Once Dægan settled his horse, he slid off and ran into the flowing stream, fighting the push of the rushing water around his knees. Within a few strides, he was at her side, rolling her over. A flash of bright red blood shocked him as it had already soaked through her hair and down her face, streaming into her eye-socket. Given the force of her fall and the gauge of her injury, he half expected her to be dead, but fell relieved when he laid his hand across her mouth and felt the warmth of her breath. His gratification nearly doubled as he also realized her flighty horse had given a timely diversion that kept the other Northmen in the woods.
He looked her over one last time, determining that her wounds were not life threatening, and picked her up in his arms, staggering slightly from the current. His horse stood panting at the creek’s edge, waiting patiently for him to remount. It would not be an easy thing to do, but then again, nothing he had done this day was. He decided that being moderately careful with her was not necessary since she was unconscious, and tossing her over his shoulder was just as good and less troublesome.
Or so he thought.
The weight of her lifeless body made him teeter as he put his foot in the stirrup and the blasted mud beneath him swallowed his other ankle deep in muck. A harsh oath escaped Dægan before he clutched a firm grip around the horse’s mane and threw a heavy leg up over the saddle. As he settled in the seat and lowered her body to his lap, he noticed the return of his own pain. It was a momentary awareness of which he paid little heed, for the woman was now in his possession, draped across his legs, her head cradled in his arms.
He touched her cheek with drawn fingers, pleased with his triumphant reward—one she would come to know soon enough.
****
The sun started to set in the western sky above the green loping hills of Ireland. Dægan had been riding all afternoon, trying to reach Luimneach before nightfall, where his fellow Northmen awaited him. But having an unconscious rider made it difficult for him to gain any real ground. He decided, with dusk fast approaching, he should make camp for the night in the nearby forest, deep enough though, to escape notice should the men who were after her come as far as he.
It was darker in the woods and he regretted not finding a spot sooner. The trees stood quiet, absent the scurry of foraging nocturnal animals, and only the crickets were brave enough to proclaim their contentment with the night. As tired as he was, their collective serenade was just enough to convince him that his cautiousness was overkill.
He slid from his horse with the woman still in his arms, and found a perfect place to lay her. The soft moss under a tall tree was his first generous offering of many more to come, for he was smitten with the Irish woman. Throughout his life as a merchant, he had never before been fortunate enough to find such beauty without a high price. Some would argue that a broken nose was too high, but for him, it was a petty fee for the precious jewel that now lay at his feet.
Although not in the mood for another bout of fists and elbows, it worried him that she was still unconscious. Even as he rustled around to beat the blackness of night—untying rolled hides from the saddle, tossing food and drink pouches about, and setting up camp—she never moved.
Variably, her unresponsiveness was a quick thought, for the aching in his stomach kept the rest of his thoughts on a more primal level, mostly of how his morning and afternoon meals were both missed. What he had packed was not enough for his empty stomach, much less his new guest. A quick successful hunt and a good nights’ rest were what he longed for, but on this day the gods seemed to prefer adversity to victory.
Fixed on turning the tables in his favor, he took some rope from his saddle and confined her to the tree. He hated the idea, detesting the irony of his intentions, but after one knot, he reminded himself of her lively spirit, and wrapped two more lengths of rope for no other reason than common sense.
He also needed a fire—that was for certain—not only to cook his meal, but for ample warmth throughout the night. Be that as it may, he hesitated, for a fire would no doubt give their location away should the others still be searching for her. The idea that a fire was a necessary evil soon outweighed the risks, and before any more time was wasted, he started gathering wood and kindling for a modest blaze.
Within minutes, he had the kindling afire and proceeded to add wood as the flames reached for more. It was not hard to become entranced by the snapping and popping of the fire, for it seemed to set the mood as he took in the beautiful sight of purity and grace that lay before him. Chaste, was the word that contented him. Through the thin gown he could see the outline of her shapely body, and a rip up the side bared one leg from mid-thigh to ankle. He envisioned the night she would finally submit to his touch instead of fighting it so violently, specifically those legs wrapped around him.
