Page 22 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

G ood lord, she was kissing him.

By all rights, she could’ve smacked him and he would’ve deserved it. He’d fumbled his way through drinking and rhyming until he was so deep in his cups that he’d convinced himself this was a good idea.

And, somehow, she’d agreed. Instead of fleeing, she held his shoulder like a tree in a storm, her shuddering exhale disappearing into his mouth.

Every muscle in his body tightened at the taste of her on his lips, the feel of her beneath his fingers.

His thoughts were too dulled by ale to be of any help, so he let it all go.

There was no more hiding how he felt or what he wanted.

His tongue teased her, parting her lips and deepening the kiss.

Her body rolled against his, delicious curves pressed greedily against his hardening desire. A sinful moan escaped her, sending a shiver down his back and setting a fire in his blood.

Then she pushed him away.

Astrid was up and out of the bed before he could even manage an apology. Clearly, he’d misread her. The ale had dulled his mind more than he realized, a mistake he hoped hadn’t done irreparable damage.

Cursing himself for a fool, Cormac poured himself another cup of ale.

She didn’t speak to him at all the next day.

Or the one after that. Or even the one after that.

They played more knattleikr and were taught to row the longboats, leaving Cormac as exhausted physically as he was defeated mentally.

He tried to corner her to properly apologize, but she managed to avoid him at every turn.

He grew so distracted between trying to fix his blunder and performing in all the various matches that he completely forgot about the flyting .

If he’d remembered, he could’ve asked Finn for help. Not only was his friend a bard of great skill, he was also the son of an Ostman who had family in éire. That would’ve been a good plan.

Instead, Cormac forgot it entirely and was blindsided when Sitric announced at the end of the meal one night that the flyting was about to begin. Beside him, Finn and Dallan laughed at his expense, happily explaining to the other Fianna precisely what Cormac was about to attempt.

Whispers shot down the hall as word of the contest spread faster than a house fire.

By the time the servants had delivered an absurd amount of ale and the competitors were paired off along the table, the hall was stuffed with witnesses to his impending humiliation.

And, of course, Cormac’s opponent was Cairell—the Ostman.

Even if he wasn’t skilled in poetry, the man would have an advantage over him in knowing what was expected.

Cormac tried to pay attention to the men who went before them, but he felt as though he were suffocating.

He could compete in feats of strength and endurance.

He could wrestle or duel a man from dawn to dusk.

But performing without preparation in front of a crowd while Astrid glared at him from the head of the table?

He’d rather let Teague take after him with the knattleikr stick.

His turn came far too quickly. Not daring a glance at the red-haired vixen, he threw back as big a gulp of ale as he could.

“Cairell!” Sitric called cheerily. “Insult our friend, Cormac, for us!”

This could not be happening. He took one more deep drink, then braced himself for the worst.

Cairell appeared thrilled at the opportunity, diving right into a nasty rhyme.

“What does our Cormac have in common with bogs?

“Both of them stink of farts and frogs!”

The hall erupted in laughter. It wasn’t a particularly dignified insult, but it was the sort that always landed with an audience—especially after enough ale. The sound of their mirth shook the hall, drowning out Cormac’s thoughts as he struggled to form a response.

“Insult his mother!” Finn hissed in his ear. “They love that, too.”

“Young bard,” Sitric called, eyeing Finn knowingly, “why don’t you come sit up here with us to help judge the contest?”

Silence descended as everyone awaited Cormac’s reply. He swallowed, then did his best to follow Finn’s advice.

“I may smell like muck on an oar,

“But at least my mother’s not a whore.”

Another round of laughter, even from Cairell himself. But his opponent must have some practice at this game, for his response came quick and cutting.

“Your mother doesn’t need to be,

“For you sow your oats so wild and free,

“And that’s an accomplishment, truly, a win,

“Since your prick’s no bigger than a sewing pin.”

Damn. That was good.

Shouts filled the room. Cormac rubbed his hand over his neck, struggling to catch his breath. He needed to come up with something clever.

But all he could do was listen to the roar surrounding him, closing in about him. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

He should insult the man’s appearance or his skill in battle. Anything would be better than crippling silence. Cormac tried again, yet still no words came.

Knowing when he’d been bested, he raised his cup to Cairell and took a drink. “Well played,” he congratulated him. “Well played.”

*

Astrid sat in shock as Cormac conceded the match. What had she expected, though? She’d ignored him all this time instead of working with him. She’d never felt so torn in her entire life.

Or so afraid.

After that kiss, she’d been so disgusted with herself, appalled at her lack of self-control.

And what was more, she hadn’t even been deep in her cups then.

All she wanted after that was to put as much distance between them so she wouldn’t be tempted again.

She needed time and space to sort out her feelings on all of it.

She still needed time and space, but if she wanted Cormac to win, she’d have to start helping him again.

Was that what she wanted? Sure, he made her heart pound and her stomach flutter.

He held her thoughts captive for much of the day, and she could hardly wait to steal away with him for a moment when the opportunity presented itself.

But was that enough? Was a physical desire for a man reason enough to leave her home and risk a life of isolation from her people?

The official flyting had ended, though onlookers happily took up the challenge of continuing the game amongst themselves—Sitric’s men foremost among them.

Astrid rose, overwhelmed and exhausted and in need of somewhere quiet to think.

She stepped away from the table and took several steps before someone touched her elbow, seeking her attention.

Her first thought was that it was Cormac. Her second was to berate herself over the first. Upon turning around, she discovered it was Finn.

Tall—as were all the Fianna—and blonde with a pleasing face, Astrid couldn’t have been happier that this was the man who’d married her cousin. He had a gentle heart and a gentler soul, and he would make a good partner for Eva.

“I don’t know what happened.” He pitched his voice low.

“He needed training,” Astrid replied, matching his tone. “It’s my fault.”

Finn smiled. “I don’t mean tonight. I mean between the two of you. He doesn’t tell us anything, but he’s grown even quieter of late, his manner more brooding.”

“Oh.” Astrid didn’t know what to say to that. What did he think was going on? Did he believe them to be lovers? Or was he speaking of their bargain?

“I don’t know what happened, but I do know he cares for you. He doesn’t speak his heart, but his actions say enough.”

It was an odd thing to say, even given the circumstances. “His actions?”

“He’s been learning Norr?na .”

Astrid blinked several times, feeling her cheeks warm.

“He came to me and asked me to teach him. He wouldn’t say why, but I’d have to be a fool not to guess.”

Indeed. “Thank you,” she managed. “I had no idea.”

“If I know Cormac, he won’t tell you until he learns enough to speak it. And don’t tell him I said anything—he’d be furious.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

They parted ways, Finn returning to the Fianna and Astrid wandering to her room and collapsing on her bed in a pile of doubt and confusion. That man was learning her language. He was competing in a tournament for her.

And he was coming dangerously close to winning more than just the games.