Erinsong

by Mia Marlowe

  “We aren’t likely to catch a queen roaming unescorted.” Jorand snorted. “Even the Irish have better sense than that.”

  “In that, you’d be wrong,” Kolgrim said. “Every fall before the foul season hits, the queen of Ulaid must make a pilgrimage to a monastery on St. Patrick’s island, an undefended bit of rock sticking up out of the Irish Sea.”

  “Surely the queen will have heavy protection,” Jorand said.

  “Not at all. Once she sets sail, all she’ll have with her are a couple of spineless priests to sail the Irish excuse for a ship and a complement of twelve virgins to pray with her. Something to do with prayers for all the souls of the clan and seeing them safe through the winter.”

  Kolgrim’s coarse laughter turned into a coughing fit that wasn’t abated till he hacked up a huge glob of phlegm and spat it on the packed earth floor.

  “The man I squeezed the information from said the queen was to pray for a son as well since she’s been wed several months and is still as flat-bellied as a child herself.” Kolgrim swilled another gulp of mead. “That’s a prayer a Northman could answer quicker than one of those thin-wicked Irishmen.”

  “By the gods, I’ll give it my best effort!” Thorkill roared with laughter. “You’re right, Kolgrim. I could do with a change of women. We’ll take a few of the virgins as well.”

  Jorand had sworn an oath of fealty to Thorkill shortly after he came to Dublin. Perhaps he’d been swayed by the force of Thorkill’s personality, or the way he’d carved the thriving town out of hostile territory. Probably it was the siren song of Solveig’s icy beauty. But whatever the reason, Jorand had sworn.

  In all his life, it was the only decision he’d ever regretted.

  He used to believe that a man was entitled to whatever wealth his sword arm could bring him. Now, he realized that just because he could take something, that didn’t mean he should. It was an odd notion, one he was still getting his mind around, but the principle was glaringly true in this case. Thorkill couldn’t be allowed to take Moira, even if it meant Jorand must break faith with his own kind.

  Still, if he was going to be damned as an oath-breaker, at least it was for a good cause. He needed to get Brenna out of harm’s way first.

  “You should sleep on a decision like this. An Irish wife may be more trouble than she’s worth,” Jorand said.

  Thorkill lifted a wiry brow at him in question.

  “I’ve had no joy of mine since we arrived in Dublin.” Jorand shrugged eloquently. “Willful, disobedient, and full of all sorts of strange ideas.”

  Thorkill nodded sagely. “I heard your little Irish bit had taken up residence with the priest. You’re too soft with your women,” his father-in-law accused. “She’s begging you to show her who’s in charge. Cuff her across the face a time or two and she’ll come to heel. Truth to tell, I’ve even had a few who grew to like a beating now and then.”

  “No, she’s tried my patience for the last time. I’m through with her.” Jorand laid his horn on the table and stood up. “Now is as good a time as any to give up women in general. In fact, once Solveig and I have finished our business in the morning, I plan to take Brenna back to that abbey Kolgrim sacked.”

  “Well, I can’t say Dublin will be sorry to see her go. Even though you and Solveig will divorce, your place with me is still secure. Only be sure you’re back by the next full moon,” Thorkill said. “And you—” He pointed at Kolgrim. “Get to the bonesetter now. I’ll want you both with me when we round up Queen Moira and her twelve virgins.”

  He punched Jorand in the shoulder. “I’ll give you first pick after me. Maybe you’ll be ready to try another woman by then.”

  Jorand’s brain worked furiously, trying to puzzle a way to both whisk Brenna to safety and keep Moira from being taken.

  “Ja, a successful raid together. That’s all the two of you need to bury this feud once and for all.” Thorkill slapped both of their shoulders soundly. “Almost makes me wish it was a boatload of those damned Irishmen guarding the queen instead of a gaggle of girls. It’d be a little better sport at least.” He snorted. “But only a little.”

  Kolgrim made his way out of the jarlhof, cradling his wounded arm. Jorand followed him into the night.

