The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  She moved faster along his length, weakening him, torturing him, just as he had always done to her. And by the look on his face, he was desperately trying to regain some sort of control of himself, no doubt trying to halt the blood that hammered through him. His sweet agony only encouraged her to continue ceaselessly.

  Being on top of him was a whole new experience for Mara and she found herself extremely fond of the constant shuddering that rippled through him. There was no denying what power she had over him, and into the bargain, she gained the best place for watching his journey into submission. She rode him, forcing him nearer the edge as if he had no choice in disputing what his own body was likely to give up anyway without his consent. But despite his efforts to not cross that threshold, it was too late.

  He clasped his hands firmly to her buttocks and drove himself deeper into her body. Finally, after several hard thrusts, his release came in a rush, a spilling of everything that made him the red-blooded man he was.

  Lust.

  Avidity.

  And that spry masculine passion that some call carnal.

  Dægan threw his hands into her hair and gripped the knotted locks with a vengeance, crying out a winded, muttered version of her name. Like a weakened, battered man, his arms finally dropped to his sides and his eyes closed in a welcomed defeat.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Erin rain continued to fall, as it did most of the late summer season. The ground was saturated, and every step Dægan took, a muddy hole was left behind him. His boots were wet through and through, and his feet were cold, an uncomfortable dampness that worsened with each lugging stride.

  He looked ahead at the barn, which stood solemnly in the rain, and he trudged on, quickening his pace to a laborious trot. When he reached the building of dim and drab form, he stopped at the entrance to stare into the darkness, his breath held tight in his lungs, his senses deadened to the driving rain that beat against his face. He didn’t feel cold anymore, just a numbing of body and soul, for he stood at the place where Eirik was reverently kept until the burial in the morning.

  Dægan finally let himself breathe and entered the barn, meandering with each step he took, his heart skipping in his chest. The barn itself seemed longer this night, perhaps because the aisleway was without the blessing of a lighted lamp and the ominous shadows draped like fabric over the stalls and into the corners. He found the last few steps toward his brother were the longest by far.

  Finally, he came upon the table on which Eirik lay and saw the wrappings of linen had been removed from his face, a haunting sight that even Dægan could see amidst the shadows. His brother’s skin was an unforgettable color of gray, and his eyes were a sunken crater of flesh, depressed in the bony sockets of his skull.

  Dægan turned away, groaning at the hideous site of Eirik’s rotting corpse, trying to forget what he had just seen, but it was an unmerciful lingering image, even behind tightly closed eyes.

  He felt his throat constrict and his breath plunge deeper in his lungs, unable to exhale the thick, heavy air that burned in his chest. His heart pounded against his ribs, giving rise to the throb in his temples. His stomach turned as it had hours before, a forewarning of another bout of heaving.

  He turned to leave but there was laughter from behind him, hideous laughter that echoed against the empty stalls. Then Eirik stopped him short, literally grabbing his arm with long, cold fingers, and his sunken eyes opened wide.

  Dægan sat straight up in a cold sweat, gasping like it was his last breath.

  “Dægan! What’s wrong?” Mara asked, touching his shoulder lightly.

  He didn’t answer right away and nervously shifted his head in all directions, checking every detail of his slowly recognizable bed chamber. There wasn’t any laughter, any moonlit shadows in the cover of corners, and no ghastly grip upon his arm from his brother. He was safe in his own longhouse, the rain, a light pitter patter on his roof. And the only hands that snared him were the loving tender hands of his princess.

  He sighed, tremendously relieved that it was all in his mind.

  “Dægan,” Mara whispered. “Are you all right?”

  He merely smiled and kissed her forehead. “Aye, love. ‘Twas only a bad dream.”

  She comforted him with a tight hug around his neck. “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Indeed not,” Dægan dismissed quickly. He held her close, smelling the clean scent of her hair, finding reassurance in the familiar warmth of her arms. “Talking about nonsense is not worth the trouble. Go back to sleep.”

