Page 24 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

H er eyes hadn’t left his lips for the entirety of their conversation, excepting the singular moment when she stared straight at his bare chest and arms. Cormac knew that he played with fire, but that kiss awakened something within him that had slumbered for far too long.

And, in spite of her rejection of him the night he’d kissed her, she wasn’t running off just yet.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, his hands aching to reach for her again.

She shook her head, her full, pouty lips parting beneath his thumb.

He wanted her so badly, but he read her wrong last time. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

She bit her lip, testing the limits of his willpower, then nodded her head.

Tilting her chin up, he lowered his lips to hers. The sweet taste of her shattered what little control he had left. The way she melted into him, kissing him back in equal measure, told Cormac that she wanted it as badly as he did.

Her fingers raked over his bare chest, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

He returned the gesture in kind, his hands devouring her. Everything about her was soft and supple, yet just as fierce as he’d come to expect from the tempestuous princess.

She gasped at his touch. He ached to pick her up and carry her to his room, to throw her onto his bed and make her his. Instead, he deepened the kiss.

His hands moved over her hips, up the sides of her body until he ran a thumb over her breast, finding a hard nipple and coaxing a moan from her. Maybe he should take her to his room. He shifted, preparing to carry her off.

Someone cleared their throat in the center of the hall.

Astrid gasped, but Cormac could tell from the suppressed laugh that it was his menace of a brother, Conan. Letting his hands fall from the beauty with a beleaguered sigh, he turned and raised a brow.

“Everyone’s on their way to the feasting hall. Best we get over there as well.” Conan’s eyes glittered with amusement but he wisely held his tongue.

Cormac thanked him, watching him leave before turning back to Astrid. He found her honey-hued eyes staring at him from beneath thick, dark lashes, her face flushed and her lips red as berries. He’d never be able to look at her again without imagining her like that.

“You never answered my question the other day. Do you want me to let your Ostman win, princess?”

Her fingers traced the lines of his jaw, her eyes hungry.

“Not just yet,” she teased in a husky, playful voice.

She pulled his face to hers, her fingers putting gentle pressure along his rough jawline, and she planted one more lingering kiss on his lips.

“Meet me outside after the hall clears tonight.”

Astrid fled the hall, leaving him in shock. She hadn’t run off when he admitted his true feelings. Quite the opposite, in fact. Encouraged, Cormac followed after her to join his brothers in the hall, unable to keep a smile from his face.

Cormac entered Sitric’s hall to find the contestants more subdued tonight than they had been previously, likely exhausted from their fight to survive in the harbor.

Only one or two of the suitors ventured over to Astrid.

Cormac couldn’t help but feel pleased that Teague and Cairell kept to themselves in a corner, no doubt licking their wounded pride.

Servants prepared the tables for the meal while folk finished up their conversations.

“So what was it you were saying about not marrying the princess?” Conan greeted him, grinning like a fool.

“As it stands, that’s still the plan,” Cormac replied.

Conan narrowed his eyes. “It didn’t look like the plan.”

“She hasn’t expressed an interest in it being otherwise.”

“Maybe not verbally,” Conan taunted.

Diarmid spotted them from their usual seats at Sitric’s table and hurried to join them. “Well? What happened?”

Cormac rubbed his neck. “She thanked me for competing.”

Conan smacked him—hard—then turned to Diarmid. “He’s holding out on you.”

“Does that mean you like her now?” Diarmid asked Cormac.

“That’s how it looked, aye. Mutual liking,” Conan teased.

“Excellent,” Diarmid proclaimed, “that means you’re in a good mood, then, aye?”

That could only mean trouble. “Why?”

“I know you’ve been busy, but the tournament is nearly finished, and we’ve still not spoken to him.”

Cormac knew “him” referred to Cahill, as all three of them hesitated to call the man their father. “Let’s get this over with,” Cormac grumbled.

Though Teague didn’t pose a threat to his victory, they still needed to determine what their father hoped to achieve and whether or not he made any progress on it. Cormac led Conan and Diarmid over to where their father skulked near an empty table.

