Dægan pulled away only to see the fire in her eyes, the slow burn of amber flames reflecting from the hearth beside him. She was a beautiful woman, but too young and naive to know the effect she was having on him. He tried to forget the unrelenting ache in his groin—one that seemed to curse him whenever he’d remotely think of her. And it didn’t have to be the thought of her open thighs. It could be just a passing image of her face or her angelic voice in his ear. Nothing was too fleeting for him.
A rapping at the door disrupted the delightful start of a virgin romance between them, and a line of servants entered the longhouse, each one carrying different items. Three women brought in stacks of white linens, a fourth with a small chest, and a tray of food. The men brought in four buckets of water and a large bronze cauldron. The women sorted the items on the table while the men filled the kettle. Before leaving, they bowed discreetly to Dægan and Mara, and departed just as quickly as they came.
“What is all of this?” Mara asked.
“Your bath.”
At that moment, one final servant entered, taking the heated water from the fire pit and adding it to the water in the cauldron. “Is there anything else, m’lord?”
“Aye, one last thing. I gave Eirik a chest for safe keeping. Bring it to me, please.”
The servant bowed and exited in a rush.
Dægan took Mara’s hand in his before he spoke. “I know this may seem sudden and a bit forward, but I want to give something to you. A gift, if you will—one that would seem more fitting had I had a chance to offer your father a sufficient bride price.”
He studied her, deliberately holding fast to the innocence of her face. Like a child, her eyes sparkled as she anticipated the endowment. He began with a story.
“There was a king blessed with power, wealth, and dignity, who loved a woman and she loved him. For a time, they would sneak out to meet each other, steal a kiss now and then in the thickets of the garden, but in brevity, for each was all too often called upon. Eventually, the king proposed an arrangement of marriage, but her father would not allow it as he had other intentions of offering her to someone else—someone whose rising authority was threatening his holdings. By means of his daughter, he could secure favor and gain an ally instead of an enemy.
“One day it was done. Her father married her to another and not just any man, but coincidently, her own lover’s sworn enemy. Now, the king could have fought for her if he so chose, for it would have been very easy with the size of his army. But instead, he sank into despair and traveled as far away as he could from the woman who could no longer be his. In calming his own breaking heart, he went to the ends of the known world finding the sweetest of oils, the rarest of silk, and the most beautiful jewels he had ever laid eyes on, gathering them all in a wooden chest unselfishly for his distant unattainable love. Unfortunately, his journey brought him many trials which kept him away for ten long years and when he returned, it was too late, for she had died.
“Now some say it was pneumonia while others say it was a broken heart, but nonetheless, she died alone. You see…her husband had a reputation for making enemies everywhere he went and was constantly away fighting in battle. While he was frequently gone, she would sneak out, waiting for her lover king to come for her, but he never showed. It took all of nine years for her to assume that he had found the arms of another before she finally gave up.
“After hearing the news of his love’s death, the king kept the chest with him day and night. But it was not enough. He had traveled and searched for so long to give it to her, that keeping it for himself destroyed the true meaning of it. In dealing with his own agonizing grief, he had a sudden compulsion to give the chest of valuables to her husband and end the feud between them once and for all. Upon reaching the widower’s ringfort, the husband refused to accept the gift from the king, thinking it was a trick. Unaware of the extensive value of the items within, he cast it aside, and in his own suspicion, stabbed the king, leaving him for dead. In grave desperation, the king was able to retreat south to a group of merchants who were preparing to set sail and told his story on his death bed. His exact words were that ‘it must be given to the one who holds your heart’.”
As if perfectly timed, the servant reentered carrying a wooden chest of fastidious work and value. Mara’s eyes widened as it was placed at her feet while Dægan thanked the servant and sent him on his way.
“Inside this chest are those things and I give them to you.”
Mara covered her mouth as if to keep it from gaping open. “This is the chest?”
“Aye.”
“But—”
“I must adhere to the king’s wishes,” Dægan reiterated. “From the day I laid eyes on you, you had my heart.”
Mara hesitated, though her growing excitement was hard to miss.
“Go on,” he said with a glance. “Open it.”
She reached down and slowly lifted the lid, finding a stack of posh linens, jewels of various striking colors, silver, and jars of spices and oils just as Dægan had foretold. Her smile was deeply etched in her face, but gradually fell. “I cannot accept this.”
“You have no choice,” he replied. “I am to give this to whomever holds my heart, regardless of whose heart she holds. And I may not have your heart as of yet, but I think I have your trust or you would not be here with me.”
“But I have nothing to give you.”
“Ah, but you do,” Dægan assured her. He traced his hand down her face and around her neck, stopping at the delicate hollow of her throat. “You can give me the pleasure of witnessing your bath, my lady.”
A nervous smile scrambled across Mara’s face. “You cannot possibly think that I will have my bath whilst you sit here.”
Dægan reclined on the boxbed, his hands linked behind his head. “Indeed. Rest assured, however, my word still stands. I will not take from you what you give not willingly. I will not move from this spot, nor will my hands. So carry on.”