  The rain had stopped, but the full moon was still obscured by thick clouds. Only a sliver of light, curved as an Arab’s blade, managed to slice its way through the scuds. Twenty-eight days till the next full moon. He only had twenty-eight days to see Brenna to safety and figure out some way to thwart Kolgrim’s plans for Moira. With a sigh, he trudged toward his home.

  Jorand heard footsteps behind him and whirled, drawing his long knife in a fluid motion.

  “Be easy, friend. It’s only me.” Bjorn’s voice came to him from the shadows. “Thought I’d watch your back in case Kolgrim has allies who decide to try and finish what he couldn’t.”

  Jorand relaxed his defensive stance and breathed easier as Bjorn came alongside him, falling into step with him as he had so often in the past. “You saw Brenna back to the church?”

  “Ja,” Bjorn said, scratching his head. “Though you didn’t warn me how much trouble she’d be. She didn’t want to go at first. Kept insisting on waiting to tend your wounds. I had to threaten to carry her before she agreed to go peacefully.” Bjorn shook his head in disbelief. “The woman is as stubborn as a rock.”

  Jorand smiled and nodded. “That’s my princess. I’d say she let you off easy. She skewered me with a pike the first time I laid eyes on her.”

  “No wonder you’re so smitten.” Bjorn chuckled, then his tone turned serious. “I know you didn’t intend to wed twice, but you’ve got a hornet’s nest for yourself here and no mistake. Slighting the jarl’s daughter is a game for fools. We’ve been in some tight spots together over the years. For once, friend, you’re in more trouble than I can help you out of.”

  Jorand sighed. Bjorn didn’t know the half of it. Not only was he saddled with the unpleasant prospect of untangling his domestic arrangements, he was determined to keep Thorkill from seizing Moira—and all of Erin with her.

  “Thorkill still needs my services for the time being and at least there’s an end in sight to my woman troubles. You can be a witness at my divorce tomorrow,” Jorand said, then stopped dead as an idea struck him. Something Thorkill had mentioned triggered a plan in his mind. It was a dicey job at best, but it might work. How else was he to set all the elements in motion and see Brenna back to Clonmacnoise? “If you’re willing, there is something you can do to help me with another matter as well.”

  “Anything. You know that.”

  “Good.” Jorand put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “After Brenna and I leave in the morning, I need you to kidnap the priest.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “We should reach Clonmacnoise by midday tomorrow,” Jorand said, fingering their route on the leather map.

  Brenna slanted a glance at him. It was the sixth time he’d consulted the chart since they made camp. He was definitely avoiding her.

  “That’s good then.” Brenna banked their small fire for the night and sat down, pulling her knees up to her chin, and wrapping her arms around her shins. Autumn chilled the night, sending a crisp breeze ruffling over her, a harbinger of frost soon to come.

  The morning after the holmgang, she had watched while Jorand and Solveig dissolved their marriage. Then another man escorted everyone from the house Jorand had built and closed the door behind them. The man stayed inside with Solveig, and Brenna decided the beautiful Norse woman had wasted no time in replacing her first husband.

  After a warm good-bye to Rika, Brenna left Dublin with a lighter heart, but no real peace about her relationship with Jorand. If only he’d been the one to end it with Solveig. Brenna wasn’t prepared to be his second choice and if he wasn’t willing to broach the subject, she wasn’t about to. Much as she loved him, she still wouldn’t beg.

  After studying the map, Jorand had insisted on a different rou
te from the one they’d taken to reach Dublin. They sailed up the Liffey instead of back down and out to sea. In little more than a week of sailing, they covered an amazing distance in the little ship, owing much both to fair winds and Jorand’s ability to tack and reef the craft to take advantage of the smallest breath of air.

  When they reached the headwaters of the Liffey, Jorand had tied up the boat and traded with some locals for a pair of sturdy horses to take them overland for the relatively short march to Clonmacnoise.

  Brenna had reassembled the tattered remains of the Skellig-Michael Codex and bundled the precious folios in thick oilskin. The jewels might be lost, but the artistry remained. She hoped it would be enough to satisfy the abbot. If not, she didn’t know how they’d make Father Ambrose keep his end of the bargain.

