Erinsong

by Mia Marlowe

  “Aye,” she conceded. “But in the eyes of the world, we are husband and wife. Could we not continue as such? In the fullness of time, ye may have your freedom and I will bear your name. If ye can bear such a coward as meself.”

  “For at least a year and a day,” he said, looking at the bandage on his hand.

  “Aye,” she said.

  Outside the hut, Brenna heard hacking coughs and the slamming of the heavy keep door, the first stirrings of the wedding guests.

  “They’ll be here soon,” she said.

  “Who will?”

  “Those who mean to make sure a true marriage has been made.” Her eyes met his. “The linens are in disorder. If we act the part, they’ll believe.”

  She’d told him her hardest truth. It was time for another.

  “When ye caught me with your knife, I was after leaving a blood stain in the bedding.” She looked away. “I was trying to cover me shame.”

  “The shame isn’t yours, Brenna,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You didn’t intend to deceive me. There’s no reason for the rest of the world to know if you don’t wish it.” He spat the words out as though they pained him as they passed through his teeth. “Who else knows the truth of this?”

  “Only me Da.”

  “Good.” He stood and unwound the cloth on his palm with purpose. When he flexed his hand, the gash broke open and beads of red welled up along the cut. He smeared the center of the bed with several drops of blood. “Will that do?”

  Tears pressed against her eyes. She’d hurt him by refusing to bed him, and yet he protected her. “Again, I thank ye. Ye have covered me shame. Honor is satisfied.”

  He looked at her blankly. “I’m glad something is.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Brenna, me heart, a word in your ear.”

  “What is it, Da?” She balanced the full basket on her hip and waited for her father to join her on the path. When he came even with her, Brian Ui Niall swept up the weight of her load and balanced it on his own shoulder.

  “Is it fresh bread I’m smelling?” The king sniffed appreciatively. “I’m thinking your Northman’s big enough already. If ye keep feeding the man this well, daughter, there’s no telling how tall he’ll grow.”

  “I only hope I can get him to stop long enough to eat. Unless I take food to him, he’ll work on that infernal boat without a scrap of supper and not even notice his belly’s complaint.” Brenna glanced sideways at her father. “Are ye after giving me advice on the care and feeding of husbands, then?”

  “Not exactly, but now ye’ve brought the subject to the fore, I’ve wondered how married life is agreeing with ye.”

  “It’ll do,” she said with a shrug.

  “It’ll do? Ye sound less than pleased. Ah, Brenna, that’s not what I’d hoped for ye.” Brian’s dark brows drew together over his fine straight nose and a murderous glint sparked in her father’s eyes. “Has the man been mistreating ye?”

  “No, Da.”

  “Good then. I’m glad I’ve not lost me touch when it comes to judging a man’s character.” The king filched a small barley bun from the basket and bit into the warm pastry, rolling his eyes in delight. “Still, I thought the Northman would be the right one for ye,” he said between bites.

  She arched a brow at him. “Don’t be playing the doting father with me. This pairing was for your convenience. Ye needed me safely wed so ye could make Moira’s match, and there’s the end of it. None of the local lads were to me taste and ye know it.” She wrestled the basket back from him. “Jorand was me only choice.”

  She glared at her father, further irritated when Brian’s shoulders hunched in agreement.

  “But, Brenna, did ye never think your Northman was also the fitting choice?”

  “How do ye mean?”

  The king sighed. “I know ye’ve been hurt, daughter. No maid should see what ye’ve seen. But I thought marrying the same kind of man as hurt your sister might help ye heal. Sinead would want ye to go about whole hearted again. Have ye not found solace in the Northman’s bed, then?”

  “I very much fear he’d say he’s found none in mine.” Brenna pursed her lips together. If Da wanted to have it direct, then she’d give it to him.

