While Gustaf orated, Tait whispered to Mara, his eyes still fixed on Gunnar. “Breandán has not much time. Gunnar will try to kill him before this is done. He killed Rælik and Nanna both, and Breandán will be next. Make no mistake.”
Tait’s words chilled her to the bone. It was impossible to believe Gunnar had heartlessly killed Dægan’s parents and was able to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes for so long. To think Gunnar would do the same to Breandán was quite disturbing.
Still keeping his voice low, Tait instructed her further. “Breandán is going to move. And when he does, you must take the shot.”
“I know not if I can,” she admitted, her arms direly aching from her continuous hold on the stringent bow string. “My arms…”
“Forget your arms. Think about Breandán.”
Mara couldn’t believe Tait actually said Breandán’s name without showing some sort of distaste for the man. Could it be he didn’t want Breandán to die either? That he cared enough to save his life?
“I thought you were dead!” Gunnar shouted, his ragged voice catching Mara’s attention again. “I was told you were killed soon after you left to avenge your father.”
“You were told exactly what I wanted you to think,” Gustaf added. “I wanted everyone to think me dead. If anyone thought me alive, including my own family, I would not have been able to avenge my father properly. In this way, I remained one step ahead of your spineless friends. And it seems you as well.”
“Be alert, Mara,” Tait mumbled ever so softly. “Gustaf is getting desperate.”
She tried to be. The only visible part of Gunnar was his face. The rest of him was securely shielded by Breandán’s body. She was not that proficient an archer.
“You know I will have my vengeance,” Gustaf exclaimed. “You will die this day. But you can decide how. You can choose to either die honorably by setting this man free, or you can die with shame. You decide.”
Gunnar whipped his head toward Havelock. “Are you going to stand by and let him do this? I am your son!”
“The moment you allied yourself with Harold ‘the Fairhair’ and killed my friend was the day I lost a son.”
Gunnar was aghast at his father’s words and tightened his fingers around the dagger. “What kind of father are you to condemn your own son to death?”
“The kind of father who knows what is best,” Gustaf answered. “In the eyes of the gods you are a man deemed for the Underworld, floating aimlessly down the River Geine, never knowing the joys of Valhalla’s bounty. Odin will turn his back on you and Thor will curse you. Your father does not want that for you. For once in your life, Gunnar, do something of which you can be proud. Restore your father’s pride in the son he has always loved.”
Mara no longer listened to Gustaf and his unsympathetic discourse, nor did she taked in Gunnar’s vicious reply. She struggled with all that was in her to keep her arms spread, to keep the point of her arrow still. It quivered and swayed, and she feared she wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. Even if she could, how would her burning, weak arms affect her accuracy?
Breandán must have seen her struggling for he locked eyes with her, mouthing silent words for her to understand. Each was slow and enunciated.
Together, he mouthed for her, his neck stretched backward. You and I, together. Breathe in…breathe out…and release.
Mara nodded slightly, letting him know she understood.
“Aim for Breandán, Mara,” Tait instructed.
“What?”
“Trust me. He is going to elbow Gunnar and spin toward him, away from the dagger, opening the target for you.”
“How do you know this?” Mara asked.
“’Tis the only option he has.”
Mara took a deep breath in, large enough for Breandán to notice.
Gunnar glared at Tait now. “I should have known better than to think you could keep your word.” He righted the dagger under Breandán’s jaw, opening his throat. “If I cannot have Mara, then I shall be certain this worthless man will not have her either!”
“Now!” Tait bellowed.
Instantly, Breandán drove his right elbow into Gunnar’s gut and turned on his heels, wrapping his arm around Gunnar’s waist to pivot him around. By the time Breandán had escaped the threat of the dagger at his neck, Mara exhaled and released her fingers on the bow string, the arrow cutting through the air. It sunk deep into Gunnar’s back and the two men collapsed on the ground.
“Breandán!” Mara called and bolted toward him, but Tait caught her arm.
“Wait,” he ordered, spinning her back behind him.
She knew why Tait had halted her. To protect her. To make certain Gunnar was actually dead and not a threat anymore. But she didn’t like it. It took everything she had to wait.
She watched Gustaf unsheathe his sword and walk toward Gunnar’s crumpled body. To her relief, she saw Breandán stir from beneath him. He shoved the corpse aside and looked instantly for her. Her breath escaped her when he stood, and no one, not even Tait, could hold her back any longer.
She called Breandán’s name and ran to him, crashing into the solid wall of his chest. She embraced him and she buried her face in his neck.
“Please tell me you are all right.”
Breandán hugged her tight and lifted her from the ground. “I am now.”
His words were the most blessed, poetic words he could have ever said. They echoed in her head as she felt the strength of his arms around her back, the warmth of his virile male body against hers.
“I love you, a thaisce.” He set her to her feet and burrowed his face in the thick of her hair.
She pulled back slightly so she could look up into his blue-green eyes. She read his hesitant expression, the look that said he probably shouldn’t have been so forward—especially in front of so many people. But she smiled for him, big and proud.
“Would you believe me if I told you I wanted to marry you?”
Breandán’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Kiss me again…and I suspect I would believe anything that came out of your sweet little mouth.”
