The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set
Page 47
Aye, she needed more time. More time to sort out her restless thoughts and more importantly, her decisions pertaining to her father. He was on his deathbed and wanted to see her one last time. But a hole had been carved out of her chest by both her father’s dismissal and Dægan’s death, and she honestly didn’t know if she had any heart left for Breandán.
It was all too much. All of it was. Every thought swam in her brain and in no apparent order.
Yet…here stood Breandán.
So much had changed in her life, and most of it was not for the better. But now, amongst all that confusion and clamor, he stood before her unchanged, unwavering.
She finally looked up and realized Breandán had grown self-conscious with the awkward silence. “Breandán,” she began sympathetically.
“Mara, please,” he interrupted. “Feel not as if you have to say something to spare my feelings. I am a grown man. I should not have known better.”
“Known better than to what?”
Breandán shoulders rose high through a deep breath and fell. “I should have known better than to think you were ready to hear that.”
There may have been a few feet between them, but Mara could sense the heat of his body so close to hers. “Well,” she began to say, her words balling up in her throat. “’Twas a bit of a shock, I will admit, but at least I know exactly where you stand.”
Breandán’s eyes affixed on hers at that very moment and she couldn’t look away. His eyes were the most intense shade of aqua; a light blue-green mixture contrasting both the dark rim of thick lashes and his enlarged pupils. There was so much being said within those eyes. So much pain being hidden. So much emotion being reserved. So much she couldn’t possibly understand unless he clarified it with words.
Was she really ready for all that? Was she really prepared to hear what he truly hid behind those gorgeous colorful eyes?
She felt his hand take hold of her hers. Her first reaction was to pull away, but the heat of his simple touch felt so good against her cool skin. If anything, it seemed to have stopped the shaking within her, something she didn’t realize until that moment.
“You have always known where I stood when it came to you. Naught has changed in my heart since we last saw each other. And it never will.”
Mara swallowed hard. No, she was not ready to hear this.
Her heart swelled within her, but her head, and all its rambling, conflicting thoughts couldn’t allow room for this revelation.
She felt his hand flinch for a second, as if he’d been struck by a switch across his knuckles. Before he could let go, she grabbed his hand between both of hers and held it, keeping him from walking away.
She saw the look of surprise in Breandán’s eyes, even though she knew he tried with all of his might not to show it. If her fingers rested a bit higher up his wrist she swore she would have felt his rapid pulse as well. And somehow, that simple notion stirred a heat wave within her. To know she had that much effect on a man was quite pleasant—and extremely frightening at the same time.
Dægan was the only man she knew she could incite, and it had been so long since she had experienced it. She nearly forgot how it felt. How it made her feel to know a man was incapable of controlling his emotions, and that it was simply her who spurred them into being.
While it felt amazing to think the composed Breandán was also stirred by her, the scary part was not knowing what she felt. With Dægan it was easy to feel—easy to fall. But with Breandán, so much was at stake; her son, for one. Her extended Norse family, Nevan, the islanders… So many could be hurt by one wrong move. One impulsive decision.
Even so, she still couldn’t help but like the way Breandán’s hand felt in hers. The way the warmth of his skin spread like wildfire up her arms. The way he looked at her at this very moment.
Mara squeezed his hand warmly. “It took a great deal of strength to say that to me. And I am glad to know how you feel.”
“Mara,” he injected sweetly. “Listen to me. I came not on this isle to upset you or to force anything upon you—that includes both Callan’s wish and the longings of my heart. I am simply here to see you, and be with you as long as I am allotted. Beyond that,” he said, cupping her chin with his free hand, “I wish not for more.”
He held his fingers ever so lightly on her face, a touch that contradicted the words echoing in her ears, I wish not for more.
Were his kind words really the truth? Was he perfectly content to just be with her?
Perhaps she read too much into it. Or maybe deep inside, she wished more from him. In any case, it was too difficult to tell, especially when his presence seemed to somehow impede all of her good sense.
In the short amount of time she had been with him, she enjoyed his presence. She could even admit to craving it, as she had remembered wanting to see him again after Nevan escorted her outside her longhouse for air. But this was, by far, different. It was not only his presence she liked, but it seemed to extend to his touch.
As if perfectly timed, the horse behind Breandán snorted forcefully, blowing a clear slimy spray of snot on the back of his neck. Mara tried not to laugh, but the repugnant look on his face was too humorous for her to hold back.
“Lovely,” Breandán stated while reaching up and wiping the wetness from his skin. A thin smile tainted his look of disgust. “And completely uncalled for, I might add.”
“Here,” Mara said, pursing her smiling lips as she took a kerchief from her apron pocket. “Let me help you.”
He stood almost frozen as she leaned into him and reached up on tip-toes to clean the remainder of the mucus from his nape. Being that close, she could smell him, a light masculine aroma permeating from the dampness of his skin. Her mind wandered. She imagined how good he would smell with his tunic completely removed from his body again and her hands pressed firmly against his muscle-plated chest.
