by Mia Marlowe
Brenna trembled beside him. The truths in her world kept getting worse. Her husband was not only a Northman, he was a filthy spy. Connor McNaught was right, after all. Her father should have drowned Jorand in a bog when he had the chance.
“Thorkill may have originally come to your island to raid, but now he means to reign,” Jorand said.
“Oh, no,” she said. For the first time since she learned her husband had another wife, Brenna was able to lay aside her own burden and be swept up in concern for someone else. “But that means he’ll make war on me father, on the Ulaid, the Connacht, all the clans. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people will die.”
“Brenna, I’m putting my life in your hands by telling you this, and given the way you feel about me right now, it’s probably not very wise.”
She pressed her lips together in a hard line, not trusting herself to speak.
“I mean to stop Thorkill if I can,” Jorand said softly. “I owe you and Brian of Donegal that much.” He stood and extended a hand to her. “Come, princess. It’s not far now.”
She rose to her feet, ignored his offered hand and started trudging up the planked street beside him. She shouldn’t trust to hope that Jorand meant what he said. He surely couldn’t mean to betray his own people to save hers. “What’s not far?”
“My home.”
“Your wife’s home, ye mean.”
“Ja, Solveig is there,” he said, his voice sounding unspeakably weary. “She’ll be expecting me. Her father went to give her the news straightaway. Seems Kolgrim gave out that I was dead, so seeing me without warning would have been a shock to her.”
“Not as much as seeing me, I’ll warrant.”
He grimaced. “Well, I expect you’ve the right of it.”
“So she knows of me as well.”
“Thorkill is a brave man, but he’s no fool,” Jorand said, with a frown. “He’s left the telling of that tale to me, I’ll wager. But a second wife is not uncommon. Solveig will get over it.”
Brenna knew she never would. A thousand questions clamored to be asked. What on earth was she to do till Kolgrim came back and they recovered the Skellig Michael Codex? Did Jorand mean for her to stay in the same house as his other wife, the three of them in an unholy trinity, all living under the same roof? He was daft if he thought she’d hold still for it. Then her aching heart wondered if Solveig was pretty. And did he love his Norse wife still?
She couldn’t voice any of her questions. It was all she could do to put one foot before the other and stay upright. When he pushed open the gate to a neat yard surrounding a sturdy-looking longhouse, and shepherded her through the opening, she pulled back from him.
“Perhaps, I’ll be waiting here,” she said, not ready to meet her rival.
His look of relief made her stomach churn uneasily.
“Ja, that might be best.”
She could be mistaken, but she thought Jorand looked a little pale himself. She settled herself on a stump and waved him away. He squared his shoulders and strode toward the open doorway with the heavy tread of a condemned man.
Serves him right, she thought crossly. The very least the man might expect is a wee bit of discomfort.
Then she heard the excited sound of a woman’s voice and her heart sank to her toes. Solveig was happy to see him. Was he holding her in his arms? Kissing her now? At least she was spared the indignity of having to watch Jorand’s homecoming, but she wasn’t sure her own vivid imagination wasn’t worse than fact.
For the first time in weeks, Brenna thought of her mother. Faced with unspeakable loss, Una had withdrawn from the world. Now Brenna understood and was tempted to follow her mother into that dark place. But she couldn’t deny her heart. Even though the pain was heavy as a millstone on her chest, she still loved Jorand. She was angry and hurt and determined that she wouldn’t continue to be a wife to him, but she couldn’t dismiss her feelings for him, either.
Strange that he seemed able to flick off what he felt for her, as if his emotions were nothing more than the buzz of a pestering fly.
No more sounds came from the dark interior and Brenna slumped down, seeing in her mind’s eye a tangle of arms and legs, Jorand’s strong body joined to this other woman. Would he do the same heart-stopping things to her that he’d done to Brenna? She doubled over and was promptly sick behind the neatly stacked woodpile.
