“Your father is here now. Go to her, Son.”
Liam arrived and dismounted in a rush, running to the cart to embrace his wife and children. The war raged around them with a few of Donnchadh’s men left defending a lost cause. Between the Irish newcomers and the scores of Northmen Tait had brought with him, the remaining stragglers were swarmed and beat with clubs.
Breandán snatched his father’s horse and scaled the animal with ease, digging his heels into its flanks. Sprinting across the trail, he blazed a path up the steep embankment toward Mara, his bow ready. He prayed she was safe, begged God she had remained out of harm's way. If something happened to her while he was occupied elsewhere, he would never forgive himself.
As he passed Ultan and the Irishmen protecting the plateau above, he scanned the woods. Though they seemed successful at keeping Donnchadh’s men restrained, there was no way to soothe his restless heart until he could see for himself that Mara was well.
The woods were thick—thicker than he remembered. With one hand on his bow and the other on his reins, he kicked his horse to run faster, his heart climbing in his throat. He called her name, racing to where he thought he had hidden her. But when he circled the massive tree, she was not there.
Hysterically, he searched the ground, his eyes taking in everything. The leaves were bunched up in haphazard piles. Sapling branches were broken and bent. Perhaps a struggle had taken place.
Breandán swallowed hard. A cold gripping fear clung to him. “Mara!” He looked as distantly into the lush woods as his eyes would allow. But there was no reply.
He reined his horse to the right and trekked deeper into the wild grove, his eyes shifting between the telltale tracks leading further into the thicket and the direction in which they led. In desperation, he called for her over and over again, his voice cracking under the weight of his misery.
Finally, from out of the denseness of Ireland’s wooded green, Mara’s voice answered. He jolted his horse forward, urging the animal to run as fast as it could, his only thought was her. His beautiful sweet a thaisce.
“Mara, where are you?” He took the wrath of low lying tree limbs in his face as he raced through the wilderness.
Suddenly, she appeared on the horse he had given her. Her hair cascaded from beneath her helmet in long tangled tresses. In utter delight, he jumped from his horse, threw down his weapon, and ran to her. His feet felt heavy and uncoordinated as he tried to gain speed. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and never let her go.
Mara slid from her horse and tore off her helmet, throwing it aside as she dashed to meet him. He was relieved to see her unharmed and doubly glad to hear her voice calling his name.
The last few paces were the longest. She outstretched her arms and he crashed into her, lifting her off her feet. Her arms felt good around his neck, and her body, though armored with plates and leather, felt amazing against his chest. He couldn’t get close enough no matter how tightly he squeezed her, no matter how far he buried his face in her hair. The natural exotic smell of her drove his senses wild.
He lifted his head from the heavenly crevice of her neck and found her wondrous green eyes. They sparkled with joy as he held her gaze.
“Forgive me, Mara, for not being here to protect you.”
She smiled at him as if she understood the conflicts he had gone through, and clasped his face between her hands. “Your family needed you. There is nothing to forgive.”
“But I had to make a choice between you and my family. And it nearly tore my heart out to have to choose.” He set her on her feet and dropped immediately to his knees, looking up earnestly as he took her hands. “I never want to have to do that again. I want you to be a part of my family. And I want to be a part of yours.”
Mara joined him on her knees, her eyes more intense than he remembered. “I know not who I am or from whom I came. The father I have always known is not even of my blood. How can you wish to be a part of my family when it does not exist?”
“You do have a family. You have Lochlann. You have Tait and all of Dægan’s family. You even have Nevan and his people. Look around you, Mara. Every man here has protected you as though you were his own flesh and blood. And all I am asking is for you to allow me to be a part of it.”
Her lips dropped open as if to speak but he silenced her with his finger. “I know you know not who you are. But I know who I am. And I am the man who should be with you in this very moment of your life. You once belonged with and loved Dægan, a man who was twice the man I could ever be. I cannot fill the void he left in your heart. I would be a fool to try. But I vow, with every breath I take, to love you and keep you safe until the one day you are reunited with him.”
