The Irish Warrior by Kris Kennedy

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.
    â€œIt means Dublin,” he said shortly.
    â€œBally 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?”
    â€œâ€™Tis its name. Dublin is what the Northmen used to call it. And now the Saxons gall call it that as well. But her name is Baile Átha 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.
    â€œYer 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.”
    â€œI ne’er promised such a thing, lass.”
    She glared over her shoulder. His chest was barely inches from hers, and she contemplated elbowing him over the side of the ridge. “You did!”
    â€œI did not. Becalm yerself,” he added quietly.
    She glared. She was practically crackling with fury. She was also being quiet. Angrily quiet. Vehemently quiet.
    â€œI will be calm when you—”
    His hand snaked out and closed over her mouth, silencing her.
    â€œRiders.” His gruff voice was a notch above silence.
    And like that, Senna’s orientation shifted. No longer was she aware of her leaden, weary limbs, nor her desperate situation, nor the fear that had been marking its way up the back of her neck like the tip of a knife. She wasn’t even terribly aware of the riders on the highway, some forty feet below. She was aware, only, of him.
    His fingers gently held over her lips. The touch of his wide wrist against the side of her neck. His thighs just behind hers, pressing heat onto the back of her legs.
    She drew a steadying breath and inhaled the scent of him, the river and the wild, stones and pine.
    â€œFimiam?” she puffed against his hand.
    â€œCan ye not hush for a single second?” he whispered back, but his words were made of breath, his jaw an outline of heat beside her ear. Her back and buttocks were warm from him. She could hear the men on the road far below, muffled voices and shuffling hooves.
    Riders? What of it? What did this man taste like?
    She trembled, from fear, surely, but more, from the power of this new, reckless desire. The root of her mother’s evil. Reined in for years, bound by books and ledgers, now being released? While she was on the run from a madman? The onrushing strength of it shocked her.
    He must have felt her trembling. The hand covering her mouth slid to her cheek, and his thumb stroked gently by her jaw. His other hand skimmed up her back and rested warmly between her shoulder blades. She shivered, not whatsoever from fear.
    â€œNothing to fear, lass,” he murmured. “’Tis but a messenger and his man. They are not seeking us. All we have to do is let them