The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  Breandán looked at his friend oddly. “You?”

  “Of course! I am your best friend, therefore, you would surely tell me all the naughty details of your interludes. I relinquish all of mine.”

  Breandán sighed and rolled his eyes. “It certainly is not because I have ever asked you to.”

  Marcas chuckled cynically and left to gather wood for the fire.

  “Did my father put you up to this?” Breandán asked after rehashing the few choice words Marcas used to persuade him into the marriage.

  “Nay,” Marcas winked. “’Twould be all my doing.”

  As Marcas walked away into the depths of the dark forest, Breandán gave thought to the arrangement. It would be a good match considering he and Sorcha were already friends. Most often, a man is married to a woman he barely knows and love comes, hopefully, thereafter. They, however, wouldn’t have to endure that awkward part of the relationship.

  He could love her, he thought. Sorcha was a beautiful young woman with long, ebony hair and ice-blue eyes that looked straight into a man’s soul. She was taller than most girls her age, with slim shapely legs to carry her. And there was also the feature she was most remembered for—her large, lovely breasts. While she was not a promiscuous woman, a man would have to be blind not to notice them.

  Aye, he could love her. He already cared deeply for her, given their childhood and the time they’d spent together. So learning to love her as his wife might come more easily, if he tried hard enough.

  That was the problem. Did he really want to try? Did he really want to love another woman like he loved Mara? And more importantly, was it even possible?

  Breandán sighed and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, his breath steadily emitting a slight mist in the air. He started to feel the chill of the cool night as his thoughts came wandering back to reality—to the harsh awareness that his memory was as likely to be foremost in Mara’s mind as the vanishing vapor of his own breath.

  ****

  Breandán woke to the sound of a twig snapping under foot. He remained still against the hard, uncomfortable trunk of the tree, examining his surroundings with only a careful shift of his eyes. Marcas was sound asleep a few feet from him, the fire burning warmly, and his dinner—which Marcas must have cooked anyway—beside him on a spit.

  Despite that their two horses were not stirring, their ears were perked high and their faces alert. Peering in the direction the horses stared, Breandán unsheathed his dagger and stood carefully, knowing full well the sound he heard was not of a nightly scavenging animal. Its weight was too large to make such a prominent snap, more closely resembling the accidental misstep of a prowling human.

  He tried to awaken Marcas with a hard shake of his shoulder, but Marcas only grunted and rolled over, muttering something about “get your own wood.”

  While keeping his eyes on the distant spread of darkness ahead, Breandán frowned in irritation and decided to search the woods alone. He didn’t bother with his bow, as it was too dark to make out a target anyway. His plan of attack was to sneak up on the intruders in the same manner as they had snuck up on him, all the while hoping he would not be too terribly outnumbered.

  He slowly rounded the horses and darted to the right behind a tree. Cautiously, he looked again, allowing his vision to adjust from the bright light of the fire to the dim obscurity of the dense woods. Once the woodland objects started to emerge and be recognized, he scurried past a few more trees, taking refuge behind a larger one. His path was deliberate, wide and circular, scouting the area as he crept, in order to flank whoever trespassed his hunting grounds.

  Suddenly, he caught sight of a single dark figure, in a hood and cloak, moving closer to where he and Marcas had made camp. The stranger was not close enough to the fire to do any harm to Marcas yet, but it was obvious the person was advancing in that direction.

  Breandán reached down and picked up a stone. To distract the man, he launched it distantly behind the prowler, hitting a tree. As planned, the hooded figure turned in the direction of the sound and walked guardedly away from Marcas, but foolishly in the direction of the ricocheting stone.

  Breandán was glad to see the man was quite short in stature and virtually unintelligent, or at the least, not at all skilled in the ways of combat or hunting. He could easily take him alone, considering he wasn’t getting much help from his sleeping friend. Taking a deep breath, he pressed on, this time, cutting a path straight toward the stranger.

  He padded a bit further between the scores of trees and shadows, and once he was close enough, he leapt forward, taking the hooded man’s back by surprise. With one arm around the man’s forehead, Breandán stretched his neck to meet a well-placed dagger. “Who are you? Speak your name!”