Mara closed her eyes and a single tear trickled down her cheek. Consumed with an impulse to hold her, Breandán cupped her face and tenderly pressed her wet cheek to his mouth. “Marry me, Mara. And let me kiss away all your tears from this day forth. Let me make you happy again. Let me love you like—”
Her lips came crushing against his, stealing his words and robbing him of his breath and wits. Everything was gone, except his burning desire for her, a hunger voraciously feeding on the taste of her passionate kiss.
She had never kissed him this way before. It was different. It was a willing kiss, a kiss with as much fervency as his own soul had felt for so many years.
Her tongue, once shy and hesitant, slipped between his teeth. The feel of her tantalizing mouth dominated his senses and her possessive arms held him captive. Her kiss consumed him—so much, he didn’t notice the presence of another in the woods.
Upon the sound of thunderous hooves, their kiss ended with the sight of man galloping straight for them. With only seconds to spare, Breandán pushed Mara away, taking the brunt of the man’s shield.
He tumbled to the ground, a splitting pain reverberating through his skull. He squeezed his eyes closed, a blackness overtaking him.
Knowing his body wanted nothing more than to succumb to the flat ground beneath him, he gritted his teeth and concentrated on staying conscious. He had to—Mara needed him. He could hear the panic in her voice, the sound of her desperate pleas as she called his name.
His body wouldn’t budge. No amount of willing his body to move could restore his muscles to working.
“Breandán!” Her voice was closer now, as if she were right beside him. Aye, she was, for he could feel her hands touching him, urgently shaking him. And then they were gone—ripped from him as if she were seized and jerked away.
“Unhand me, Gunnar!”
Gunnar.
Panic riquocheted through his body. Fear jolted him awake. The brightness of the sky tore into his brain, the forest spun.
He grabbed his head, trying to secure his bearings. Through his struggle, he saw Mara being hauled away. The sharp slap of Gunnar’s open hand across her face stunned Breandán, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. His blood churned like molten lava within his veins.
He dragged his sluggish self to his feet. He charged forward, ignoring the stiffness hindering him, his eyes on nothing but the cowardly bastard who had struck Mara.
Gunnar’s head whirled around and he shoved Mara aside, unsheathing his dagger. Breandán directed his shoulder into Gunnar’s breastbone and tackled him to the ground, the knife slipping from the Northman’s grip.
****
Mara gathered herself and watched the two men roll around, punches flying, their bodies flailing about. Breandán escaped Gunnar’s guard and roll up on his knees. Straddling the Northman, he threw a solid fist to the man’s face before he was bucked off.
Mara’s heart jumped in her throat, helpless as she watched Breandán hit the ground. Bleeding at the mouth, Gunnar stood up quickly and began searching for his lost dagger.
“Looking for this?” Breandán asked, coming slowly to his feet with the weapon.
Gunnar affixed his dark eyes, his smile heinous. He reached across his waist and unsheathed hi
s sword slow and calculative. “Keep it. Though I doubt ‘twill do you any good. I will kill you and take Mara as my reward.”
Gunnar lunged forward, taking huge steps to close the distance. Breandán darted to his right and snatched Gunnar’s shield from the ground. Successfully he blocked the first hard blow of the Northman’s sword.
Gunnar swung his weapon repeatedly in a roundhouse fashion, keeping Breandán on the defensive, backing him up with every momentous strike.
Mara looked around her, hoping someone would come and see the predicament she and Breandán were in—Ottarr, Ultan, Marcas, anyone! But no one was present. In fact, no one probably even knew where they were.
When the battle with Donnchadh’s men commenced and the Irish at the top of the ravine were hard pressed to keep the enemy at bay, Ultan had demanded she go deeper into the woods and hide. Now that every one had concentrated on securing the valley, she feared no one would find them and it would be too late for Breandán.
Grunts, growls, and iron hitting wood rang out as each man continued to strike the other. Gunnar sliced Breandán’s left bicep, his cry of pain stabbing her in the heart.
