Free The Irish Warrior by Kris Kennedy Page B

tested. “He lost the wager and wouldn’t pay up.” The murderer’s voice lifted and fell unevenly, clear evidence of his overindulgence.
    â€œAnd you’ve got more balls than wits or not enough of either, and I’ll not be paying for it. Go get him,” Balffe ordered, unfolding his beefy arms and striding forward, a mountain in motion.
    â€œWhat?” The guard hooted and staggered backward out of the captain’s reach. “And be made into mutton by the Irish who stalk the castle walls?”
    â€œWhich would make you a sheep, you bastard.” The mountain took a step closer. “I don’t care if the godforsaken Saracens have left the Holy Lands and landed in Ireland.” He took another step forward. “I don’t care of they’re sharpening their scimitars and grinning at you, you rotting piece of dung—you’re going out there.”
    Grabbing the man’s gambeson and mail covering between his thick fingers, Balffe hauled him up to eye level, a not average feat of strength. “You drag his body back inside, now, or I’ll hang you by your balls.” He flung the hapless guard down and pointed to several others. “You, and you, and you,” he ordered, “go with him.”
    Muted curses followed the reluctant volunteers down the winding staircase.
    â€œCome,” Finian whispered in her ear.
    He gripped her wrist and tugged her to hover in the shadows by the crenellated barbican tower as the monstrous portcullis was raised. Creaking chains sounded and a dog barked. The men hauling the gate up grumbled contentiously—night duty was supposed to carry its own rewards, most notably an absence of tasks requiring attention.
    The iron grate was finally high enough for the four men to pass under it and over the lowered wooden draw. What with their grumbling and cursing, and the gory interest in their morbid task from those above, neither the soldiers nor the watchers from atop the tower noticed the two hunched and hooded figures who glided out behind them. Nor did they espy the shadowy shapes as they turned away and dropped into a dry but remarkably noisome defensive ditch.
    Senna felt Finian’s hand on the back of her head, pushing her down the side of the drop-off. She fell flat on her stomach. He dropped on top, covering her body with his.
    â€œHummphh,” she groaned as all the air was pressed out of her.
    â€œSilence,” came his hissed reply.
    â€œI can be nothing but, as you are lying on top of me—”
    His hand snaked under her, sliding over parts of her body in the most startling ways, and came up by her mouth, which he overlaid with a broad palm.
    She lay quietly as, above them, the soldiers grumbled in their efforts to retrieve the dead man. Grasping an extremity in hand, the foursome carted the mangled body over the draw and into the castle. The creak of heavy chains sounded again, and the barred gate clanged back into place. Silence descended.
    â€œUp. Now, before their attention turns back.” Finian knelt between her legs and looked down at her flattened body, half submerged in the dirt. He pulled her out and turned her over.
    Her face was covered with a fine film of dirt, her nose and cheeks red and creased. She was so covered with grime that the front of her tunic was barely distinguishable from the ground beneath her.
    â€œThat was close,” she whispered.
    Finian held out his hand to help her rise. “Quite.”
    He stood beneath, pushing her up over the side of the ditch. She finally curled her body over the lip. “Next time, all I ask is that I be on top.”
    Finian, with one thigh thrown over the top, his arms flexed to support his weight, froze. An enormous grin spread over his features as he hauled himself up.
    â€œAs ye wish it, angel.”
    Their hunched figures were but small, dark spots on the darker landscape as they crawled away from the castle. Finian led her to