Page 23 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

U ncertainty tore at Astrid as she watched the men walk toward the frothing sea of Dyflin’s harbor.

Ships with tall masts and colorful cloth sails bobbed like children’s toys at the whims of the water.

She dreaded today’s contest, though it would be a good metric for measuring the men’s suitability, at least in any way that mattered to an Ostman.

Sailing and swimming were a way of life, necessary skills to seek new lands and go viking .

The ability to defend oneself in the water held as much import as on land.

The contest appeared simple. The men would dive into the water and swim out toward the first rocks that jutted from the water’s surface.

The distance was about seven furlongs and not too strenuous, even for someone who hadn’t trained at swimming.

The trick lay in reaching the stone and returning to the shore safely, for the men were told that it was expected and encouraged to thwart one another along the route.

Sitric’s men had demonstrated the contest for them this morning and now, as clouds threatened over the harbor, the men stripped off their shirts and prepared to dive into the angry sea.

The currents alone would prove a challenge, and that was to say nothing of the other men.

Astrid’s gut insisted that she cheer on Cormac, in spite of that kiss.

Oh, aye, she’d thought about little else besides that night.

The passion she’d found within herself had scared her, bringing to the surface fears she hadn’t realized she even held.

So while her first instinct was to cheer on her champion and stick to their agreement, her heart warned that she played a dangerous game.

Though it may be fun while it lasted, it held the potential to end in disaster.

Her mind rode the midline, telling her that either way, she’d need to make a decision and sacrifice one thing or another.

Perhaps she could simply jump into the water herself, swim away from here, and avoid a marriage entirely, she mused as the men prepared to start the race.

She identified Cormac in the lineup of swimmers by his broad shoulders, towering height, and the sheer volume of rippling muscle across his back. The men dove fearlessly into the choppy waters and, after but a few strokes, the true contest began.

Sláine sat alongside Sitric and Astrid in a place of honor with the family. Catrin held forth a row behind them, chatting with one of Sitric’s guardsmen.

“How are you enjoying your time in Dyflin?” Astrid asked Sláine.

Sitric didn’t turn toward them, but the tilt of his head shifted as though he were listening to the conversation.

“It’s lovely here,” Sláine replied politely, never taking her eyes off the water. “My father’s told me so much about it, and about all of you, that I’m so pleased to finally be here and experience it myself.”

Astrid followed Sláine’s gaze. She couldn’t tell which of the swimmers held her attention, but she made a guess nonetheless. “I suppose that you must know Cormac fairly well, and you’d be concerned for his welfare in these games.”

Sláine turned to her fully and nodded. “He lived with us as long as I can remember. He’s like a son to my father and a brother to me, as are Diarmid and Conan.”

“How many children did your father foster?”

“Many,” Sláine replied, “as befits a king of his standing. But word spread quickly of how well he did with the children and how much he enjoyed them. Many of his relatives from across éire sent their sons and daughters to stay with us. It was a wonderful way to grow up, and I had no shortage of friends to play with. But yes, Cormac in particular grew quite close to my father, especially after the falling out. I’m glad that he stayed with us. ”

The shouts of the crowd drew their attention back to the water. Sláine gasped. Astrid’s hand flew to her chest when she saw what had caused the upset.

“They’re going to drown him!” Sláine cried.

Astrid watched in horror as Teague and Cairell joined forces against Cormac, no doubt since he posed the greatest threat to their victories.

Cormac fought back, but he clearly hadn’t expected an attack by both men.

First one, and then the other, shoved him by the shoulders until his head was fully submerged.

“It’s against the rules to fight two against one,” Astrid pleaded with Sitric, all concerns forgotten, save one.

“He’ll be fine,” Sitric waved a dismissive hand. “Give him a moment and he’ll realize all he has to do is break a few rules to get out of it.”

Cormac did not strike Astrid as a rule-breaker, but she didn’t say as much to her brother. He was under the water for an eternity before he resurfaced, gasping for air.

It was entirely unfair, and her brother should do something. He should interfere. Astrid rose from her seat, the rules breaking and Cormac struggling to breathe. He fought back, just barely surfacing enough to draw a ragged breath.

Her stomach dropped. He might actually lose. He might drown.

And it was all because of her.

The reality of her situation struck her.

He was doing this for her . He risked his life to help her salvage a losing situation, and all she offered was help endearing Sláine to her brother.

Aye, it may have been his words that started her brother down this path to her marrying, but Astrid knew long before that fated dinner that Sitric had her marriage on his mind.

Their exchange of favors fell far short of equal, yet Astrid hadn’t truly understood that until this moment. Even if she could somehow ensure that Sitric chose one bride over another, Cormac deserved far greater compensation than what he’d bargained for.

She needed to do something. She could not watch him drown on her account, especially after the way she’d reacted to that kiss. He hadn’t deserved that. He had done nothing but support her since his initial blunder. It was time she repaid the favor.

Beside her, the Fianna had gone mad, screaming and shouting.

“Hit them!” Dallan, her cousin, yelled.

Conan echoed the sentiment. “Hit the bastards, Cormac!”

She turned to Sitric, prepared to force her brother’s hand—something she had a good bit of experience in—and to throw everything she had into getting her champion safely from the water. At this point, all she cared about was his life.

Just as she opened her mouth to shout some sense into her brother, a fist surfaced from below the water, hitting Cairell square in the jaw and knocking him onto his back with impressive speed.