“You are enjoying what Tait’s horse did to me, are you not?”
Mara broke in a small fit of giggles. “I am sorry…” she said, content on letting him think her pleasure was coming from the horse’s mischief. She stepped back from him. “There. I believe you are a new man now.”
He lowered his head and looked right into her eyes. “Indeed, I am.”
Chapter Thirteen
Breandán and Mara galloped their way across Inis Mór toward Nevan’s stone fort to meet her son, and he swore he was right in the middle of another dream. With the feel of the powerful animal beneath him and the lingering scent of Mara’s hair wafting ever so often past him on the breeze, he could only hope this was, in fact, a real event.
She looked so beautiful as she rode beside him on her dappled gray horse. Her long tunic was made of light blue linen, hemmed at the ankles with a fancy tablet-woven braid of darker blue, white, and gold. Her cloak was made of thick wool, similar in shade to the indigo of the tri-colored hem, and attached with two remarkable oval brooches boasting sapphire glass beads amid gold and silver filigree. Her hair, hanging nearly to her waist, was a heavy braid of silken rope, mildly patting her back. Yet, above all those stunning things which adorned her, her smile was the most noticeable.
When she looked over at him, whether to see if he still kept up or to goad him into trying to pass her, her smile, which followed, was like a thousand suns, all gleaming with iridescent rays. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed and he had a very difficult time of not staring. Lucky for him, Inis Mór was a relatively flat and treeless island with an open plain of wildflowers, rock perimeter walls, and limestone. So, there was not much to avoid on a sprinting horse, while he kept his eyes on her.
It might have been the moonlight erupting every so often from behind the passing clouds that caused him to take such notice of Mara. Or it could have been the fact he was actually spending time with her. At this point, he didn’t care what it was. He only knew he didn’t want it to end.
And chances are, when Tait returned, it would definitely end.
Abruptly.
“You ride very well bare-back,” Mara said, her smile still at its fullest.
“My father taught me when I was young that if you are going to ride a horse, learn to ride the horse, not the saddle.”
“Wise words. Speaking of fathers,” Mara inquired. “How does yours fair? You seem to know so much about mine, but I know naught of yours—or the rest of your family, for that matter.”
“You have never asked.”
Mara reined her horse to the left so she faced him, their bent knees nearly touching. “I am asking now.”
Breandán didn’t think she paid much attention to how close her leg was to his, but he did. He noticed a lot of things about his surroundings. Directly in front of them was a relatively high rock wall with a well-built gateway, covered by a single massive lintel. Beyond that, about two-hundred meters inward, stood another rock wall, lit by torches, with several guards along the terrace who had turned their attention to them the moment they stopped at the gate. He counted seven.
“What is it you want to know?” he asked curiously.
“Everything. Do you have siblings?”
“Aye. Two younger sisters.”
Mara’s eyes gently widened. “Younger sisters? How young?”
Breandán enjoyed her slight emphasis on the word ‘younger.’ “Clodagh is six years under a score and Gráinne is barely five.”
“Five?” Mara said surprised. “Your mother must have been quite stunned by her condition. Frightened at her age, as well, I would imagine.”
“That goes without saying, indeed. We all were. But Father took grand care of her and held his concerns to himself so as not to alarm her.”
“Your father sounds like a wonderful man. Generous and perceptive,” Mara added. “I know now from whom you gain those things.”
Breandán lowered his eyes upon hearing her compliment. He was pleased to know she saw more depth to him.
“So, tell me more about Gráinne,” she said, inching her horse closer so they were now parallel from each other.
He crisscrossed his wrists over the horse’s withers, trying to act as though their innocent leg brush did nothing to his senses, when in truth, it sent his blood racing through his body. He cleared his throat, hoping to clear his mind of her wonderful, feminine warmth. “She is a lively little one. Very curious. And often smarter than we give her credit.”
“I venture to say she looks up to you.”
Breandán turned his mouth under in thought. “You could say that.”
“I would love to meet her one day.”
“You would, aye? Well, rest assured, Gráinne dearly hopes to meet you as well.”
Mara’s brows rose high. “She told you that?”
“Aye.”
He saw a sense of endearment on Mara’s face as she inquired further. “And how does she know of me?”
Breandán wanted to laugh at her naivety. “I think it rather difficult to find one person in Connacht who knows not of you. You are the king’s daughter.”
“I suppose you are right,” Mara replied, seeming slightly dejected. It may not have been the answer she was looking for, but it was the truth. She was the king’s daughter, though nowadays, he assumed she didn’t expect it to hold much merit.
Conscience of the disappointment in her voice, he added, “If it makes you feel any better, my whole family has talked about you. And they look forward to one day meeting the woman whose father was once very generous to them.”
Mara contemplated his words. “Would I be too presumptuous, then, in thinking that was an invitation?”
Breandán smiled. “Not in the least.”
She smiled for him. “I dare say that may very well be a better reason for going to Connacht.”