“I wondered when you’d finally come and face me like men,” he muttered when they stopped before him.

Diarmid let out a low whistle.

“Hello to you, too,” Cormac answered, fighting to stay calm in the presence of the man who’d so easily cast him aside.

“You’re lucky none of the women heard you,” Conan told him. “I can think of four in this very room who’d love to prove that sentiment wrong.”

“Six,” Cormac corrected him, recalling that the two brides sent by Brian were spirited enough to take exception to his father’s poor choice of greeting.

“I must admit,” Cahill began in a condescending tone, the sound of his voice sending Cormac straight back to his childhood, “I understand why Brian would insist Sitric marry his daughter. For reasons of subjugation, of course, and the ostensible keeping of the peace. But I fail to see how having you also marry the sister accomplishes anything further and, if that was indeed his intent, why he didn’t simply demand it as part of the agreement? ”

“Brian did not ask me to compete,” Cormac replied drily.

Cahill raised a wild, bushy brow, the one riven by a jagged scar. “That might lead me to assume you are so inadequate that you must compete for the princess’s hand instead of simply asking for it. Not afraid she’d deny you, are you?”

Cormac knew better than to expect civility from his father, yet he’d still dared to hope. “An interesting assessment,” he countered, “as you appear to be doing much the same, but with a poorer showing.”

Diarmid snickered and Conan grinned. Cormac forced himself to keep a straight face, knowing he’d landed a blow at last on his father. It was a pittance for payback, but it was a start.

“You’re quick to disparage your own brother.” Cahill nodded toward Teague, sitting beside Cairell in the far corner of the room.

“If you aren’t our father, how could he be our brother?” Cormac’s mirth disappeared. “Or have you forgotten our last conversation?”

“Why are you here, old man?” Conan interrupted.

Cormac had allowed his emotions to overwhelm his sense—the memory of his father’s rejection, of that feeling of being discarded like refuse threatening to swallow him. The moment he stood his ground, he nearly forgot their mission.

“Isn’t it obvious? We’re here to get Teague a wife.”

“You know Sitric cannot choose Teague, no matter his performance. You’re a right bastard, but you’re no fool.

Brian would never allow such an alliance between former and current opponents.

” Cormac leveled the challenge at his father, laying it all out on the table.

He wasn’t one to mince words, and he wished to end this conversation as quickly as possible.

Cahill shrugged dramatically. “If the lady desires him, Sitric may not have a choice.”

A flicker of rage ignited, and Cormac felt it threatening to burst forth.

Diarmid placed a hand on his shoulder, as though he sensed the change in Cormac.

Conan stepped between Cormac and the man who’d once been their father.

“The lady’s feelings hold no sway in this matter,” Conan replied, taking Cormac’s place in the conversation.

“Sitric knows it would cause trouble that he hasn’t the manpower to handle. ”

Cahill’s eyes widened, brightening as he stared over Cormac’s shoulder. “Perhaps the lady herself can enlighten us,” he called, his voice sickeningly sweet.

They turned to find Astrid eyeing all of them suspiciously. “Perhaps,” she allowed tightly.

“We were discussing whether or not political prejudice may play a part in your brother’s selection of the victor,” Cahill informed her. “I’d hate to see you lose an excellent partner out of malice for his circumstances.”

Astrid’s narrow nostrils flared, her jaw tightening.

“An odd concern for someone who invited themselves to this tournament,” she quipped.

“You’re lucky my brother didn’t turn you away the moment you arrived, as I’d have done.

I suggest that instead of accusing him of malice, you thank him for his graciousness. ”

Cahill’s gloating turned to fury, darkness flattening his features. Instead of biting back, he bowed to the princess, surprising Cormac.

Astrid, apparently finished with the exchange, turned and walked away.

Cormac couldn’t take his eyes off the way her blue dress, the color of a robin’s egg in spring, fell enticingly around her narrow hips.

His fingers itched to grab them, to pull her toward him.

Shaking such foolishness from his head, he forced himself back to the problem of his father allying with Sitric.

Just as he’d predicted from the very beginning, this woman would be the death of him.