by Mia Marlowe
“He marched to the Ulaid’s stronghold with the whole of the Ui Niall clan at his back, demanding the life of the Ulaid’s son in exchange,” Brenna explained. “Me father convinced their king, Domhnall, that none would be served by a blood feud. Better that one should die for peace between the clans, said he, than dot the land with widows and grieving mothers on all sides over an accident. This way, loss was divided with an even hand. Me father is a wise man. The Ard Ri in Tara could not have brought us a fairer solution.”
“Then honor was satisfied.” Keefe nodded his approval.
“Aye,” she said. “The Ulaid’s son Ennis went willingly to his death a hero. The arrangement suited everyone but me mother. The blood of Domhnall’s firstborn wasn’t enough. She’s never forgiven me Da for not avenging Sean properly.”
By finger widths, Brenna had watched her mother retreat into herself till she was little more than a shell of the woman she’d been. Desperate to replace her lost son, Brian Ui Niall’s wife produced a string of stillborn infants at yearly intervals. Then she stopped bearing even those pitiful bundles of malformed flesh. Brenna’s mother pulled away from her husband and eventually from her daughters as well.
Only the chair captured her attention and anchored her wandering mind in this world. An unnatural preoccupation at best, the queen polished and shined it daily till the wood gleamed. All she cared for was that chair. When it was broken during a late-night carouse in the keep, Una of the clan Connacht stopped caring altogether.
“Every Feast of Imbolc, I half expect Da to leave her and be done with the marriage.” Brenna clamped her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t intended to voice that fear, especially not to this strange man. What was it about his calm silence that invited her confidence?
“What’s the Feast of Imbolc?” Keefe didn’t even look up from his carving. He seemed to accept her startling confession without a qualm.
“ ‘Tis the first of February, the day on which all marriages are renewed or dissolved,” Brenna explained. “Either party may leave and no discredit will come to them if they do. ‘Tis a sensible custom, whatever Father Michael may have to say about it. Da says it’s saved many a soul from the sin of murder.”
Keefe chuckled. “Your father is a wise man, princess.”
“Aye,” she said, knotting her fingers together. “But not even a wise man can mend a broken heart.”
Keefe stopped working long enough to fix her with a steady gaze. “Some things that are broken must be dealt with quickly and not be allowed to get worse. Take this chair, for instance. It’s a good thing I came upon it when I did. If it had been left in the weather much longer, the wood would have dried out and warped beyond my ability to repair it.”
The Northman’s eyes were like deep forest pools. Brenna felt herself in real danger of falling into them. He seemed to see right into her heart and glimpse her secret shame.
“If something gets brittle, no amount of care will restore it.” He ran a calloused hand over the chair. “But we caught this in time. As you said, it’ll never be the same. But in some ways it will be better. Stronger. Even more beautiful for its imperfections.”
She was certain he wasn’t talking about the chair anymore. Brenna’s heart thudded against her ribs. Surely he must hear it.
“Most men seem to want perfection,” she said softly.
“And there are those who find perfection boring.” He leaned toward her ever so slightly, as if daring her to shove him away. “The important thing is not to let the damage stand, not to harden with the passage of time.” His voice lowered to a husky rumble. “You’ve suffered, Brenna. I see it. It’s in your eyes every time you look at me.”
Slowly, as if he were afraid she might startle and bolt away, he reached over to cup her cheek in his palm. His hand was warm, but Brenna was sure the heat blooming in her face would scorch him.
“Let me help you, princess.”
His mouth was so close to hers. His warm breath feathered over her lips. All she need do was turn her head and she knew his lips would cover hers. She’d already seen his hands work a miracle in wood. Could this man somehow take her guilty heart and make it right again?
“There ye are!” Moira’s voice interrupted her thoughts and Brenna jerked herself away from the Northman.
“I’ve sounded the dinner bell three times. Have ye not heard it? Oh, look!” Moira’s eyes fairly danced with delight. “Ye’ve mended Mother’s chair. What a fine clever man ye are, Keefe Murphy!”
