Page 10 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

C ormac set down the playing piece he held, completing his move while Astrid’s words sank in.

“Let me get this straight,” he replied, turning to take in her response. “Not only do you wish me to risk my life to save you from an undesired marriage, but now I also have to beg your brother for the opportunity to do so?”

He should never have agreed to this bargain. Sitting back, away from their game, Cormac crossed his arms and regarded Astrid for the second time since he’d entered his room to find her waiting.

The first time he’d focused on her fully, he realized that when she wasn’t thwarting his every move she was—in point of fact—the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

During their previous encounters, he’d been so distracted by her temper that he hadn’t noticed the flecks of gold in her fiery hair and her honey-hued eyes.

Or the spray of freckles that spread over the bridge of her nose.

Or the way that her lips resembled a boat instead of a bow.

It had been all of a moment’s time before Cormac realized that he needed to focus entirely on the game before he somehow managed to convince himself that he was attracted to the infuriating woman.

Lord knows that of all the women in all the world, Astrid was the last one he’d want to be trapped in a home with—her and her sharp tongue.

But though his mind and heart knew well the dangers, his body seemed to have other ideas. So he did the only reasonable thing: he did not repeat the mistake of looking at her again.

At least until her final, most ridiculous statement, when shock conquered his good sense.

“First, you are risking your life to preserve your honor after forcing a lady into a marriage against her will. Second, if you are unwilling to speak with him, then don’t.

” She flipped a long, red tendril of hair over her shoulder.

“We can go right back to the way things were, and even though I may not be able to escape my marriage, I will do everything in my power to thwart my brother’s. ”

“You won’t have to beg him, though,” she added. “As I said before, you’re a prince and a Gael and a warrior of great renown, with connections to Brian, even. If you asked him to call off the tournament and give you my hand he’d probably do it.”

“You know I cannot,” Cormac reminded her.

“Yes, yes,” she waved a hand. “Your oath forbids it, I remember. But my point is that if you simply ask him to allow you to compete, I can’t imagine he would deny you.”

Cormac didn’t understand her plan, but he wasn’t certain she did, either. She’d have to marry eventually, and why putting it off another few months mattered he hadn’t a clue.

“I understand why you would wish to be selective in your choice of a husband, but I don’t see why marrying a Gael would be so terrible.”

“A Gael would not understand why we sacrifice to Odin, why we welcome an honorable death. I will not watch my identity suffocate in the arms of a man who would see me assimilate. I will not raise my children as anything other than Ostmen. And I will not leave Dyflin unless I go to another settlement where the laws of my people are the laws of that land.”

She’d gone breathless by the end of her impassioned speech, her face flushed and her hands in defiant fists at her side.

Gormla’s words came back to him then, that Astrid acted most often from a place of fear. A fact that had never been clearer to him than it was now, in her poorly hatched plan to cling to the life she had instead of the one for which she was destined.

Cormac had taken a total of four oaths when he joined the Fianna, one of them being that he would marry for love. Another was that he would always offer aid to those in need of it, so long as they weren’t doing wrong.

Astrid may not be following the course of action he would recommend, but she wasn’t in the wrong, either. And she had made a valid point in their earlier conversation—he was directly responsible for her current plight, though he doubted she’d have avoided it much longer without his interference.

“Ask me to help you, and I cannot refuse.”

Her brows furrowed. “I’ve already asked you.”

“You demanded recompense for a perceived slight, proposed a truce, and then explained what you wanted. You never actually asked for my help.”

“You agreed, nonetheless,” she argued. “Why must I ask now?”

“Because this scheme of yours grows wilder by the day, and I’m starting to feel that perhaps the terms aren’t as equitable as I initially believed. But,” he held up a hand to stop her from interrupting, “if someone is in need of my help, I must offer it.”

“Why?”

“It was another of my oaths.”

“Odin’s arse, how many of those did you make?”

“Four.”

She worried her bottom lip, picking up one of her game pieces and twirling it in her fingers anxiously, as she’d done earlier. Setting it down loudly, she turned to him.

“Will you please help me escape a marriage against my will?” She choked on the word ‘please,’ but she managed to get it out.

“Happily,” he grumbled. Now he was well and truly mixed up in their family’s affairs.

They played out the next few turns of the game in silence, before Cormac realized yet another potential problem.

“If you expect Sitric to believe I wish to wed you, you’ll have to stop yelling at me. At least in front of him,” he added, holding in a laugh at the horrified look on her face.

“If I’m too nice to you, he’ll suspect something,” she countered. “I think it’s better to continue with the yelling.”

Aye, that sounded about right.

But her response wasn’t tinged with its usual bite. Likely she’d disagree with him for argument’s sake, but heed his advice anyway. How else would she continue vexing him?

