by Mia Marlowe
“Good,” he said smiling. “I’m inclined to see the rest of you, wife.”
Before she could protest, he tugged the tunic down over her hips and dropped it in a pool at her feet.
His breath hissed over his teeth. “By the gods, Brenna,” he said softly. “You make me want to never sail again.”
His gaze nearly scorched her. In reflex, she covered her sex with her hands.
“No, princess,” he said, his voice husky. “Let me look at you. Let me ... touch you.” He replaced her hands with his own large one, his fingers tangled in her soft, curling hair, caressing, probing, seeking out her deepest secrets. When he grazed a sensitive spot, a jolt of pleasure rippled through her whole body and Brenna gasped.
“Hmm.” He’d made the same sound when he tasted one of Moira’s tarts, a deep satisfied sigh. “It’s time to try out that bed, I’m thinking.”
Jorand scooped her up once more and carried her to the waiting bed. Brenna sank into the wool-stuffed mattress, the linens cool on her feverish skin. She watched, breathing uneasily, as he untied his trews and lowered them.
He was big. Very big.
Panic rose like bile in the back of her throat. The rending, the tearing, the burning. Oh God, no ... She pulled the blanket to her chin.
“Seems stout enough,” he said, giving the bedstead a good shake before he slid in beside her.
When he reached for her, she stiffened. Why did pain have to follow the teasing pleasure he’d given her?
He kissed her again, this time with more urgency. The full length of his erect phallus brushed her thigh.
Merciful Mary, I’ll be impaled.
Her breath came in short gasps. Her skin still shivered, yearning for his touch. The pleasure would be short-lived now, she suspected. Jorand was so much bigger than—Brenna wouldn’t let herself even think of him, that Other, the nameless beast at Clonmacnoise. But a dark corner of her heart carried the terror of it. And soon the horror would start afresh, and this time Brenna herself would suffer the brutal, grinding rutting.
“No!” She lashed out with her fists at him.
Jorand pulled back, stunned.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do this.” Brenna sat up, her knees under her chin with the blanket clutched tightly in her hands. “An’ ye force me, I’ll scream.”
“A scream from you at this point is only likely to increase my reputation, princess.” His chuckle faded as he realized she was in earnest. “What is this foolishness?”
“ ‘Tis not foolishness. ‘Tis the way things are. I’ll not bed you willingly, Northman, husband or no.” When he started to reach for her, she straight-armed him. “If ye take me by force, ye’d best sleep lightly or ye’ll wake with a dirk in your ribs. Before God Almighty, I swear it.”
Even in the dim light, Brenna saw his eyes harden. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
“If I wouldn’t let your sister be taken unwilling, what makes you think I’d do it to you?”
He was right. The injustice of her accusation stung, but she wouldn’t back down.
“I’ve said me piece,” Brenna said, fighting to keep her voice from trembling. Her insides roiled with fear and a nameless confusion. Surely this was what she wanted. “What’s it to be?”
Wordlessly, he rolled off the bed and stepped into his leggings. Then her husband grabbed one of the blankets and jerked it off her.
“Enjoy your marriage bed, princess. I’ll trouble you no more.” His voice held the bitterness of rejection. He stomped to the far side of the fire and stretched out on the ground.
Brenna sighed. She slid down under the thin linens, now shivering with cold instead of fear. Her body rebelled, still clamoring for release.
The merrymaking outside their hut continued to blaze in raucous glory. Huddled in the bed, Brenna realized her first night as a wife would be long.
And lonely.
Chapter Fifteen
Brenna was surprised to find herself in the glade. She inhaled deeply, drinking in the moist green scent of the river Shannon. A light breeze soughed through the stand of aspen on the bank, the trees huddled like a trio of skinny spinsters dipping their toes in the water. Brenna stretched out on a flat, gray-speckled boulder and let her feet dangle in the rushing current. Sunlight filtered through the trees, kissing her cheeks with small patches of warmth. She closed her eyes and let the peace of this secluded place sink into her bones.