When Moira stepped lightly into the shed to inspect his work, Keefe beamed under her praise. Brenna could hardly blame him for turning his attention to her pretty sister.
“Come to supper then, when ye’ve a mind to,” Brenna snapped as she skittered out of the shed. All men were idiots, she decided.
“ ‘Tis plain to see how boring he finds perfection,” she muttered, going on to denigrate the man’s heritage back several generations. But she saved her most damning imprecations for herself.
What a fool she was! Thank the saints above Moira arrived when she did. Brenna had almost let a man lure her into lowering her guard with his honeyed words and deep-as-the-ocean eyes.
Now she knew Keefe Murphy was indeed a “fine clever man.” Next time, she’d be doubly wary.
Chapter Six
The chair was finally finished.
Brenna insisted he keep the work out of sight lest her mother stumble upon it in progress and be dismayed, so Keefe kept it covered in the shed when he wasn’t working on it. He stained the new pieces to match the old as closely as he could. Then he rubbed the whole chair with oil till the wood gleamed. The repair turned out even better than he’d hoped.
The princess kept him hopping during the day, fetching water, mucking out stables, and generally serving as her beast of burden. With a start, he realized that he didn’t mind. Even when Brenna’s tone turned caustic, he found himself listening for her voice, wondering where she was when she wasn’t directing his labor.
Brenna was a puzzle. Keefe was sure she’d been drawn to him. He’d certainly felt the attraction between them. It was strong as a riptide, but she fought against it like a swimmer caught between the shore and the deep. His Irish princess was no shallow shoal.
As he worked the wood, snippets of memory came back to him—places he was sure he’d seen. He remembered a seemingly bottomless lake whose surface shone like glass on calm days. It was in the Pictish lands, that wild country populated by fierce tribes who paint themselves blue before battle. In the dark depths of that lake, a terrible monster was rumored to live, a beast so horrible as to defy description.
Brenna was like that lake. Somewhere in her past, there lurked a monster. It would be worth his time, he decided, to sound her depths and uncover it. Whatever beast plagued her, Keefe was determined to slay it and free her from its power.
If she’d let him...
“Are ye sure ‘tis finished?” Her voice roused him from his thoughts.
“It’s as good as I can make it,” he said as he hoisted the chair onto his shoulders.
“Come, then.” Brenna led the way, carefully avoiding getting too close to him, he noticed. Ever since he tried to kiss her, she’d been skittish around him, like some wild young creature desperately needing the crumb he might offer, but fearful of the touch of his hand.
Keefe smiled as he trailed her to the keep. There’d be another chance. He’d make sure of it. And this time he wouldn’t let her get away without feeling the softness of her lips under his.
It seemed the round hall of Brian Ui Niall was always full of retainers. As far as Keefe knew, these men all had farmsteads nearby, but they managed to find their way to the keep for a meal and a horn of ale on a regular basis. Keefe surmised their food and drink was the price of the Donegal’s kingship.
His queen, Una of Connacht, didn’t exactly preside as hostess at these nightly feasts. It was more as though she haunted them. Dutifully, she took her place beside her husband and picked at
her food. Her dark-ringed eyes sent a message of silent reproach to the king at every glance.
Since Brenna had explained to him how simple divorce was on this island, Keefe wondered why the king didn’t leave his somber queen. Then he saw the way Brian Ui Niall looked at his wife. The king loved her—or at least loved the shadow of the woman she’d been—too much to let her go.
The rowdy conversation in the hall ceased when Keefe strode to the center of the room with his burden. He gently placed the chair before Brenna’s mother.
“I believe this belongs to you,” he said, dropping to one knee before the queen of Donegal. Then he rose and stepped back.
Una looked up from her lap and stared at the chair. A light kindled behind her eyes and Keefe caught a glimpse of the beauty she’d been. As though the queen was finally aware of her surroundings, she swept the room with her gaze until her pale eyes met the king’s anxious steel-gray ones. Her mouth curved into a trembling smile. She stood, walked slowly to the center of the room, and laid a quivering hand on the repaired back.