  “Please!” a woman’s whimpering voice proclaimed. “Do not kill me!”

  Breandán’s heart stopped and his breath caught deep in his throat. He knew that voice, but couldn’t believe his own ears. He frantically spun the woman around, jerking the hood from her head, only to gasp at his find. His feet automatically retreated, his steady hunting hands shook at his sides, and the knife dropped from his grip.

  Breandán spoke first, but Mara’s name came out so erratically, he sounded more like a stuttering fool.

  She smiled in relief, hearing her name on his lips. “I feared perhaps you had forgotten me.”

  Breandán stared at her, thinking he was only having another dream and she would soon disappear. But he watched her step forward and heard the sound of the wet autumn leaves beneath her feet. He saw the few wisps of hair blow back from her face. He even swore he felt her light, warm breath on his cheek as she neared.

  He swallowed hard, trying to pull himself together, but he failed. Even his breathing refused to cooperate, staggering out of him in the same troubled fashion as her name. And now, to make things worse, he could smell her. He could smell the fragrant oils from her body and the honeyed scent of her hair falling out of the hood and down around her shoulders. It was the most pleasant scent he could ever imagine—like honeysuckle, only sweeter.

  This is not a dream, Breandán convinced himself. Mara was real and standing before him. The only thing that helped him to finally react like a sensible, grown man was the flashing image of him holding the dagger at her precious throat. His eyes widened and his stern, rich voice returned.

  “My God, Mara! I could have killed you!” Immediately his hands came up and cradled her jaw, tilting her head to the side to examine her neck. To his relief, her skin had not even reddened from the gruffness of his choke hold.

  Mara looked deep into his eyes and spoke ever so softly to him. “You would never harm me.”

  Breandán caught her sensuous stare and held it with his own, a slight grin tugging warmly at his lips. “Aye, I would never harm you, Mara.”

  She melted against him and laid her head upon his chest. “I thought I would never find you.”

  Reality smacked Breandán sharply in the face and he gripped her shoulders, withdrawing her from his body. “You came alone? Surely your new husband would not approve of such recklessness.”

  Immediately, he searched within the darkened woods, knowing full well even a neglectful husband would never allow her to journey this distance unaided.

  “Did you come alone?” Breandán asked demandingly. “Answer me, Mara.”

  “Aye,” she replied. “No one is aware of my travels.”

  Breandán stepped away from her, his concern boiling inside him. Never once did he give thought to his own well being or the wrath her husband would bring to him for this visit. He only contemplated the consequences Mara would face.

  “Do you not know the risks you have taken in coming here, let alone the strains you may have placed upon your marriage? Your husband will not take kindly to this. We must get you home.”

  “Please, send me not home,” Mara begged as she approached him again, her hands gripping his arms in desperation. “I have come so far to see you. Pleas
e, send me not away.”

  Breandán read deeper into her pleas. “Has he hurt you? Has anyone hurt you?”

  Mara shook her head incessantly. “Nay, he is a good man.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I love—”

  “Mara,” Breandán interrupted quickly. “Do not say that.”

  “But ‘tis true. For so long I have held it inside me and I cannot anymore. I belong with you.”

  As if her words opened a dam, his emotions came rushing forward, nearly barreling him over. Everything he had ever felt—ever hoped for—came flooding around him, his heart nearly bursting with that simple little phrase: I belong with you.

  But eventually, he remembered the man who had taken her as his wife, his swollen heart deflating disappointingly.

  “You married again before God and witnesses. What is done, is done.”

  “Did you not hear me?” Mara stated, her eyes welling up with tears. “I said I belong with you.”

  “I heard you,” Breandán replied, adoring those words. “But ‘tis not something you should say to me. Do you not know how difficult ‘tis to stand here and look at you, and not greedily take what is rightfully another man’s?”

  “Then you still love me as I have always believed?”

  “Aye, but my undying love for you does not make this just.”