Brenna wiped her mouth on a corner of her cloak and stood up shakily. If not for her vow to find Sinead’s child and the need to recover the Codex to do it, she’d run screaming out of Dublin so fast, Jorand would never be able to catch her.
Her ears pricked to a new sound coming from the house.
Voices. Jorand’s low and even, the woman’s louder and increasing strident. This growling and caterwauling certainly didn’t sound like lovemaking, unless the Norse truly were different. Brenna strained to understand. She caught the meaning of only one word in ten, but it was enough to convince her of one thing.
Solveig was not taking Jorand’s news gracefully.
She jumped when she heard the unmistakable crash of crockery against the wattle-and-daub walls.
When a small keg of ale sailed through the open door and landed with a splintering thud on the gravel path, she allowed herself a small smile.
If they had met under different circumstances, she thought perhaps she would have liked Solveig.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Eventually the angry voices ceased and Brenna stood, breathless, wondering what to do next. Iron-gray clouds had been boiling overhead since they tied up at the Dublin wharf. When the sky began to weep large drops, she gave up and skittered to the open doorway. No matter what scene she might be stumbling upon in the longhouse, she wasn’t fool enough to stand about in the rain, catching her death.
There were no windows in the house, the only light coming from the smoky central fire and the hazy ambient daylight fighting to make its way through the smoke hole in the high spine of the roof. It took a moment for Brenna’s eyes to adjust, and even so, she dared not look much farther than her next step.
Underfoot, the floor was not the packed earth she expected but solid planks instead, a neat display of joinery that was swept meticulously clean. Each side of the long, narrow house was lined with a low bench, just the right height for seating or, Brenna noticed the pile of furs in one spot, bedding. A standing loom leaned against the wall near the open doorway to take advantage of the additional light. A swath of cloth with wide stripes hung suspended between the solid top beam and the dangling loom stones, a work in progress. The garish colors didn’t strike her fancy, but the fabric was even and smooth. The lady of the house was a skillful weaver.
Brenna took a deep breath and stepped farther into the longhouse. All the small hairs on her body stood at attention, as though she had ventured into a she-wolf’s lair. On the other side of the small fire, she made out a hazy form, no, two figures.
The truth will set ye free, Father Michael had often admonished her. She collapsed on the nearest bench and forced herself to look at her truth.
Jorand was seated, a woman beside him. One of his arms was around her while she leaned into his chest. Brenna saw the other woman’s shoulders shudder and realized Solveig was weeping.
How could she not?
Brian Ui Niall had told Brenna that frequently a buck he was stalking would turn and look him in the eye just before he loosed an arrow. Some mysterious inner warning told his quarry it was being hunted. Jorand must have possessed the same elusive sense, for he raised his head and looked directly at Brenna.
His face had a hunted expression, a mixture of panic and resignation in the set of his mouth and the furrow on his brow. Regret. Sorrow. Hopelessness. She read them all in his deep-set blue eyes. If hell had a gallery, her husband could have posed for a work entitled Lost Soul.
Brenna realized suddenly that Jorand had two first wives. When he’d married them, as far as he knew, each was his one and only. If he’d shared himself
with Solveig with the same abandon he’d given Brenna, his heart must be torn in two.
It was so unfair. None of them had looked for this unsolvable conundrum. How could this have happened to the three of them? She even spared a moment to pity the woman in her husband’s arms.
As if Solveig also sensed an intruder’s presence, she raised her head and looked toward Brenna. The Norse woman’s eyes glinted at her in the dimness with a predatory flash.
After that scathing look, Brenna decided to keep her sympathy to herself. And resolved to only eat from the same trencher as Jorand for as long as she bided in Solveig’s house.
A hard steel core fashioned itself around Brenna’s spine. Somehow, she would find a way to quit this ill-omened longhouse and leave Jorand to sort out his domestic entanglements on his own. She wouldn’t beg. She wouldn’t plead.
But if in the end, he didn’t choose her, Brenna knew her heart would never recover.