He felt his own body stir and he stood up, trying to extinguish the sudden urges that swept through him like a forest fire. Soon, he thought, struggling to ignore them. There was no doubt he was aching for a woman’s touch, the heat of nakedness, the softness of ivory skin, for it was a pleasure he had done without for so many months. His journeys were few and far between because finding a woman of worth had become more important than his livelihood. And now, with a female bursting with worth only a few feet from him, it was a desire he could not ignore, nor an erection he could just wish away. He had to leave else he feared she’d awaken amidst two shocking revelations.
Content with the fire’s growth, he left her alone under the night sky to hunt for a generous meal, with thoughts of her just a hair’s breadth away.
****
“M’lord, we could not find the girl,” Einar spoke, spilling forth his best piteous excuse. “We have retrieved the horse she was riding, but the wench was not on it. I would swear by the gods that she has disappeared!”
Domaldr continued to stare out over the moonlit Shannon, his growing irritation keeping him from turning around and facing his hirdmen. He was no less than a freeman in the face of Norway’s noblemen, but a man who strongly aspired to gain a noble’s title, even if it was through sudden notoriety as opposed to the long road of accruing wealth and support from the local kinsman. Infamy was the shortcut to the title of Jarl, and the imminent war for Baile Átha Cliath was his surefire route to staking that claim—as long as he could survive long enough to get there.
“Believe me, Einar,” Domaldr finally said, “women never just disappear. The willowy bitches will haunt you until the day you die. As will I, if you do not find her.”
“But—”
“Our purpose here, as I know you are well aware, is to hold an unknown flank position for Sigtrygg’s eastern front. No one, including a feeble woman, was to know of our presence. And because of your ignorance, you have put me in a very difficult situation as I am forced to contemplate the worst with our little woman friend still at large. Surely, you have seen that the dress she was wearing was not that of a chambermaid, but of a woman of importance. With that being said, she is very accustomed to others doing for her, thereby, lacking the knowledge to take care of herself, much less know how to slip past six full-grown men!”
Einar’s silence caused Domaldr to turn on his heels, taking first notice of the dark-haired Irishman amongst his other unspoken warriors. “Who is this?” he asked, directing the interrogation toward Einar, his blue eyes darkening.
Soren, a man not easily rattled, spoke for him. “We came upon him in the forest. He was hunkered down behind a fallen log, lurking—”
“I was hunting!” the man corrected.
Soren shoved a quick elbow into the man’s gut, doubling him over and pushing him forcibly to his knees.
Domaldr watched the man cough and retch, while rubbing his own temples fiercely, unwilling to deal with this much chaos so soon after their landing. He stepped forward, eyeing the young man at his feet. Even when he was shrunk to his knees with his hands tied behind his back, Domaldr could tell that he was exceptionally sturdy with a wide set of shoulders.
&n
bsp; “Stand up,” Domaldr demanded coolly.
The man did as he was told, looking Domaldr in the eye, despite that he had to lift his chin a bit to do so. Domaldr was tall, he noted, with a bit of overzealous arrogance in his stance, as if to make up for all the shortcomings in his life—imaginably that he was stuck in second command for quite some time and liked to take that grievance out on less sizeable prisoners.
“What is your name?” Domaldr uttered.
“Breandán, son of Liam.”
Detesting the pride in the Irishman’s voice, Domaldr leaned in close to cut him down. “Sounds much too important of a name for just a hunter.”
“If I knew your name,” Breandán stated lightly, “I would wager I could slight the importance of yours as well.”
The corner of Domaldr’s mouth raised in a bristly smile. “You are a fiery little Éireannach, are you not? I like that. But ‘tis not enough to spare you. You best speak as though your very life depends on it, Breandán.”
