by Mia Marlowe
“Then you’ll be leaving soon?”
“I mean to.” He offered her the jug of ale. When she declined, he tipped it back and let the warm bite of the golden liquid soothe his throat. “My boat isn’t finished yet though.”
“It wanted a mast, you said.”
“Ja, and a sail to hang from it.” A light breeze rippled over them. He adjusted the steering oar and the prow turned in the water. “If she had a sail, she’d be a fine boat. It needs to be of heavy wool, tightly woven. Can you make one for me?”
“I have a length of yellow wool on me loom now that might do,” she offered. “How does it all work?”
“Come.” He led her, walking carefully down the spine of the boat to the midpoint where he’d already built the housing for the mast’s base. He explained in layman’s terms how he’d harness the wind and bend it to his will.
“Ye’ve remembered all that?” she asked.
He nodded.
“And the skill it took to build this?”
“Some of it was hit or miss, but most of it came right back to me. It was almost like my hands did the remembering.”
To his surprise, she took one of his hands in hers and turned it palm up. He held his breath as she traced her fingertip over his calluses and along the new red scar knifing across his palm.
“Ye certainly are clever with your hands, Jorand,” she finally said. Traces of a blush bloomed in her cheeks.
Was she thinking of how his hands had molded to her body? How he’d explored her like a newly discovered inlet? He roused to her. Taking her right there in the swaying craft would be no bad thing. But she dropped his hand and eased away.
A small swell sent the craft rocking and Brenna wobbled uncertainly. He caught her before she could topple over. By the gods, she felt good in his arms, soft and delicate, and the top of her head fit snugly under his chin. When she didn’t jerk away, he pulled her closer, the need to hold her overriding his better judgment. He struggled to control his breathing, afraid even that small movement would spook her and she’d wrestle free.
“Me Da says I’m not fulfilling me promise,” she said, her voice small and hesitant.
“What promise?”
“To bed ye, as a proper wife should.” She looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes darkening as the pupils dilated. The fear was still there, but he could see she fought to master it. “I took a vow before God and man and must needs honor it.”
His pulse quickened as his shaft hardened.
“I’ve no great need to wait for a bed, princess.”
He tightened his grip, taking care not to crush her, and reveled in her softness. For a blink, he thought he felt her stiffen but he shoved that possibility away. He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling her scent, sweet as rain-washed grass.
“Brenna,” he murmured. “I’ve wanted you so.”
His lips found her neck, her earlobe. He narrowly resisted the urge to bite down on the soft flesh.
He took her mouth and poured all his frustration and longing into the kiss. Her mouth softened under his, but there was no mistaking now. Her body was tense as a drawn bow.
Her arms were clamped to her sides, so he took one of her hands and brought it around him. Her icy fingers trembled on his ribs.
When he cupped her buttocks with his palms, her breath hissed in over her teeth. Her whole frame shuddered.
Jorand grabbed her by the shoulders and held her an arm’s length away. Brenna’s face was pallid as a corpse and a shudder rippled over her. He felt himself shrivel.
“By Loki’s unwashed backside, woman!” He pushed her away. “What are you trying to do to me?”
“I thought ye wanted to—”
“What makes you think I want to lie with a shivering, whimpering—” Jorand bit back the harsh words threatening to explode out of him. He stomped away from her, heedless of the wild rolling of the craft under him, and plopped down next to the steering oar.
Brenna dropped to her knees and grasped the sides of the boat. A single tear was swiftly followed by a flood of others, but she covered her mouth to muffle her sobs.
“Stop crying,” he ordered, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “Brenna, please.”
“You’re ... leaving.” The words slipped out between gasps for breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. And now ye won’t take me with ye.”
His face scrunched into a confused frown. He’d never understand this woman. “You still want to come?”
“Aye,” Brenna said, breathlessly. “Give me another chance. I can do it, I know I can. Use me body as ye wish. Only please take me when ye leave. I have to go to Clonmacnoise.”
“Why?”
