Page 18 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

T he following morn, a storm broke out over Dyflin. Clouds as black as his father’s soul rolled in, darkening the skies and bringing sheets of rain, forcing everyone indoors.

Early in the day, before the tournament was set to begin, the Fianna met in their guest hall to discuss the appearance of Cahill and Teague.

Cormac had ground his teeth through the entire conversation, but was glad of his companions’ willingness to help him and his brothers address the issue.

Everyone agreed that Cahill had come to seek an alliance.

They needed to know the terms of his proposal, and whether Sitric was inclined to accept them.

By the end of their brief discussion, Diarmid promised to speak with Sitric and attempt to learn his feelings while dissuading him from the alliance.

Cormac and Conan would speak with Teague and Cahill to discover what they could about their aims in Dyflin and do their best to deter them from allying with Sitric.

Undaunted by the prospect of a day trapped indoors, Sitric declared the beginning of the hnefatafl tournaments.

Servants produced a collection of boards that they set up at the long feasting tables in the center of the hall.

Eight boards, four to a table, afforded the men space to pair off and battle one another in wit as opposed to strength.

Though guests came to watch the matches, the hall wasn’t filled to bursting while they waited out the weather.

Grateful that he had room to breathe and think, Cormac had little difficulty besting his opponents.

Most of the men hadn’t played the game before and had to spend time learning and practicing before their skill could truly be measured.

Sitric recruited Astrid, Finn, Dallan, and several of his warriors to take a man and teach him to play the game properly.

Cormac kept an eye out for opportunities to pull Astrid aside and thank her for shooing away his brother.

Though he was more than capable of enduring Teague’s harassment, he understood that she went out of her way to help him.

She’d come from nowhere as his self-appointed champion, something he found entirely too endearing.

She cleaved into his brother as a spear cuts through a boar’s gut, rendering him speechless and shockingly compliant.

Cormac would not soon forget the look on Teague’s face, and for that alone she’d earned his gratitude.

The hearthfire crackled merrily while the games got underway.

The occasional outburst of laughter or frustration interrupted the blessed quiet, but overall the morning passed in peace.

Between his own matches and Astrid’s time spent instructing, Cormac didn’t find a moment to pull her aside and thank her properly until after the midday meal.

It was a small affair, with just enough of last night’s leftovers to tide everyone over until dinner in the late afternoon. The men, including Sitric, grew weary of the endless games of hnefatafl , and the rain no longer pattered against the rooftop.

“We will cease our contests for the next few hours,” Sitric announced. “Enjoy the fine day and we will see you for dinner. But be aware that I may, at my pleasure, announce a contest of strength following supper.” He grinned like a madman. “Or not.”

Following Sitric’s devious announcement, a slow trickle of folk wandered out the front doors of the feasting hall, which told Cormac that the weather must have cleared. Astrid joined those leaving the hall, spurring Cormac into action.

“My lady,” he called, getting her attention.

She turned to him, her smile so bright it halted his next step. Cormac felt a tightness in his chest, a desire to pull her into his arms. He fought that instinct like a foe on the battlefield. She wasn’t smiling at him, anyway. She never smiled at him. He’d simply caught her in an unguarded moment.

“Where is everyone going?” he asked when he reached her.

“We’re collecting evergreen branches to decorate the hall for the Jól season,” she explained.

“How much would it bother you if I came along?”

The smile slipped from her face, replaced with a flicker of fire in those honey gold eyes. “The usual amount.”

“Excellent.” She hadn’t said he couldn’t come along. “I could use some fresh air.”

With surprisingly little opposition from Astrid, he followed her out into the chilly winter afternoon.

They strolled at a pleasant pace down the hill from Sitric’s hall and into the town proper of Dyflin.

It was a track that Cormac had travelled many times over the course of his stay there, as it was the only road that led from Sitric’s holding into the village.

To get anywhere outside the king’s halls, Cormac used this path.

The air held a crispness that made Cormac glad of his fur-lined cloak.

He glanced at Astrid to ensure that she wore enough clothing to keep her warm. This time a cloak of deepest green, the same shade as the pine trees they approached outside of town, draped her delicate shoulders. The white and black ermine lining would keep her warm enough.

They reached a copse of trees—pine, fir, and juniper—and the villagers began grabbing branches that had fallen. Cormac did the same, picking up a sap-covered fir branch, long and thin and still holding onto some of its cones.

“I wanted to thank you,” he told Astrid as she walked beside him through the small but thick forest of evergreens. “It was kind of you to distract Teague, that Conan and I might continue in peace.”

“It was nothing,” she brushed off, picking up a wild-looking branch. “I needed to speak with him anyway, and I meant what I told him. I have no interest whatsoever in a man who can’t be respectful to his own kin.”

