She was amazed to see these men, who had been so serious, so warily concerned for so long, be at ease amongst each other. For weeks she had watched them fret and conduct themselves in a dutiful manner, all for her safety. But now, with the lands secure and the threats of Donnchadh’s reign gone, the mood was pleasant and joyful.
She drew in a deep breath and found Breandán gazing upon her, his light eyes playing with her. The heat of his stare burned into her very soul. About the time she looked away, Gráinne fisted the hem of Breandán’s tunic and jerked on it.
Breandán tore his eyes from Mara and gave his sister his attention. “What is it?”
“Are you going to marry her?” Gráinne asked, her tiny voice carrying well over the volume of everyone else’s. So much, in fact, that it silenced the entire forest.
Breandán fidgeted and Mara saw the slight blush to his face. She thought it adorable that a grown man could still flush with modesty.
“Aye, Breandán…” Tait cajoled, his arms crossed daringly over his chest, his legs spread in defiance. “Are you going to marry Mara?”
Breandán’s confidence wavered as he glanced between Tait and Nevan. But after he took one look at Mara, he seemed to find all the self-assurance he needed. “Indeed I am.”
Tait’s right brow lifted and cleared his throat, his face illustrating his skepticism.
“That is, of course,” Breandán amended, looking at Nevan, “if her father will allow me the honor of his daughter’s hand.”
Silence invaded the congregation as the king held his answer within him.
Breandán had claimed she was his next breath—his very reason for breathing at all. But he wasn’t breathing now. He held his breath and stood very still.
Finally, Nevan put his hand on Breandán’s shoulder and smiled. “There are few men who deserve my daughter’s hand. But I can honestly say you are one of them.”
Moved by Nevan’s praise, Breandán bowed his head and closed his eyes.
He could breathe again.
Chapter Thirty-two
Funeral rites extended over the next few days for those who had lost their lives in the battle against Donnchadh’s men. Mara hated to see so many laid to rest, especially the body of Sorcha. Though she never met the woman, she was indebted to her for saving Breandán’s life. Watching him grieve, however, for his childhood friend was heart-wrenching. It made her long to get home to her son more than ever. She missed him greatly, wanting nothing more than to see his bright smiling eyes and feel his tiny exuberant arms around her neck.
By the end of a fortnight, Liam’s stronghold had been repaired and she and Breandán’s family could finally sail for Inis Mór. When they arrived, every islander swarmed their ships with joy and relief. No one could have possibly felt more reprieve than Mara, who had leapt from the side of the longship into knee-deep water to get to her son.
Lochlann’s embrace felt so good and soothing against the dark memories of the past weeks spent without him. His voice calmed her aching heart, and his childlike stories of events and adventures with Brondolf and Alfarinn filled her welcoming ears. It was wonderful to hear the three lads had found a way to get along, and she couldn’t help thinking Breandán had a hand in it.
Breandán had brought about many changes; her once empty heart felt whole again, and she possessed countless reasons for looking toward the future. There was a difference in Nevan as well. He was joyous and generous as he welcomed Breandán’s family onto the isle. But the greatest change, Mara noted, was with Tait.
Though he still had some reservations with Breandán being good enough for Mara, he was not so apt to publicize them as readily as before. He seemed to be more reflective, more understanding. And that was truly revealed the evening of Mara’s wedding.
She stood at the cliff’s edge, the Atlantic crashing against the rocks below. The golden celestial sun hovered amongst a blanket of red and orange clouds draped along the horizon.
“Are you all right?”
Mara glanced away from the impressive sunset to see Tait looking out into the distant sea. “Aye, I am.”
Tait nodded in affirmation. “I used to think as a chieftain, ‘twas my duty to make decisions for my people, my family. To decide what is best for them. But I realize now, I am to lead them in a way which allows them to make sound decisions for themselves, so in the event of my absence, they are able to continue down the path toward righteousness. Having been blessed with a daughter has shown me that.” He paused a moment, taking in a deep breath of the fresh island air. He looked at her now. “I have made many mistakes since Dægan has left this earth, and ‘twas not because he failed to demonstrate the makings of a great leader. ‘Twas I who was blind to his guidance. I hope you will forgive me for not being the leader and…friend I was supposed to be.”