She swiped her eyes, but refused to meet his gaze. “Because I must.”
“Ja, I’ll take you with me.” Jorand dragged a hand over his face. Why was he agreeing to more of this? He began to suspect Brenna was more a witch than a follower of the Christ, a dabbler in seid craft who’d learned to control those around her. She only need shed a few tears and he was willing to do anything to make her stop.
To his surprise, she lurched over to him in the swaying boat and covered his hand with kisses.
“I thank ye,” she repeated. “I’ll serve ye well, ye’ll see.”
“You don’t have to do anything.” He pulled his hand away. “I don’t want you to. We’ll go on as before.”
His chest constricted at the look of stark relief flooding her face.
“Thank ye, Jorand.”
“You may not thank me once we get underway.” His voice sounded more gruff than he intended, so he softened it as he went on. “As you can see, traveling in this boat means close quarters. You’re going to have to get used to being near me.”
He settled to lie down and lifted a hand to her. “Come, princess. I’ll not harm you. If we’re going to travel together you’ll at least have to sleep near me for warmth and protection.”
She took his hand and he steadied her until she settled herself beside him.
“Lay your head, girl,” he said wearily.
Brenna slid closer and haltingly rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder. She still held herself stiff and brittle as a piece of weathered oak.
“Be easy,” he said, patting her head as though she were a two-year-old. “Nothing will happen to you, I promise. I won’t hurt you, Brenna.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Hush,” he said, tired to his bones. “Just get used to being near me. I won’t bite you.” He grimaced, remembering his urge to nip her gently on the ear.
“Ye truly are good to me.” She sighed.
Little by little, he felt the tension drain out of her limbs as she relaxed against him. Their breathing fell into rhythm.
“Am I not pleasing to you, then?” she asked.
He inhaled deeply, willing himself not to voice the frustration he felt. “Brenna, you’re more than pleasing to me. I want you so badly, it’s like a sickness. But it must go both ways, you see. If you don’t want me, what pleasure can there be for me in that?”
“Other men—”
“When are you going to learn that I’m not other men?” He allowed himself to stroke her hair, tormenting himself with its softness. “I’ll never take you unwilling, princess. In fact, I’ll make you a promise. I won’t take you till your wanting exceeds mine.”
She expelled her pent-up breath in a satisfied sigh.
As soon as the hasty vow passed his lips, he realized his mistake. By that measure, he’d never bed her. She’d never get over the panic of her past long enough to enjoy dallying with him in her present. He had no reason to expect she would ever let him love her, but the way his heart still thudded against his ribs when he tugged her closer, he knew he still hoped.
“But you have to promise me something in return,” he said.
“What?” she asked warily.
“You have to agree to spend time with me like this.” He tipped her chin up so he could look into her eyes. “Close. Me to
uching you. You touching me. And starting tonight, we sleep in the same bed. Agreed?”
“And you won’t...” Her eyes widened and she bit her lower lip.
“Not until you want me, too.”
He brushed her forehead with his lips and she settled against him again. He ran his hand from her shoulder to the small of her back. He was painfully aware of the softness of her breasts pressed against his side. His body roused to her again, but he forced himself to lie still. It was agony, but he wouldn’t chance frightening her again.
Perhaps when Brian Ui Niall had spared his life, he did him no favors after all.
Chapter Eighteen
Brenna gulped a tepid sip from the waterskin, then swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her stomach cavorted wildly. Sweat gathered on her upper lip as she fought to quell the rising nausea.
“For the love of God, can we please put in to shore?”
“Ja, princess, as you wish,” Jorand said as he cast a squinted glance toward the westering sun. He reefed the coracle toward the opening of a small cove. “We’ve covered a goodly distance today.”
Brenna nodded, nearly quaking with relief at the idea of solid ground under her feet. A swell rose beneath them and the boat surged forward, leaving her stomach behind. Brenna gave up and emptied her belly into the greenish waves.
