Erinsong

by Mia Marlowe

  Erinsong

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  PRAISE FOR MIA MARLOWE’S ERINSONG …

  “Erinsong is lushly romantic. (Marlowe) captures the atmosphere of early Ireland, gifting us with a lovely, sweet story of love’s power to overcome hate and fear.”—RT BOOKReviews

  “(Marlowe) creates an aura...in this story that indulges her readers and leaves them wanting more. Erinsong is a powerful love story, rich in vivid detailing, strong characters and a hero and heroine who touch your heart in places you didn’t know existed. Erinsong is a masterpiece. I loved this captivating story and you will too.”—Fresh Fiction

  “A brilliantly told tale...Erinsong is romantic, emotional, and very memorable and will leave readers wanting more. A lush and richly developed historical with vivid detailing and forbidden love....I was drawn to the characters in a way that had me wishing the story would never end. A moving portrayal of love conquering all, Erinsong is a ‘keeper.’ Bravo!”—Historical Romance Writers

  “Erinsong is simply wonderful...so well-told and the characters so riveting that I couldn’t help but fall right into the story....If you’re looking for a book to while away a long winter day, this should do it— along with a cup of coffee and a good fire, you’ve got a perfect cure for the winter blues.—Desert Isle Keeper Designation!”—All About Romance

  PRAISE FOR MIA MARLOWE’S MAIDENSONG …

  “Brings both Scandinavia and the exotic eastern city known to the Vikings as Miklagard to life through her strong characters. Readers will watch for her next historical romance.”—Booklist

  “From Scandinavia to the Byzantine slave markets, this steamy love story calls to mind the great mistresses of the genre: Small, Henley and Mason. Filled with forbidden love, betrayal, redemption and hope.”—RT BOOKReviews

  “A fresh new voice in romance. Dramatic and stirring, Maidensong will leave you clamoring for more.”—Connie Mason, New York Times Bestselling Author of Sins of the Highlander

  “Fast-paced and extremely enjoyable. If you enjoy a passionate tale told across the tapestry of a well-woven historical backdrop, then you must pick up this.”—Historical Romance Writers

  “A beautifully written epic tale of love, honor, and sacrifice.”—Romance Reviews Today

  “Maidensong takes us on a whirlwind journey.... an incredible amount of storytelling talent. Take this wonderful journey—you’ll be glad you did.”—Fresh Fiction

  MAIDENSONG

  A VIKING BY ANY OTHER NAME...

  “Is that all I am in your eyes? Just a Northman?” When Brenna tried to pull away, he tugged her in close and cupped her chin. “Can you not say my true name? Not even once?”

  He leaned toward her, his deep eyes dark in the moonlight. His mouth was so close, one corner turned slightly up. Brenna gulped, wondering what that mouth might taste like.

  “Jorand,” she said softly.

  The name was nearly swallowed up as his lips covered hers in a kiss both sudden and inevitable. Her first impulse was to pull away, but his mouth beguiled her. It was not the kind of kiss she expected from a man like him.

  His mouth was warm and sure, pressing against hers just enough to let her know she’d been kissed before he pulled back. It was as sweet a kiss as she could imagine. A kiss that wanted to give, not take. A kiss that left no bitterness in its wake.

  “There now, that wasn’t so terrible, was it?” he asked.

  “Saying your name or letting you kiss me?”

  “Both.”

  Her lips twitched in a suppressed smile. “It was tolerable.”

  “Just tolerable?” He grinned. “I know can do better than that.”

  A Note to Readers

  Dear Reader,

  At the end of MAIDENSONG Bjorn’s friend Jorand vows to set off on a three year sojourn to see the wide world and have some adventures of his own.

  When my husband and I visited Ireland and saw the fabulous artistry in the Book of Kells at Trinity University, I decided I wanted to write about an Irish heroine who had mastered the art of illuminating manuscripts. Then when I learned that Dublin started as a Viking over-winter settlement, I knew where Jorand ended up after his adventures with Bjorn and Rika in the first book. The kernel of the idea behind ERINSONG was born.

  I hope you enjoy my Irish love story. As always, I’d love to hear from YOU! Please feel free to contact me through my website, or catch me on Facebook or Twitter!

  Happy Reading,

  Mia

  http://www.miamarlowe.com

  http://facebook.com/MiaMarloweFanPage

  http://twitter.com/mia_marlowe

  P.S. In case you’ve been wondering what Rika and Bjorn have been up to since the end of MAIDENSONG, you’ll be happy to know you’ll see them again in ERINSONG. Enjoy!

  Erinsong

  by Mia Marlowe

  Copyright @ 2006, 2012 by Diana Groe

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Chapter One

  A shriek rent the air.

  Brenna dropped the bucket of mussels and ran toward the sound. She shouldn’t have let Moira wander away. If anything happened to her younger sister, their father would never forgive her.

