Page 21 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

W hat in the world was wrong with her?

Astrid stood watching the Fianna congratulate Cormac, still in shock over the short interaction they’d just had. He gave her an escape. He’d presented her with a solution.

And instead of doing the intelligent thing and taking it, she’d frozen up.

More and more each day, her uncertainty about what she really wanted deepened, and every time she spoke with Cormac, her resolve crumbled a little further.

The pain in his voice when he’d asked if she wanted to wed Cairell had struck her like a blow.

It hurt her to imagine that he thought she might desire someone else, but it confused her just as much to admit the reason why.

The crowd roared as Garvan, one of the smaller men who’d just defeated his second opponent, raised his arms in victory. The other man, Mochta, backed quickly off of the smoking coals.

Between the din of the crowd and the commotion of the next two contestants approaching the field to take their turns at hoga tonk , Astrid made use of the chaos around her to broach a rather sensitive topic with her brother.

Normally, she’d not dare such a conversation in public view, but she knew that no one would be able to hear them over the noise.

“You seemed to be enjoying Catrin’s company yesterday.”

“I thought it prudent to give both women a fair chance,” he replied. “She’s quite a lot of fun.”

“She’s quite young,” Astrid countered. “Sláine is the best choice, and I don’t really see a reason to prolong it any further.

Sitric’s crystal blue gaze turned toward her, piercing her to the spot. “Do I sense a sudden change in your opinion, dear sister?”

“It’s not sudden at all, dear brother ,” she shot back.

“Mother and I have spent time with both of the brides since last we spoke. And, as you appear determined to uphold your peace with Brian for the time being, you must choose one. And, if you’re going to choose a bride, she may as well be a woman capable of actually helping around here.

That woman is Sláine. All politics aside,” she pressed, “she’s the better choice. ”

Sitric considered her for a long moment, as though searching for a motive. “I’ll have her accompany me formally to the flyting .”

“The flyting ?” That was the first Astrid had heard of that particular contest.

“I thought that would be a fun one to spring on them without any training,” her brother laughed. “It’ll be more entertaining if they haven’t prepared, and I’m interested to see what sorts of things they can come up with.”

“How will they even know what to do?” Astrid groaned.

“I will explain the rules and show them a few rounds as an example. The more they drink, the more their tongues will loosen. It should prove entertaining, indeed.”

“I see.” Astrid narrowed her eyes. “And when do you intend to spring this on the men?”

“After we dine, sometime in the next few nights. Probably not this night or the next, though. They’ll be exhausted after today, and tomorrow they revisit knattleikr , so not then, either.

I haven’t decided, but it matters not.” He smiled, clearly pleased with himself.

“Come now, let’s see how this one turns out.

” He rubbed his palms together excitedly, turning his attention back to the match.

Seeing little choice in the matter, and refusing to watch Cormac make a fool of himself, Astrid procured copious amounts of ale and snuck them into Cormac’s room, just as she had that first night when they’d played hnefatafl .

He would need coaching for the flyting .

A man of few words, he could not be trusted to win a drunken poetry contest without some help.

This time, when he returned from the feast, he looked far less surprised to find her waiting for him.

Her heart swelled in her chest as he entered the room.

In that moment, Astrid realized how much she’d been looking forward to speaking with him alone again.

Something about him felt so familiar. It called to her.

It grounded her. She didn’t know why, but she took great comfort in his presence, and the more time she spent there, the deeper she fell into it.

“That’s an awful lot of ale.” He eyed the two pitchers and pair of cups taking up the entirety of his bedside table. “I’ve already had some with dinner.”

“Sitric has just informed me that he intends to spring upon you a drinking contest.”

A small smile cracked at the corner of his full lips. “And you believe I need to practice drinking?” It widened to a mischievous grin, bringing to life a flutter in her stomach.

“It’s not just drinking.”

He walked over to join her on the bed, sitting much closer this time than he had when she was last in his room. A spark shot through her from the place where their legs touched on the edge of the bed.

