Part 12 (1/2)
They were outfitted for war.
Pentony watched until the only upright figures on the landscape were the trees on a distant plain. He wondered what Senna had been wearing when she snuck out of the castle last night.
Chapter 17.
The gaping tear in her tunic was the first thing Finian noted through his half-opened eyes. The next thing he saw was the rounded tops of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
She was kneeling beside him, leaning over him, close to his face. Her hair, freed from its braid, tumbled down like a silken, if slightly dirty, curtain. Instinct kicked in and he stretched his arm out, to pull her down.
”Don't you think it's time we start for Dublin?” she asked.
His arm fell away. ”What?”
She sat back, knees bent, feet beneath her b.u.t.tocks. She was bright, her cheeks a bit reddened from the suns.h.i.+ne of the day. ”Dublin. Oughtn't we be on our way?”
He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around, getting his bearings. Almost evening, closing in on Vespers. He took a deep breath, yawned, and pushed his fingers through his hair.
”We're not going to Dublin, Senna. I thought I told ye that.”
She gave a clipped nod, as if she were barely up to the task of humoring him. ”I recall something of the sort. I thought you were in jest.”
”Is that so? If someone disagrees with ye, they must be joking?”
One pert eyebrow arched up. ”When they say ridiculous things, indeed, I suspect a jest.”
He leaned forward until their noses were barely a foot apart. ”Listen well then, la.s.s, for 'tis no joke: we're not going to Dublin.”
She practically flung herself backward. ”But why not?”
He sat back. ”Use yer fine-looking head. Do ye not suspect the king's highway is exactly where Rardove will go looking for ye?”
”Well, I-” she began, then paused. ”It might be where he'd look for me, Finian, but do you not think this this way, deeper into Irish lands, is exactly where he'll go looking for way, deeper into Irish lands, is exactly where he'll go looking for you? you?”
He considered her a moment. ”Ye must have been a sore trial to yer mum, Senna,” he said, then lay back down and shut his eyes.
”I was a sore trial to me Da,” she snapped, mimicking his Irish accent.
”We're not going to Dublin.”
”You are serious.”
”As mortal sin.”
She was quiet, but in the ominous way a powerful wind might be, on the other side of a ridge, before it rushed over the top and bent trees beneath its fury.
”My business cannot manage without me,” she warned.
”Then I suppose ye oughtn't have come to Eire.”
He thought if she could have stabbed him in the heart just then, she might have. ”I came for business,” she explained icily.
”Ye came for money.”
She sputtered, which he suspected was more due to an overwhelming excess of responses, rather than a lack.
He kept his eyes shut and tried to sleep. Tried to recapture the half-resting state of repose that marked his nights and subst.i.tuted for sleep.
He'd been up for regular reconnaissance throughout the day, and Senna had been awake, too. He knew, because every time he'd risen, her gaze followed him, although her body never moved, rigid as a post kicked to the ground, arms clamped to her sides. She ought to be tired. But just now, she may as well have been pounding on his chest with her fists, for all that her energy had abated.
He finally sighed. ”Ye're like a spring wind, Senna. Ye never stop pus.h.i.+ng. We're not going to go tripping down the king's highway to Dublin. Ye're mad to think so.”
”No. I'm mad to have ever believed you.”
”I never said I'd take ye to Dublin.”
”But I asked you to!”
”Och, well, ye ought to have found another guide, then. One more well suited to being ordered about.”
She drew back. ”I do not order about. order about.”
He watched as she ripped her gaze away and stared across the small clearing, her hands twisting around each other with great, unrelenting pressure. The edges of her palms turned white from it. She suddenly sat forward, her spine rigidly straight.
”I shall shall go to Dublin,” she announced imperiously. ”At once.” go to Dublin,” she announced imperiously. ”At once.”
”Is that so?”
”'Tis.”
”Ye'll be going alone, then.”
She swallowed but did not s.h.i.+ft her gaze away from the no-doubt fascinating profile of a tree trunk. ”How much will it cost?”
He gave a short bark of laughter. ”What?”
”How much money do you want?”
He sat up slowly. ”To take ye to Dublin?”
She gave a clipped nod, still staring away from him. But he stared at her very hard. The back of her hair was starting to glow from the dipping orange sunrays.
”Whatever ye've got, Senna, it would not be enough to make me go to Dublin.” He threw himself down again, coiled anger pus.h.i.+ng through him. ”English,” he muttered. ”And their coin.”
She sighed in a resigned way. He felt hope.
”So be it, Finian,” she said in a reasonable, therefore highly suspect, voice. ”I understand your reasons for not taking me. I accept them.”