A jaunty whistled tune made her eyes pop open and she sat up, looking for the source of the sound.
It was only old Murtaugh, the abbey’s sexton. With his stooped spine and leathery, wrinkled neck, he reminded Brenna of an ancient tortoise. Murtaugh was the only man within the walls of the cloister who hadn’t taken a vow of celibacy, though at his advanced age, Brenna scarcely thought it worth the trouble.
“God be wi’ye, Sister,” Murtaugh said, struggling under the weight of a coarse sack on his bent back.
Brenna tucked her bare feet up under her tunic, embarrassed to have been caught enjoying herself so freely. She was about to return his greeting with a pious sentiment of her own, when she noticed the sack rolling and bunching. Muffled cries reached Brenna’s ears.
“What is it ye’ve got there?”
“Och, ‘tis only a wee litter o kittens born in the abbey last night. The tabby what whelped ‘em crept out and left ‘em mewlin’ and starvin’, poor things,” he said with a shake of his grizzled head.
When he set the bag down and opened it, the kittens bleated their hungry lament all the louder. The old man reached in with a gnarled hand and stroked a little calico.
“There’s naught to spare for ‘em, so ‘tis up to me to take care of ‘em.” Murtaugh’s voice was throaty and rasping.
“And if there’s naught to spare, how can ye do that?”
The old man closed up the sack and tied a strap around the opening, cinching it tight. “Why, the only way to ease their sufferin’ is to drown ‘em, o’course.”
Murtaugh heaved up the sack, swung it over his head, and loosed it into the air.
Before the bag of kittens hit the water, Brenna heard a distinctively different sound escape from it. Another cry mingled with the terrified meowing. With a sharp pang in her chest, Brenna recognized the cry of a human baby.
“No!”
She staggered into the water, flailing after the disappearing sack. Her foot slipped and she fell headlong, water shooting up her nose. She fought to regain her footing, but suddenly felt a surprisingly strong grip on the base of her neck.
Murtaugh’s bony, liver-spotted hands clasped around her throat. The old man’s croaking voice carried down to her through the water, distorted and wavering.
“The only thing for it is to drown ‘em,” Murtaugh kept repeating as he forced her head deeper beneath the surface.
No, this was all wrong. Murtaugh was her friend. She writhed and struggled, her lungs threatening to burst out of her chest. The water was too full of sediment to see anything clearly. Her last precious breath exploded from her lips in a blur of bubbles. Pinpoints of light burst in her brain. The need to breathe was growing unbearable. She felt her mind spiraling, floating away with the current, leaving her body behind.
Brenna could stand no more. She inhaled.
The rush of oxygen into her lungs was sweeter than honeyed fruit. Brenna’s body jerked as she woke. She breathed again, testing the air to make sure this wasn’t more of the dream. A hint of smoke reached her nostrils as she eased into a sitting position.
The nightmares were getting worse. Brenna shook her head, trying to clear the hysteria of the dream from her mind. She clapped her hands over her ears. She could still hear the child’s cry. Brenna closed her eyes and bit her lower lip till it throbbed.
When she opened her eyes and cautiously lowered her hands, all she heard was the steady drip of light rain through the smoke hole, pattering on the stones of the fire ring. A lark trilled. During the night, the pinewood blaz
e had died and left only a whiff of fragrance as a reminder of its passing. Through the smoke hole, the sky was a pearly gray expanse that betokened approaching dawn.
On the other side of the fire pit, she made out the sleeping form of her husband. Jorand was stretched out on his side, facing away from her, as though even looking at her by chance was distasteful to him.
She watched his back expand with each breath. Her chest ached, remembering the fierce look in his eyes. She knew he had a right to be angry, but she couldn’t have done anything else. If she’d let him take her last night, the growing tenderness she felt for him would have been destroyed forever.
She wouldn’t blame him if he hated her for her refusal. But she was willing to suffer his loathing if only she was not forced to hate him.
Brenna shivered, then slipped out of bed and put on her tunic. She tried to run a horn comb through her wild tresses, but soon gave it up as hopeless.