“That’ll make you feel better,” Jorand said with unsympathetic cheerfulness as he handed her a small cloth. “ ‘Tis no shame, you know. Until you get your bearings, it’s bound to happen. Another couple of days and you’ll be fine. We’ll make a sailor of you yet.”
“If ye don’t make a corpse of me first,” Brenna muttered. She dipped the cloth over the side and dabbed the coolness over her face.
Remember why ye wanted to go, she commanded herself.
They’d left Donegal immediately after Moira’s wedding feast. The boat had been finished two weeks earlier, but Brenna insisted on waiting till she saw her sister safely wed.
The night before the ceremony, Moira came to her with panic in her usually carefree face. “Mother tells me nothing. She expects me to go to the marriage bed ignorant as a nun, but ye must help me. Tell me how to please a man, Brenna.”
Brenna was at a loss for an answer. “All men are different,” she finally said. “Ask your groom. He’ll have an inkling what he prefers, I’ll not doubt.”
It was a beautiful ceremony, a full mass with Father Michael in exceptional voice. The chiefs of the clan Ulaid came to witness the marriage and subsequent coronation of Moira as their future queen. They roared their approval when the circlet of bronze glinted amid her fiery curls.
Brian Ui Niall asked Brenna if she regretted her simple handfast ceremony after Moira’s grand rite. She had no complaints on that score. Brenna remembered the look on Jorand’s face as he said his vows and contrasted it with Domhnall’s son, Fearghus.
Since she wanted to see her sister happy, she couldn’t say it eased her mind.
Even when her sister was in the room, the heir of Ulaid had a disconcerting habit of eyeing the children who cavorted about the keep as though they’d left their shifts behind. He was clever enough not to let Brian Ui Niall catch him at it, but seemed to delight in Brenna’s discomfort whenever she met his cold-eyed gaze.
Jorand disliked the man as well, though he claimed not to be able to say exactly why. Brenna’s marriage might not be a love match for the ages, but at least Jorand didn’t have a roving eye. Against all her expectations, he treated her with courtesy and respect.
Still, Moira was a bride. She was deliriously happy on her day, the queenly title that accompanied her match sending her into raptures. Brenna hoped it would be enough.
“Feeling better?” Jorand asked.
She nodded. Strangely enough, she did, and when the bottom of the boat scraped against the sand, she nearly did a jig.
When they sailed south from Donegal Bay, the coastline was rocky. Sheer cliffs made it impossible for them to beach the craft last night. Jorand had tossed out the anchor stone and they lay side by side in the curved hull of the boat. If Brenna hadn’t been fighting a queasy stomach, she’d have enjoyed watching the stars winking on one by one, like candles being lit in a chapel vestry.
To her surprise, she was beginning to enjoy sleeping next to the big Northman. Of course, the sturdy bed at home was more pleasant than the swaying coracle, but she was comforted by Jorand’s deep, even breathing and solid warmth. Once in his sleep, he reached for her and pulled her close. His breath caressed the back of her neck and she felt the steady thump of his heart against her spine. The contact was so basic and simple, just a small thing really, but it made her chest ache. She wished things were different between them.
Brenna climbed over the side of the boat, splashing up to her knees in the surf. Jorand was already out and shoving the prow as far up onto the beach as he could. Then he came around to the front and hauled the boat out of the water with a stout rope. Brenna shook out her tunic and found it stiff with crusty salt.
“That should hold it,” he said, tying off the line on the smooth trunk of a red arbutus. “If you’ve found your land legs, we’ll walk a bit.” Jorand pointed into the distance. “There’s a stream emptying into the cove and the water will be less brackish farther in.”
When Brenna nodded, he shouldered a pack with their food and gear. They found a game trail wandering alongside the watercourse and followed it into the deep shade of an ancient forest.
The night would be chilly, but now the air was filled with a drowsy warmth and the rich, fecund smell of fertile earth. Brenna inhaled deeply, satisfied with solid ground underfoot and the familiar comfort of a glade.