  Brian frowned and ran a hand across his mouth, tugging at his chin as if that would help him find the right words. “I know ‘tis not the sort of thing a girl wishes to speak of with her father, but—”

  “Mother’s not about to speak of it with me, now is she?” Brenna interrupted him with a trace of annoyance and more than a little embarrassment. Still, when her father’s shoulders sagged, she wished she hadn’t spoken so quickly. Una had shown a brief flicker of interest in life when Jorand repaired her chair. Everyone hoped it would last. But the queen of Donegal retreated once again into her dark, solitary sadness where none could touch her. Brenna felt guilty for reminding her father how alone he was.

  “No, daughter, your mother’s not much help to ye, I’ll grant it.”

  Brian reached for another barley bun and Brenna narrowly resisted the urge to slap his hand away. She’d baked them for her husband, after all.

  “Your mother, God grant her peace, is no help, even to herself. Which is why I feel bound to take it upon meself—”

  “Da, I mean no disrespect to ye, but given the state of your own marriage, I don’t think ye are the one to be giving advice to me.”

  “But ‘twas not always thus with your mother and me. Loved each other fine, we did.” Brian’s voice trailed away as he seemed to follow the wisp of a nearly forgotten time. “I only wish the best for ye, me heart. And the way of a man with his wife is truly one of God’s wonders in the world.”

  “The wonder ‘tis so many women put up with it,” Brenna said bluntly.

  Brian raised a questioning brow at her. “I thought ye said he hadn’t mistreated ye. If that man’s given ye even a moment’s pain—” The king grasped her shoulders, forcing her to face him. “Say the word, daughter, and I’ll fetch me ballocks shears and see the blackguard unmanned before sunset.”

  Her father would do it without a qualm. Brenna felt the blood run from her head at the thought.

  “No, Da,” she struggled to keep her voice even. “He hasn’t ... I mean, I wouldn’t let ... There’s no need for ye to take such a notion.” Brenna heaved a sigh. “Ye may as well know our wedding night was a fraud. Jorand hasn’t been near me because I won’t allow it. I told him what happened at Clonmacnoise and he’s stayed away from me ever since.”

  “But that was none of your doing. Don’t tell me the man holds it against ye?”

  “No, Da,” she said, avoiding his direct gaze. “I’m holding it against him. And whatever else Jorand is capable of, he at least hasn’t forced himself on me.”

  “Brenna! He shouldn’t have to. The man is your lawful husband.” Her father’s tone was reproving. “Did ye not take the vows?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “No buts, daughter,” Brian said. “Ye swore before God Almighty to give the man your body, and by all that’s holy, ye must honor your oath.”

  Tears trembled on the edges of her eyelids, blurring her vision. She stumbled a bit and might have gone down, but her father caught her in time and held her in a tight embrace. The basket of food clattered to the ground, one of the buns falling out onto the long green grass.

  “Oh, me heart,” Brian crooned as he patted her head against his chest. “I can’t tell ye how many times I’ve prayed to take this hurt from ye. But there’s naught I can do. Ye must simply trust me in this, daughter. The little ye know of what passes between a man and a woman, ‘tis not the whole of the matter, truly ‘tis not.”

  Brenna’s cheeks burned and she was grateful Brian crushed her against him so she couldn’t see her father’s face.

  “If the Northman’s willing to wait for ye, it gives me hope he’s the one to see ye made whole.” Brian pressed his lips to her forehead, then sto
oped to gather up the basket. He walked toward the sea once more, heedless of whether Brenna followed or not. “But ye must try, darlin’. Loving takes two.”

  Brenna shook her head sadly and trotted to catch up with the king. “I don’t think I can, Da.”

  “There’s not so much thinking as needs to be done about it, girl,” Brian said. “Mayhap that’s your problem. Stop thinking so much and just... well...” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. Then he squared his shoulders and nodded curtly. “Life is hard enough without love. If the man offers ye comfort and kindness, accept it, lass. Accept the love.”

  She ventured a weak smile as she pondered his words.

  They strolled in silence to the head of the trail that led downward to the cove where Jorand was working.

