by Mia Marlowe
Flutes and pipes sounded and the crowd erupted in cheers. The eldest daughter of the house was made a wife and all Donegal rejoiced with its king.
The merrymaking that had started in the wee hours of the morning now began again in earnest.
Chapter Thirteen
Once the ceremony was finished, Brenna finally spared an eye for the decorations festooning the yard. Gay pennants embroidered with the Donegal crest—a sprig of heather on a bed of green—flapped overhead. Brenna recognized her sister’s hand in the sprays of heather affixed to nearly every doorway, even over the lintel of the listing cattle byre. The air was perfumed with crushed petals stamped underfoot by all.
A small group of musicians—two flutes, a harp and a slightly out of tune sackbut—launched into a lively song. Every young heart lifted and a twirling dance started on the lush green grass. The elders drank their pints, looking on with indulgence and wry expressions tinged with a touch of envy for the sprightliness and high spirits of youth.
“I’m sorry, princess,” Jorand said. “I don’t think I know how to dance.”
“Don’t be troubling your head about it,” she said. “I was never one for dancing much meself.”
But even as she spoke the words, she was swept into the fray by Connor McNaught as he tripped past.
“Come, me Brenna,” he said. She caught a strong whiff of whiskey on his breath as he leered toward her, flashing his yellowed teeth. “If that great Norse slug ye married hasn’t the sense to dance with ye, allow me to do ye the honors.”
He twirled her so violently, Brenna’s world seemed to continue to swirl even once they’d begun a circular promenade with the other dancers.
“In fact, there’s somewhat else I’d be happy to do for ye. Tip me the eye if your husband ruts ye no better than he dances.” The hand on her waist crept up under one of her breasts, his thumb strafing her softness. “I’ve been a married man, as ye know, and can teach ye a trick or two. Just give the word, Brenna me dear, and I’ll service ye with pleasure.”
She struggled to free herself from his grasp, but Connor latched on to her with the tenacity of a wolfhound on the last bone. Then suddenly Connor’s feet left the ground, forcing him to release Brenna.
Jorand had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and lifted the smaller man till they were nearly nose to nose. Her husband bared his teeth at Connor. There was no mistaking Jorand’s expression for a smile.
“This is Brenna’s celebration, so I’ll not mar it by thrashing you as you deserve.” Jorand’s voice was low, but the menace in the tone was so potent even Connor in his drunken stupor couldn’t fail to mark it. “But by your Christ, if you ever lay so much as a finger on my wife again, I’ll split you from gills to gullet in one stroke.”
Jorand’s strong fingers closed over Connor’s throat. The Irishman’s eyes bulged like a codfish flopping on the beach.
“Nod if you understand me,” Jorand urged.
Connor’s head bobbed with alacrity.
Jorand set him down, none too gently. “Now, you may beg my wife’s forgiveness for the discourtesy you’ve shown her,” he ordered. “And be careful to convince me you mean it.”
Connor stammered out his apology and beat a hasty retreat through the crowd.
“Thank ye,” Brenna said. No one, not even her father, had ever championed her so publicly.
“I can see defending you from other men will be a frequent chore,” Jorand said. “I suppose it’s just part of being the husband of so lovely a lady.”
Warmth surged in her chest and spread downward, clear to her toes. The way he smiled at her made her feel lovely for the first time in her life.
“It’s plain I need to dance with you, Brenna, whether I remember the steps or not.”
“Perhaps ye know more than ye think. Just like the woodworking, it may come back to ye if we take a turn or two.”
“I may tread on your toes,” he warned.
“ ‘Tis a risk I’m prepared to take.”
As they joined the ring of dancers, Brenna’s heart was lighter than it had been in longer than she could remember.
The celebration flowed from dancing to feasting to drinking until torches were called for and, one by one, pinpricks of stars showed on the black vault of the night sky.
“The garter!” someone cried out.