Mara turned to face him. His jaded, sad eyes reflected the days he’d spent beating himself up for trusting in Gunnar. “You are a great and noble leader, Tait. There is no one on this island who can say you did not give your all in safeguarding both Dægan’s and Nevan’s people. Putting full faith in Gunnar was not your fault. He deceived us all. That being said, a great chieftain does not dwell upon the past as he leads. He channels a path deep enough from which no one can stray.”
Tait closed his eyes and sighed, almost as if he thought himself incapable of such a task. But Mara knew better. Despite being currently racked with guilt, he would soon find the fire within him to be the formidable leader he was born to be. It would just take time. Like all things.
Tait threw his head up, fighting what seemed to be an outpouring of tears, and looked out into the remarkable crimson sky. The vast waters glimmered with vivid light. “I miss him.”
The pain in those words tore at Mara’s heart. It was true, Tait often lost his composure in anger or frustration over the littlest thing, wearing his heart on his sleeve. But when it came to Dægan and his death, few heard him speak of it, and less saw him cry.
There was nothing she could say in reply that would make him feel better. It was a loss too great to heal with words. Only time has that effect and unfortunately, time has no need for immediacy.
“We all miss him, Tait. But I can still feel him. Dægan is here…with us. I know it.”
Tait reached for her and took her into his arms. “Well, I believe this colorful sunset attests to that, my lady.”
He was right. It had been a long time since a sunset as spectacular as this one had splashed across the western sky. Like the evening they had laid Dægan to rest seven years ago, she took this twilight grandeur as a sign. An indication that Dægan was happy she found love again and would always be there in her heart.
“Now come,” Tait said, taking her hand in his. “We do not want to keep your betrothed waiting.”
She pulled back, hesitant. She fidgeted, smoothing the bodice of her beautifully embroidered gown. “H-how do I look?”
Tait crossed his arms and tilted his head, looking at her from head to toe. “Like a princess.”
****
The ancient stone fort, resting prominently at the cliff’s edge, housed yet again an assembly of Irish and Norse peoples. But this time, no one was suspicious of the groom or his intentions. There was no impending alliance to be secured. Or wary islanders to appease. Every person knew without a doubt that Breandán would marry the king’s daughter for no other reason than because he loved her.
Island flowers garlanded the inner bailey and wallwalk in colorful strands of purple and yellow. A permanent stone platform acted as the focal point upon which Mara and Breandán would stand before God and guests. Torches lined the aisle way prepared for the purpose of Mara’s grand entrance. And a backdrop of the starry sky completed the perfect stage for this long-awaited ceremony.
As Tait entered the bailey from the large wooden gates, whispers abounded. He smiled to himself and joined Nevan and Breandán at the front of the group.
“Where have you been?” Nevan asked, his voice cur
t as he whispered in Tait’s ear.
“At the cliff. With Mara.”
“Oh,” Nevan pondered that thought. “Is she all right?”
“Aye.”
Nevan straightened his chin and inhaled deeply. “It seems you are trying your hand at contemplating life and all its wondrous moments. How is that glove fitting you?”
“Exceptionally well, actually.”
“Good. I shall have you know ‘tis suiting me just fine to hear you speak this way.”
Tait laughed. “Did you see the sunset this night?”
“I did. ‘Twas the most beautiful one yet.”
Tait nodded soundly in agreement for it was a sight no words could describe.
Nevan looked around. Still no sign of Mara.
“She will be here,” Tait soothed.
“Of course she will,” Nevan said convincingly under his breath.
But Tait wasn’t so sure Breandán believed it. He elbowed Nevan, gesturing toward the nervous groom.