  “Right, then.” Brian handed the basket back to her and turned toward his keep. “Pass a good evening, daughter.”

  Brenna watched him go. Could her father be right? Her one experience with a man’s base needs was as terrifying a thing as she ever wished to face. But would it be different with Jorand? He’d certainly made her feel different on their wedding night. Until she’d demanded he stop.

  What if she’d been wrong?

  She turned to look down at her husband in the cove below. He’d stripped off his tunic and was working only in his trews. Jorand’s fair skin had burnished to a golden bronze from long hours in the sun, but Brenna knew that his thighs were still pale in comparison.

  For a moment, she remembered how he looked in the flickering light of the fire in their bridal bower—strong, potently male, with a hint of the same wild glint in his eyes Brenna had seen in her father’s stallion when the mares were in season. She swallowed the rising lump in her throat.

  A vise tightened on her chest. Jorand was exceedingly fine to look upon. She’d seen more than one of the neighboring women rake him with their gaze and find reason to linger.

  Perhaps her father was right. Sinead wouldn’t want her to go about cringing in fear all her life. Even though he was a Northman, Jorand wasn’t the least like the man who’d raped her sister.

  Accept the love.

  If only she could screw up the courage to try.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jorand bored another hole with the auger and slid the iron rivet home. He gauged the depth perfectly and the metal he’d worked the night before fit snugly into the opening. The iron and oak came together with the neatness of two things designed for each other.

  Pity he couldn’t have that kind of precision in his marriage...

  He shook his head and shoved the unproductive thought aside. He needed to concentrate on his boat. The more he worked the wood, the more malleable it became in his skilled hands. The small craft was taking shape beautifully.

  As he labored, memories came to him in rushes, vivid flashes of sight and sound. They were jumbled up—brief glimpses of strange places, snippets of conversations, faces that seemed to melt into one another so he wasn’t sure who or what he was seeing in his mind. Always the new memories were accompanied by a pounding in his temple that threatened to send him into dizzy oblivion.

  It was exhausting to try to make sense of the disjointed images, but he slogged away at it even as his hands kept busy building the boat. He hoped remembering would help, but nothing in his past seemed likely to show him what to do about his present. He was totally lost.

  He felt like a swimmer nearly spent, clawing his way toward the surface of the water, lungs bursting and mind tunneling for lack of air. If only he could break through, feel the cleansing breath of a clear memory, piece together a true sense of himself, maybe then he’d be able to make sense of the rest of his life.

  “Brenna.” He whispered her name like a prayer.

  When the strange images in his brain proved to be too much, he filled his mind with her instead. Brenna, acid-tongued and saucy, working as hard as any man in the keep. Brenna, frail and vulnerable, singing sad Irish songs when she thought he didn’t hear her. Brenna, round and soft, sighing in her sleep while he gritted his teeth on his pallet across the room.

  He hadn’t made any more advances toward her since their wedding night, though not for lack of wanting. He was beginning to crave her the way a starving man lusts after a crust of bread, but he pushed the urge down.

  Her threat of a knife in his ribs wasn’t what kept him away. It was the glint of terror reflected in her eyes, the way she drew away from him inside her clothes whenever their bodies chanced to brush against each other in the small confines of their hut. If he had to hurt her to have her, he was determined to wait.

  The hunger grew in him like a suffocating vine.

  Brenna was either going to be his salvation or the death of him. He wasn’t sure which.

  “That boat doesn’t care if ye fall down from overwork, ye know.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice. “But you do?” He couldn’t resist needling her.

  “Sure and ye’ll make yourself sick if ye don’t stop for a bite now and again.”

  “I’m glad to know you care.”

  “Of course, I care.” Brenna set down the basket she had balanced on her hip and rummaged through it. She drew out a small jug, pulled out the bung, and handed it to him. “If ye fall ill, who’d have to drop her work and tend to ye, I’d like to know? ‘T’would be me, and then what would become of the rest of those who need me?”