***
Jorand expected this would be difficult, but he was wrong.
It was impossible.
“Look at her, cowering and sniveling. I’ll not have an Irish slut sullying my house.” Solveig pulled away from him.
“My hands built this place. Seems to me it’s my house.” He kept his voice even, but it was an effort. Solveig hadn’t asked for any of this, he reminded himself, but she wasn’t making it any easier, either. “Brenna will stay here. She has no place else to go. And you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to her.”
“Why should I?” Solveig stood and glared at the tiny Irish woman. “It’s plain she doesn’t understand what I’m saying. Perhaps you can make yourself useful, Irish. My pisspot needs emptying, and I think maybe it’s one job you’re qualified to do.” When Brenna’s expression didn’t change from one of wary puzzlement, Solveig turned to smirk at him. “You see?”
Brenna rose to her feet and stared back at Solveig. The way her smooth brows knit together told Jorand that even though she did not understand the exact words, she knew she’d been insulted. Brenna’s gray eyes flashed a warning. She might be over-matched for height and weight, but if matters progressed to a brawl, his silver would be on Brenna.
Jorand had been in battle numerous times and sometimes the only prudent course of action was swift retreat, in order to regroup and fight again on a more advantageous day. This looked to be one of those times, but he didn’t dare leave the two of them alone. From the expressions of hatred on both women’s faces, he feared he might go from husband of two to grieving widower all around in short order.
“Hello the house!” a familiar voice called from the yard.
“Armaugh,” Jorand said. He strode to the door and bid the priest come in, clutching Armaugh’s spindly arm with the fervor of a drowning man latching on to a life rope. “I was hoping you were still with us.”
“Ja.” Father Armaugh shed his cloak and gave it a shake, sending droplets of water hissing into the fire. He continued in fluid Norse with only a hint of an accent. “I came to Dublin in bonds, but now I stay a bond servant to Christ. A few have converted to the true Faith, so they have. We’ve a small church here now, just outside the walls.”
“Thorkill allows it?”
“As you know, I did him a service, teaching you and Kolgrim the fair tongue. Thorkill is a hard man, but he has a sense of justice. He’s not stopped any from converting. He cares not what other allegiances his men take so long as they honor their oath to him first.” Armaugh lifted his narrow shoulders in a self-deprecating shrug. The gesture made him look like an earnest young crane bobbing for minnows in the shallows. “In truth, I’ve had more success with women than men. And speaking of that, I was told you brought an Irish girl here with you.”
Jorand made the introductions. If Armaugh was shocked to learn Brenna was Jorand’s second wife, his sharp features didn’t show it.
“The peace of Christ be with ye, lass,” he intoned in Gaelic, his bony finger making the sign of the cross in the air before her.
Brenna dropped to her knees.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she recited, clearly relieved to see the little priest and hear her own language. “It has been so long since I’ve been shriven. Is there somewhere ye might hear me confession?”
“Aye, come with me, my child. Ye’ll have the comfort of the confessional.” The priest extended a hand to her and helped her rise. She pulled her hood up against the rain, and followed Armaugh to the door.
When she turned at the last to cast Jorand a backward glance, one corner of her mouth curled up in a sad half-smile. Jorand knew it was a farewell. She’d not be coming back to his house. Not willingly.
“Typical Irish,” Solveig muttered, as she watched her rival leave.
The last traces of Brenna’s heather-fresh scent dissipated in the airless stuffiness of the longhouse. Jorand tried to focus his attention on Solveig, resisting the urge to chase his fleeing Irish wife.
“My father always says he kills more Irishmen from behind than he does face to face.” Solveig closed the door, as if she’d read his thoughts and decided to make it more difficult for him to follow Brenna. “They’re sorry fighters. All the Irish know how to do is run away.”
Jorand knew Brenna wasn’t running from the fight. She was running from him.
“You’ve shamed me, you know,” Solveig went on, her stubborn chin jutted upward. “By rights, I should have had a say in this.”
