so caught up in her dreaming, she hadn’t noticed them entering the solar.
The Spaniard accepted a cup of wine from Isabel, and when he took a sip, Brianna’s eyes were drawn to his mouth. His lips were firm, his face honed with sharp planes. So different from her husband. Murtagh had been a teasing man and a kind one. He’d treated her with affection and had been her friend as well as her lover.
But there was no friendship in Arturo de Manzano’s expression. He eyed her as though there were no other women in the room. The intensity of his gaze caught her deep inside, like an intimate caress.
As a distraction, Brianna drank from her own cup, but the spicy taste of the wine did nothing to diminish the awkward feelings inside her. Did he intend to disarm her with a look? She met his gaze openly, hiding nothing at all. Though the Spaniard might be trying to gain her interest, she had no intention of letting another man close to her. Even if he was fiercely handsome.
‘Our parents will arrive within a few weeks,’ he was telling Isabel. ‘I think they will be more than pleased with the marriage.’
Isabel gave him a nod, and then turned back to Adriana. ‘If you love my son and bring him happiness, then I, too, am well pleased. You might consider having your celebration after Twelfth Night, if their journey takes longer.’
Liam was standing behind Adriana, with his hands upon her shoulders. The young woman covered one of his hands with her own, and although there was love there, Brianna sensed another emotion from the young woman, like a hint of consternation.
It was hard to remain here, seeing the two of them with years of happiness ahead while her own marriage had been cut short by an enemy’s spear. Isabel was talking about decorating the castle with greenery and holly, and Brianna excused herself, letting them continue their discussion of wedding plans. She wanted some time alone, to practise with her spear and make decisions about what to do next.
With slow steps, she crossed the Great Chamber and made her way back home. The bitter cold made her lift her hood over her hair. Glancing at the position of the sun, she had only an hour before dusk.
* * *
When she reached her house, Brianna took the spear and hid it within her cloak. She brought a gathering basket with her, in the hopes that if anyone saw her, they would believe she’d only gone to collect greenery.
She only made it halfway across the castle grounds, when the Spaniard approached. ‘Would you like company on your walk?’
‘No, thank you.’ The last thing she wanted was for him to catch her practising with the spear.
‘Then I’ll keep my distance and guard you from anyone who might bother you.’ He stepped back, gesturing for her to go forward.
Brianna didn’t quite know what to say. She wanted to tell him no, but he’d only offered his protection. ‘It isn’t necessary. My uncle’s guards will keep me from harm.’
As she departed the castle grounds, she glanced behind and saw that he maintained his distance. True to his word, he gave her complete privacy, and yet he remained nearby.
She frowned as she crossed over the open meadow and toward the forest. Trees were sparser in this area, but there was a small copse that would offer her a place to practise. She set down the basket and removed her cloak, letting it fall to the ground. With the spear in one hand, she gripped the wood, finding the balance point.
It was the first time she’d practised with the weapon. Even touching it bothered her, and she half-wished she’d chosen another weapon.
Memories crashed through her, of the suffering in Murtagh’s eyes when the spear had taken him. It had been hours until he’d died, and never would she forget the horror of helplessness. Or the blood upon her hands and this weapon that had cut his life short.
Hot tears burned in her eyes, and she wondered how she ever thought she would have the strength to avenge his death. She couldn’t even touch the spear without weeping.
You’ve gone weak, her mind taunted. You can’t do this.
Her hand dug into the wood, and she sighted another tree as her target, pulling her arm back in preparation.
‘So this is how Irish women spend their time?’ came a male voice.
The spear fell from her hands, clattering upon the frozen ground as she spun. ‘I told you I didn’t need your protection.’
‘Anyone could see you trying to hide a spear,’ he pointed out. ‘You didn’t conceal it very well.’
‘It’s not your concern.’ She steadied her voice, trying to hide her shaken feelings.
‘I wondered why you would bring it so far from the castle grounds,’ he continued on. ‘Were you trying to learn how to use it?’
She remained silent. Please go away.
But instead, the Spaniard reached down for the fallen weapon, testing its weight in one hand. ‘This spear is not meant to be thrown,’ he told her. Turning the shaft into a vertical position, he took her hand and guided it on to the wood.
She studied his features, noting the light chainmail armour he wore and the strength of his stance. There was none of the easy-going nature of her husband, nor the light teasing she was accustomed to. Instead, he remained stoic, rather like a block of stone. His dark eyes narrowed upon her, as if questioning her purpose.
With his hand upon hers, he guided the spear to just below his chest. ‘This is a spear meant for close contact. You wait until the enemy is close enough, and thrust it upward.’
The tip of the spear rested upon his chainmail armour, and she saw the intensity in his dark eyes. Standing so near to him, she murmured, ‘Not into his heart?’
‘The tip would get deflected by his ribs if you miss. It’s too great of a risk.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ Slowly, she drew the spear back and nodded for him to leave.
He ignored her dismissal. ‘Who is threatening you, belleza?’ His tone held warmth, but beneath it lay strength and determination.
‘There is no threat to me. And even if there was, I would not ask for your help.’ She set the weapon down and withdrew her knife. Grasping an evergreen branch, she sawed at it, pretending she didn’t care what he did now. Yet, she was fully aware of his presence.
The hairs on the back of her neck tingled from his proximity. When he moved beside her, the top of her head barely reached his chin. Her eyes rested squarely upon his chest, and she chided herself for noticing the way his armour moulded to it like a second skin.
‘Even so, I’ll stay.’ His voice held a deep timbre that made her suppress a shiver. When he moved beside her, he watched her work for a moment. ‘Your blade is dull,’ he remarked. ‘Use mine.’
His hand brushed against hers, and he gave her a knife with an ivory hilt. She held it for a moment, and said, ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re unbelievably persistent?’
‘My sister. But usually she calls me overprotective.’ He reached out for a pine branch and waited for her to cut it. When she tried his