The stream rioted beside them, sometimes leaping, sometimes widening to a sedate ripple, and once eddying into a deep pool as it rounded a bend. Brenna made note of the clear water. She’d be back later to wash the brine off her skin and hair. They continued to hike for another twist or two in the stream.
“ ‘Tis far enough, surely?”
Jorand bent to scoop up a handful of water and brought it to his lips. “Ja, it’ll do.”
Brenna gathered dry limbs for a fire while Jorand constructed a lean-to of deadfall and cedar boughs.
“Not exactly a palace,” he admitted, surveying his handiwork with his fists on his hips. “But it should turn the rain. Someday, I’ll build you a fine longhouse.”
“Someday? Remember ye are bound to me for only a year and a day. If ye intend to build me a house, we’d best not tarry long in this Dublin ye seek.”
His eyes darkened to deep indigo. “If you’re in such a hurry, perhaps we shouldn’t stop at that abbey you are so hot to visit.”
“No, Jorand,” she protested. “Ye must take me to Clonmacnoise. Ye promised.”
“Ja, I did. I’ve never asked, but I’m thinking it’s time you told me why.” He knelt to strike flint to steel, pausing to blow on a spark in hopes it would ignite the small pile of tinder. “You hate sailing. You barely tolerate me. But nothing could stop you from coming. What’s so important at Clonmacnoise?”
She pressed her lips together in a hard line. “At first I thought my life was there. I spent the better part of a year at the abbey, intending to work in the scriptorium. I had such hopes, but...” Brenna gulped. No. She couldn’t tell him the truth. He might not help her if he knew. She needed a diversion. “I... I wanted to learn more of my craft. I did tell ye I can read?”
“You might have mentioned it.”
“Aye, and write, too. Father Michael taught me.”
He leaned over the glowing embers and blew softly on them, urging them to a lively blaze. “Show me.”
She smoothed a patch of dirt with her foot and wrote in the soft turf with a twig.
“What’s that say?” He left the fire long enough to study the marks in the dirt.
“ ‘Tis your name.” She underlined the letters as she voiced them. “Jor-and.”
“If you say so,” was his noncommittal re
ply, but he narrowed his eyes as he studied the letters. Then he turned his attention back to the flames for a moment before he pinned her to the spot with a steady gaze. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
She looked away.
“I guess you’ll tell me when you’re ready,” he said. “But that’s part of being husband and wife, you know. We may not share much, but we can at least trust each other enough to bear each other’s secrets.”
“And what secrets have ye shared with me?”
“All I know,” he said sadly.
“Forgive me.” She laid a hand on his arm, sorry to have brought up his memory loss. “No more has returned to ye?”
“I don’t know if it’s a memory or not, but lately, I have been seeing a face in my dreams that seems familiar.” Jorand stretched out his legs and leaned back against a fallen log.
“A woman?”
He chuckled. “No. It’s a boy, a dark-haired boy. In my dreams, he’s a few years older than me and it seems we’re in trouble together most of the time.”
Brenna let a relieved giggle slip out, thankful the face didn’t belong to another woman. She’d been trying to guard her heart, to not let Jorand come to mean too much to her since she expected he’d leave her eventually, but her reaction proved her defenses against him were crumbling.
“Perhaps he’s your brother.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. It seems like in the dreams, the dark-haired boy has a brother, a mean-spirited lad who bedevils the two of us most of the time.” He launched into an account of his dreams with as much accuracy as he could muster.
Brenna added dried meat and root vegetables to a stew pot dangling over the flames while she listened. Given the depth of detail Jorand described, it seemed clear some memories must be bubbling to the surface. “And in your dreams, do ye not see your family, your parents?”
“No, but it’s like... like the boy is all the family I’ve got.” A deep cleft formed between his brows and he cocked his head as though listening to a voice Brenna couldn’t hear. “I think…I was fostered out to his family. Part of his family, but not really. Ja, that must have been it.” Light shone in his eyes and a smile spread across his features. “I remember. The boy’s name was... Bjorn.”