Part 9 (1/2)

In the end, the footholds gave out, and she was forced to hop into shallow water. Quickly she sloshed to dry land. Finian landed a moment later, splas.h.i.+ng to the sh.o.r.e.

He stopped, the heel of one palm pressed against his ribs, his brow furrowed, his jaw tight. She waited silently, quelling a moment of panic. He'd obviously been beaten, and might be seriously injured. How would they make it if...? How did he find the strength- He straightened, and any thoughts of physical vulnerability were swept away beneath her awareness of his total maleness. A chest firm with plated muscle, arms cut and carved in that defined musculature, legs thickly corded with sinew and strength, he was a specimen of raw masculinity. But her attention lingered longest on the sculpted features of his face, how they looked more haunting in the moonlight. Dangerous.

His gaze swept the land around them, plotting their next move. His eyes swept over hers once, unseeing, then came back again. He smiled faintly, but she could see the unrelenting steel behind the gentle gesture.

”Ye did fine, Senna.”

Some ridiculous pleasure rose up in her. Bubbly, like the small creek behind her manor house. ”You weren't so bad yourself, Irishman.”

No, not so, indeed. Dark hair fell back alongside his face to frame the easy, damaging smile he sent her way. The steel in his gaze was sheathed deeper for a moment, behind a roughish, seductive glint. ”Ye've seen nothing of what I'm good at yet, Senna.”

Heat raced to her cheeks. ”Well,” she retorted, ”I know 'tisn't tossing women across rivers.”

He grinned as he s.h.i.+fted his pack, the muscles of his body rippling even under that slight movement. ”Senna, if ye can't guess what I do well by now, I haven't a hope for ye.”

That started the s.h.i.+very ribbons through her belly. The look in his eye before he turned away started the heat in her groin.

”All we have to do tonight is make it across the king's highway,” he explained, ”and far enough into the hills on the other side.”

”Cross the king's highway? That doesn't sound prudent.”

”'Tisn't,” he said as they headed into the woods.

”It sounds dangerous.”

”'Tis.”

She kept imagining Rardove's rage when he discovered she was gone. Could Balffe have realized it already? And if so, wouldn't they gallop directly to the highway, run like mad for Dublin, just as she was doing? Straight down the king's highway.

”Isn't there some other way?”

Finian skirted a tree trunk. ”No other way now, Senna. Forward or back. Nothing in between.”

Chapter 14.

They came to the edge of the king's highway and ducked low. A breeze rustled the reeds, a low, seething sound, like a hiss through teeth. They stretched on their bellies side by side, peering out at the puddle-strewn, rock-encrusted, narrow, muddy path that marked the main pa.s.sageway from the north to Dublin.

”'King's highway' has a rather overstated magnificence,” Senna murmured.

”So does most of what the English say and do.” He pushed forward on his elbows. ”The way is clear. We're off.”

They hurried across, staying low. The highway might only be wide enough for two wagons to pa.s.s, but it ran straight as an arrow-shot in either direction. It would be easy for them to see anyone coming. And easy for anyone to see them. There was also a ridge a few yards back that lined the far side. Anyone could be up there waiting with arrows. But apparently they had no choice. They had to cross the highway.

”Why is that?” she asked when they were safely across and striding up a steep, narrow, almost imperceptible path that Finian had found on the hill beyond. ”Why did we have to cross the highway? Could we not have kept to the east side and headed south for Dublin? This is is the way to Dublin, is it not?” she added after a long moment of silence ensued. the way to Dublin, is it not?” she added after a long moment of silence ensued.

He still didn't reply. The hill was long and steep, and as climbing was beginning to take all Senna's strength, she was just as glad to have the conversation halt momentarily.

They climbed swiftly, ducking under sloping tree branches that dripped with moss maybe a hundred years old. Silvery light slanted through their feathery veined fingers, making the world glow with greenish gray light. It smelled fresh.

They finally crested the ridge. The path, while still only wide enough for one at a time, at least leveled out. Senna stopped and bent over, breathing hard. Behind her, Finian was breathing slightly heavier than usual. Very slightly.

She looked back. He was mostly a silhouette of power, standing upright, looking down to the road below. With the moonlight was.h.i.+ng over him, his body was cut clear, like something hewn from rock. Dark hair spilled down to his shoulders. Impatiently, he raked it behind his ear, revealing the dark outline of a square, stubbly jaw and chin. She could see the thick hilt of his sword rising up above his left shoulder.

”Ready, Senna?”

She straightened and nodded, although another hour of rest would not have been misplaced. Keeping account ledgers at a copyist's desk did not tend one toward physical exertion. Still, she rode and fished at times, and of course had to practice every day with- ”Senna?”

But being a merchant did not quite prepare one for rabid barons, or raging rivers, or nighttime flights across a foreign frontier.

It was not often she was faced with a situation she did not have a ready reply for, an answer that could be written in ink, tallied in rows, stamped and scrolled and signed by witnesses who could prove and ensure no one could ever take away- Warm fingers crooked under her chin. ”Senna?” He angled her face to his, his eyes searching. ”Are ye with us?”

The feel of his fingers, strong and thick, solid and real, funneled some measure of calm back into her. She nodded. He nodded along with her and dropped his hand. Her chin felt cold where his fingers had been.

”Forward, then, angel. We've a far way to go.”

She started walking. ”To Dublin? A long way to go to Dublin? I may be off in my reckoning, Finian, but we seem to be headed west, not east and south.”

”Baile atha Cliath.”

She paused. ”West.”

”Baile atha Cliath. Keep walking.” Keep walking.”

”Is that intended to mean something?” she asked after a moment of trying to ascertain his meaning. Which she could never do, because firstly, she was being baited-growing up with a brother provided sufficient experience to know when she was being toyed with-and secondly, Finian was speaking Irish. The low-spoken syllables were strange and evocative, as if he were chanting an incantation, murmuring spells.

”It means Dublin,” he said shortly.

”Bally cle, cle-” She sailed an irritated glance over her shoulder, even though she knew better than to expose a weakness such as irritation-again, the experience born of being a sister, even if she was the elder. ”Why not just call it by its name?”

”'Tis its name. Dublin is what the Northmen used to call it. And now the Saxons gall gall call it that as well. But her name is Baile atha Cliath.” call it that as well. But her name is Baile atha Cliath.”

Not Vikings, not English foreigners. Irish.

She glanced over her shoulder again. He didn't appear angry, or any less imperturbable than he had thus far. He was walking as steadily as ever, obviously adjusting himself to her pace, because again, he barely appeared to be exerting effort. His eyes caught hers.

She faced forward. ”Oh.”

The trees to their left opened slightly. She could see the road below them, winding its silvery outline under treetops, hugging the hillside. From out of the silence came his rough-edged murmur, ”And, nay.”

The trail had narrowed to a rather alarming degree, so Senna didn't bother to look around this time. ”Nay, what?” she asked, as calmly as possible.

”Yer query, Senna. Nay, this isn't the way to Dublin.”

She stopped so short he walked up the back of her heels. ”What?” she whisper-shouted, trying to turn around on the sinuous path. ”You promised to take me to Dublin.”

”I ne'er promised such a thing, la.s.s.”