The Irish Warrior by Kris Kennedy Page A

to explain myself to ye.”
    She stepped up beside him with an impatient stride. “Then we walk. Can you not walk and talk at the same time?”
    He looked down coolly. “Not so well as you.”
    As they hiked quickly back up the creek side, he gave a brief synopsis of their next few days. “We have two rivers to cross—”
    â€œA river?” She sounded deeply shocked.
    â€œTwo.”
    â€œTwo rivers?” she clarified, as if his meaning had somehow been unclear.
    â€œThen a town, and—”
    â€œFriendly?”
    â€œHostile.”
    â€œHostile?”
    â€œThen leagues of open land before we reach safety.”
    She walked silently and seemed to be figuring, determining which was the most important thing to focus on just now. “You mean Dublin,” she finally said. “We’re making for Dublin.”
    He grunted. No, he did not mean Dublin.
    He meant Hutton’s Leap. That was the most important thing right now: getting to the town of Hutton’s Leap before Rardove figured out what the Irish were up to, and went there himself.
    The mission had been two pronged from the start. Finian’s task was to probe Rardove’s cunning, as well as take on the hazardous job of providing a distraction while another Irish warrior was sent to Hutton’s Leap to retrieve the dangerous, coveted dye manual that contained the secret of the Wishmés.
    Finian now knew that warrior’s head was being sent to The O’Fáil in a box.
    No time for grief or rage. Just focus on the mission. Someone had to retrieve that dye manual before it fell into the wrong hands. Rardove’s hands.
    Finian was the only one who knew the mission had failed. Therefore it had just become his mission.
    Senna, of course, did not know this, as she had no idea they were actually on a mission.
    â€œIs that…is that one of the rivers?” she asked, her words tentative.
    A slim, pale finger pointed at the sparse tree cover that separated this tributary from the main rushing river, perhaps forty paces off, as the slip of land they were on slowly narrowed until it became but a diving board into the raging river.
    â€œAye. That one.”
    â€œAnd how wide is this riv— what was that? ”
    A low howl rose up through the dark air, like the nighttime was haunting itself. Another howl came, filling the darkness with its mournful sound. She looked at Finian, her eyes wide and frightened.
    â€œA wolf,” he explained gently.
    â€œWe haven’t many of them in England anymore,” she whispered back.
    Another low howl came and Senna tripped backward, until her back was pressed to his chest. A startlingly attention-getting maneuver. He was vaguely impressed such an unconscious move should imbue such sensuality. “Are they close?”
    â€œAye.” It was always harder to detect panic within a whisper, but Finian was fairly certain the telltale tremble was there. “Are ye ready to go now, lass?”
    â€œQuite.”
    They didn’t say much as they retraced their steps to the banks of Bhean’s River. Woman’s River. It was well named, for it was wild and stunning in its beauty and ferocity. Dangerous, with wicked currents. Deep, an onrushing power to it.
    It was autumn, though, and the summer had been dry. While the farmers lamented the fact of it, tonight Finian gave thanks to all the gods he could think of, old and new, because it meant they could cross without needing the bridge at Bhean’s Crossing, which was only half a mile from Rardove Keep.
    Still, the Bhean was deep. Deep enough to warrant caution. Deep enough to drown in. Especially if one cracked his skull on the rocks when he fell. Or she fell.
    He stopped at the edge. The moon was bright. “How are ye with rocks, Senna?”
    Confusion marked her face until she followed his pointing finger. It cleared, into fear. A jagged row of boulders of various sizes zigzagged across