The following morn, Cormac sought out Illadan, the leader of the Fianna, to let him in on the events of the past two days.

Illadan stood in the light misting of rain, awaiting the arrival of the rest of the Fianna.

They met every morn in the field outside the hall to go on a run around Dyflin together through the muddy peat bogs before running drills.

Beside him stood Broccan, the commander of Brian’s men who had asked to be reassigned to the Fianna.

Illadan had a temperament akin to Brian’s—loyal to a fault, lethal to his enemies, and a bit of a romantic at heart.

Broccan was both loyal and lethal, but not once in the years after his wife’s death had Cormac seen him smile.

He greeted the two men, childhood friends turned brothers-in-arms.

“You look grimmer than usual,” Illadan remarked.

“I’ve made what is, in all likelihood, a terrible decision,” Cormac muttered, feeling more empathy than usual with the grumpy Broccan. “I thought I should tell you what was actually going on, since it will look even stranger from the outside.”

“Did you kill someone?” Broccan asked.

“I’ve made a bargain with Astrid.”

Illadan’s amused grin spread ear-to-ear. Broccan rolled his eyes.

“She’s going to convince Sitric to marry Sláine instead of doing her best to undermine us.”

“And…” Illadan prompted.

“And I’m going to compete in the games, win, and then help her somehow escape marriage.” He threw his hands up. “Her plan isn’t terribly clear to me, but she believes it will work. I came to ask your leave to seek out Sitric this morning and discuss it with him.”

“You know you can’t marry her,” Broccan interrupted.

“She assures me that it won’t come to that,” Cormac replied.

“You have my permission to miss training today, on the condition that you relay, in precise detail, how your conversation with Sitric goes.” Illadan appeared barely able to contain himself at the thought of Cormac competing for the hand of the woman he couldn’t stand.

The irony wasn’t lost on him, either. He just didn’t find it particularly funny at the moment.

It didn’t take Cormac long to track down Sitric, who sat in the family’s hall, breaking his fast with Gormla and Astrid.

“Cormac!” Sitric shouted the greeting as soon as Cormac strode into the hall. “Come, join us!”

Sitric was so like his youngest brother, Diarmid. Loud, warm, and exuberant, both Cormac’s brother and the Ostman king had no shortage of hospitality. Cormac had always craved the quiet, preferring to take in his surroundings and keep to himself.

He approached the trio, seated at the far end of the center table, but did not sit.

“I had hoped to speak with you in private when you had a moment,” Cormac told him, using a great deal of restraint not to glance sideways at Astrid.

The last thing he needed was the princess accusing him of making a mess of this on purpose.

“I share most business matters with these two lovely ladies,” Sitric grinned. “If it’s something they’ll learn about anyway, we can discuss while we eat.”

Cormac considered how best to ask for a private audience, when Astrid caught his attention by making a face at him. Squeezing her lips together emphatically, she nodded once in the direction of her brother.

Apparently, she saw no problem with doing this publicly, so Cormac pressed on. Or, perhaps she was using public humiliation as part of his penance.

“I wish to compete in the leikmót. ”

Sitric stopped chewing, setting down the bread he’d been about to bite. “You wish to marry my sister?”

Reminding himself he must convince Sitric of the earnestness of his request, he managed to keep all sarcasm from his response. “Aye.”

Gormla eyed him suspiciously over the rim of her cup. Astrid’s face flushed like a ripe apple. Her pale complexion did her no favors in concealing her thoughts.

“I had no idea.” Sitric sat up straighter, turning to his sister then back to Cormac. “We’ve not yet sent the runners. If you wish it, you can simply marry her. I know you to be the best sort of man, and you are of an equal status with her.”

After Astrid’s comment last night, Cormac anticipated such a suggestion from the magnanimous king.

“I don’t believe she’s fond of me,” he replied, “and I won’t force a woman into marriage.

The games will afford me the opportunity to win her goodwill by proving that I value the same things she does. ”

“And what might those things be?” Astrid asked, playing her part well.

“Courage, honor, wit, and an understanding and acceptance of the Ostman ways. I admit, I have much to learn yet, but I would like the opportunity to try.”

“What say you, sister? Shall we humor our esteemed guest?”

Astrid narrowed her eyes at him, but Cormac saw the glimmer in them. She found the entire ordeal amusing. Her fingers rapped over the oaken tabletop, as though she were deep in thought. Then, with a telling curve at the corner of her full lips, she gave her answer.

“Aye. I’ll be impressed if he lives through it, let alone wins it.”

“There you have it,” Sitric proclaimed happily. “We’ll begin in a fortnight, though you’re welcome to begin training with my men as you please.”

Cormac offered his thanks, but instead of feeling relieved that their ploy had worked so well, he grew more concerned that this was a mistake.

A very dangerous mistake.