“Can you not see your pleasure is my own? Your body is my haven from all things cruel and harsh. I have lived for so long, shadowed in the endeavors of greedy men, never gaining a single moment for myself in which I can take pride. You, my temperate warrior, are most generous with me, and in giving unto you, do I receive twofold your bounty. Please, allow me this one small token.”
Gustaf shoved the thought he had of bending her back over and giving her what she asked for. “Nay…” was all he muster as he held her tighter against him.
“Prove to me I am not a mere thrall to be had, but a lover you must possess. Surrender to me, Gustaf, else I cannot fully know what real satisfaction is. Let me be accustomed to all of you. Is that not what you promised me?”
****
Gustaf fought to give in. Her words tore apart his will. Her body, like a silken vise, compressed every meager strand of self-control he had. And when he thought he might have found one last shred of resilience in the few moments of stillness, he felt her mouth, luscious and parted, searching for his.
He reacted and seized her lips, driving his tongue past her teeth and tasting how sweet and hot her love could be. He ravished her tongue, desiring more of her untethered passion. Though muffled in a kiss, he heard her softened pleas and could not detain himself any longer.
He wilted and bent her back to all fours, his chest hovering across her back. He thrust only once, so as to determine if he had any stamina left.
Absolutely none!
His jaw clenched as his body shuddered uncontrollably. He arched himself and heaved into her, waiting to feel the recoil on his body. But with each solitary thrust, he was rewarded with her soft, explicit gasps and a ferocious impulse to do it again—but without pause.
He raised himself slightly off her back and gripped her tiny waist, finally yielding himself to her. A fine layer of perspiration trickled from his brow to his locked jaw as he fought to hold on long enough to hear her blissful release.
Once he knew, beyond doubt, she was contending with her own climax, he looked up to the ceiling and let out a long manly groan, emptying himself into her. His body jerked as strong sensations ripped through him, a hot river of fluid spouting from his taut shaft.
His hands tightened around her hips, pulling her further onto him as if she were not close enough. In his exhaustion, he eventually curled around her and collapsed against her back. He could smell the warm delectable scent of her dampened skin with each rapid breath he took, cinnamon and sage, mixed with her own womanly scent. The aroma was sweet and comforting, which compelled him to inhale deeper and longer through his nose, savoring her.
****
Æsa felt the weight of his heavy body upon her back and let her arms buckle, relaxing into the softness of the boxbed. With the initial coolness of the furs under her and the sweltering heat of his body above her, she was absolutely content to let her thoughts drift into transient recollections of the night.
Nothing could have been more perfect than this tranquil moment, lying within Gustaf’s arms. He was the most amazing lover she had ever had, selfless to the very end.
Even now, when most men would have already slipped into a deep slumber, unable to be roused or moved, he was still awake, stroking the length of her arm ever so lightly. Everything about him was so different from what she was used to, and she could certainly get accustomed to his kind of love without ever tiring.
But would he tire of her?
Gustaf had said he never would, nor would he say things he didn’t mean. But what man would ever admit to lying?
She tried hard not to doubt him, but her unstable past made it near impossible. She had been convinced—and fooled—by so many men who’d promised love and fidelity, her inner voice spoke louder than the tender silence of their embrace.
And, as she predicted, she felt him stir. Her heart sunk, thinking he was leaving the bed. But as soon as she prepared herself for disappointment, she felt him drag an animal-fur blanket up their bodies, covering them both as he pulled her tighter against him.
Æsa smiled, but didn’t dare move. Instead, she listened to the calming sound of his breathing beside her ear and the random crackling of the fire a few feet away, basking in the feel of his hard body against hers.
“Æsa,” Gustaf whispered lightly. “What is wrong? I feel the apprehension in your body. You thought I was going to leave your side, did you not?”
“Forgive me. I meant not to.”