The chant was taken up by all the young men in the crowd. The bravest of the lot made to approach Brenna, making several ineffective snatches under her skirt. The lad intended only to reach under her hem and retrieve the coveted trophy, but the murderous look in Jorand’s eye backed the youth up against the line of his companions.
“They mean no harm. Ye must give them me garters,” Brenna whispered, turning her back to him and lifting her hem high enough to bare the delicate bands of blue tied in neat bows at the back of her knees. “Untie them and toss them to the lads.”
Jorand knelt and tugged the ribbons free, his thumb brushing the crevice behind her knee. A shiver tingled up her thigh and Brenna thought her legs might buckle on the spot.
Her husband tossed the garters to the waiting crowd and was roundly cheered for his generosity.
‘Tis nearly time. The realization spread panic through her veins. Brenna swayed on her feet.
“Are you well?” Jorand put an arm around her waist to steady her.
“Oh, aye,” she answered, willing the shiver in her soul not to work its way out to her muscles. “‘Tis only now I cannot keep me stockings up.”
“Then we’ll have to remedy that by taking them off,” Jorand said with a smile. Before she could protest, he scooped her off her feet and carried her toward the round hut that had been prepared for their use.
The bridal pair was hailed all around, and a small procession of well-wishers dogged them on their way. Lewd suggestions and offers of lascivious assistance were shouted after them good-naturedly.
“If you would truly help a man in desperate straits, then open the door,” Jorand bellowed. “As you can see, I’ve quite a handful here.”
Approving laughter erupted from the crowd and Padraigh scurried to swing the portal wide.
“I’m in your debt,” Jorand said to him as he carried Brenna into the waiting darkness. “See that you shut it behind us, friend.”
Padraigh winked broadly and did as he was bid.
Chapter Fourteen
Once they were inside the wedding bower, Jorand stood holding her in his arms as if she were light as thistledown. Brenna scarcely breathed. He moved to kiss her but she turned her face away.
“Ye can put me down now.”
He lowered Brenna to her feet and turned back to slide the heavy brace on the door. The noise of feasting went on beyond the opening, but it was muffled. The riot of merrymakers, her dear family, the priest who’d said the blessing over them—they were all shut off from her and she was alone with her handsome sea warrior, her Keefe Murphy.
Man and wife.
The short months since she’d found her Northman on the beach whirred through Brenna’s mind in a blink. From hated stranger to wedded husband in less than the turning of a season. How was it possible it could have come to this?
Her gut churned with nervousness.
It was one thing to imagine being a wife. Even the ceremony had a hazy, dreamlike quality, as though it had happened to someone else, not to Brenna herself. Now reality crashed into her with no mercy at all. Why had she ever agreed to such an arrangement? Brenna could hear the pounding of her own heart.
Her gaze slid around the room as she fought off a rising panic. A small blaze danced in the central pit, an aromatic fire of freshly hewn pine. Smoke rose in undulating ribbons and disappeared through the hole in the roof. A swath of silver light from the half moon shafted in the same opening, illuminating a bed on the far side of the fire. Her bridal bed. She turned away quickly.
“Ye needn’t have carried me, ye know,” Brenna said. “I could easily have walked.”
“No,
that would never do.” Jorand shook his head. “Do you not know it’s bad luck for a bride to trip on the threshold? But if a bride is carried over, she has no chance to misstep.”
“ Tis a custom I’ve never heard.”
“Hmm, must be one from my people.”
“Mayhap ye know it because ye’ve carried a wife over your threshold before. Have ye remembered aught?”
He frowned and looked down, as if searching for a fresh memory. “No, Brenna. There’s nothing more.” A smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “And for the first time, I’m grateful. All I want to remember, all I want to think about tonight... is you.”
He took her hand again, lacing his fingers with hers. When he lowered his head to kiss her, Brenna’s chest constricted as she gulped a quick breath. True, he’d kissed her before, but never as husband, never with the right to follow the kiss with... She suddenly noticed the bandage on his hand, stiff with dried blood.