He watched her, anxious to see her remove her clothing in front of him. To admire the paleness of her shoulders he once saw in the cavern as she’d slide her frayed tunic to her feet. To marvel at the curves of her naked body as she’d slip beneath the steaming water of the cauldron. Just the thought of those alone made his groin harden beneath his breeches.
But she never budged from the foot of the boxbed. Only her falling face and excessive hand-wringing moved to indicate her apprehension.
“What is wrong?” Dægan asked, sitting back up. “Are you afraid of me?”
Mara couldn’t look at him. “I fear I am unable to resist you.”
“Why resist me at all? Do you not want to let yourself love me?”
“With all my heart I want to love,” she pleaded. “But I am afraid to allow myself.”
Dægan leaned forward. “Love is not dreadful.”
“Nay, but a broken heart is.”
“Do you think me that cold?” Dægan asked, looking sternly down his nose, almost insulted. “That I would endure the trouble of saving your life just to share a bed with you once and then cast you aside like a whore? Woman, I would walk through the curses of a thousand gods—again and again for you—as many times as you ask of me.”
“I am well aware of that,” Mara said. “Which is why I cannot help but think upon the matter. ‘Tis you who stands to suffer a broken heart. And I want not to be that woman.”
He snaked his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. “Would you rather I return you to your father with the intention of never seeing you again?”
She shook her head. “I cannot begin to imagine such a thing. I want to go where you go, to see the oceans, the mountains, and the sunset on the water from the very ships you have built your life upon. I want all of those things. Above all, Dægan, I want you.”
“Then dread no more. From what you say, I am certain my heart will be safe in your hands.”
“You are not safe from my father,” she exclaimed. “He will do everything i
n his power to keep us apart. His own brother died years ago at the hands of the Fionnghaill at Baile Átha Cliath, and he will not stand for one to wed his daughter, no matter how many head of cattle you push in his face. He would even regard your act of heroism as a ploy, naught more. I know this. I am as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.”
Despite her body pressed against his, he could no more ignore her words of warning than he could his own swollen shaft, try as he may. Again, she brought up her father when things between them were just starting to heat up, a nuisance he might have thought deliberate had he not know her well enough. “I fear not your father.”
“Then what of his army that he will surely send to hunt you down?”
“If your father chooses to do battle with me, he will lose.”
“You would actually fight him?”
“I would actually bend anyway I could for him, but if he decided that war was the only way to resolve this, then he had better come prepared. I take not kindly to threats, nor have I ever pretended to. You should know that.” Dægan lifted her chin with a hardened finger, frustrated that she had successfully brought this tender moment to a screeching halt—and that his erection was still at its fullest. “You needn’t fret about bathing in my sights anymore. I will leave you to your warm bath as I seem to require a cold one. Shall I send for more hot water?”
“Nay. I will be fine,” Mara said tensely.
“Very well,” Dægan said, retracting his hand and leaving the longhouse with a limp.
Chapter Nine
Dægan struggled as he walked to the bathhouse, his painful, hardened sex inhibiting a normal stride. He almost cursed it, as it lately seemed to have a mind of its own.
Once inside the sauna, he saw his brother sitting on the far wall, sweating from the steaming rocks in the open hearth. Eirik eyed his brother’s aggravation as well as the bulge from between his legs, laughing and enjoying the sight of his bad luck.
“That must be quite a woman.”
“Enough!” Dægan snapped, ripping his kirtle over his head. “I am in no mood for your cracks. I have more pressing things on my mind.”
Eirik took one quick glance toward Dægan’s groin. “Sure you do, Brother.”
Dægan threw his clothes at Eirik and sat on the bench, releasing a sigh drawn from the very depths of his gut. The stone floor and benches were hot to the touch, melting away the soreness and stiffness of his muscles, including the one he so resented.
“You know the girl is young,” Eirik tried to reason. “Nearly ten years your lesser.”
“Aye.”
“And she may not feel comfortable yet…with…”
“I know, Eirik. I am not an idiot.”
“Then you know she will come around. They always do. Besides, I see the way she looks at you. The words may not leave her mouth, but she is rapt by the very sight of you and in no time, she will be lifting her gown—”
“‘Tis not what bothers me. I know in time she will groan my name,” Dægan said, laying the back of his head against the wall.
“Aha,” Eirik droned in triumphant understanding. “But ‘tis the name her father will derive from your theft that troubles you, aye?”
“Not as much as coming to terms from what province the man rules.”
Eirik jerked his head in Dægan’s direction. “You took a king’s daughter? By the gods, Dægan, you said she was a noble’s child—a lord’s seed at best!”
“I know what I said and I was wrong.”
“You are more than wrong now…you are buried face-down with your arse in the air!”
“Well said, Brother, but your honesty does naught to remedy my situation. I need a plan. A good one.”
“Look not at me. I am just a ship builder.”
“And a slow one at that,” Dægan included, squeezing his eyes closed against the tremendous heat of the coals.