The cock crowed.
They’d be coming soon, the early morning well-wishers and nosy matrons intent on inspecting the marriage bed for signs of consummation. In a panic, she glanced back at her bridal bower. The blankets were neat, the linens barely disturbed. She’d slept huddled miserably on her side of the broad bed without venturing over the center line even once.
Brenna climbed back into the bed, pulling the linens from their tucked corners and balling the blankets at the foot. When she eased off and inspected it this time, the bed gave the definite impression that a rousing tussle had taken place.
But the linens were clean. No virginal blood was shed. Her shame would become grist for the good-wives’ wagging tongues and her new husband would be sniggered at and despised by all for a cuckold.
Her Northman made no sign of waking while she rustled around. Perhaps she could settle the problem without his knowledge.
She searched Jorand’s pile of discarded clothing for the horn-handled dagger he always carried and breathed a sigh of relief when she found it. She climbed into the bed again and smoothed back the sheets. Then she unwound the cloth binding her hand. All she needed was a few drops. If she could reopen the wound—
A hand reached from behind her, clamping her wrist in a firm grip. She whirled to face him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Her husband’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“I—” The fury in his face closed off her throat. She’d defrauded him on their wedding night. How could she admit she was about to falsify evidence of purity lost?
His fingers tightened on her wrist till she dropped the blade.
“You’re hurting me,” she whimpered.
“That’s the least of your worries considering the hurt you were about to do yourself.” He released her and picked up the dagger. Then he shoved it into its sheath and tossed it back onto his pile of clothing. As Brenna watched, the fire ebbed from his eyes and he sank wearily down on the mattress, turning from her.
“I know you can’t bear me, Brenna,” he said softly. “But you don’t need to do away with yourself to escape me. I’ll not trouble you again.”
Brenna’s breath caught in her throat and she reached out, meaning to touch him on the shoulder, but drew her hand back instead.
Maybe ‘tis better this way. If Jorand thought she didn’t fancy him, perhaps she’d never have to tell him the real reason behind her refusal. She’d told the tale to no one but her father and it was like being eviscerated alive to speak the words even that once. She didn’t think she could do it again.
“I thank ye,” Brenna said, her voice small and quavering. She eased down to sit beside him, careful to avoid touching him.
His shoulders slumped and he leaned forward to rest his weight on his elbows, his hands on the back of his head. The urge to give in, to grant him the comfort of her body was strong, however painful it might be to her. Her heart ached for him and she suddenly knew this was the man she could have loved all her life. If only...
And she knew with equal certainty she couldn’t let a lie hang between them.
“Ye are mistook on two counts,” she said in a whisper. “I wasn’t after doing away with meself. Only the Lord God Almighty can decide when ‘tis time for me to leave this world. To take upon meself that which is His alone,” she shuddered at the presumption, “ ‘twould have been a mortal sin. Did Father Michael not explain such things afore ye were christened?”
“Guess the priest missed some of the finer points of your faith,” he said, still studying the stone pavers between his feet with complete absorption. “What else am I wrong about?”
“ ‘Tis not ye I cannot bear, Jorand,” she said. “ ‘Tis meself.”
His gaze slid sideways toward her, a puzzled frown knotting his brows. “I don’t understand you, Brenna. But I want to.”
Jorand flopped back on the bed, an arm draped over his eyes. “I thought and thought last night before I finally fell asleep. I had plenty of time to do it. That floor isn’t as soft as it looks, you know.”
A stab of guilt lanced her for making him bed down on cold stone.
He peered out from under his arm. “You wanted me last night, at least for a little while. I’m sure of it. What happened to change that?”
“ ‘Tis nothing ye did,” she said. “Or didn’t do.”
“Then what, Brenna? I’ve watched you over the past weeks. You may be sharp-tongued, but I’ve yet to see you be cruel.” He sat up and leaned toward her. “Do you love another? Is that what kept you from giving yourself to me?”
“No,” she said, sighing. “ ‘Tis nothing to do with love. Only with lust.”