“Oh, I need to tend this or ‘twill go bad.” She tried to ignore the tiny thrill that shot through her when she touched him. Her body ran cold then hot so quickly, she was in danger of losing her balance. All business, Brenna unknotted the bandage and surveyed the long slice in his palm, making a tsking noise of disapproval with her tongue and teeth. “Did Father Michael not tell ye a mere drop of blood would do?”
There was no chair in the hut, so she led Jorand over to sit on the edge of the bed. Brenna reached beneath it and found the small bowl filled with a healing paste she knew Moira had prepared for this purpose. Brenna unwrapped her own hand and showed him the small triangular wound.
“Ye see?” She dabbed a bit of paste on the spot and wrapped it with a fresh strip of linen. “Once mine has healed, ‘twill not even leave a scar.”
He took the ends of the cloth and tied the knot for her across the back of her hand, running a thumb over her knuckles. Then he held out his palm for her ministrations. She fussed and clucked over the length of the cut while applying the medicine and tying a bandage.
“I cannot say the same for ye,” she went on, realizing she was prattling as badly as Moira, but unable to stop her nervous tongue. “Ye’ll bear a mark on that hand from now on, or I’m much mistook.”
“That’s what I wanted,” Jorand said, as he settled both hands on each side of her waist. “A year and a day. That’s all I can lay claim to you, princess. But by this cut, you’ve claimed me for the rest of my life. From this day forward, I’ll carry a scar to remind me that you were mine and I was yours.”
Brenna bit her lip. He feared he’d forget her as he had his former life. How difficult it must be not to be able to trust a body’s own memory. Still, it pleased her that he wanted a remembrance of her. As she looked down into his eyes, she realized she’d need no token, no scar to remind her of him. Already, his fine features were burned into her soul.
“I’ve never seen this bed before,” she said, trying to distract herself from the pull of those indigo eyes. “I wonder where Da got it.”
“Does it please you, princess?” The low rumble of his voice made Brenna’s knees wobble.
“ ‘Tis very fine,” she said. Suddenly the reason for the bed, an image of her body twined with his, writhing and straining, popped into her head. Brenna was grateful he couldn’t see her flush with color in the dim light.
“I made it myself. There wasn’t time for much carving, but that can be mended later. I couldn’t give you beauty, so I settled for stout.” The heat in his gaze left no doubt he expected to need a sturdy bed before morning.
He cradled the back of her head in his palm, gently but insistently, lowering her mouth to his. When their lips finally met, the contact made Brenna startle and try to pull back, but he held her fast. A bewildering maelstrom of emotions swirled in her, curiosity at the new delight he’d awakened, and terror that at any moment could send her out the door, screaming.
His lips moved over hers, setting her senses reeling. When her mouth parted slightly, his tongue slid into her, tracing the curve of her teeth, seeking out her soft places. Warmth spread deep in her belly.
Brenna jerked back as if he’d scorched her with a hot iron. This time, he let her go.
“What’s wrong, princess? You’re as skittish as a yearling colt.”
“Nothing,” she lied. “I... I just need to take down me hair for bed. If I sleep in these plaits, ‘twill be a mass of tangles by morning.”
“Let me help you,” he offered.
Before she could protest, he stood behind her, working the sprigs of flowers from the intricately woven strands. He ran his fingers through her waist-length tresses, shaking loose the braids. When he was finished, he gathered a fistful of her hair and brought it to his lips. Jorand inhaled deeply.
“Your hair is a wonder, Brenna.”
She laughed. There was nothing wonderful about her. Moira was the one who made men’s eyes go slack-lidded with desire. Brenna hadn’t lived a lifetime in the same keep with her fiery-haired sister without realizing a few truths about herself. She turned away from him.
“ ‘Tis not. ‘Tis wild and curly and the color of a mouse—”
“It smells fresh as grass on a summer day,” he said, undeterred. “And I love the way it curls around my fingers. Can you not believe I find it fair?”