“And what else might it entail?”

“You must insult your opponent in verse,” she explained.

“Like a bard?” Cormac looked skeptical.

“Aye, but there are ways to do it that will best appease my brother and the other Ostmen.”

“I see.”

It did not sound as though he saw at all. Astrid thought he should be quite a bit more alarmed than he appeared.

“It’s much more difficult than it sounds,” she insisted, as though he’d made some sort of argument.

His blue eyes smoldered at her playfully. “It sounds plenty hard.”

He was throwing her own words back at her, when she’d been skeptical of his Fianna challenges. “There are ways to insult and ways to get into a duel.”

“Ah. Well, I’d prefer not to kill a man at a drinking contest, so what should I not do?”

“If you call a man a coward, he’s within rights to attack you and to challenge you to a duel.

It’s not an insult to be tossed lightly, but it is permitted.

Just be aware that should he take exception, he can challenge you at your accusation.

The same is true of telling a man he’s a fool or accusing him of treachery. ”

“I can’t call a man a fool, but I must insult him? That I don’t understand,” he poured them each a cup of ale, handing one to Astrid. “Fool does not seem so deep an insult as a coward or a traitor.”

“All the same, those are the three words I would stay away from the most.”

Cormac nodded his understanding, but his brows furrowed as he considered her words.

“You must be poetic,” she tried again. “Use beautiful but hurtful words.”

Cormac sighed, taking a long drink. “I’ve heard the bards do something similar, but I’m not a bard, for all my training.”

“Bard or not, you’ll be asked to do it. Practice will help,” she raised her glass, “as will the ale.”

“Fine.” He took a long, loud gulp of ale. “Show me.”

“’Tis lucky for me that you’re competing,

It gives me someone easy for beating.”

Cormac burst into laughter at her rhyme. “Clever and brutal.”

“Don’t make them too long, either, else you run a greater risk of talking yourself into a bad rhyme.” She’d seen it many a time, especially the longer the contest went on. “Now you try.”

He blew out a heavy breath, setting down his ale and knitting his brows.

“Many a man can wield a sword,

“But few, indeed, are such a disgrace to their lord.”

Astrid laughed so hard her ale flew back into her cup. “That was better than I expected,” she admitted, unable to stop grinning. “But you need to make it more clearly personal. You didn’t name the man who was a disgrace, so the insult is weakened.”

She stood, taking a few steps right in front of him as she thought up another example. “Your opponent could counter it,” she explained.

“How happy for me, that you pointed that out,

“It saves me the trouble of watching you rout.”

Once again, Cormac laughed, this time so hard he had to set down his ale so it didn’t spill.

Astrid couldn’t help but join him. “Gods, that was awful, wasn’t it?”

“Wait, wait.” He held up his hands, a look of pure mischief on his face.

“Rout or rot? They’re both the same,

“When spoken by a man with your stink and name.”

He barely finished the last word.

Astrid doubled over at the atrocious insult, falling onto the bed beside Cormac. “I can’t decide if that was awful or brilliant,” she gasped between laughs.

Cormac let himself fall backward, his head facing hers on the soft blankets.

His whole face lit as he looked at her, filled with infectious mirth.

Blue eyes sparkled like gemstones, or like freshly fallen snow.

Laying like this, so close to him, put Astrid in mind of the day they collected the evergreen boughs.

Of the day she thought he might kiss her.

Her eyes fell to his lips, to the way they pulled tightly across his face in a grin yet somehow still looked so full. Before she could shake some sense into herself, he moved toward her, sealing her thoughts with a kiss.

His lips felt just as soft and full as they looked, tasting her tentatively. She felt the smile on his face as his hand came up to her cheeks, as his nose brushed gently alongside hers.

A rush of heat flooded her body. She should stop this. She shouldn’t want this. Yet, whether the ale or the atmosphere or something else entirely, Astrid let herself have this one moment. Wrapping one hand over his shoulder, she pulled herself toward him and kissed him right back.