Breandán clenched his jaw, holding back what he really wanted to say. “I swear to you, I was only hunting. I have no interest in the purpose of your gathering here.”
Domaldr ran his tongue across his teeth. “You look not like a hunter.”
“At first glance, you look not like an arse either. But we are what we are.”
Normally, Domaldr would have already choked the life from Breandán after a remark like that, but instead, he crossed his arms to his chest. “I believe you, hunter, which means there is no reason for me to have you killed. Consider yourself fortunate. However, there is still the matter of our presence being discovered and setting you free would not alleviate that. As much as I believe you commonly speak your mind to the fullest of truths, I still trust you not.” Domaldr looked at Soren. “Secure him and guard him well.”
“Aye, m’lord,” Soren nodded, pushing Breandán to move.
“Einar,” Domaldr said putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let us talk.”
Einar said nothing as Domaldr led him away from the group down to the banks of the Shannon, his uneasiness shining like a lantern in the night.
“I am a patient man, do you not think?”
Einar swallowed hard. “Of course, m’lord.”
“And you would not dare test my patience, would you?” Domaldr sneered.
“Nay. Never.”
“Good. Then my burden seems to be lifted. When Sigtrygg asks who is to blame for thwarting his plan, I can say with certainty ‘twas you.”
Einar’s breath caught in his throat. “If you must, m’lord….”
“Yet,” Domaldr said, altering his approach, “your idiocy will still be a chink in my armor, a slander of my good name, and a poor representation of my great ability to lead. I cannot have that, Einar. Surely, you understand.”
Einar gazed at Domaldr, whose evil eyes feigned sympathy and regret, and all too suddenly, he felt a hot pain rip through his gut with such force that he almost fell backward. Einar looked down and pressed his hands to the warm blood that saturated his kirtle and breeches. His eyes began to blur as his legs grew weak. He stumbled forward to grasp his chieftain, but Domaldr stepped aside, shoving him into the river. His body hit the water and floated amongst the red waves that rippled between the floating vessels.
Domaldr glanced up from his bloodied knife at the four men witnessing Einar’s death. “Have Soren and two others go with you, and find that girl!”
Chapter Two
Dægan finished his meal of roasted meat and tossed the bones into the fire, troubled with his inactive dinner guest. He sighed, wishing she would come to on her own, for the excessive sleeping made him very nervous and the night far too long.
He rose from the fire, deciding that it was better to encourage her awakening, than let any more hours of the night pass in a slow creep. Taking his knife, he cut a piece of hide sparingly, and poured water from his skin pouch to soak it. He then knelt beside her, preparing to nurse her wounds, but as he dared to touch her, his eyes drank in the delicateness of her facial features, the fullness of her bottom lip, and the clean cut of her jaw that slipped into a graceful strip of feminine neck. She looked so unlike the other women he had known, and found the differences to be inviting, if not refreshing.
Her hair was gathered recklessly behind her and a few locks had fallen loosely across her chest where she lay. He reached down and stroked the dark tresses, feeling the softness between his fingers, pleased that the sweetness of her hair was able to penetrate the swelling within his nostrils. He savored it, breathing in deeper this time, smelling more of the fine oils that she had used, similar to the ones he sold in the marketplaces.
It took him back to his journeys in the Mediterranean where silks and oils were plentiful, as well as the number of women who were eager to please the merchant strangers entering their ports. There were many to choose from, he recalled; all different shades of skin with dark, enchanting eyes that matched the deep hues of their sable, silken hair. Still, none equaled her.
Dægan wiped her brow cautiously with the soaked cloth, taking care of the gash just below her hairline. It was slightly swollen and flushed a deep red. He barely touched her, pressing the wet cloth to her abrasion and cleaning what blood had dried on her face. Often, he stopped to rinse the cloth, continuing his tedious yet gentle work upon her wounds.
