed every fighting man it could muster.

  She raised a brow, hoping her haughty expression would put him off. “And you need my cooperation?”

  “I think courting more pleasant than fighting,” he agreed lightly.

  “Especially when the rewards are Leinster and Castle Ferns.”

  When he didn’t deny her accusation she let
out her pent-up breath in a frustrated rush, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and tried not to show her disappointment. It would be nice to be wanted for her own charms and not her title or wealth, but she should have known this Norman was no different from her many Irish suitors. Except that never before had she had difficulty with her will yanking her one way, her emotions another.

  His mouth curved in tenderness. “I would make a good husband, Princess. I could hold this land for you.”

  Anxiety trickled down her spine. No matter how sincere, his rash promises would not convince her. “You would bring war.”

  “There is always war. Would it not be best to unite with a powerful ally? I would protect you.”

  At his sincerity, her insides melted like heated wax. Even if he defeated her enemies, he couldn’t protect her from herself or the torrent of confused feelings flooding her. And if his mere words caused her to consider his proposal, how would she resist him if he touched her or kissed her once more?

  She’d turn into a replica of the shallow woman she despised—a woman like her mother, who cared only for pleasure and neglected responsibilities. She clenched her fingers tightly on the tunic, telling herself she had no more backbone than a Kerry slug to fall so low. And yet, when he looked into her inflexible eyes, she wasn’t sure she had a choice. Why did he have to tempt her with his soft words and affable smile?

  If only Da would send him back to England . . . but Leinster needed his skills too badly for that. And if he stayed, she would have to allow him to court her. Silently cursing the hot-blooded nature she’d inherited from her mother, she fought to steady her trembling hands as her blood pounded an erratic rhythm. How long would it take him to wear down her resistance? How long before she yielded to the primitive side of her nature that she’d tried so hard to keep at bay?

  “I’ll give you two days.”

  “Thirty.”

  She shook her head. “Five days, and you leave after you train my father’s men-at-arms.”

  He chuckled, shooting her a look of amused admiration. “Twenty days, and you agree to ride with me every day.”

  “A fortnight, and you will not try to kiss me.”

  He grinned, his air of confidence as appealing as the first rays of sun after a harsh winter rain. “Agreed. Are you up for a ride around the motte?”

  Desperate to be free of his presence so she could collect her thoughts, she hesitated. But he pressed her with a reminder of her responsibilities. “During our ride I’ll decide the best way to shore up Castle Ferns’ defenses.”

  Strongheart left, and she finally drew her tunic over her head with trembling fingers. Where would she find the strength to resist him?

  Luckily, the rains started once again, canceling their plans and allowing her time to rebuild her own defenses. The following morning Strongheart began training Leinster’s men, and it wasn’t until the next afternoon that they took their ride.

  Strongheart met her in the stable with a wide smile. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

  “I keep my word.” She tried not to stare at the flowers braided into Fionn’s mane or the panniers of food strapped to his destrier’s saddle. Nor did she wish to meet Strongheart’s eyes. Instead, she focused on a spot past his right ear.

  He might sorely test her this day, but she’d decided as she lay tossing and turning in bed the previous night that her best defense was indifference. She wouldn’t feast on his scrumptious black eyes, admire his broad shoulders or his courtly words. She’d keep her wits about her and maintain her composure at all costs.

  But despite her good intentions, that morning she’d secretly watched him with the men and knew her indifference could not be so easily maintained. Even from a distance, she conceded he possessed a camaraderie with their men, instructing without belittling, automatically assuming the burden of command.

  As the men stripped their tunics to practice hand-to-hand fighting, she couldn’t veer her eyes from the Norman’s magnificent chest, where water droplets sparkled on rippling muscles and powerfully bulging arms moved with the grace and speed of a sika deer. His slick-backed hair emphasized strong cheekbones. And his black eyes glittered with a superior confidence as he unwittingly put on a show of skill and mastery the likes of which Leinster had never seen.

  He defeated opponent after opponent, but when one of her father’s men tossed him, he roared in approval and clapped the man on the back, a broad smile of respect on his roguish face. After watching how well he’d fit in and the respect he’d won from Leinster’s men, she knew keeping up her guard while they rode would prove even more difficult.

  Strongheart gave her a leg up to Fionn’s bare back, barely restraining himself from caressing her slender ankle. She hadn’t said a word about the flowers he’d braided into her horse’s mane, and yet he’d seen the encouraging flicker of a pleased smile before she’d once more turned impassive. If she thought to ignore him this day, he would not allow it. He meant to take every advantage of the fourteen days she’d given him to wage a campaign the likes of which she’d never seen.