She pulled him down and slowly took his lips. Every eye watched her and she didn’t care. For so long, she had concerned herself with what others thought. What others would say about her feelings for Breandán. But now, it didn’t seem to matter. All that was important was being in the arms of the man who had loved her since the day they first met, and she knew she loved that man wholeheartedly in return.
Breandán had been the very companion she always needed. The friend who could make her feel whole again. The man who would not expect her to stop loving Dægan, but wanted to simply fill the space left in her heart. And for once, she felt she had plenty of room for a man like Breandán.
He was kind, patient, and above all, selfless. With the kiss he gave her—that tender, yet uninhibited kiss—she knew a gracious, enduring love only awaited her.
When they both opened their eyes, they slowly turned from each other, and took notice of the crowd, which had gathered around them.
Mara slid her hand down Breandán’s arm and took hold of his hand. Determinably, she approached Tait. He neither smiled nor frowned. She couldn’t read him. He was different—unusually calm. And though it made her uneasy, she looked him square in the eye as she spoke.
“Tait. This is the man I want to spend my life with.”
Tait looked briefly at Breandán and back toward her. He shook his head. “I will not allow you to marry Breandán.”
His unyielding statement stopped her heart. She opened her mouth to dispute it, but he silenced her with a quick lift of his hand.
“If Breandán wishes to make you his wife, then he must first ask your father. ‘Tis only fair, do you not think?”
Mara hung her head. “Callan has told me I am not of his blood. And he died before he could say who it was.”
Tait crossed his arms over his chest. “I speak not of Callan. But of your real father.”
&nb
sp; Mara narrowed her eyes. “You know Callan is not my father? But how can that be? You were not—”
Her words fell short. Nevan dismounted from his horse, his face beset with sympathy. She had seen this look before…years ago when she grieved over the loss of Dægan. As if he had so much to say without knowing how to say it.
Nevan stood before her, his eyes soft and kind. “I have known for many years who your real father was.”
She looked between him and Tait. “Both of you? But I do not understand. How could you possibly know who my father is—and I not?”
In tandem, Tait and Nevan answered, “Dægan.”
She drew back, bewildered.
“Mara, listen to me,” Nevan said, taking her hands in his. “When Dægan first met you, he gave you a gift.”
“Aye, a chest.”
“Indeed. And what did he tell you about it?”
Mara thought back to the day when she sat with him in his longhouse in Luimneach. “He said it was a king’s chest. And this king had traveled the known world to fill it with items intended for his only love. But she had been married to another, the king’s sworn enemy.”
“And how did Dægan come to possess it?”
“He said he had come upon the very king who had been stabbed and left for dead by his lover’s husband. The king had given it to him and told him to give it to whomever holds his heart.”
Nevan smiled. “And that was you.”
Mara hung her head. Her heart swelled inside her as she remembered the way Dægan had professed his love for her.
“And how did Dægan say he and I met?”
Mara’s face flew up to his. She stumbled over her thoughts, trying to recall Dægan’s story. “H-he said he had found you, injured. And after he nursed you to health, he returned you to your home. I believe he said you had offered him and his family a permanent settlement on Inis Mór for his kindness.”
Nevan squeezed her hands gently. “I know this may be hard for you to hear, but I am both the king who filled the chest and the man Dægan saved.”
It took a moment for those words to sink in. “You are the king?”
Nevan nodded. “And your mother was the very woman who held my heart for so many years. You are my daughter, Mara.”
Mara’s turned away. “You do not have to do this. I know you are only saying this because you pity me. Because I am without a father.”
Nevan reached out and lifted her chin. “’Tis true. I pity you. I have pitied you since the day I found out you were my daughter. Because I knew one day you would endure yet another heartbreak if you ever found out. But ‘tis not the reason I claim you. I say this to you now, because I can. In the past, I was sworn not to tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because Dægan had made it possible for you to be with me. And that was more important to me than having you hate Callan for what he had done. If anything, I owed it to him not to tarnish the love and respect you had for him, especially since he had raised you into a fine young woman.”
Mara was flabbergasted. So much had happened this day. An attempt had been made on her life by Donnchadh’s men, a horrendous battle had broken out, Breandán was nearly killed, and now Nevan confessed to being her father. Could anything else happen today?
“Perhaps this will help you to believe me,” Nevan stated as bared his shoulder from beneath his cloak and tunic. A raised pink line of jagged flesh marred his chest where Callan’s blade had entered. Nevan brushed away her tear with his thumb. “Forgive me if I have hurt you by not telling you.”
She cupped the hand at her face. “I cry for Mother. She had always taken me to the River Shannon. Waiting. I was too young to realize why she was there, sitting at the water’s edge, singing. But now, as I look back, and I can remember how she would look out, her face longing for your return. She was waiting for you. But you never came.”
Nevan embraced her. The feel of sheer devotion in his arms compelled her to sob on his fatherly shoulder. “If I had known she and I had conceived a child in our only moment of passion, I would have returned. But I loved your mother more than anything in this world. She was the reason I stayed away. I had to. I would have ended up thieving another man’s wife if I did not entirely remove myself from her.”