He pulled her hair to one side, then planted his lips on her neck below her ear. His mouth, that incredible blessed mouth, sent both tingles of pleasure and flashes of alarm dancing along the surface of her skin.
“I do find you fair, my princess. All fair.” He untied the drawstring at the neck of her tunic and pulled the opening wider, baring her shoulders. “Your sweet voice, your wondrous hair, your soft skin...”
His voice grew thick with desire and Brenna felt his lips on her neck again, lower this time, following the line of her shoulder.
Her skin screamed for his touch and where his mouth traveled, the need was not abated, but rather increased. Without realizing she did so, she leaned back into him and he slid his hands around her to cup the softness of her breasts.
She’d been nauseated when Connor dared touch her so intimately. Now the tips of her breasts ached, straining against the cloth of her tunic. When he thrummed a broad thumb across them, she whimpered in bewildered need.
“Ah, Brenna,” he said, burying his face in her mass of curls. “You please me so.”
His hands worked at the tunic, tugging it off her shoulders, pinning her arms to her sides. His mouth traveled up the back of her neck in featherlight kisses. Jorand’s broad, blunt fingertips danced over her collarbone, running from her shoulder to the base of her throat. Then his hand slid downward to caress the tops of her breasts where they bulged above her lowered tunic, pressing against the fabric.
Having her arms confined made Brenna feel helpless and short of breath. She struggled to free her hands and accidentally eased the tunic lower. Her breasts sprang free and the drawstring opening dropped to her hips.
Jorand put his hands on her shoulders and slowly turned her around. He met her eyes. Then his gaze traveled by finger-lengths downward, past her throat, over the hollow at its base where Brenna was sure he must see her pulse banging wildly, and then even lower to her bared breasts.
Her nipples hardened as he stared at them wordlessly. In the firelight, his expression was unreadable, but Brenna was aware his breathing had also changed. He extended a hand, stopping when Brenna shrank back, then advancing when she straightened her spine, determined to go forward with the full bargain. After all, she’d promised.
As he traced a lazy circle around each berry-colored areola, a nameless longing washed over her, warm as midsummer rain. She found herself leaning forward into his touch. Then he covered her aching breasts with his palms, pressing and gently kneading her soft flesh as his lips covered hers once more.
Brenna groaned into his mouth, startled by her response to the confusing sensations his hands sent swirling through her. She was not ignorant. She knew what to expect from a man
. But nothing she knew of the way of a man with a maid had prepared her for his gentleness, for his intent to give, not take.
When he pulled her closer, she didn’t resist. The coarse linen of his shirt rubbed against her sensitive nipples. One of his hands slid down her back to trail slow circles at the base of her spine.
His tongue filled her mouth and even as he thrust it in, Brenna was aware of a heaviness, a dull throbbing deep in her belly. The emptiness of her womb cried out in silent spasm. It was longing, she realized. Longing to be filled.
Brenna pulled back breathlessly. She’d had no idea such a thing was possible. Men were slaves to lust, of that she was sure.
No one ever told her a woman could want as well.
Jorand peeled off his shirt, baring his well-muscled chest and arms. In the flickering light of the fire, the small hairs on his chest and arms gleamed like filaments of gold, like the delicate strokes of liquid metal she used to illuminate pages of Holy Writ with cross-hatching and fantastic swirls. The body of her husband seemed no less a work of art.
And no less holy.
“Come to me, Brenna.” When he spread his arms open in invitation, she went to him willingly.
The feel of his skin on hers was heaven itself and she pressed her hard-tipped breasts against him, resting her head on the solid expanse of his chest. His heart throbbed under her ear, and as he wrapped his arms around her, she heard the great muscle in his chest start to gallop. She inhaled deeply, taking in his masculine scent.
He held her tenderly, even though she felt a hard bulge against her belly. Since the time she’d caught him bathing in the stream, she knew he was gifted in his male part. But the reality of the size of his stiff phallus suddenly struck home as his hand cupped her buttocks and pressed her against him.
She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” She took the opportunity to pull away from him.