“I thank ye,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
Keefe’s mouth lifted in a smile. When he turned to look at Brenna, he saw her wide eyes glisten with tears. Her soul shined through those gray orbs, bare to the world. And it was a beautiful soul, full of kindness for all her bluster, and all the more lovely for the secret pain she bore.
He’d overheard several of the Irishmen praising the charms of the coppery-haired Moira, but if they could see Brenna as he did, they’d easily dismiss Moira’s delicate allure. Brenna’s beauty went clear to the bone.
“Northman, it’s in your debt I find meself.” Brian Ui Niall laid a hand on Keefe’s shoulder. “When ye came to us with naught but a brave heart and a keg of fine ale, I didn’t spare your life out of charity. I hoped to learn something of an enemy that’s caused us no end of woe. And I wanted to use that new knowledge to harm ye and your countrymen if I could.” The king’s voice crackled with emotion as he watched his wife settle happily into her precious chair. “And now ye do me this great kindness.”
“It was nothing,” Keefe said. “You gave me a chance at life when many would have taken it away, whatever your motives.”
“I’d grant ye a boon, Keefe Murphy,” the king went on. “I still hold ye to your word not to leave us, but short of that, I’d grant ye a request.”
Keefe glanced at Brenna. For a moment, he considered asking for a kiss from the eldest daughter of the house, but thought better of it. He was pretty sure the king’s hospitality stopped well short of his daughter’s favors. And besides, given half a chance, he intended to entice Brenna into kissing him willingly, and soon.
“I remembered more while I worked on the queen’s chair.”
“Then ye know your true name?”
“No,” Keefe said with a frown. “It was more like remembering how to do things. Mostly that I seem to have some experience with wood. I’d like to do some more carpentry.”
“Sure and if that isn’t the easiest request I’ve ever granted,” the king said.
“I’ve seen the little coracles you and your men use for fishing,” Keefe said. The hide-covered crafts were adequate, nothing more.
“What of them?”
“I can make them better,” Keefe said. “They need a keel, a sort of backbone, running down the center. It’ll make all the difference. If you give me leave, I’ll build a little boat that will sail circles around your skin-covered hulls.”
“Aye and he’ll be sailing away at the first chance.” Connor McNaught jumped into the conversation. “Now that he knows the lay of our land, the next full moon, we’ll see a whole great boatload of the Ostman demons landing on our beach.”
Murmurs of assent greeted this pronouncement. The support seemed to embolden Connor further and he strutted over to glare up at Keefe. If the difference in their heights troubled Connor, he gave no sign.
“I’ve given the king my word,” Keefe said. A muscle ticked in his left cheek. He stifled the urge to knock the mocking expression off the Irishman’s pugnacious face. “Brian Ui Niall has no reason to mistrust me.”
“None but the accident of your birth, Northman.” Connor swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His pale eyes were already glassy from too many pints. “I still say ye cannot rely on a man who doesn’t even know himself.”
“I may not remember my name,” Keefe said, flexing his fingers and balling them into fists, “but I know well enough my word is sacred.”
“Sacred! And what might a heathen Ostman know of things sacred?” Connor spat back at him.
“Connor McNaught, ye’re a fine one to talk.” Brenna stepped between them, poking a finger into the center of Connor’s chest. “Ye promised me only last week ye’d see the harness for the mare mended, but ‘tis still in tatters.”
Connor frowned and stepped back a pace.
“Keefe Murphy may be a heathen Ostman, as ye say, yet he’s not promised but what he’s delivered.” Brenna’s eyes flashed as she sent a scalding look toward Connor. “So just ye mind your tongue.”
Keefe resisted the urge to laugh out loud. The princess was actually defending him, but he knew it would be unwise to point it out to her.
Connor looked to the king for support. “Ye surely aren’t going to let him build a twice-cursed dragonship, are ye?”
Brian Ui Niall dragged a hand over his face. “I offered the man a boon. Shall it be said the word of Donegal is taken back just because ‘tis inconvenient?” He caught Keefe with his steady gaze. “I’ll be having your word ye’ll not use the ship to sail away without me favor.”