  She’d never forgive herself.

  Fear made her wing-footed. When she rounded the outcropping of dark basalt, she found Moira cautiously circling a body on the sand. A man was curled on his side, one long arm draped over a wooden cask.

  Brenna breathed out a sigh. God be praised, Moira was unhurt.

  “Is he dead, do ye think?” her sister asked.

  “Seems to be.” Brenna used the butt of her walking stick to push the man’s shoulder and roll him onto his back. He flopped over as lifelessly as a beached porpoise. Dark blood crusted at his hairline where he’d obviously taken a blow.

  “Oh, he’s a fine, strong lad. Look at the arms on him, Brenna.”

  The stranger was even more heavily muscled than the local smith, and though he wasn’t stretched out to full length, Brenna could see that if he were standing upright, he would be far taller than any man in her father’s keep. His pale hair was a tangled mess, but even dusted with brine and sand, the man’s face reminded Brenna of the fierce warlike angels painted on the scriptorium walls at Clonmacnoise Abbey— stern and forbidding, but heart-stoppingly beautiful.


  Brenna’s gaze fell on the runic symbols carved into the hilt of the knife at the man’s waist. Her lip curled with loathing. “One of the Normanni.”

  “A Northman?” Moira leaned closer to him. “Mother used to frighten us with stories of Northmen when we were little, but even though they’ve raided near us, I’ve never seen one in all me living life.” She cocked a questioning brow at Brenna. “Do ye mean to tell me ye have?”

  “Aye, though I wish I had not.” Brenna’s voice was flat and she raised the pointed end of her staff toward the still figure.

  “Are all Northmen so fair, then?”

  “No, not all,” Brenna said through a clenched jaw.

  “This one surely is. He’s so pretty. ‘Tis a pity he’s dead.” Moira bent to smooth a damp lock of hair from the man’s cheek.

  Suddenly his eyelids flew open, and he grabbed Moira’s wrist. She screamed and tried to pull away, but the stranger’s grip was firm.

  No, not this time.

  White-hot rage surged through Brenna and a low growl erupted from the back of her throat. The Ostman heathen dared put his filthy hand on her sister. Almost in reflex, she jabbed his thigh with her staff, burying the sharp point into his flesh. Her stomach lurched at the way the shaft stuck, embedded in the man’s heavy muscle. Brenna jerked backward on it, but couldn’t pull it free for another stab.

  The good nuns at Clonmacnoise had admonished her that anger, or any other strong passion for that matter, was a sin. But Brenna knew if she were able, she’d pound the man into raw meat before the fury inside her was quelled.

  Eyes wide with surprise, the stranger howled and released Moira.

  “Run!” Brenna ordered. Her younger sister fled, disappearing around the rocks, fleet-footed as a hind.

  The man wrapped his long fingers around Brenna’s makeshift spear and yanked it from his leg with a grunt and a spurt of blood. Then he jerked the other end of the staff from her grasp.

  Despite his injury, the man rose to his feet, blood spreading on his dun-colored leggings and streaking toward his knee. He tossed her stick into the gorse bushes. Then he turned to face her, his handsome features marred by a black frown.

  For one paralyzing moment, Brenna couldn’t breathe. The lapping of the waves played over in her head like a half-remembered song. A gull screamed and she was sharply aware of the fishy reek of the sea. She couldn’t move. Just like before when a Northman blocked her way.

  She feinted to throw him off balance, then turned and raced down the beach in the opposite direction Moira had fled. She heard the man’s footfalls pounding behind her and lengthened her stride. He shouted something to her in an evil-sounding language, and though his tone wasn’t threatening, she wouldn’t be tricked by the likes of him.

  Surely she could outrun a half-drowned man with a hole in his leg. Surely she could—

  The man lunged, wrapping his arms around her waist. Brenna pitched headlong into the gritty sand. They rolled together, over and over, Brenna scrambling to get away, the man grasping at her to keep her with him. When they finally came to a stop, Brenna was pinned beneath the big man’s body.

  “Get off me, ye Finn-Gall demon!” Brenna pummeled his chest with her fists. The man caught up her hands and pressed them into the sand above her head. She flailed her feet trying to kick him, but he wrapped his long legs around hers, binding her fast.

  All she had left were words, and she spewed out the most hateful curses she’d ever heard. She invoked every plague imaginable to rain down on the stranger’s golden head and offered his immortal soul to Beelzebub with all the venom she could muster.

  The man didn’t blink an eyelash, his impossibly blue eyes going darker by the moment. His face hovered over hers, his expression unreadable. He let her rant until she was utterly spent and gasping.

  “That’s the best string of insults I’ve ever heard,” he said calmly. The corners of his mouth turned up in a wry smile despite the furrow between his dark brows.

  Brenna felt the blood rush from her face.

