Page 8 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

S he shook with anger, her face nearly as red as her hair. Had it been anyone else, Cormac would’ve regretted the turn in conversation. He hadn’t meant to pin a betrothal on her, simply to turn conversation away from Sitric’s choice of bride.

Catrin had fumbled through a disaster of a conversation, embarrassing not only herself but the Fianna as well.

He’d watched Cara do her best discreet intervention to no avail before deciding a change of topic was in order.

Little had he known that Astrid’s unwed state was a topic of dissent in the family.

Sitric’s proposal seemed eminently reasonable. As he’d said, it would be the best of both their desires in a husband for Astrid: a man who respects her culture and a man to help their political position in éire. It didn’t surprise Cormac in the least that Sitric’s solution managed to include games.

The best part of the whole ordeal was that Astrid would now be occupied with delaying her own betrothal. Hopefully that meant she’d stay out of Sitric’s.

He’d already spoken with Sitric directly about marrying Sláine, but Cormac remained unconvinced that Sitric intended to cooperate.

With Astrid finally out of his way, Cormac could focus his efforts on others who held Sitric’s respect.

Two people came to mind instantly: Diarmid, Sitric’s good friend, and Gormla, Sitric’s mother.

After the dinner itself ended, folks went their separate ways. The Fianna and Sitric’s warriors stayed at the table to game and drink. Townsfolk who’d attended the meal returned to their homes. Some of the women of the household stayed to play, but more of them left to retire for the night.

Cormac sat at the table while ale was refilled and knucklebones brought out, listening to the general merriment of his companions. Then he spotted Gormla. She left their table and Cormac excused himself, hurrying to catch her before she disappeared into her room.

“My lady,” he called, halting her near the end of the hall.

Gormla turned, her expression warming when she spotted her pursuer. “Cormac. What can I do for you?”

Gormla and Astrid could’ve been twins but for age and eye color. Where Astrid’s tresses glowed like smoldering embers, Gormla’s resembled a rich wine. And where Astrid’s eyes were orbs of amber, Gormla’s were the same pale blue as Sitric’s.

“I hoped to speak with you for a moment.” Cormac gestured to the nearest seating area, blessedly unoccupied, and they each took a chair.

He waited until she got comfortable before easing into the conversation.

“I wanted to extend my gratitude for allowing my men and I to impose upon you and your family for so long a stay.”

Gormla snorted in amusement. “No, you wish to know my thoughts on the marriage of my son.”

“Aye, but my thanks are genuine.” Cormac appreciated directness, but he didn’t want to appear dismissive of his generous host.

“You should know that what I think hardly matters. My children know better than to take marriage advice from me.”

Now it was Cormac’s turn to scoff. “Surely the experience can only be a boon.”

When Gormla’s first husband, Sitric and Astrid’s father, died, she began a torrid affair with Brian that ended in a son and a failed marriage.

Their relationship crashed through Caiseal like a storm, all lightning and thunder between the occasional calm.

After it inevitably ended, Gormla returned to Dyflin to live with her older children while her younger son, Duncan, underwent his fosterage.

It all happened during Cormac’s fosterage, so he’d spoken with Gormla on numerous occasions but rarely on any topic of great import.

“Even if they agreed with you on that, they both feel I’ve too great a personal history with Brian to judge the situation fairly. And they’re likely right to think so.”

Cormac nodded, considering his next move. “You know Brian,” he agreed. “And you know how he can be when he sets his mind to something. Or when he takes offense with someone.”

All mirth fled her face. “It’s gone that far, then, has it?”

“I am here to fulfill my oath to him, aye. But I am also here to prevent further bloodshed between my friend and my foster father.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs.

“I fear Sitric doesn’t see the threat behind the request, and that your daughter’s voice is louder than any other in his ear. ”

Gormla considered him, leaning back against the dark furs and crossing her arms. “Brian always spoke of your wisdom,” she began thoughtfully, surprising Cormac.

“Not only your ability to observe without prejudice but to then use your observations to better understand people. Tell me, why do you think my daughter speaks so loudly?”

Cormac searched his mind, running through his observations of Astrid.

Loud. Angry. Stubborn. Proud.

He realized quickly that for all his observing, not once had he done so without prejudice. Perhaps his efforts with her failed not only because of her temperament, but also because he’d never genuinely tried to win her over.

“I’ll help you,” she offered when he didn’t answer. “My Astrid can be a challenge to understand, but more often than not, she’s motivated by fear.”

“I highly doubt that,” Cormac countered. ‘Fearless’ might be one of the most complimentary words he’d use to describe her.