Nevan observed Tait’s wide devious grin. “You are enjoying the poor fellow suffering, are you not?”
“Indeed, I am.”
****
Marcas looked to his right upon hearing Breandán’s anxious exhaling—for the third time. “Stop sighing, a chara. You have waited seven years for her…what’s a few more moments?”
An eternity.
He took in all the faces around him, his father in particular, Nevan, and Tait. All seemed to be smiling in spite of his impatience. One such person, he didn’t expect to be grinning: Lillemor. He followed her gaze and realized she held his friend’s attention.
Breandán rolled his eyes. “Will you please stop staring?”
“She has been giving me the eye since we arrived yesterday. It looks as though she wants me to give her something in return.”
Breandán’s eyes widened. “Have you lost all sense of appropriateness, Marcas? There is a man of the cloth standing beside you.”
“So.”
“So, you best not do anything I would not do.”
Marcas scoffed. “And what fun would that be?”
“I mean what I say, Marcas. Do not humiliate me not in front of Mara’s family.”
“I believe you will do that just fine on your own once you consummate the marriage. ‘Twill not take long before the whole isle learns of your size…” Marcas glanced down at Breandán’s groin. “or lack there of. Women do talk.”
Breandán sighed. “Is that all you can ever think of? Genitals?”
Marcas gave Breandán a sideways glance. “Your genitals, never. Lillemor’s however…”
Breandán ground his teeth together. “Enough.” As he spoke his last warning, his attention drew to the distant gates of the stone fort. Mara entered the bailey, a white linen gown adorning her dainty body. Her radiant face mesmerized him. Her dark silken hair cascaded down her shoulders, a ring of island flowers crowning her. Her curvaceous hips swayed slightly as she walked toward him. Small succulent orbs peaked from the bodice of her dress, revealing a line of alluring cleavage. Her arms were long and slender, excellent for wrapping around a husband’s neck and holding on tight.
She was perfect.
Perfect for him in every way.
There was nothing he’d change about her. Every part of her graceful body was perfection, and she would be his, to have and to hold, from this day forth, until death do they part.
He swallowed hard as she stepped upon the platform and joined him at the ceremonial altar. A wall of fragrance hit him. She smelled of lavender, saxifrage, and sweet, perfumed oils, all of which blended in a clean harmonious scent that nearly took his breath away.
“Dia duit, a thaisce,” he crooned.
She smiled at him, dazzling beyond belief. Her dancing green eyes pierced his soul and her touch thwarted every ounce of his composure when she took his hands in hers. The simple act of linking her fingers with his made him realize his dreams were finally coming true. His days of longing for her touch and pining for her love were over.
The monk stepped forward and wrapped a strip of linen many times around their clasped hands. It was the one Gráinne had made for Mara. Though the cloth was only to to symbolize their permanent union, there was no better way to describe his feelings for Mara than to look at the customary method of handfasting. He was bound to her.
Tá m'anam is mo chroí istigh ionat.
****
Breandán took a deep breath as he sat on the boxbed in Mara’s longhouse, stoking the fire in the hearth. He stared at the lively flames but never saw them. All he could think about was Mara—his wife—and the moment they were about to share in consummating their marriage.
He drew in another breath, trying to settle his nerves, but they were incapable of being calmed. In fact, a storm raged within him, a mixture of fear, elation, and tension.
As he paced back and forth, he stopped abruptly. Mara stood by the hearth, her stunning, naked body captivating him.
She was nervous, he could tell, and a bit self-conscious. Normally, she would have thrown her hands into the front of her tunic, wringing them into the fabric. But without a single stitch of clothing, he noticed she was hard-put to place them.
His lips curved upward. He stared, though he didn’t mean to. What was a man to do? She stood there, presenting herself to him; allowing him the pleasure of seeing what was going to be his, what was going to lie beside him night after night, what was rightfully his to touch.