Interesting, Breandán thought. He had half expected her to deny Callan’s wishes through blatant defiance, though now she seemed to have an actual motive for going. Any other man would have pushed the issue, hoping to convince her of that decision, or at the least, make enough headway so she was unable to turn down the offer. Breandán, however, did not. He wanted her to meet his family because she desired it, not because he swayed her toward the notion.
“Shall we?” Mara asked, gesturing toward the fort.
Breandán dismissed his thoughts and took one last look at the distant guards eyeing him. “After you.”
He watched Mara slip off her horse’s back and lead it toward the narrow gateway. Breandán followed suit, dismounting and trailing behind her. He took notice of how the entrance wall strategically veered to the right as she passed through.
Mara glanced back beyond the lintel as if to detect a bit of apprehension in his movements. “Worry not, Breandán. You are amongst friends here. Your own countrymen.”
Breandán nodded in agreement, though unable to forget the reaction he had gotten from those fellow countrymen earlier that day.
****
As they entered the gates, the impressive span of the outer wall could truly be appreciated as the incredibly large area it encompassed was now readily visible.
Before them, lay an open field of circular stone huts with thatched conical roofs, and slow-burning fire pits in random places. A few men arbitrarily congregated between the houses, sharpening tools and discussing topics of unknown debate, though he figured his arrival on the isle had already been the main subject of conversation.
Breandán’s eyes shifted all around him, adding the number of men he had counted along the distant terrace wall with those he saw within. Not because he was paranoid or had harbored a fear of enclosed places. It was something he did, wherever he went. He’d like to think of it as a precautionary measure, nothing more.
“Come. This way,” he heard Mara say.
He followed her through the maze of huts until it opened up into a field of haphazard vertical rocks. Upon seeing the impressive chevaux de frise, he realized why the ancient fort had long stood the test of time. The marvelous display of obstacles scattered about the base of the second wall would effectively prevent any enemy from attacking. Their usual means of catapults, rams, horse-drawn carts, and even the charge of foot soldiers could never get close enough to lay siege. It was certainly a remarkable sight.
To the northeast of the wall, he saw several men sword-playing with a small boy—Lochlann, he presumed.
Breandán watched intently as they came at the boy from all sides, jabbing and thrusting in a sequential dance. Lochlann turned and twisted, blocking with his shield and countering with all his might. He even thought he heard the boy grunt at times in his efforts.
Breandán smiled, thinking back to when he was a lad, learning the wards of the sword. He remembered his own struggles with the weight of the sword and not being as graceful as Lochlann appeared to be.
Mara threw her reins over the horse’s back and walked briskly toward the group, though she didn’t look pleased the men had kept her son up at such a late hour. When the boy caught sight of her, he left his lessons and ran to her, weapon and shield still in hand.
“Mother!” he called. “You came just in time!”
Mara tousled his blond unruly coif as she hugged him. “I did?” she said, feigning ignorance. “Why for?”
He stepped back from her arms and thrust his sword forward as if she were the dangerous enemy, and then spun around on his toes, using his shield to protect his little vulnerable body.
Mara placed both her hands on her hips, watching her son’s display with pride. “Extraordinary footwork, Lochlann.”
But Lochlann dropped both of his arms at his sides in disappointment, his large wooden shield nearly touching the ground at his feet. “You are not supposed to be watching my feet, Mother.”
“Well, I was—”
“You are supposed to watch my sword. Ultan taught me how
to thrust and then to use my shield to knock out Alfarinn’s teeth!”
Mara frowned, though more of it was directed at Ultan, Nevan’s brother, for teaching her son over-exuberance. “I agreed not to let you learn how to knock out Alfarinn’s teeth. You are here to learn sword skills, though I am not too certain why it must extend beyond your bedtime.”
Lochlann rolled his eyes.
“Now come,” Mara redirected as she put her arm around him. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
Lochlann sighed and dragged his feet as he walked toward Breandán, a look of complete disinterest plaguing his sweaty little face.
Breandán inhaled deeply, knowing by the sheer look of the boy he was going to be a challenge to impress, much less hold a conversation. They were disturbing something Lochlann enjoyed, and he knew that was the only thing the lad had on his mind.
Mara and Lochlann stopped directly in front of him. The boy was dressed in brown breeches, torn at one knee, and a common blue tunic. His dark blond hair was disheveled and dripping wet at his temples. What stood out from the typical, energetic lad’s attire was the over-sized bear cloak draped across his shoulders. It was far too big on the boy and nearly scraped the ground at his heels. He also noticed Mara still had her arm around the boy, most probably to keep him from retreating.
“Lochlann, I want you to meet a friend. His name is Breandán.” She gently nudged him forward.
Breandán immediately dropped to one knee so the boy didn’t have to look up to meet his gaze. “Hello, there.”
Lochlann didn’t reply. He only staked his wooden sword into the ground at his feet, more concerned with how far he had driven it than talking with Breandán.
He tried another approach. “I see you are wearing your father’s cloak.”
That did it.