“You have it,” Keefe said.
“Then I grant ye leave to build it.”
Keefe nodded. “Fair enough. And so there’s no misunderstanding, let me build her in that little sheltered cove. I can test her there for seaworthiness, but the reef will keep me from venturing farther. She’ll have to be hauled overland to the beach before she can be fully tried. When I’m ready to do that, Connor can come with me, if he’s up to it.”
“Handsomer than that a man couldn’t wish,” the king said, clapping him on the back. “Brenna, me darlin’, I leave it to ye to see our Keefe Murphy has what stores he needs for the building of this boat, this... what was it ye said it wanted? A keel, was it?” He raised a questioning brow at Keefe. “Ah, it makes no never mind. Build it with me blessing.”
“It would please me if you’d name the boat when it’s finished,” Keefe said to the king. “A good-omened name protects all who sail in the craft. I’ll build a vessel worthy of a fine name.”
“Why, name it for me, boy-o!” Brian suggested with smile.
“I can’t do that,” Keefe explained. “It needs to be a woman’s name because a ship is like a woman. Reliable and treacherous in turns, but hard for a man to do without.”
“Aye, that’s a woman.” Brian Ui Niall laughed in agreement and motioned to Brenna. “Bring a horn for the thirsty men, daughter. There’s a good lass.”
Brenna nodded and fetched a horn of ale for both the king and Keefe.
The Northman reached out to touch her arm as she passed him.
“Thank you for taking my side this night, Brenna.”
Her lips tightened. “Don’t be thinking more highly of yourself than ye ought, Keefe Murphy. Against the likes of Connor McNaught, I’d side with the Devil himself.”
Chapter Seven
Brenna hugged herself against the stiff wind. From her perch on the rocky promontory, she watched the restless sea, scalloped with whitecaps. Clouds raced across the sky like a herd of long-maned white mares. Her view stretched to the distant horizon where water and sky merged in a smudge of gray.
She tried to focus on that distant point, but her gaze was drawn downward to the man working in the sheltered cove below. The bare skeleton of a miniature dragonship was taking shape, the curving strakes molded in sinuous contours. The symmetry, the clean, even lines of the craft, proclaimed it the w
ork of a master. Keefe was undoubtedly a shipwright of great talent.
Even from this distance, Brenna sensed his satisfaction from the set of his shoulders. In the short time he’d been there, she’d learned to read his moods from his posture. When he was frustrated with a problem, the muscles between his shoulder blades gathered into a hard knot. When the work was going well, as it was now, his limbs were loose and relaxed.
She wouldn’t admit it, even to herself, but she never tired of watching him. Covertly, of course. She’d die of shame if anyone noted and remarked on her interest in the man.
His attempt at song floated up to her. She was even getting used to hearing the soft, guttural chant he claimed he was singing.
He hadn’t made any more advances toward her. But from time to time, she felt his eyes on her, hot and knowing. It irritated her that this Northman, this stranger, could lay her bare with just his gaze.
You’ve suffered, Brenna, he’d said. I see it in your eyes every time you look at me.
How had he been able to divine so much about her cut and bleeding soul?
“For someone with no use for men, ye seem to have no trouble keeping track of this one.” Moira’s voice pulled her out of her reverie as she came alongside Brenna.
“Are ye forgetting Da made me his keeper?”
“A truly onerous duty, that,” her sister said dryly.
“Mayhap ye’d like the job.” Brenna frowned at her. “Say the word and ‘tis yours.”
“No indeed. I’ll be having far more fun teasing him away from the work ye’ve set for him. No doubt he’ll be needing someone to soothe him when ye scold. Ye are a terrible taskmistress, ye know.”
“Keefe sets his own pace,” Brenna explained. “He drives himself to finish his other chores so he can hie himself here to work on that infernal boat of his.”
“Infernal boat,” Moira repeated, her presumptuous smile raising the hackles on Brenna’s neck. “Ah! So ye’re afeard he’ll leave as well.”
“I fear no such thing,” she denied. “If Da gives him leave to go, then good riddance says I, and not a moment too soon.”
