he asked, watching her while she ate.
His appearance at her door that morning had taken her aback, his appealing looks a surprising enticement to a woman who wanted nothing more to do with men. At least not until she resolved the rift between her and her father.
But Hugh Fitz Henry was no pox-marked and flap-bellied nobleman who staked his manhood on a birthright he’d done no more to earn than emerge from the womb. Nay. Hugh was a warrior in full measure, a man who clearly lived by the sword, if the breadth of his shoulders and the scars upon his person were any indication. The backs of his hands were laced with healed wounds, while a long gouge marred his throat and disappeared in his tunic. She admired the strength of spirit in a man who fought for his lands, the way her father had fought for his kingdom.
And yet, what did Hugh fight for here? Why did a brave knight linger with an exiled Irish princess? The obvious answer was a political marriage. But he did not pursue her the way any other man ever had. He did not boast about the wealth of his lands and stables to sway her, or worse, assume her father would force her to wed no matter if she cared for the suitor or not.
“Aye.” She reached for the cup of wine he’d settled between them, mindful of his amber eyes upon her and the fluttering sensation they caused deep in her belly. She’d best mind her wits before she repeated all her old mistakes and ended up with another babe causing the next gentle flutter within her. “But I cannot relax and enjoy the day while I ponder your motives.”
She sipped the wine while he finished his meal. The fact that he never needed to rush into speech intrigued her, his manner so at odds with her father’s fiery temper and quick tongue. Too often, she and her father had found themselves in a disagreement because neither of them could leash their responses the way this controlled Norman could. If anything, Hugh seemed to savor the time to think before he answered, as if he rolled his thoughts around his brain the way she rolled the spiced wine about her mouth to dissect the complex flavors.
“I thought we clarified the matter of my interest in you yesterday.” His voice hit a lower note and the deep tone rumbled through her skin to vibrate along her senses like a drum.
Her flesh heated from her breasts to her neck, the flush crawling more slowly up her cheeks.
“I mean—” She cleared her throat, determined to speak her mind without growing distracted. “What motive have you for your presence in Connacht? Why would a Norman knight approach an enemy king when war between our people seems imminent?”
“You are aware of our politics despite your long exile, lady?” He appeared surprised.
And, she hoped, just a bit impressed with her knowledge.
The saints knew her father had never been overly fond of her interest in the running of a kingdom. He called her political interests “wholly unnatural” for a woman. And while she did not regret her choices to learn all she could about the governance of the kingdom, she rather wished her headstrong sister had not followed her direction. Onora appeared determined to oppose their father’s rules wherever possible, from defying his dictate that she not see Sorcha, to dodging prospective husbands by all possible means.
“I know my father is an unpopular choice for High King. As much as he might want the position, the king of Leinster is already drawing Norman support to be High King instead. Connacht will feel the brunt of Norman blades before the matter is settled.”
“And you think I come to make war on your father?” He took the cup from her hand, his fingers brushing hers in a fleeting caress that should not have been half as pleasing as it was.
“You are a long way from home.”
“I seek only friendly relations with your father, who I might add, was not half so suspicious as you.”
He kept his gaze upon her as he finished the wine.
“As a man, my father can test your words by the sword. As a woman, I must seek more subtle reassurances.”
The sight of his sculpted mouth glistening with the last of the dark red wine had her turning away to find distraction among the fairgoers. She watched two village girls smile and tease a pair of farm boys selling their young goats. She wondered if the maids knew the dangerous game they played.
But then, perhaps they would not push their play to the limit the way Sorcha had once done with the smooth-tongued young stranger who had wooed her in her father’s absence.
She had thought to divert herself with that game again today with Hugh, if only to chide him for his hasty retreat yesterday at her cottage. But Hugh was no Edward du Bois. Hugh had already warned her of her effect upon him. She would not make the same mistakes of her past simply to soothe a wound to her feminine pride.
Besides, exchanging a kiss with Hugh could land her in an unwanted marriage as part of whatever political maneuvering Hugh attempted. She would not be used again.
“Sorcha.” His hand was suddenly upon her elbow, a warm entreaty to face him. “I cannot tell you the full extent of my task here, but I vow I mean you and your family no harm. I will protect you at all costs. I swear it on the strength of my sword arm since you have no reason to trust in my honor.”
Oh. As pledges went, Sorcha found his moving. His words tempted her to believe him as much as his hand upon her arm tempted her in other ways.
“Sorcha!” A feminine squeal a mere stone’s throw away shattered the moment.
Blinking away the last remains of broken intimacy, Sorcha turned to see her sister racing headlong toward her. She stood just in time to catch Onora in her arms as her younger sibling fairly bowled her over.
“You are free!” Onora’s cry of pleasure attracted attention from all around as villagers, her father’s men-at-arms and a few gathering nobles from nearby lands turned to see the source of the noise.
Sorcha could scarcely speak from the tightness of her sister’s hug, but she laughed with pleasure and returned Onora’s enthusiastic greeting as well as she might. What did she care for the curious looks? She had already driven her father to call for her lifelong confinement to the convent. No transgression she made now could possibly make her situation more dire. Although, she supposed, he could yet find fault with Onora.
Before she could suggest they make their reunion more private, however, Hugh wrapped a guiding arm about her shoulders and drew them deeper into the trees at the top of the hill.
Onora did not go quietly.
“You wish to hide us, sir?” She relinquished her tight hold of Sorcha, but did not let go completely.
As Sorcha watched her sibling, noting the new maturity in a face free of all childish softness and the long dark waves that any woman would envy, she could not help but wonder if Hugh would find Onora appealing. The notion made her uneasy. Sorcha told herself that was only because of Onora’s untempered youthful passions and Hugh’s hidden past.
“I wish to keep the daughters of the king safe from harm during a time of growing unrest.” Hugh did not even meet Onora’s gaze as he peered out over the fair-day gathering, hand upon the hilt of his sword while his eyes searched for…what?
“You think we are at risk now more than in previous years?” Sorcha asked, already knowing it must be so. However, if Hugh had any particular reason to think the house of Connacht was in danger, she wished to know of it.
“You are wise to the enemies your father makes with his bid for the High King’s seat.” His sword hand relaxed as he turned back toward them, although Sorcha remained more uneasy than ever.
He’d said he would protect her at any cost and it seemed his actions attested to that. While she appreciated the guardianship, she regretted to think she needed it.
“Do you think Conn is safe?” Her heart ached with a sudden need to be at her son’s side. “The cottage is hardly a fortress—”
“Conn is far safer at home where his presence is unknown by all but those closest to the