“I told myself I’d never ask, but I’ve got to know. Who was he?”
“Like ye, he was a Northman,” she said miserably. “I don’t know his name and never want to. Ye misunderstood me before and I was content to let be, but I see I must tell ye all now.” Her voice was broken by a sob and she covered her face with her hands and wept.
After a few moments she became aware he was stroking her hair, smoothing out the tangles and crooning something in Norse that sounded like the same thing she’d heard him mumbling to one of the horses when it shied.
“Tell me,” he said simply.
“ ‘Twas me own fault,” she said between sniffles. “Me stubborn prideful will at the root of it all. Ye see, Father Michael taught me to read and write and when I went to Clonmancnoise Abbey with me sister Sinead, I expected to spend me days happily in the vast library there.”
Jorand’s face screwed into a puzzled frown.
“But they wouldn’t let me work in the scriptorium. Illuminating manuscripts wasn’t a fit occupation for a woman. ‘Twas just for the menfolk to do. The abbot judged me talents would be better used scrubbing the already clean pavers.” Her chin quivered as she continued. “I disobeyed the abbot and crept out of the abbey after vespers. While walking the banks of the Shannon, I stumbled upon a Northman. I suppose I should be grateful there was but one of them at first.”
She took a shuddering breath.
“I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I turned and ran, but he followed. Then on the path, I found me sister, Sinead. She’d missed me and knew I’d hie meself to the river from time to time. We ran together, but he caught me. I tried to fight him, but he was too strong. I couldn’t stop him.” She covered her mouth with her hand, unable to go on. Wracking spasms shook her frame and she felt a warm arm slide around her. Suddenly her head was against his chest and he cradled her gently.
“Sinead leaped upon his back, fighting and biting like a she-wolf. That’s when he let me go and turned on her. ‘Run,’ she said, and to me shame...” Brenna’s face crumpled. “I did.”
“I... I must have lost me wits, because there are parts I don’t remember and parts I cannot forget, no matter how I try.” She chewed her bottom lip, hearing again her sister’s screams while she cowered in paralyzed terror in the nearby brush. “But by God’s mercy, I must have fainted. When I finally came to meself, I found Sinead alone on the ba
nk and a whole crew of Ostmen sailing away, just rounding the bend.”
She’d never forget the livid red wool of the Northmen’s sail. It matched the blood streaking her sister’s thighs.
“The fault is not yours.” Jorand’s grip tightened around her.
“Is it not? If not for me, she’d be safe yet.” Brenna trembled with guilt. “But for her courage, it would have been me. It should have been me.”
There was worse yet to tell, but she couldn’t bear it now. Even Da didn’t know the rest.
“I can’t undo your past, Brenna, any more than I can remember my own,” he finally said. “So now what happens?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s plain you don’t mean to be a wife to me.” He made no move to release her, but he did loosen his grip. “I’ll not bind you to me unwilling any more than I’d take you unwilling.”
“Ye mean to turn me out?” It would shame her as badly as the truth for him to repudiate her after spending the night with her.
“No, I ... This changes everything. I don’t know what you expect me to do.” His eyes had taken on a faraway look.
He meant to sail away. “If we’re not married,” she whispered, “ye fear ye’ll not be given leave to go.”
He shrugged. “There is that.”
“Me father can be a hard man when he believes he has cause to be,” Brenna admitted.
Brian Ui Niall tried to be a genial man of peace, but he was also capable of demanding and getting the blood of a rival’s firstborn. Brenna wondered sometimes at the tales of ferocity in battle she’d heard about her father. When Brian’s slate-gray eyes blazed in anger, she realized the tales were undoubtedly true. Her father would see Jorand dead before he allowed Brenna to be shamed. She couldn’t let that happen.
“I know your freedom is important to ye. I would not keep ye from it.”
“What are you proposing?” He cocked a brow at her.
She ventured a hand on his arm. “No one but we knows what passes between us.”
“Or doesn’t pass between us,” he said, his lip curling.