  She looked across the fire at Jorand, flickers of light licking at his features. A shiver quaked under her ribs. She recognized the faint shimmer as hope, but it was quickly overpowered by a stronger, sinking sensation.

  Loving this Northman was like falling into a well, she decided. A sudden drop, a disappearing circle of light, and the sure knowledge she’d never claw her way out again.

  She’d been thrilled when he came to tell her they were leaving Dublin, but his manner had been so stern and silent since then, her joy was quickly dashed. They walked on tiptoe around each other during the past few days, neither speaking to the other beyond the few phrases necessary to smooth travel. So she huddled behind distant courtesy, a wholly inadequate shield for her heart.

  “When we find the child, I’m thinking you’ll want to return to Donegal as soon as possible?” His voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked up at him. His eyes were hooded under half-closed lids, his expression blank as a new sheet of parchment.

  “Aye, ‘tis best. I mean to compensate the child’s foster parents, of course.” She patted the leather pouch she kept hidden under her kyrtle, filled with the small amount of silver she’d scraped together in Donegal. It might not be much, but it was all the portable wealth she possessed in the world. “Still, they may take it hard to lose the bairn. With the abbot’s blessing on the matter, they’ll have little to say, but ‘twould be best to be off before they think things over and come to a different view.”

  Jorand plucked a foxtail and studied it with absorption. “That Murtaugh,” he said with seeming indifference. “He struck me as a capable fellow.”

  “For his age, he’s a handy man in a pinch, is Murtaugh.”

  “Do you think he’d make the trip?”

  “To Donegal?”

  Jorand nodded.

  “The boat will be crowded enough with us and an infant on board, let alone another adult. Why—” Suddenly his unspoken reason hit her with the force of a blow. Her innards twirled in a slow spiral. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, as though someone else was speaking. “Ye don’t mean to make the trip, do ye?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, squeezing them tightly together as if shutting out bright sunlight. The fine lines around them, reminders of rough living on the sea, had become more deeply etched since they left Dublin. He looked thin and worn as an old cloak. Then those startling blue eyes opened and she read the answer to her question in their crystal depths.

  God in Heaven! He means to leave me.

  “I see,” Brenna whispered. Her eyes were dry. She wished she could cry. If only the tears would start, she’d feel the relief of them. But instead she felt dead as the lichen-covered rock at her back. “I do see.”

  “No, you don’t, princess.” He smiled wearily and moved closer to her. “It’s not what you think.”

  Fire danced through her veins. Anger? Aye, that was safe. “We’ve not said more than a handful of words to each other all week. How would ye be knowing what I think?”

  “Because everything that goes on in your head shows on your lovely face.” He reached across and cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of the fine bone. His hand was warm, and she found herself leaning into his touch.

  The heat she’d mistaken for anger a moment ago flared into a darker flame. She despised herself for rousing to this man who intended to leave her. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “Even if you had it in you to lie, you don’t have the face for it. Your soul, your thoughts, your feelings all shine out of you so strong, you’re incapable of hiding what’s rolling around inside you. But this time you’re wrong, Brenna.” He leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Ye mean to send me alone back to me father. If that’s not leaving, what might ye be calling it?”

  “A temporary separation. At least I hope that’s what it is.” Jorand dropped his hand back into his lap and Brenna felt instantly colder, deprived of his touch. “I’ve tried to think of another way, any other way I can do what I must in the next few weeks, but I can’t.” He stared at the smoldering remains of their fire as if a solution might be lurking in the smoky depths. He shook his head slowly. “You’ll have to trust me.”

  Brenna swallowed hard. He’d said the same words the first time he took her body, the first time he swept her to that incomprehensible place where she lost herself in him. She had little choice. It was either trust him or stop breathing. “Where are ye bound?”

  “Back to Dublin for a start,” he said. “I have some unfinished business there.”

  “Unfinished business? Is that what Northmen call it?” she asked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice as she edged away from him. “That business wouldn’t be called Solveig, would it?”