A second blow found Teague, and it quickly turned from a two-against-one drowning to Cormac beating both men senseless, while carefully ensuring they landed on their backs and didn’t drown.

Astrid let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

It looked like he’d decided to break the rules after all.

With Teague and Cairell in tow, Cormac somehow managed to swim the rest of the route.

He was the last one to return, but he had carried both of his fallen opponents by his side to ensure their survival in the harsh conditions of the harbor.

The moment his feet hit the rocky shore, Astrid flew from her seat.

Sitric grabbed her arm, halting her. “Careful,” he warned, “that you don’t show too much favoritism, or my naming of the champion may be called unfair.”

She cast him a sidelong glance. “You’ll name Cormac as champion?”

“Provided he continues performing admirably.”

“Then why have the contest at all?”

“The point of the contest is to show you that you can find a man with all the qualities you desire, even if he wasn’t raised an Ostman, and to get all of your options in the same place so that you can make the best decision.”

Astrid chewed on that for a moment. Perhaps her brother hadn’t been so foolish and careless with the planning of this tournament as she initially thought. “And you believe I favor Cormac?”

Sitric laughed, a great big bellowing howl that grabbed the attention of everyone in earshot, then he lowered his voice to keep their conversation more private.

Sláine sat between them, smiling to herself and politely ignoring them, though Astrid knew she listened.

“Every time Cormac takes a blow, you flinch,” her brother replied. “Every time he delivers one you grin. And you speak with him far more than any of the others. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often you angle to have him to yourself.”

“He’s been here the longest,” Astrid defended. “Of course I have more to speak with him about. They’ve been living with us for months.”

“I think he truly cares for you, too,” Sitric continued, as though she hadn’t argued with him at all. “I noticed about a sennight ago that now, as opposed to the rest of their stay, his face changes when he looks at you.”

Astrid felt all the blood rush to her face, her head light as the foam on the surface of the sea. “He pities me, ’tis all,” she argued.

Sitric caught her gaze, as he did every time he wanted to ensure she didn’t dismiss his words. “You could do a lot worse than the Prince of Connachta. I’d be happy to see you choose him.”

That silenced her. Cormac wasn’t really competing for her hand, was he?

She could hardly tell Sitric that. But now she didn’t know what she wanted or how she felt, for her brother had unwittingly hit the nail straight on its head.

She could no longer deny that she enjoyed Cormac’s company, craved it even, and that she enjoyed his attentions more than she ought.

But was that enough for her to allow him to actually be her champion?

Could she see herself marrying him when her brother named him the winner?

As much as Astrid wanted to fly over the rock-filled shore and squeeze what life remained out of Cormac in celebration, her brother made a fair point.

With restraint that surprised Astrid, she instead wandered back to the guest hall in her brother’s holding to await his return.

She could speak with him alone there without the appearance of favoritism, as Sitric accused.

The longer she waited, pacing before the central hearth fire, the more anxious she grew.

She wrung her hands and debated just what she might say to him.

She’d been so worried. Guilt flooded her, followed by frustration.

She was furious with herself. She was furious with him for allowing her to make such easy use of him and his skills.

Oath of service or not, he shouldn’t die simply so that she might avoid an unwanted marriage.

When the doors to the hall burst open, Astrid still hadn’t a clue as to what she would say.

The Fianna all entered at once, talking and shouting and laughing and surrounding Cormac as he dried off with a strip of cloth in their midst. His shirt, she realized.

He used his shirt to dry off, which explained why his torso was still bare.

The conversation died down when they noticed her waiting.

“I say we go have a round of sparring,” Conan declared. “Illadan?” He looked to the leader of the Fianna questioningly.

“Absolutely. Fianna, grab your weapons and meet me on the field,” Illadan called.

In mere moments, the men were armed with staves and practice swords and headed back out, except for Cormac, who received a sound slap on his back from Diarmid as he passed his brother. Niamh and Cara followed them from the hall, leaving Astrid standing alone before her giant, shirtless champion.

She wanted to run to him.

She wanted to run away.

Instead, she landed somewhere in the middle, standing her ground as he approached her. “What are you doing?” she demanded, wincing at her own poor choice of words. Gods, what a terrible way to start.

But, patient as ever, Cormac took her outburst in stride, his face unreadable. “My best,” he answered simply.

Clarity descended with his words, and Astrid finally decided what it was she needed to say to him. Between the kiss and the dangerous swim and the inequality of their agreement, she didn’t know where he thought this was headed. Frankly, neither did she.

The more she contemplated it, the more she worried that she, too, may be getting the wrong idea. She couldn’t stop thinking about his kiss, about what it might feel like if he pulled her into his arms again. His very bare, very muscular arms, that waited just out of reach.

“But why?” she asked. “Why are you doing your best?”

He took a long, slow step toward her, a storm brewing in his cloudy blue eyes. “Ask me what you really want to know.”

A shiver shot straight from her core up her spine. “This agreement isn’t fair to you,” she continued, ignoring him.

He took another step. The salty scent of the sea wafted from him toward her.

“And you were nearly killed.”

Another step.

Her back touched the wall. She should be shouting at him, but no words came out. Her breath faltered and her head spun. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body against hers. But she wanted him closer.

“Do you actually care for me?” Her question came out so softly she wondered if she’d even spoken it aloud.

Slowly, giving her plenty of opportunity to shy away, his hand reached for her face. She leaned into it, unable to stop herself. His voice broke, sending another rush of excitement through her as he gave his answer.

“Yes.”