Cormac smiled at that, continuing to pick up branches as they walked. “Either way, you were a fearsome sight to behold. He’ll think twice about crossing you in the future. And it was rather enjoyable to not be the one under attack for a change.”

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling topazes. “Don’t tell me that Cormac, the great warrior of the Gaels, can’t take one Ostman princess.”

“Believe me, princess—I could take you.” The words were out before he’d fully comprehended their implication. Not that his lack of thought made them any less true. But, had he taken a moment, he’d not have let them escape.

Astrid’s eyes went wide, her pink lips parting at his statement.

He’d rendered her speechless, he realized as she continued to stare at him. “Don’t tell me that the mouthy Ostman princess has finally been bested by one measly Gaelic warrior,” he prodded, relishing her reaction more than he ought.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, breathing in deeply and shifting the armful of branches she carried.

The skies opened again before Cormac could poke her further.

Instead of angry torrents that raged across the landscape, it floated in a soft mist, that, combined with the chilly air, turned into the first snow he’d seen in a long while.

It didn’t snow often on the island, and it happened even less that the snow stuck for any length of time.

Giggles and gasps filled the small forest, where everyone enjoyed the rare gift of snow in the Jól season as they foraged.

Cormac turned to Astrid, the smile on her face pinching his chest. It was a smile he liked more every time he saw it, though it still wasn’t for him.

She gazed up in wonder at the snowflakes falling above her head.

They landed across her shoulders, her freckled cheeks, and dusted her red hair in a thin layer of white.

She looked every inch the Ostman princess that she was, a princess of winter snows and stormy seas.

Or a princess of elm, according to her story, with a woodland green cloak to match the forest surrounding them.

A trio of children tore through the trees beside them, laughing and giggling, chasing snowflakes with their mouths open and their tongues out. They laughed so much, Cormac doubted that they caught any, but they seemed to be having a fine time anyway.

“I’ve always wanted children,” Astrid said quietly after the little ones left the glade.

Her candidness intrigued Cormac. “Then why fight a marriage so fiercely?”

Astrid sighed, turning toward him. “Because the only marriage my brother seeks is one to a Gael,” she replied. “My children will be raised as Ostmen—speaking our language, following our traditions.” She worried her bottom lip, just as she had the night she bargained with him, afraid for her future.

“I think you’re afraid,” Cormac challenged.

Astrid narrowed her eyes at him. “Well, I suppose that’s what I get for trying to be civil.”

Cormac took a step nearer, advancing. “And now you’re avoiding the topic.” He felt like a wolf on the hunt, finally nearing his prey. He’d almost gotten her to have a real conversation with him, and he wasn’t going to give up the chase just yet.

“What is it you want me to say, exactly?” she challenged, ever ready for battle.

He was close enough now that he could smell more than just the pine trees. A delicate, sweet fragrance filled the air between them—it could only be Astrid. Something primal and long forgotten came to life, drawing him even closer to her.

“We fear only that which we cannot control,” he whispered. “You can ensure that your children learn all those things, no matter your husband. I want you to tell me what you are really afraid of.”

He didn’t think she would really do it. When her shoulders fell in defeat and the light left her eyes, he knew he’d struck true.

“If I lose my brother, my mother, the people here in Dyflin, and the traditions we share…” She went quiet for a long while. “I’m afraid I would lose myself, too.”

Her answer was so honest, so raw, and so unexpected that it tore at Cormac’s heart. He closed the small distance left between them.

Without thinking, he raised his hand to gently cup her porcelain face.

Flecks of snow tickled his palm, icy pinpricks against his fingers.

“The man matters more than the culture.” His fingers caressed the smooth skin of her cheek.

“A good man will help you hold onto the things that matter. Whether Gael or Ostman or something else entirely.”

Her honey-colored gaze clouded over with desire. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop touching her. His thumb brushed her bottom lip, and he realized that if he did nothing to stop himself, he would kiss her.

More alarmingly, he realized that he wanted to do just that.

Astrid’s lips parted invitingly, her breath a puff of white between them.

His heart raced, his body ached. He couldn’t risk it. Before he made a bigger mess of the situation, he dropped his hand back to his side and stepped away, heading for the hall.

How could he have let that happen? Where had his years of training and discipline gone?

He’d come so close to kissing her, to giving her a real reason to reject him and ruining his only chance of convincing Sitric to wed Sláine.

Even still, his fingers ached at the memory of her soft skin beneath his hands.

As he climbed the hill to Sitric’s hall, he berated himself.

He had utterly failed at the one thing he wanted to accomplish.

Because after that appalling lack of self-control, Astrid would have no doubts about his growing feelings toward her.