She had to do something. She couldn’t just stand there and let Gunnar kill him. Breandán had only a dagger and shield while Gunnar wielded a heavy sword. She knew Breandán barely had a chance with such meager armaments.
Breandán’s bow!
She remembered him leaping from his horse and throwing his bow and quiver to the ground before he had embraced her. But where?
She spun on her heels, scanning the area around her. The monotony of the woodland made it impossible for her to locate the spot where his bow had been discarded.
Again, she heard Breandán groan. This time Gunnar had him backed against a tree, the broadside of his sword inches from Breandán’s throat. The only thing keeping Gunnar from pushing the blade further and slicing him open was a thick oak branch Breandán held in front of him. Both men were shoving as hard as they could, their faces turning red from extreme exertion. There was no escape for Breandán. He still had Gunnar’s dagger, but it was useless, for he was too busy holding the log and safeguarding his head from decapitation.
With great effort, Mara tore her eyes from Breandán—the sight of his trembling body, his bloodied and gaping arm pulling at her heart—and hunted for the bow.
As the moans grew more intense, her dire need to find the weapon intensified within her. She rummaged through every inch of that blasted forest floor until her foot kicked something. Immediately, she spread the leaves away and found what she’d been looking for.
Every part of her wanted to scream with joy as she gripped the sleek wooden bow in her left hand. But when she glanced back at Breandán, Gunnar’s sword was a hair’s breadth away from cutting into his tender neck.
Something surged within her. A flash of courage perhaps. Whatever it was, it took over her heart and mind, her only thoughts being that of Breandán.
Save him!
Fearlessly, she plucked an arrow from the quiver, its soft feathers scraping against her stiff, inept fingers. She fumbled to nock it correctly on the string, taking great pains to remember how Breandán had taught her.
Raise and draw the bow at the same time.
Mara gripped the bow with a vengeance now, took two quick breaths, and drew the string, righting it at her lips as Breandán once showed her. She could almost feel him against her, steadying her as if he were right behind her, his hard strapping body pressed to hers, his warm callused hands encasing her slender fingers.
With the bow pulled taut, she felt empowered. Invincible.
Daringly, she took a few steps forward, sighting in her target—Gunnar’s back .
She stared at the wide target, an easy kill shot, but she still had reservations. Gunnar had never acted this way before. He had always been loyal. A friend. A savior to Tait and Dægan’s entire family.
But now, as he tried with all his might to put an end to Breandán, and end to everything good in her life, he acted more the traitor. He had come after her and Breandán, almost knocking him unconscious with his shield, hauled her away and struck her soundly across the face, proving he was nothing more than a man with malicious intentions.
Mara moved forward and called Gunnar’s name. Her voice, sharp and demanding, surprised her as it rang out. Gunnar glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide.
Breandán used the advantage of distraction and head-butted Gunnar in the face. The unfazed Northman growled in anger and elbowed him in the face. Stunned, Gunnar stole the dagger from his hand and jerked his left arm behind him, ripping him around as a shield.
Hiding behind Breandán with the dagger at his throat, Gunnar stared at Mara with cold dark eyes. “Drop the bow, Mara, or he is dead.”
“Nay!” Breandán demanded, his neck hyper-extended. “He will kill me regardless. And then you.”
“I am not going to kill you, Mara. At least not yet. Especially since Tait promised you to me.”
“Mara you can do this,” Breandán said.
“Actually,” Gunnar taunted, shifting his body further behind Breandán. “I would like to see her try. Go on, Mara. Release the arrow. Make it easy for me. Once that arrow pierces your lover’s heart, you will not have time to nock another. You will not escape me.”
“Listen not to him,” Breandán intervened sharply. “He is only trying to distract you.”
Mara felt her hands tremble. The bow swayed within her nervousness. “Breandán, I cannot.”
“You can. I trust you.”
Gunnar jerked the blade, silencing him. “Shut up and let the woman shoot the bow.”
Mara stared at Breandán, her thoughts tumbling over Tait’s sneaky agreement. “Tait would not do such thing. He knows I never cared for you.”