“Well, if you needn’t one as big as the sun…”
“Hold fast your tongue, Eirik. I do pay for your work.”
Eirik rolled his eyes. “You speak as though you are the only man in the port with silver to spare in his pockets.”
“Considering I have put the very food on your table and nearly doubled the amount of men under your charge with the three knarrs I have asked you to build in the last four years…aye, that would, for all intents and purposes, make me the most important man in the port.”
“You are only important because I have no time to see to anyone else’s bidding.”
“And no one else’s bidding would pay as high as mine.”
Eirik grumbled and let his body slouch into the bench, knowing there was no arguing with a brother who had an answer for everything. “I take it you have not told Ottarr and Vegard yet that Mara is a king’s daughter.”
“Nay.”
“That will be a task.”
“Not as hard as coming up with a plan before we convene tomorrow.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Dægan grew restless with the heat and stood to stretch the muscles of his legs, thinking not about his advisors, but about the impressionable girl awaiting him in his longhouse. “I think some things are better left to my imagination.”
Dægan picked up a bucket of cold water and dumped it on himself, refreshed by the rush of cool water on his head and back. Afterwards, he grabbed a linen cloth and wrapped it around his waist, turning to find his brother lost in deep thought, eyes closed with a loutish smile across his face. Dægan picked up another bucket and threw the cold water at Eirik’s chest.
Eirik jumped up, unprepared for the shock. “What was that for?”
“That was for letting your imagination run wild over my Mara! And this…” Dægan added, grabbing the last stack of linens, “is for thinking that you could ever get away with kissing me.”
“Ah, come on, Brother. ‘Twas only a jest.”
“Goodnight…” Dægan purred lovingly, taking the linens with him.
****
Mara wasted no time in taking her bath for fear that Dægan would soon return from his, and lord knows she did not want to be caught in such a vulnerable state. Had she known his servants were going to revisit, she might have bathed even faster. But they were wonderfully helpful and kind, offering smiles and even idle conversation in the course of their chores, something they probably sensed she needed. Mara particularly liked the older woman of about forty—Gormlaith, she thought she heard one say.
Gormlaith, though Irish, seemed to be content with her duties, so much in fact, that she breezed through them like they were her own routines. The other two, who were younger by far, stumbled around the simple tasks, conceivably those who had come fresh off the slave market.
“Pay them no mind, m’lady,” Gormlaith said with a wink. “I will be the one to see to your needs whilst you are here. In the meantime, eat and put some much needed weight on your bones.”
Gormlaith did not say much more after that, as she stirred the fire in the hearth and began removing the last of the used water from the caldron. In no time, it was empty, as was the longhouse Mara was left to wait in. She sat at the small table dressed in the oversized tunic that Lillemor had given her, though without the heavy woolen cloak.
It wasn’t long before she heard Dægan’s heavy footsteps. He entered through the back door, just past the storage room and walked into the main hall. He was carrying a large stack of folded linens and a deeply carved grin on his face.
Dægan set the cloths on the edge of the table and looked around, seeing that the cauldron was empty and the tray of food uneaten. “Not hungry?”
“I was waiting for you,” Mara said, standing up.
But Dægan waved her back down. “Sit, I am fine. My bath was good for me. Now Eirik, on the other hand, would say he came up short.”
Mara quickly put two and two together. “A linen shortage?”
“‘Tis very possible,” he said, beaming with satisfaction.
Mara took notice of the drople
ts of water resting on his body and the soaked blond hair clinging to his neck and shoulders. It brought back many pleasant memories of the two of them in the cavern, wet from the drenching Erin rain. She couldn’t help but glance over his perfect physique, admiring his broad shoulders and the length of his muscular legs. The linen around his waist didn’t hide much either, for it was wrapped tightly and fairly thin. She wondered if, like in the cavern, he’d choose to eat his meal dressed in that same fashion, or if he’d change into something a bit more concealable. Her question was answered when he slid into the nearest chair beside her and poured her a glass of wine. After that, he chose the first piece of fruit from the tray.
As if holding the last known food on the earth, he presented it before her. “May I?”
The thought of him feeding her, tickled Mara from within. She had never been fed before, but then again, there were a great deal of things she’d never done until Dægan came along. She broke a nose, knocked herself unconscious, spent the whole day in a cavern in nothing but animal skins, filleted a fish, and knifed a man to the point of injury. Now she was sitting in a longhouse with a heathen man who was strangely asking permission to put food in her mouth—an act even she knew was more sensual than innocent.
She may not have said a word, but her restless smile seemed to have given Dægan the answer he so wanted. With the fruit held just short of her mouth, he enjoyed the site of her nearing his hand and eating from it.
“Good?” he asked, feeling the wetness from her lips linger on his fingertips.
She nodded with her mouth full.
“I have something better I think you will like. ‘Tis from a far away place called Alexandria.” He opened a small glass jar filled with a white substance, licked his little finger, and dipped it in the container, offering her a taste.
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 9