  He downed a swig of ale and found it cool and soothing to his parched throat.

  “I expect Moira could pick up where you left off giving orders,” he said dryly and was rewarded by the dangerous glint in her eye.

  “Aye, well... someone needs to see to things.” The steam seemed to go out of her as she turned her attention to the boat. “How is this cursed contraption coming along? Will it be finished soon?”

  So, she’s anxious to be rid of me.

  “I can try it now if you like.”

  A panic-stricken look crossed her face. “ ‘Tis not done yet, surely.”

  “No, I need to add a mast and finish the inside of the hull with some flooring to make her more comfortable, but I intend to see if she’s seaworthy today.”

  “You’re not leaving?” She caught his arm as he turned away, then dropped her hand when he looked back at her.

  “Would it bother you if I did?”

  She didn’t meet his gaze. “Ye promised me Da not to go without his leave.”

  “I’m a man of my word,” he said testily. “I’ll not go yet. No, princess, you’re not that lucky. Today I only intend to try her in the lagoon to make sure the joints hold.”

  He put a shoulder to the stern and shoved the craft toward the smooth water of the sheltered cove. When the prow lifted in the light ripple of a wave, he turned back to face her.

  “Can you swim, princess?”

  She hesitated for an instant. “I expect I can make do.”

  “Come, if you like.”

  To his surprise, she walked toward him still carrying the dinner basket. When she reached the water’s edge, he lifted her gently into the swaying craft. Her hem rode up for a moment and he caught a tantalizing glimpse of a slender ankle and calf.

  “Better have a seat,” he ordered before he gave the boat a final push and clambered over the side to join her. Jorand slid the twin oars into the ports and bent to his work, rowing against the slight swell of waves in the small cove. When they reach the center of the lagoon, he shipped the oars and tossed out the anchor stone.

  “That should do it,” he said, settling himself so he could see Brenna. Her face paled and she gripped the sides of the small craft so hard her knuckles were white.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “We wait to see where she leaks.”

  “What do you mean ‘where’ she leaks?”

  “I think I sealed all the joints,” he pointed to the bits of tar and moss jammed between the strakes. “But I might have missed a spot or two. Anything made by human hands is prone to failure. So we have a t
rial run in a shallow spot to see if she’ll hold.”

  Her eyes widened. “How shallow?”

  He leaned over the side, looked down into the clear gray water, and counted the number of knots left on his anchor rope. “Not more than five spans.” He spread his arms wide, then leaned back against the stern.

  “But that’s over your head.”

  “And yours, too, even if you stood on my shoulders,” Jorand cocked his head at her. “What’s the matter, princess? I thought you said you could swim.”

  “Well, are ye telling me I’ll have to?”

  “Not likely,” he said. “Even if she leaked like a sieve, it takes a great deal of water to swamp a boat like this. We’re close enough to shore that I could row back before she sank. Anyway, I’ll warrant she’d stay afloat even half full.”

  “Let’s not be trying to prove it, shall we?”

  He peeked under the clean cloth covering her basket. “What have you brought me?”

  “Just a bite of supper.” She relaxed enough to let go of the sides of the craft as she pulled off the cloth and displayed her offering. “I’ll not have anyone saying I neglect me husband’s appetite.”

  “Not all of them anyway.” He bit into one of the barley loaves and wished it had been his tongue instead.

  “What do ye mean?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

  He moved toward her in an easy half crouch so as not to make the boat sway more than necessary. “Just that a man has other needs besides a full belly.”

  She cast her gaze downward.

  Why did he say that? It sounded demanding and pathetic, but when he looked at her he couldn’t help himself. His gaze was drawn to the swell of her breasts pressing against the thin fabric of her linen tunic. He forced himself to look away. She couldn’t bear his touch and he couldn’t keep from wanting to touch her. What a fix he’d gotten himself into.

  He had to change the subject, and quickly.

  “Ja, a man needs to feel the wind on his face and a brisk sea breeze at his back from time to time.”