  “Solveig and I are well and truly done,” he said.

  “And now ye settle for your poor second, me?”

  Jorand’s brown knit together. “Is that what you think? Never, Brenna. You’re not second to anyone.” He dragged a hand over his face. “I know I’ve been distant, but it’s because something is about to happen and I’m not sure I’ve thought through all the possibilities.”

  “What is about to happen?”

  “Brenna, I don’t know how to explain it to you, but this is something I have to do. Do you remember when I told you of Thorkill’s ambitions?”

  “Aye. He means to rule the whole of Erin, ye said.”

  “I promised you I’d stop him if I could. What I must do touches on that. Thorkill is about to move and so will I.” His words were guarded but his grim expression told her he was determined on his course. “Otherwise, you and I will never have peace together.”

  Together. Oh, Mother of Mercy, aye, together. She could meet any future so long as it included him.

  He cast her a searching look. “If you’ll still have me after what I’ve put you through.”

  “Of course I’ll have you,” she said, her chin quivering and her Donegal pride be damned. “I was so afraid you’d choose Solveig.”

  “When my memory came back, it was a confusing jumble, but the part that was hardest was remembering how I’d felt about Solveig. I confess I was afraid I’d be torn between the two of you.”

  “You weren’t?”

  He shook his head. “No. Once I saw her, it just wasn’t real. I mean ... it seemed as if I wasn’t real. As if my life with her had happened to someone else and I’d somehow stepped into his skin. So now there are two men trapped in here.” He thumped his chest hard with the heel of his palm. “Jorand the Northman and Keefe Murphy the wandering stranger.”

  “What is it ye must do?” Even though relief flooded through her, she felt unaccountably shy, as if he were still the stranger she found on the beach instead of the man she’d come to know and love. She ventured to place a hand on his arm and he covered it with his. Warmth spread up to her shoulder and across her chest. “Can ye speak more plainly?”

  He frowned, clearly torn about how much to tell her. “No, you’ll be safer if you know nothing of what I’ve planned.”

  Jorand turned from the fire and fixed her with a steady look. She scarcely dared breathe as his gaze
left her face, traveled down the exposed whiteness of her neck, and lingered on her breasts before returning to meet her eyes.

  Could he feel her heart, she wondered, fluttering like a snared bird against her ribs? Did he know the heat of his gaze had warmed her more than the smoky fire ever could?

  “I’ve missed you so, princess,” he said, raw hunger plain on his face.

  “And I you.”

  When he reached a hand to touch her, his fingertips skimming across her collarbone, her breasts ached for him as well. A tiny sigh escaped her lips, the breath catching in her throat as his hand dipped lower.

  “And I’ve missed the blissful look on your face when I pleasure you.” His blue eyes darkened to indigo as he watched for her response. “I do love you, Brenna, and if you don’t let me love you right now, I think I’ll die.”

  “Don’t die.” She let her cloak slip from her shoulders and slid into his waiting arms. “Promise me you won’t.”

  “I promise.” His mouth covered hers to seal his pledge.

  Her lips were soft and yielding. He tried to hold back, not to let the raging need overpower him, but it had been so long. She’d barely allowed him to touch her since they’d come to Dublin.

  Then she moaned softly into his mouth and the beast inside him sprang free. He answered her, bruising her lips with his, crushing her to him so he could feel her breasts pressed against his chest. His lips left hers and devoured her cheeks, her eyes, down the softness of her neck.

  She didn’t pull away.

  Instead, her blessed fingers twined through his hair, pulling his head down. He sucked the skin at the base of her throat, tasting her sweet saltiness. Even in the dim firelight, he saw he was leaving love marks on her, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

  She didn’t seem to want him to.

  Even as his hands and mouth invaded, Brenna met him at every turn with encouragement—feverish whispers, an arched back pressing a soft breast into his hand. He felt a stiff nipple rise under the cloth of her tunic. He tried to unfasten the brooches at her shoulders, but couldn’t get his clumsy fingers around the delicate catches. He heard the fabric ripping and gave it a stout tug, baring her to the waist.