  Pushing her gently down to his bed, Dægan curled up beside her. He was quiet for a long time, reflecting on the events of his nightmare, recalling the breaking of silence from the harrowing laughter within the barn walls.

  “Does your God laugh at me?” he finally asked.

  Mara spun within his arms and touched his face. “Nay, Dægan. Why do you ask?”

  “I just thought perhaps He laughs at anyone who drowns in his own misery.”

  Mara lifted her head from his chest, looking at him sympathetically. “If anything, m’lord, He cries for you.”

  “Cries for me?” Dægan asked doubtful.

  “Aye, He does. You are but a lost sheep,” she explained, “wandering alone in the night, and He, as the Shepherd, will search for you until he finds you because he knows of the wolves on your heels. But never does He laugh at you.”

  Dægan reached up to touch her kind face. He found her words too good to be true, for in all his life, he had never known a god to be compassionately gracious. His gods’ happiness often times laid in someone else’s tragedy and that was something he was growing quite weary of, not to mention the absurd thought of pleasing them with a brutal death. Surely there was a better way to die, and a greater reason to live. Looking into Mara’s eyes, was where he seemed to always find it.

  “Sheep? Truly?” Dægan asked, pulling her closer.

  “Truly,” she repeated, kissing him goodnight.

  ****

  The next morning was dreary with the same threatening clouds and heavy air that remained from the night before. Luckily, the wind was swift enough to make a difference elsewhere, for Ottarr and Vegard’s ship had journeyed back from Gaillimh’s shores with impeccable speed, filled with the much-needed soil and seaweed. By high noon, the ship was fully emptied and taken to the open burial site on the east side of the isle.

  The rites began soon after, and without incident. Every one of Dægan’s people attended, save Mara, for she declined to be the presence of bitter reality. Instead she tended to Dægan’s mother, allowing Kari to be in attendance during the ceremony.

  By early evening, the ship was fully buried and large stones, set to mark the stem and sternpost, were laid to depict its shape. It was a large burial site, one that boasted probability of a buried king, and Dægan was glad of it, for pride seemed to be the strength in his arms as he dropped the last stone in its place.

  Some men and women had straggled at the sight, telling boastful stories of their fallen ship-building comrade while others just lingered to hear and pass on any gossip relative of him.

  Of those slow to leave, Dægan was the last, trying to find the initiative to walk to his mother’s longhouse. She wasn’t of conscience mind to give him a piece of hers when he’d enter, but he dreaded it all the same, knowing well that her silence was most likely her way of adding just a little bit more guilt to the weight on his shoulders. She was quite successful, if in fact her stress-induced slumber was nothing short of a mere tactic.

  Variably, that became Dægan’s motivation to get to her as soon as possible. In no time, he was slipping through her door and standing at the foot of her boxbed, out of breath from his brisk run, with Mara staring at him.

  As if to shrug her off politely, Dægan wedged his hands on his hips and calmly summoned her with a jerk of his head. When she neared him, he barely whispered, “I wish to have a moment alone with my mother. When you leave, see that you do so quietl
y.”

  Mara obliged, only stopping to run a sympathetic hand down his arm before she left. Feeling the bare innocence of that gesture, Dægan eyed his crafty mother lying in the very wool that she was drawing over everyone else’s eyes.

  For a long time, he watched her, hoping she would soon grow tired of lying still or even forget that he was in the room, and move slightly. But she was smarter than that, or mayhap, even more stubborn than he.

  With a sigh, he captured the nearest chair and dragged it to her bedside, straddling it with his forehead resting on the back. “Mother,” he said bleakly, staring at the matted floor at his feet. “‘Tis done. Eirik is laid to rest. I buried him in a ship. Just like we did father. A ship of equal size.”