  “Ye understand me?”

  “Let me see. You seem to think I’m something called an incubus from the Netherworld and you invited the Prince of Darkness, whoever he is, to feast on my liver. Ja, girl, I think I understand you.”

  Brenna felt his belly quiver as if he suppressed a laugh. In spite of the way his brows knit together, he seemed genuinely amused, Devil take him.

  “How is it ye speak our tongue?”

  The smile faded and the man’s frown deepened. “I... don’t know.”

  He continued to study her face as if the answer might be found there. Though his body felt heavy on hers, he lay perfectly still, making no threatening movements.

  That won’t last long.

  If she could keep the man talking, distract him a bit, maybe she’d be able to get away. Surely Moira had arrived back at the keep by now. Da and the men would be grabbing their bows and sprinting toward the beach to her rescue. She drew a shaky breath, taking heart at the thought that the fighting men of Erin might pop over the hillock at any moment. “Where will ye be coming from?”

  A grimace creased the Northman’s face, and his eyes flitted back and forth in their reddened sockets. He’d spent quite some time in the sea, Brenna realized.

  “I don’t know.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “Don’t know? Many’s the man who’s lost his way and doesn’t know where he is, but sure and ye are the first I’ve seen who couldn’t say where he’d been.”

  The warm stickiness of the man’s blood seeped through the fabric of her tunic. Maybe blood loss accounted for the panic flickering across the man’s features. She must have jabbed him deeper than she thought.

  “How did ye find yourself in the sea?” she asked.

  His eyes rolled again, as though searching for the answer. His grip loosened, but she still couldn’t escape. At least he hadn’t tried to slobber on her or ruck up her skirt. Though his body pressed hers into the sand, he showed little interest in her. He seemed to be more confused than anything else.

  “Ye don’t know much, do ye?” She arched a brow at him. “Maybe ye’ll be telling me your name, then?”

  “My name,” he repeated woodenly.

  “Aye, ‘tis not a hard thing, surely.” She managed to slide her hands out of his grasp, but he didn’t seem to notice. “All God’s creatures have names. Even Northmen, I’d wager.”

  The man pressed his hands against her cheeks, holding her head immobile, and stared into Brenna’s eyes. His chest heaved and she silently cursed herself for baiting him.

  Then to her surprise, he rolled off her and sat up. She crabbed backward, scuttling away from him, and scrambled to her feet.

  Brenna had every intention of dashing over the small rise of sand and into the hills, but the Northman was behaving so strangely, taking no notice of her at all. And besides, if she stayed to keep an eye on him, Da would be proud she hadn’t let him get away. It wasn’t much, but if she showed a bit of courage now, maybe Da would begin to forgive her for her cowardice at Clonmacnoise.

  It was worth the risk.

  Brenna watched in morbid fascination as the Northman sat holding his head, rocking forth and back, making small groans in time with the movement. His moans grew louder until finally he threw his head back in frustration and roared wordlessly to the sky.

  The bone-chilling sound sent Brenna’s heart to her toes.

  Saints above, a madman! She froze like a hare in the thicket who knows a fox is sniffing nearby.

  Chapter Two

  He thumped his head with the heel of his palm, but no clear memory would form. It was as though he had winked into existence the moment he woke on the beach. For a brief flicker, he caught the vague outline of a face in his mind, but as soon as he focused on it, the image wavered and faded like morning mist.

  What was wrong with him? Thoughts flitted through his brain like a school of cod, darting about and disappearing into the depths before he cou
ld get a net around one.

  At the edge of his vision the girl was still there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as if she wasn’t sure what to do. It had been a mistake to vent his frustration in that insane howl. All it accomplished was to terrorize the one person who might be able to help him. He must bridle himself.

  Why doesn’t she run off? The way his leg was beginning to throb, he doubted he could catch her again.

  He turned his head to look at her. Her curly brown hair billowed out like a banner in the breeze. The girl’s gray eyes were wide with a combination of fear and fascination. The even features of her oval face were strained. She reminded him of a small squirrel caught in the paralyzing gaze of an adder. With a pang, he realized that made him the snake.

  “Be easy, girl. I’ll not harm you.”

  “Me Da says Northmen go mad and scream like that before battle.” She took a half step toward him, eyeing the wound on his thigh. “Are ye truly mad then?”

  He snorted. “A true madman wouldn’t be likely to know, would he now? You think I’m a Northman?”

  “Aye.” Her face screwed into a frown.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The symbols on your knife sheath. I’ve seen runic writing before. Besides, ye’ve the look of a Northman,” she said briskly. “And I heard ye speaking their savage tongue.”

  A blinding white light shot through his brain, followed by images of a dragon-headed ship, the dim hall of a longhouse filled with feasting warriors, and great gray swells of the sea. Ja, he was a Northman. The language and lore careening through his mind confirmed it.