“Look at me,” he commanded, rolling her body to face him. “I told you I will never lie to you.” He brushed her face gently with the back of his fingertips. “Close your eyes and sleep well. You need not worry. When you wake, you will find me right here beside you.”
Chapter Seven
“You are beginning to worry me, Mara,” Nevan stated, his eyes scanning over the mead hall at the many people enjoying the closing meal of the day. “Since Tait has left, you have been quite reserved. I assure you, Lochlann is doing well in my charge.”
Mara offered her best smile to the handsome king sitting beside her. He was the chieftain of the Uí Bhriain on Inis Mór and had been an ally of Dægan for many years. Both the long-established Irish and the newly settled Northmen of Dægan’s family shared the isle peacefully, and it was within this mead hall where everyone gathered.
Mara sipped at her wine. “I know I must be putting you at such an inconvenience, but I am grateful for the time you have worked with my son.”
“’Tis a pleasure. Lochlann is like a grandson to me, you know this.”
Mara simply nodded in agreement.
“He gets frustrated easily, which I assume most lads his age do when feeling the need to prove themselves. But I dare say, he is quick to learn. Would you not agree, Ottarr?”
Ottarr, an elder Northman, quickly chimed in from Nevan’s right. “Aye, he is indeed. And that, m’lady cannot be taught. He is well on his way to being a warrior’s son.”
Nevan patted Mara’s hand reassuringly. “See? You have naught to worry about.”
But even as he said those words, Nevan seemed to notice that it brought her little consolation. “Something tells me there is more to your fretting than Lochlann and his progress.”
“I always worry when Tait is abroad.”
“He is in Vedrafjiordr trading goods, naught more.”
Mara glanced discretely at Thordia across the table. “I worry for his wife.”
“All will be well in a few days. And if I know Tait, it may be sooner.”
Mara was glad to have Nevan at her side. From the day Dægan had passed, Nevan had never let her sit alone at dinners and feasts. And even though it may not have necessarily helped her fears when it came to Tait’s travels this night, it was still a comfort for which she was very appreciative.
A roar of laughter from the left side of the table filled the hall. It seemed one of Nevan’s men had finished telling his hilarious bout with a heard of stampeding sheep and one aggressive ram in rut.
There was much amusement in the mead hall, even though it was far from an organized feast. Many were missing from the festivities since they were accompanying Tait on his merchant route. And because of that, a grand display of prepared food and ceremonial toasts had not been arranged. But considering the overall gaiety of the room, it certainly felt like an all-out banquet.
There was music being played in one corner, several women springing into a lively dance at the forefront, and many enthusiastic men raising their steins and voices over the collective noise.
As Mara sipped the last of her wine, she saw a watchman enter the hall briskly and weave himself through the crowd of dancers. Once he reached Ottarr, she could see a thick layer of concern on his face, but was unable to hear his whispered words.
Ottarr quickly glanced at Nevan and back at the watchman. “Are you certain?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
“Sire,” Ottar said, turning back to face Nevan. “It seems we have visitors.”
&nbs
p; “Oh?”
“A currach of seven men, sailing toward our shores.”
Nevan thought briefly on the news, knowing he wasn’t expecting anyone, before addressing Mara. “It seems we have guests approaching. I shall not be long. Please,” he insisted, touching her hand, “enjoy the rest of your meal.”
Mara nodded respectfully, though curious as to who was coming. It was not as if Inis Mór was a busy port like Luimneach, nor did anyone much care to visit the rock-infested isle, save for a few ascetic monks who chose, on their own accord, a hard life. Assuming the small number of men approaching was, indeed, a group of harmless, religious men, she did not let it compound her present worries. “I shall be fine.”
Nevan smiled and stood, absentmindedly touching his sword at his hip. He and Ottarr left the hall, followed by a handful of summoned Irishmen, completely unprepared for the men they were about to face.
