rats.” The iarla sighed, motioned one of the riders forward.
Fionn tightened his grip on the hay fork, held his ground.
The rider approached, drew a white bundle from under his coat, handed it to the iarla . The iarla shook it out, unfurled it like a sail, dropped it at Fionn’s feet. His men laughed.
Fionn realized it was linen, a bedsheet. And it was stained with blood.
Careful to keep his grip on the hay fork and his eye on the iarla, he bent, retrieved it, stared at the brownish patches of old, dried blood.
“I was hoping I could prevail upon you to keep an eye out for this Englishman. As you can see, he was quite taken with your sister. He enjoyed her thoroughly before stealing away with her.”
Rage was a drumbeat in Fionn’s ears. His hand balled into a fist, clenched the linen, crushed it. He forced his arm down to his side, drew cold air deeply into his lungs. But nothing could remove the expression of anger from his face. He met the iarla’s gaze unwaveringly. “Aye, my lord. My sister was . . . is an honorable woman. Whatever this Englishman did, I know it was not of her desiring. I will keep my eyes open. If I find him, I will—“ “You will send for me. I will take care of him myself.”
The iarla’s voice was heavy with arrogance. “Any Irishman who raises a hand to him will pay with his life. He is an Englishman and therefore my problem. Is that clear?” The Sasanach was a lying, deceiving bastard. “Aye, my lord.”
The iarla kicked his horse with his heels, turned its head. “Keep the sheet. Let it be a souvenir to remind your sister of her lost innocence.”
Fionn watched them disappear, sent silent curses winging after them. “God’s blood!”
He heard Muirin’s sigh of relief, felt her hand rest tentatively on his shoulder. Her touch helped calm the fury, sent sparks skittering through him.
“They’re gone.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
He let the hay fork fall to the ground, turned to her. Her face was still pale with fear, and he could see she was trembling. “Aye, they’re gone. But for how long? I heard how he threatened you.”
Then he did something he should not have done. He dropped the sheet, pulled her into his arms, held her close. Fragile she was, soft, and she shook from head to toe. He felt her shudder, felt her wet, warm tears through the linen of his shirt. He rocked her back and forth, his lips on her hair, as she wept. U I will not let him hurt you, Mistress O Congalaig.”
She sniffed, stepped back, looked up at him. “Please, Fionn. Call me Muirin. Once a woman has soaked your shirt with her tears, it’s permitted.” A small smile crept over her lips.
Her beauty assaulted him. Lovely she was, like a wildflower.
Her small nose was kissed with tiny freckles, her skin clear and soft. Her hair was tucked demurely beneath a white ciarsur as was customary for married women, but he remembered it was thick and long, the color of wild honey. Her eyes, though shadowed by grief, were green like a meadow in springtime. “Aye, Muirin.” He raised a hand to her cheek, wiped her tears away. It felt so good to speak her name, to hear her speak his. “What are you going to do?” She looked down at the sheet.
Fionn felt the edges of his anger return. “I don’t know. Brighid says the Sasanach didn’t defile her, and I don’t think she’d lie to me, unless . . .” Unless she had feelings for the Sasanach and wanted to protect him. Rhuaidhri suspected as much. Perhaps Fionn should have paid more attention to what his little brother had to say. “It could be anyone’s blood, Fionn. The iarla wants your help, and that’s why he showed you this. He meant to provoke you.”
“Aye, you’re right. I need to talk to Brighid. But if I find out she lied, the Sasanach will wish he’d died the first time.”
Chapter Nine
Muirin gasped. “Aidan!”
Fionn grabbed the sheet, followed her through the door. It was the first time he’d come inside since
Fionn tightened his grip on the hay fork, held his ground.
The rider approached, drew a white bundle from under his coat, handed it to the iarla . The iarla shook it out, unfurled it like a sail, dropped it at Fionn’s feet. His men laughed.
Fionn realized it was linen, a bedsheet. And it was stained with blood.
Careful to keep his grip on the hay fork and his eye on the iarla, he bent, retrieved it, stared at the brownish patches of old, dried blood.
“I was hoping I could prevail upon you to keep an eye out for this Englishman. As you can see, he was quite taken with your sister. He enjoyed her thoroughly before stealing away with her.”
Rage was a drumbeat in Fionn’s ears. His hand balled into a fist, clenched the linen, crushed it. He forced his arm down to his side, drew cold air deeply into his lungs. But nothing could remove the expression of anger from his face. He met the iarla’s gaze unwaveringly. “Aye, my lord. My sister was . . . is an honorable woman. Whatever this Englishman did, I know it was not of her desiring. I will keep my eyes open. If I find him, I will—“ “You will send for me. I will take care of him myself.”
The iarla’s voice was heavy with arrogance. “Any Irishman who raises a hand to him will pay with his life. He is an Englishman and therefore my problem. Is that clear?” The Sasanach was a lying, deceiving bastard. “Aye, my lord.”
The iarla kicked his horse with his heels, turned its head. “Keep the sheet. Let it be a souvenir to remind your sister of her lost innocence.”
Fionn watched them disappear, sent silent curses winging after them. “God’s blood!”
He heard Muirin’s sigh of relief, felt her hand rest tentatively on his shoulder. Her touch helped calm the fury, sent sparks skittering through him.
“They’re gone.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
He let the hay fork fall to the ground, turned to her. Her face was still pale with fear, and he could see she was trembling. “Aye, they’re gone. But for how long? I heard how he threatened you.”
Then he did something he should not have done. He dropped the sheet, pulled her into his arms, held her close. Fragile she was, soft, and she shook from head to toe. He felt her shudder, felt her wet, warm tears through the linen of his shirt. He rocked her back and forth, his lips on her hair, as she wept. U I will not let him hurt you, Mistress O Congalaig.”
She sniffed, stepped back, looked up at him. “Please, Fionn. Call me Muirin. Once a woman has soaked your shirt with her tears, it’s permitted.” A small smile crept over her lips.
Her beauty assaulted him. Lovely she was, like a wildflower.
Her small nose was kissed with tiny freckles, her skin clear and soft. Her hair was tucked demurely beneath a white ciarsur as was customary for married women, but he remembered it was thick and long, the color of wild honey. Her eyes, though shadowed by grief, were green like a meadow in springtime. “Aye, Muirin.” He raised a hand to her cheek, wiped her tears away. It felt so good to speak her name, to hear her speak his. “What are you going to do?” She looked down at the sheet.
Fionn felt the edges of his anger return. “I don’t know. Brighid says the Sasanach didn’t defile her, and I don’t think she’d lie to me, unless . . .” Unless she had feelings for the Sasanach and wanted to protect him. Rhuaidhri suspected as much. Perhaps Fionn should have paid more attention to what his little brother had to say. “It could be anyone’s blood, Fionn. The iarla wants your help, and that’s why he showed you this. He meant to provoke you.”
“Aye, you’re right. I need to talk to Brighid. But if I find out she lied, the Sasanach will wish he’d died the first time.”
Chapter Nine
Muirin gasped. “Aidan!”
Fionn grabbed the sheet, followed her through the door. It was the first time he’d come inside since
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