“Then you have more observing to do. If you want her on your side, that is.”

“While I have your ear, what advice do you have regarding your son?” Cormac had more ideas where Sitric was concerned, but it could never hurt to hear a mother’s insights. Already he felt this conversation could be the turning point in his mission.

Then Astrid appeared.

For the first time in the history of their acquaintance, she didn’t glare at him when she stopped beside his chair.

“Astrid, dear,” Gormla cooed, “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

“I had.” She swallowed hard, then turned to Cormac. “But then I thought of a conversation we had earlier, and I wish to continue our discussion.”

If Cormac hadn’t been sitting, he would have fallen over. Was Astrid truly seeking him out for a reasonable discussion of the brides? He stood, not about to miss such an opportunity.

“Don’t bother moving,” Gormla insisted, standing from her own seat. “I was about to turn in anyway.”

She gave Astrid a quick hug on her way to her room. Astrid took her mother’s abandoned chair, facing Cormac and scanning the room behind him.

He waited, letting her lead the conversation since she’d been the one to request it.

As soon as Gormla was out of sight, Astrid’s face flushed crimson, her hands clenching into tight fists. “This is all your fault,” she ground out. “You pushed my brother into this, now you need to get me out of it.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he certainly wasn’t surprised. “Discussing the possible marriage of a princess, especially when her brother is to be wed, is not unreasonable. I need to do nothing.”

“I thought you Fianna were supposed to be men of honor.” Her voice rose higher with every word. “How is it honorable to help entrap a woman in a marriage against her will?”

Cormac hated the feeling of guilt that slammed into him at her accusation, but he wasn’t about to get entangled in a family matter—especially this family.

“Did Sitric not say you’d already spoken of it before?

Numerous times, if memory serves. Nay, princess, I think that dam was broken long before I joined the conversation. ”

To his astonishment and amusement, her face reddened deeper, now nearly matching the color of her tresses. Her rounded nose flared dangerously. Cormac braced for the next onslaught.

Instead, Astrid surprised him.

“What of a truce?” she grumbled, not sounding the least enthusiastic at the prospect. “If you won’t be decent, perhaps I can compensate you in some way.”

Cormac sat back in his chair. “Consider me intrigued.”

“Well, I’m not going to do all your work for you. Tell me what it is you want.”

“I’m the one here with nothing to lose,” he countered, enjoying finally having the upper hand in one of their arguments. “Let’s hear your proposal.”

Astrid huffed and brought a hand to her temple, massaging the idea into existence.

If she weren’t such a thoroughly disagreeable and damnably frustrating woman, she’d be exactly the sort that caught Cormac’s attention.

Red hair. Delicate features. A fierce personality.

Aye, it was a good thing that she hated him and he couldn’t stand her, otherwise he’d be very tempted by the beautiful Princess of Dyflin.

Quicker than he expected, she looked up at him, her honey-hued eyes sharp as a freshly-honed blade.

“You are,” she grimaced, “exactly the sort of man my brother is trying to foist on me. A Gael, a prince with valuable political connections.” She waved her hand as though that completed the list of his marriageable qualities.

“And I am told you and your men are the best warriors in all the kingdoms.”

Cormac did not like where this was going. “I will stop you right there, princess. I cannot marry you, or I would break my oath to Brian.”

Her brows, several shades of crimson darker than her hair, furrowed. “But others of your men have wed.”

“For love,” Cormac explained. “One of our oaths is that we marry for love.”

“It matters not,” she continued. “We won’t be marrying. I want you to compete in the leikmót for my hand and win, but then refuse the marriage once the other competitors return home.”

“Will your brother not simply summon them back and betroth you to the next man?”

“I have over a month to figure that out, and if we delay long enough with the wedding, perhaps I can convince him otherwise. But for now, this will offer me some small security in my future.”

“And what are you offering in exchange for my help?”

She threw him a withering glare. “I will tell my brother whatever you want with regard to the brides sent by Brian. I assume you aim to have him wed Sláine, in which case I will become her greatest champion.”

“Deal.”

“Excellent.” She straightened in her chair.

Cormac knew the conversation wasn’t finished when she started worrying her bottom lip. He didn’t prompt her, though, as his brothers no doubt would. Instead, he waited.

“You can win the leikmót , aye?”

Cormac nearly chuckled at the ridiculous question, but then he noted that the color had drained from her face. Her voice had quieted, and she still bit her bottom lip. Gormla was right.

Astrid was afraid.

“Aye,” he assured her. “I can win.”