  As they rode under a bright, overcast sky—what the locals called a fine day—he remained silent and patient, secure in the knowledge that Dara was not as indifferent to him as she tried to appear. There hadn’t been a cloudless day since he’d come to this land; the skies had ranged from a weighty, depressing gloom to a lustrous, almost heavenly pearl. When the clouds did shred away from the sun for a few minutes, the pastures rolled away in innumerable greens set off by the warm stones of endless rock fences. The changing landscape reminded him of Dara and the way she shrouded her emotions, allowing only an occasional glimpse of her warm disposition.

  Yesterday, in her room, the passion flowing between them had been unmistakable. Another woman would have been frightened when he’d entered and found her undressed. By the rood, she was lovely. It had taken all his self-restraint to keep his gaze from wandering over every delectable curve, every temptingly revealed hollow of her creamy flesh. She had a wild beauty, seductively high-perched breasts and shapely hips framed by hair tumbling carelessly to her slender waist.

  Once Dara’s anger had subsided at his invasion of her room, her gaze had revealed a yearning that took every measure of his control to resist. Odd how Dara’s reactions seemed backward. Fear came after her desire—not the other way round.

  He sighed and patted his warhorse’s neck. The rape of her maid might prey on her mind, for a lady should never witness such a brutal act. Despite Dara’s bravery it was no wonder she felt fear. He reminded himself to go slowly. Earn her trust.

  He cast a sideways glance at her sitting her horse with an ease many a warrior might envy. She’d left her long red hair free to cascade down her back, the tendrils bouncing teasingly along the delicate curve of her neck and over her squared shoulders. Although she looked cold and impervious, he knew better. There was something vulnerable deep in her alluring eyes, an ancient pain of which she never spoke. Her face seemed paler than usual, and he wondered what she was thinking.

  While he was trying not to stare at her, Dara caught him perusing the castle walls for weakness. She sat straighter on Fionn, and he realized from her tender glance at the land how much she loved her home. He didn’t want to see her lose her home due to vulnerable points in their defenses. Unless the castle was founded wholly on solid rock, the walls could be tunneled under. But there were methods to combat such tactics, and he meant to oversee them. He understood Castle Ferns tied her to the land and her people. She’d want her children to grow up on the moors, play in the heather, and appreciate the lush green pastures.

  “Our retainers shelter inside the walls in times of danger,” she stated proudly. “Surely you do not see weaknesses in those rock walls?”

  The castle with its surrounding bawn was a source of military strength. But Ferns lacked the protection of a moat, and the
towers looked old. A few places could use structural support, and Strongheart had already ordered the work to begin under Gaillard’s supervision. Funds permitting, he’d like to bring in a stone-throwing machine. Estimating it would take months to set the entire defense in order, but unwilling to disagree on such a fine day, Strongheart kept his opinion to himself.

  “’Tis the villagers who must bear the brunt of the attacks, is it not?”

  She nodded. “Houses are burned, cottages ransacked. The cattle and plough horses are driven away, and innocent people . . . are killed.”

  He heard the soft catch in her voice. Had she lost someone dear to her in a raid? Was that the mystery surrounding her mother? Yet there was no dishonor in dying in a raid. And the way MacLugh had spoken of her mother was with the utmost disrespect. He thought it strange how the villagers refused to speak of Dara’s mother. Even Gaillard’s charm had not yet drawn the information from Sorcha.

  “There is too much land to patrol the borders.” He patted his warhorse on the neck and sent her a sideways glance. “And the vast herds of cattle make your people vulnerable.”

  “Raiding is our way of life.” She released a small sigh, her fingers twisting a flower in Fionn’s mane. “We raid Munster. Munster raids Meath, and Meath steals our cattle. The battles never end, but when our crops are burned and the men do not return, ’tis the women and children who suffer most. The endless raids must cease. I want peace.”

  Had the wars taken a loved one from her? That would explain the occasional sadness lurking in her emerald eyes. Yet he hesitated to ask directly, hoping she would confide in him. “You don’t wish for the riches of Meath?”

  She steered around a thick patch of marram grass. “I am content with Leinster. ’Tis my home. But what of you? You never speak of yourself.”

  Startled by her inquiry, he settled deeper in the saddle. Was she curious due to personal interest, or did she seek information to use against him? Her innocent expression gave nothing away. “What would you like to know?” he asked.