Mara stayed in Nevan’s arms for a few moments more, putting together the slivers of time from her past. Nevan had always been like a father to her and a grandfather to Lochlann. She often wondered how a man who had barely known her at the time—a king who had many under his charge—could commit himself so dutifully to her well being and her happiness. It all finally made sense: fathers do not expect anything in return for the love and protection they give to their children. They do what they must in order to care for the lives they’ve sired.
Mara stepped back and turned toward Breandán. “I suppose this means I am still a princess.”
As the words left her mouth, the entire group, Norse and Irish alike, knelt before her, their heads bowed in humble acceptance. Even Breandán, Tait, Ottarr, and Gustaf had fallen to their knees.
But the one person whose subservient actions touched her the most, was Havelock. She had killed his son and he was paying homage to her. She walked toward him and stopped directly in front of him. His teary-eyed face stabbed her painfully in the heart as he raised his head to look at her.
Driven by sadness, she knelt with him. She had no idea how this man could even look at her after what he had witnessed. “My heart goes out to you, Havelock. Please forgive the offences I have committed against you.”
Through his grief, he smiled. “There is naught for which you should be asking forgiveness. ‘Tis I who should be begging for yours. ‘Twas my son who brought you and Dægan’s family much strife. And for that, I am truly sorry.”
Mara bowed to him. “You are a great man, Havelock. I am grateful for what you and your men have done here this day. Without you, we would have lost this war.” She laid her hand upon his thick shoulder and stood to face another man amongst her company.
Gustaf.
Through the steps she took to get to him, her mind spun and her heart leapt. His golden hair hung down over his face, concealing his eyes. She assumed they’d resemble Dægan’s, as blue as the sea. And when Gustaf looked up, their bright color flashed through his dark lashes like brilliant gems.
She tried not to stare, but the similarity was drew her in. She detected the few differences between the brothers; Gustaf ‘s nose seemed to favor more of his mother’s, smaller in size. And his face was a bit longer than Dægan’s. Aside from those things and the age upon his face, he was a spitting image of his younger brother.
Gustaf smiled at her in the same haughty manner as Dægan would have. “My lady,” he said respectfully. “I can see Dægan never faltered from his extraordinary gift of finding the rarest, most beautiful jewel in the crown.”
Mara couldn’t hide her grin. “And I can see you possess the same bold charm.” She gestured him to stand. “Please.”
As Gustaf arose to his feet, his height caused her to step back.
’Tis a pleasure to meet the mother of my nephew.”
“You met Lochlann, have you?”
“I met all of my nephews,” he admitted with a proud smile.
“Does this mean you will be staying with us for a while?”
He exchanged glances with his men, a secret conversation taking place between them. “I believe we can be convinced to stay a while, especially if a wedding is to take place.”
Mara looked over and caught Breandán’s smile, even though he still knelt, his head humbly lowered. Despite the dirt, sweat, and blood smeared across his face, neck, and arms, she found his beaten and battered form quite alluring in its own way. Like a warrior who had won the battle of a lifetime, Breandán’s wounds were the marks of his bravery. His boyish face along with his sculpted body was indicative of his youth and vigor—all worthy reasons for taking him as her husband.
And better reasons for taking h
im to her bed.
From out of nowhere, an owl hooted from a distance, a sound Mara faintly recognized. But no one seemed to notice, save for her and Breandán.
Breandán lifted his head and called back, standing to welcome those who were coming into the forest. Many faces emerged from behind the brush, but Breandán strode forward to meet one particular frail woman. He took her by the hand and exchanged a few words with her as they walked, kissing her on the top of her head. A white-haired man, Mara could only assume to be his father, and two young girls, tagged along with Marcas.
“This is Mara, Mother,” Breandán announced proudly.
For the first time, Mara became very aware of the tattered men’s clothing she wore. Embarrarrased, she bowed to his mother anyway and wished she could have met her under better terms.
“Breandán has talked so much about you,” Aoife admitted kindly.
“Even in his dreams,” a little girl professed as she came up and clung to Breandán’s leg.
Breandán shot her a look. “I thought we agreed not to reveal such things.”
The child shrugged her shoulders and curved her face in apology.
Mara smiled and bent down on one knee. “And you must be Gráinne.”
She tilted her head back up at Breandán. “You were right. She is beautiful.”
A clatter of light laughter broke over the group.
“I have a gift for you,” Gráinne said as she dug into her sleeve and pulled out a strip of white embroidered linen, its condition surprisingly unruined.
Mara reached out and accepted the child’s gift, amazed at the care she had taken in each of the colorful stitches. “’Tis lovely, Gráinne. I am so grateful.”
Gráinne looked up at Breandán and smiled with pride. “She likes it, Brother.”
Breandán hugged her, touched to know his little sister had kept the gift on her person this whole time, protecting it in the confines of her sleeve. “And this is Clodagh, my other sister,” Breandán directed. “And my father, Liam.”
Mara stood and greeted him warmly, reciprocating the introductions of her own family members—as eclectic as they may be. It was so delightful to see everyone exchanging smiles and laughing. Even Tait surprised her by joining in on the chatter.
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