****
The leather-clad currach, being tossed about in the shallow currents of the tide, caught a riotous wave of the unmerciful Atlantic and skated up the shore until its bottom ran aground. The seven men, hell-bent on getting out of the small boat before another wave accosted them, jumped out into the ankle-deep waters and dragged the vessel further up the shore to safety. But an additional wave soon chased them and shoved the boat against the back of their legs, knocking a few men down in the wake.
Curses rang out as the water retreated and left them soaked and stumbling for ground.
Ottarr and Nevan came running up to help, grabbing a few helpless amateurs by the back of their cloaks until they gained their footing. Ottarr hid his smile as best he could, while complaints about the angry sea continued in their struggles.
“Aye,” Nevan supplemented. “The sea holds no compassion here.”
“Good heavens, but she is a bitch!” one Irishman claimed, shaking out his sodden clothes once they were out of the sea’s reach.
A fit of mild male laughter filled the air amongst the sound of crashing waves and then dispersed as they all stood together on the rocky shore. One by one, the men all seemed to take notice of each other’s faces and soon the mood changed.
Ottarr unsheathed his sword and pointed it straight at one particular man, the rest flinching and stepping back in reaction.
Before Nevan could question the Northman’s hasty rationale, Ottar uttered the name Breandán as though it left a bitter taste on his tongue.
Breandán stood undeterred by the threatening sword. Quite frankly he expected it, though he assumed Tait to be the one to draw the first weapon. Yet, Tait was nowhere to be seen. Again, it didn’t bother him much since he had a clear view of the whole isle before him and the angry sea to his back. Unless Tait was a mythical merman, an ambush was not possible. “Ottarr,” he said calmly in reply.
Nevan looked between the two men as if waiting for more words to follow, but neither spoke as they sized each other up.
“Ottarr,” Nevan asked tensely. “What is the meaning of this?”
Ottarr scoffed once as if he suddenly found humor in it. “This is Breandán Mac Liam.”
Nevan eyed the young man profusely as the name did not register. “Should I be familiar with him?”
“Aye,” Ottar said. “You should. He was once an ally of Dægan’s cowardly twin, Domaldr.”
“Prisoner,” Breandán corrected.
“I saw no tethers around your ankles or wrists as you fled toward Domaldr’s langskips that fateful day with Mara as your captive,” Ottarr argued before filling Nevan in on the facts. “Sire, Breandán is the very man who brought Domaldr to your shores seven years ago. He was the cause for several of your men’s deaths and the reason we had to rebuild our entire settlement as all was burned to ashes by the time he left.”
Nevan narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms to his chest, but not in a way that showed anger. Instead, a sense of contemplation overtook him. “Is this true?” he directed at Breandán.
Breandán shifted his eyes to Nevan—privately noting he was in the presence of a king based on Ottarr’s reference—and then back at Ottarr. “Aye, but I no more set fire or killed your men than Mara did. I was merely trying to track her down and bring her home safely after she was taken from her land. I was never an ally of Domaldr, but simply a servant of Mara’s father, Callan—as I am now.”
Upon Breandán’s latter words, every Irish islander immediately drew their swords and stepped forward, waiting eagerly for Nevan’s word. The tension grew between the men but no one moved from their positions.
Marcas’ eyes widened. “Perhaps you should not talk anymore, lest we have the whole island drawing their swords on us, aye?”
Nevan sighed and outstretched his arm to the left where his men stood. “Easy men. I will not have further blood shed on my isle for a grudge held upon a dead man. Domaldr and his torment are no more upon us. Nor will I stoop to Callan’s level and take a man's life out of mere suspicion. Put your weapons down.” When no one responded to his command, he raised his voice above the ocean’s roar. “Sheath them—now!”
Reluctantly, one by one, each man withdrew their sword and slid it slowly into the scabbards at their hips, save for Ottarr.
Nevan waited a few seconds more, taking notice of the Northman’s indomitable stare, his breath staggering out of him. “Ottarr,” he said sternly.