He shuddered at the thought, his eyes trailing from her breasts down to the triangular patch of soft dark curls. She was an angelic sight to behold.
Slowly, he walked closer, his eyes washing over the subtle curves of her body. His legs faltered beneath him at the prospect of taking her naked body in his arms. When he was within reach, he swallowed hard, trembling.
“Forgive me, a thaisce,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For staring. You are so beautiful…”
Mara reached up and laid her hand on his chest, splaying her delicate fingers across the flat muscle of his torso. Through the fabric of his tunic, he could feel the heat of her touch incinerating him.
“You are my husband now. I would hope you would enjoy looking at me.”
Breandán covered her hand with his own. “You should have no fear. My love for you was born long before I was. ‘Tis as much a part of me as my own soul.” He brushed her hair from her face, his thumb gently stroking the delicate ridge of her cheekbone.
Touching her—and being free to do so—was a pleasure he had longed for. To know she wanted his touch, was well worth his wait.
He watched her eyes take him in, saw the concern in her face as she caught a glimpse of the wound on his left arm. Tenderly, she reached out and traced it.
“Does it hurt?”
“Nay,” he said, hardly remembering the cut at all.
His wound reminded her of the abuse his neck had also taken from his fight with Gunnar, and she now inspecting it, her eyes softening with pity.
“What about here?” Without pause, she stood on her tip-toes and leaned forward to kiss him below his jaw, her lips feathering across his skin. Contrary to what she might have believed, he felt no pain. Nothing but shivers and sheer delight.
“I feel only your sweet love.” Her gentle touch soothed him more than any healer’s potion or magic spell. Her lips were like the inner petals of a summer rose, delicate and soft. Her warm breath upon his skin tickled, yet he never thought to move away.
He craved more of her caresses. His entire body yearned to feel her touch, jealous of the care she was giving to his neck. But he was not so bold as to rob her of her delightful foreplay. The slight smile on her lips told him she was enjoying herself and that alone was worth the torment of her slow advances.
“Do you hurt anywhere else?” she whispered against his throat.
Before he could deny any pain, he felt her hands skim down his arms, leaving behind a trail from her heated
touch. She dropped to her knees, her hands trailing over his hips and across the front of his stomach, unfastening the leather belt at his waist. Without hesitation, she removed the weighty accessory, accidentally grazing him with her hand. As she tossed it to the boxbed, the flash of her green eyes looking up at him told him it was not so accidental.
She glanced at the part of him now freely tenting beneath his clothes. To his dismay, she dragged her hands down his thighs, catching the hem of his tunic with her thumbs, and lifted it above his erection.
God Almighty!
He watched her mouth part, a pink tongue darting from between her lips. Before he could say anything, she brought her mouth near the sensitive tip, her whisper of breath jolting him like a bolt of lightning.
Surely she wouldn’t take him in her mouth.
Though he never dreamed it possible, the thought enthralled him, wondering what it would feel like. She leaned forward and opened her mouth to accept his girth, her lips closing around him. A moan escaped him violently and his legs weakened.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Of course not,” he breathed, trying to regain his wits. But the sight of her at his groin was enough to make him lose control.
“Shall I do it again?”
He couldn’t answer her. His lips wouldn’t move to say the words. All he could do was nod.
With anticipation, he watched her, readying himself for the shock of sensations about to rush through his body. No amount of trying could prepare him for the feel of her hot, wet mouth sleeving over him. Her tongue was like fire, blazing with heat and passion as he felt it curl around him.
His breath hurled from his lungs as if someone had hit him in the chest. He threw his hands in her hair, steadying her. He stared at the ceiling made of rushes. Waiting…catching his breath.
He wanted her love, all of it, but he knew if he didn’t pace himself, he was going to miss all she had to give.
He looked at her now, his hands immediately unclenching from her hair. He didn’t realize he was holding her that tightly, that cruelly. But God, if she didn’t bring this fervor out of him, this blessed intensity of need and fierce hunger.
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