“I’m sorry I’ve hurt you,” he said truthfully.
“Bah! I’m no mewling Christian to be shocked by your needs. I’m my father’s daughter and I know what men are. There was no reason for you to skulk around behind my back. Honestly, husband, if you wanted a second wife, why did you not come tell me? You should have waited till you got home and we’d choose one together. One we could both live with.”
“That’s not how it happened,” he said with frustration. “I told you. I was injured and didn’t remember anything.”
Solveig’s smile stretched unpleasantly across her usually pretty face. “Did Irish believe that? If she did, she’s even more insipid than she looks.”
“Her name is Brenna, not Irish. And you know nothing about her.”
“I know that little Irish whore has no knowledge of our ways and doesn’t understand a thing I say to her,” Solveig said with vehemence, hands fisted at her slender waist. “At least I would have picked someone who’d be useful for more than occasionally warming your bed when I’m indisposed.”
She paced away from him, then wheeled back, cocking her head in question. “Is she good at warming your bed?”
“Solveig, that’s enough.” He clamped his lips together. Bedding Brenna was definitely not something he was prepared to discuss with her.
“It’s all right. You can tell me everything. I want to hear about it.” Solveig floated toward him, pale eyes gleaming, a feline hardness sparking in their icy depths. “Is she soft and willing? Does she lay there like a lump, or does she know what she wants? And how to get it?”
She reached out a long-fingered hand and slid it up under his shirt, raking his chest with her nails. His skin shivered under her touch.
“Does she please you as much as I do?” She kissed him, her lips hard on his, demanding a response. Jorand felt her nipples, pebble hard, as she melded herself against him.
“No, of course not,” Solveig answered her own question. “She doesn’t know you like I do.” Her hands fluttered over his groin.
It wasn’t a seduction. It was an assault. She did know his body. Solveig had always known where to touch, when to caress and when to hurt, how to drive him to a berserkr frenzy of lust. He fought to maintain control, but his body roused to her anyway.
A throaty chuckle escaped her lips. She slid a hand down his trews and grazed his erection, sending a painful ache along the hardened shaft.
“It’s been a long time. Still, it’s nice to know some things haven’t changed,” she all but purred.
&nbs
p; Jorand yanked her hand out of his breeches, grasped her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. Ja, she was still beautiful, still made his blood run hot, but in her eyes all he saw was lust and triumph. She’d help him, he knew, if he wanted power or land or command of a host of men. His success would increase her stature. Lovemaking with Solveig had always been a mirror of their marriage, rough and fiery, sating their body’s appetites, but ultimately selfish. Both of them used the other for their own ends.
When Brenna was in his arms, he reveled in the feel of her, the little sounds she made when she lost herself in him, but mostly he loved looking into her soft gray eyes and seeing the way she trusted him. It made him want to be as fine a man as she thought him.
Solveig saw him as he was. Brenna saw the man he could be.
Which did he want?
“You’re wrong, Solveig,” he said quietly as he turned and strode to the door. A walk in the cold rain was just what he needed. “Some things have changed.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
“Come out of there, ye wee foul reminder of original sin,” Brenna said, as she yanked the stubborn root of a cankerwort. She grunted with effort and suddenly the plant released its hold on the earth, sending her reeling backward to land on her bottom with a thud.
She scrambled to her feet, beating dust off the back of her skirt with one hand, and surveyed the rows of turnips with satisfaction. Only thriving plants now swayed in the breeze, the promise of a good harvest with not a single foxtail or thistle left to be sifted out. She shoved her hair back out of her eyes, leaving a grimy smudge of dirt on her forehead, and picked up the watering bucket.
After Father Armaugh gave her absolution for her sins, he let Brenna claim sanctuary in his tiny church. She didn’t have to return to Solveig’s house to suffer watching Jorand reunite with his first wife. Despite Jorand’s protest, the priest allowed Brenna to stay. Then Armaugh did the next