  Dægan hoped she’d stir, but he was left utterly disappointed. In his frustration, he spoke again, “I know you are disappointed in me, but please know I would do anything to change what has happened. I would even lie in father’s stead just so you could have your husband back. To unbreak your heart, as I know you would want. Damnation, Mother, open your eyes! My heart aches to know I am the cause of Eirik’s death, but to think I could very well be the cause of yours, too, is killing me slowly. Open your eyes and tell me you hate me. Let me not go on, day after day, thinking you cannot forgive me. As much as I want your forgiveness, I need mercy as well.”

  Dægan’s tears fell straight to the floor. In the long silence that followed, he watched them disappear…slowly…as they were absorbed by the warm heat of the fire close by. He had tried to bring her to, and even felt a bit guilty for the words he had chosen. So what was he to do now? Pray?

  Pray to whom?

  A hand touched Dægan’s knee and, from the safe place under his arm, he could see that it was the frail fingers of his mother. He lifted his head from the chair and eagerly warmed her hand in his own. “Mother.”

  His mother looked relieved and accepted his touch. She began to speak the words Dægan knew she longed to say. “I hate you not, nor do I blame you, Dægan. You are my son. The last one left. You have all of my love. All of it. Always.”

  Dægan smiled, with both the comforting words of his mother and knowing with complete satisfaction, that he was more cunning than she.

  ****

  The following evening, Nevan set out to find Dægan, going instinctively to the cliffs near his ringfort. As expected, the warrior chieftain was there. He rode casually up beside Dægan, measuring him, letting his horse graze beside him, and when Dægan didn’t acknowledge even that, Nevan finally spoke. “What is this I hear, you are leaving in a few days?”

  Dægan didn’t turn his head to address the king. Instead, he continued to stare out blankly at the dusky horizon that met the ocean with a crimson sunset, merely saying, “I am.”

  Nevan nodded in thought, eyeing the full battle gear Dægan wore while standing on the edge of the rocky cliff. “One can only assume the worst when all the iron on this isle has been purchased by your blacksmiths and every free man and servant is being suited for armor. Tell me I should not worry.”

  “You should not worry,” Dægan repeated serenely.

  “I am not a fool, Dægan.”

  “I never said you were.”

  Nevan sighed. He knew Dægan’s mood all too well, for on many occasions in the past, he had found the Northern chieftain in the same spot, with the same reflective stare and morose tone. If Nevan wanted to have a worthwhile conversation with the armored man, this was surely not going to be the day.

  Dismounting, he looked out into the distance, just as Dægan was doing, trying to see what held the Northman’s attention. But the only thing he saw was the evening sky and the calmness of the vast ocean, the same things as yesterday and the day before that.

  “Why do you come here?” Nevan asked sincerely.

  Dægan remained silent for a while, as if contemplating the king’s question, then slowly regarded the man at his side. “This place is the closest thing I have to home. The sea. This cliff. The smell of the mist in the air. It reminds me of the fjords in Hladir.”

  Nevan watched Dægan close his eyes and take a deep breath. “I thought your home was in turmoil.”

  “My home was in turmoil. But the land, itself, was not. Have you ever noticed that trees fight not against the very ground that holds them. And the rocks of the mountains do not crumble to the rising rivers below. Only men do that. Only men fight for things beyond their power. And only men can be convinced that greatness comes from winning the fight. Even I was brought up to believe such things. We place men on higher ground because of the number of battles they have won or the number of silver coins in their pockets. When in fact, greatness comes from things we cannot hold in our greedy hands. Things that are beyond our destructive reach. Like this place. The sun will always set right there,” Dægan said pointing. “And the water will always meet the sun, without resistance or suspicion. Neither the sun, nor the water expects more from each other. And neither gives more than what is possible. And the fact that they have done this, each and every night since the dawn of time…that is greatness.”

  Nevan narrowed his gaze and looked at the setting sun almost fully submerged in its watery bed. “Ah, the sun and water are the best of unlikely allies, but the sun sets in the west because it has been told to. And the water welcomes the sun because it, too, has been told. Obedience is not as great as the command, Dægan. Anyone can obey. And every great man has followed one command or another in his life. But ‘tis where the command comes from, that determines just how great he will be, should he listen—like the sun and the water.”