Although she was unaware of his kindness, he thanked the gods for the opportunity to touch and caress her, even if it was just for a short while. He knew, given the circumstances of their meeting, she would not be as eager for his touch when she awakened. In fact, he was sure she would fight twice as hard to escape him once she found herself alone in the dead of night with him. He prepared himself for the worst, as if the most she could do was blast a few terse words his way.
Soon after he wrung the cloth out again, she began to stir, moaning, showing signs of her coming aware of the pain in her head.
“Sh…” Dægan whispered. “You are safe now. You are going to be all right.”
Mara moaned again, slightly opening her eyes, finding it hard to focus, but smiling as she saw a figure of a man before her, calming her with his soothing voice. Father… It must be father. I made it home.
She relaxed as she felt his hands caress her hair and heard his voice speak quietly to her, reassuring her that no one would hurt her again. It was definitely not her father’s voice, but probably a servant or recent hire. She closed her eyes to his pleasant words, the warm crackling fire, and a strangely familiar scent around her.
She knew that scent.
It was a wonderful smell of masculinity and compelling vigor that she couldn’t get away from, but as much as she felt at ease, the strange aroma surrounded her with a disturbing sense of danger.
She tried concentrating on it, trying to make out the figure before her, so she could thank him for both his kindness and his gentle sincerity. She opened her eyes, blinking away the blurriness and squinting to join the double images into one. His face emerged from the haze; a sharply chiseled face with blond hair and kind eyes.
Blond hair?
Her smile erased instantly as she caught her breath, once again, looking at the man she thought she had escaped. But where was she now? Where had he taken her?
Panic shot through her, and she quickly looked around, trying to recognize anything past the light of the fire, but the darkness and the thick cover of the trees shading the moon overhead made for a difficult task. She was extremely nervous and dreadfully alone.
Frozen with fear, she watched him stand and walk to the other side of the fire—no doubt a small act of kindness to make her feel more comfortable. But it did not slow her racing heart within her chest. His physical presence, no matter how far away he went, was still enough to terrify her. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him.
They gawked at each other from across the flames, perhaps trying to read each other’s thoughts, until finally, he folded his arms across his chest and smiled boldly, knowing at that moment
she was well aware he had won the chase.
There he stood; a monument of beauty and power, sturdy as the ground beneath him. He had long blond hair, a well groomed beard, and skin darkened from the sun. His hands showed scars and calluses from years of hard work, yet his clothes presented a different story, one of wealth and importance. His tunic was made of the finest wool, a lovely shade of cerulean with a tablet-woven braid around the neckline and hem, which came to rest at his knees. His legs were bare, save for his calves wrapped in the soft cow-hide of his boots. His eyes revealed a sense of maturity and intrigue, yet even the darkness could not hide their color for they were as blue as the ocean he sailed. Before her stood a being that only one word could suitably describe.
“Lochlannach,” she breathed.
“Lochlannach, aye? I like the sound of that. It means lake dweller does it not?”
She remained quiet.
“‘Tis a good name,” he said, sitting down. “Better than the ones I have been called before. You needn’t fear me, this I swear. I know my word means naught to you. But I assure you, I will not harm you.” He then took his dagger, still within its sheath, and tossed it to her.
She was surprised to find her hands tied together as the blade hit her lap, for she was far too engrossed with her captor to have realized it. The knife’s hilt was intricately adorned with silver and gold, as was its sheath, and it was quite a substantial piece of weaponry for a barbarian to own.
No doubt stolen.
“Cut yourself free,” he stated, “But, I would not run away if I were you. You are about a day’s distance from home and your knowledge of tracking landmarks will not help you under this night sky as the clouds are moving in quickly. Getting lost would be the least of your worries for there are others who search for you, and although their determination may very well match my own, they are truly without care of gentlemanly conduct or your well-being. And as much trouble as I have gone through to keep you from these men, I cannot say for certain whether I would have the might to do it again.”
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 2