“He is a man of his word.”
“He lies,” Breandán retorted.
“Do I?” Gunnar snarled, contorting the Irishman’s arm behind him. “Here comes Tait now. Let us ask him when our wedding shall commence.”
Mara did not look behind her, her eyes glued to Breandán, though she could very well hear the many heavy horse hooves galloping closer. She held her arms stiff and kept her sights on her target as the group came near. Tait’s was the first voice she heard.
“Mara!”
She heard him dismount and approach. Her voice shook as much as her arms. “Gunnar wants to kill Breandán.”
Gunnar laughed cynically. “I want to protect you, Mara.”
Tait stepped beside her. “Easy Gunnar.”
Gunnar narrowed his eyes. “Tell her, Tait. Tell her what you promised me.”
“The man to whom I promised Mara was someone I once trusted. A man I believed in. But that man no longer exists. Nor does my oath.”
“What are you talking about?” Gunnar gritted. “I did what you asked. I upheld my end of the bargain. I kept her safe from this…” He shifted the knife higher for emphasis. “This knave who thinks he can swoop into Mara’s life and marry her! I heard him. He asked to marry her. But it cannot be. You said yourself neither you nor Dægan would allow this Irishman to even think of gaining Mara’s love. You had claimed to me you owed it to Dægan to see to her safety and if I did such a thing in your stead, you would reward me, ten fold. Now tell Mara to put the weapon down and welcome her new husband as an obedient wife should.”
“Mara is not your betrothed, Gunnar. She never will be. Not after what you have done to Nanna. To Rælik. You betrayed us all in the worst way. And the only way to redeem yourself is to let Breandán go.”
Gunnar’s face furrowed with confusion. “I never betrayed you, Tait.”
Another man dismounted behind Mara and she heard the leaves swoosh with each step he took.
“Son,” Havelock crooned, removing his helmet. “There is no reason to lie anymore. I know what you did. We all do.”
“Father?”
Mara watched Gunnar absorb the sight of his father, the dagger at Breandán’s throat
shaking.
“What are you doing here?”
“If you would have been fighting alongside your allies, instead of hiding in the woods like a coward, you would have seen me. And at least I could have been proud of you for doing what was right. I might have even defended you. But given the path you are taking now, ‘tis the same narrow road you chose so many years ago. This is your chance to be righteous, Son. To be noble. To be a real man. Taking this Irishman’s life will only lead to your death. Set him free and face your wrongdoings like a man should.”
“I have done naught wrong, Father!” Gunnar spat for all to hear. “I know not what you are talking about.”
Then perhaps I can help you remember, Gunnar,” a strange, yet familiar voice echoed valiantly.
Mara wanted to turn around and see who the voice belonged to, but Tait made a quick short grunt, prompting her to remain as she was. Shifting her eyes, she caught sight of the tall broad man with dark blonde hair coming forward. She didn’t recognize him until he removed his helmet and tossed it aside.
She blinked repeatedly, hardly believing her very eyes.
Dægan?
She must have said it aloud for Tait corrected her in a whisper. “Nay. ‘Tis Gustaf. His elder brother.”
Mara swallowed hard. Gustaf resembled her late husband in so many ways, she nearly suspected Tait to be mistaken. His hair was nearly the same color, he stood just as proud, and even the profile of his face was identical. The only way she knew he wasn’t her Dægan was the fact he never gave her a second glance. If he were truly her Dægan, he would’ve made a bee-line to sweep her up in his arms. But this man made no attempt to look her way.
“I am Gustaf, son of Rælik, son of the man you slaughtered in Hladir twenty-three winters ago…in his own home…his wife to watch.”
Mara listened intently to his spiel, noting the volubility of it as if he’d done it many times over.
“There were ten of you sent by Harold ‘the Fairhair.’ I have traveled through rain, snow, and bone chilling north winds, avenging—on behalf of my father—nine worthless men. You, Gunnar, son of Havelock, are the tenth.”
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