“Forgive me, Sire, but my grudge is larger than yours as Dægan was both my chieftain and brother-in-arms. He is no longer with us due to this man’s,” his next words rolling from his tongue in callous sarcasm, “service to his king. If Tait were here—”
“Tait,” Nevan interrupted sharply, “is not here to make decisions, nor give commands and thereby, you heed my words in his absence. Sheath your sword, Northman, or else—”
“Or else what?” Ottarr challenged, dragging his eyes from Breandán to glare at Nevan, if only for a brief moment. “Going to turn on me, are you?”
“I have no such intention. However, I condone not this eye-for-an-eye reasoning. Think about it, Ottarr. If you run him through, there are four of his men who have swords and one with a bow strapped across his shoulder. Would you be so foolish as to think they know not how to use them? Is it worth your life to find out? Is it worth mine, knowing the position you would put me in should you strike this man dead?”
Ottarr continued to stare at Breandán, mulling Nevan’s words through gnashed teeth. It was as Breandán expected his landing to be and he could only hope Nevan’s wise words would be enough to settle the Northman’s temper. He really didn’t want to have to stand his ground.
He nonchalantly put his hand on his dagger at his hip, thinking any moment the old Northman was going to storm toward him. But to his surprise, Ottarr exhaled in frustration and shoved his sword into its sheath at the force of what he would have used had he thrust it into him. When Ottar at last looked away—distantly—Breandán averted his eyes and looked toward Nevan, the only man amongst them who deserved his attention.
“I apologize, Breandán, for the reception you and your men have received,” Nevan began. “Though seven years is a great span of time, ‘tis with a heavy heart we still morn the loss of our friend, Dægan, as if it were yesterday. Surely you can understand.”
Breandán nodded reverently as he, too, was very accustomed to dealing with loss. Though his bereavement had been losing Mara to another man, it hadn’t hurt any less than if she had died. His heart wouldn’t have known the difference. “I hold naught against anyone here for their loyalty to Dægan. He was a great man and few men deserve that title.”
A thin reflective smile ran across Nevan’s lips. “Indeed. You speak as though you knew Dægan well. But,” he added, clearing his throat and shifting his stance, “it seems you also know his men and the hostilities they hold against you. So, my next logical question is, why are you here?”
“I have been sent to deliver a message to Mara from her father.”
Nevan immediately looked to his left as if to warn his men not
to react.
Breandán noticed this and remarked it as downright peculiar given both kings had, assumingly, held a healthy interest in Mara’s well being. Twice now, the islanders reciprocated an opposition toward the mere mention of Callan Mac Conchubhair, though his own daughter was welcome amongst them. The more puzzling question was why would Callan allow Mara to stay with a clan he was at odds with? Something didn’t seem right….
“What message do you bring?”
Breandán spoke curtly despite the tension of the close-quartered group. “Callan is not well. He is on his deathbed and has asked naught more than to see his daughter.”
Nevan was clearly betaken by Breandán’s statement, losing all sense of speech. His brows furrowed and his mouth straightened to a narrow slit. No one present understood the magnitude of Callan’s request. It was such a simple request really, but Nevan knew both his worst fear and his greatest joy were about to unfold.
His mind drifted back in time to a profound discussion he and Tait had had soon after Dægan’s passing.
“I know this is very hard for you, to find you have a daughter, born of the only woman you have ever loved, and that it must not come to light. But think it through. Right now, Mara has three men who love her. If you tell her, she will hate you all. She will hate Callan for keeping the secret, she will hate you for bastardizing her, and she will hate Dægan for knowing the truth and taking it with him to his grave. Do you really want to hurt Dægan that way? He made this all possible. He made it so you can be with your daughter and the end result was he gave his life for it. Do not tarnish his memory over details of little worth. All that matters is Mara is yours and you know it to be true.”
With Callan requesting to see Mara on his deathbed, Nevan could only assume he was ready to make a clean break from the deceit and right the wrongs from his past.
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 43