The Irish Warrior Read Online Free Page A

maid, then added, a bit less firmly, “if you are a bit pale.”
    â€œI am as wan as an undyed tablecloth,” Senna agreed sourly.
    No matter her looks. This was about business. And that is what she did best.
    She picked up the most recent ledger of accounts, cradled it in her arm like a babe, and swept down to the great hall, ignoring the way her breath came speeding out in unsteady little gusts. She had a great deal of experience keeping such panic at bay. She would do so now as well. Everything was manageable, given time.
    She lifted her chin, crossed the threshold of the riotous hall, and froze like ice.
    The room was smoky and crowded. A burst of laughter exploded from one of the crowded tables. A barely clad woman tumbled off a soldier’s lap and the drunken group roared again. Arcs of mead curled into the air as their tankards crashed down on the rough-hewn tabletops. One of the coarse, leather-clad barbarians spit something wet and copious into the rushes, then leaned down to haul the woman up by her elbow.
    Senna sucked in a breath. Numbers. Think of numbers. The number of coins Rardove was offering (a thousand French livres ). The number of months left to pay off her shipping debts (not a one). The number of years she’d waited in an empty hall for someone, anyone, to walk through it and save her.
    To her relief, a knight approached and, extending his arm, nodded toward the dais. Curious but detached faces watched, and the hum of activity dimmed as she passed. Blanching under the unfamiliar scrutiny, her step faltered. Angry with herself, she jerked on the arm imprisoned in her escort’s grip, digging his ribs in the process. The knight grunted and released her.
    Lord Rardove stood talking with his men at the far end of the dais. Even facing away, he was an imposing figure. Tall and wide-shouldered, he wore a midnight blue shirt and chausses that burned a dark background against his blood red tunic: the colors of Rardove. One hand went to the sword belted at his waist, toying idly with the hilt. Rardove might be nearing fifty, but any gray hairs were undetectable amidst the blond. He looked every inch the warrior lord.
    She swallowed a ball of fear. Perhaps it was the Irish warriors shackled on the floor in front of the dais that made him puff out his chest and strut so. Please, God, let it not be for her.
    Her nerve liquefied in her gut at the exact moment Rardove turned to her.
    â€œMistress Senna,” was all he said, and his gaze held hers for half a moment, in a perfectly civil pause. But to Senna, it felt as if he were ripping apart her gown, assessing her like a mount, deciding if she was worth the cost.
    Then a smile cracked the surface of his handsome face, and it was as if a window had splintered. He went into motion, crossing the dais.
    â€œMy deepest apologies I could not greet you myself earlier,” he said, his voice rich and low with chivalrous smoothness. He took her fingertips. “I shall have to make it up to you.”
    She fought the crazed urge to slip her hand free and run screaming from the room. “There is no need, my lord,” she murmured.
    â€œI hope you have been made comfortable.” He released her fingers. “Your trip was pleasant?”
    â€œQuite.” She tried to smile back. “The mists are thick.”
    He nodded. “Ireland.” He spread out his hands, palms up. The smallest smudge marred his broad hands. It was dark red. Like dried blood. “Ireland holds many things behind a veil.”
    Her smile became more genuine. If he had the sensitivity to speak suchly, mayhap ’twas not all bad. Mayhap the Irishry were rebels, as Pentony said, unlawfully defying their overlord. Mayhap she could engage in business with this man without too much trouble—
    â€œI hear you do not wish to see the mollusks.”
    Her smile faltered. “Nay, my lord. ’Tis just, I do not know that business.”
    â€œIs it