  Dægan removed his helmet and held it under his arm. “Who commands you, Nevan?”

  “The only one who has determined my birth years ago, and whose greatness will hopefully slow the years to my death.”

  ****

  Dægan thought hard on the reference that Nevan made of his Christian God. He valued the faith Nevan had—the faith Mara had—for it was certainly what he longed for. An unwavering faith that a god would look upon you, instead of down on you, to protect instead of condemn, to lead instead of forsake. “How do you know if He is giving you a command?”

  Nevan tossed a surprised look to Dægan. “God speaks to men in different ways. Perhaps through the perils of a mighty storm, or a dream. Or like this sunset that has caught your eye on many nights. I cannot tell you how God will choose to speak to you. But the best place to hear him,” Nevan said, poking Dægan’s armored chest, “is in here.”

  Twice now, Dægan had been enlightened of the possibility of God beckoning him, and he had to know more. He needed to know all he could of this great opportunity. “Would He really be calling to me?”

  “God speaks to everyone. But not everyone hears.”

  “What would make a man…” Dægan chose his words carefully for calling their God by name, felt inappropriate. But he said it anyway. “What would make a man suddenly hear God?”

  Nevan smiled and held his hand out toward the sunken sun. “Greatness, my friend.”

  ****

  For whatever reason, the rain stayed away. And the wedding remained outside as first planned. Two rows of torches lined the path from the tall wooden gates of Nevan’s stone fort to the raised platform inside the spacious bailey, beautifully decorated with island flowers, a large wooden crucifix, and four panels of white flowing cloths made of the finest linen.

  Everyone, Irish and Scandinavian alike, stood gathered in one place, awaiting the unorthodox wedding of the Northern chieftain to the Irish princess, although most of the islanders thought the day would never come. Some still congregated in the back, silently making their wagers that the chieftain would not show to collaborate in the union, highly anticipating that their cause for rebellion would soon be a reality, their swords surely at their sides.

  A horse approached from outside the fort and a man in a full-length cloak dismounted. The light of the torches brightened his face to that of the Irish king and everyone glanced at each othe
r, right in predicting the king’s presence first to that of the warrior chieftain.

  Nevan took his place in front of the altar, standing on the left to represent the Gaels of the alliance. Tait side-stepped across the aisle, approaching Nevan from the right, and talked low in his ear. “Where is Dægan?”

  “Watching the sun set,” Nevan said.

  Tait sighed. “Again? He thinks too much.”

  “Perhaps you think too little. He will be here.”

  “Should I hurry him along?”

  Nevan eyed the impatience of his people and their suspicious whispers. “I am afraid that is what my people are waiting for. Besides, I think Mara needs more company than Dægan at this moment.”

  Tait looked at how nervously Mara stood, alone, in front of everyone. “What do I tell her?”

  “Tell her, Dægan is coming,” Nevan insisted.

  Suddenly, a horse came to a halt at the entrance of the fort and everyone turned around in surprise, finding Dægan walking up the aisle. He was fully suited in his armor and mail, his father’s great sword at his side.

  He was smiling, Nevan noticed, and staring straight at Mara as he proudly neared the altar. Nevan breathed a little easier, as did Tait who took his place beside his chieftain. “‘Tis about time,” Tait whispered.

  ****

  The only thing Dægan heard was the priest who started the Christian ceremony by saying, “In nominee Patris, et Fillii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.” After that he was lost in his own world, staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her hair was let down from the usual braid, cascading in ringlet curls from a crown of island flowers, and her dress was a fine gown of simple white cotton, plunging low at the neckline and revealing an ample swell of breasts for his viewing. Her forehead, once stricken by bruises and cuts, was now healed, and her face shown like polished ivory, her lips, the color of summer roses.