  She burrowed closer to his chest, looking at him in a way that matched his own lustful feelings.

  “Please, Mara,” Breandán begged halfheartedly. “I cannot resist you in this way.”

  “Then hold back not any longer. Take me as I know you want me.”

  Nervously, he looked to his left at Marcas, still sleeping soundly at the fire—a distance safe enough he’d not even hear Breandán should he do something rash.

  Breandán cursed himself for even thinking such a thing and pushed the thought from his mind. He had to. He respected Mara too much and she was a married woman. But God help him, she feel so wonderful in his arms!

  He looked down at her beautiful face, her jade green eyes enticing him and her firm, younthful breasts pushing against the solid wall of his chest. For years, he had dreamed of this moment and now, when it was actually happening, he had idiotic thoughts of ending it. Was he insane? Was he an absolute imbecile to think he had to refrain from her?

  In feeling his arousal climbing almost to the point of pain, he was at least satisfied to know he was still a mere man, if not just a foolish one. His arms tightened around her as if they, too, had a mind of their own.

  “Kiss me,” Mara whispered, her little request stealing his last fiber of strength.

  “God, forgive me,” he muttered, threading his hands in her hair and taking her lips with a slow, hesitant kiss. Though his wildly churning mind screamed otherwise, he made sure not to be too demanding. He left his lips pressed warmly to hers and only when he felt her willingly concede, did he move further into the kiss, deepening it with a tender push of his tongue.

  She whimpered, a sound that nearly drove Breandán mad as he felt her tiny voice hum against his mouth. If he actually believed his erection was at its fullest before, it riotously hammered within him now to prove differently.

  He pulled his lips from hers and dove to the blessed skin of her neck, opening his mouth wider and sucking that ever-sensitive area above her collar-bone. This time, her response was not as controlled, and she gifted him with an oh-so-pleasing womanly moan.

  He devoured her, moving his right hand down her hip to grab a handful of her long tunic, gathering it all up in one greedy fist and exposing her leg. He lifted her bare thigh around his waist and caressed her bottom with a callused hand, allowing a fingertip to barely graze the wet folds of her apex.

  Mara gasped and shuddered in his arms, hardly able to withstand his bold and passionate touch. Again, he stroked her there, but this time more slowly and purposefully, causing her other leg to weaken and nearly buckle.

  Breandán smiled devilishly at her, growing fond of every irresistible reaction. He picked her up in his arms and carried her further from his camp, to a place more private. If she wasn’t able to contain herself—and he hoped she couldn’t—Marcas wouldn’t be the wiser.

  Once content with the distance, he set her to her feet and removed his cloak, laying it upon the ground. He came back to her and looked at her calmly. “Are you certain this is what you want? I will not be angered with you if you have suddenly changed your mind. You will always have that option with me, Mara. I will never hold you to a decision.”

  Mara stood on her tip-toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I have never been more certain in my life.”

  And she kissed him.

  Not just any kiss, but one that fortified her stance on the matter. Her hands clutched his neck, pulling his head down to crush his lips against hers. The passion from her tongue alone made his heart skip and his mind spiral into impulsive and wanton thoughts of touching every part of her luscious body.

  He dragged a heavy hand down her back and around her bottom again, pressing her against him and reveling in the feel of her feminine softness despite the many layers of clothing between them.

  For a split second, he worried he would not be the man she needed and deserved, especially since it took everything he had to hold back the seed threatening to spill in his breeches. What would he do when he could feel her naked flesh upon his?

  Before he could dwell too deeply on the issue, Mara pulled away from him, removed her hooded cloak, and disrobed completely. He clenched his jaw to keep it from gaping open. Her breasts rose and fell as her breathing matched the rapid speed of his own. She was a sight to behold, beautifully naked as she stood beneath the soft moonlight.

  He walked unsteadily to her, his legs trembling even as he returned to her embrace. Trying with all his might to remain composed, he brought his hand up and brushed a lock of hair from across her shoulder, revealing the sight of a rose-colored nipple. He admired her, in awe of her beauty, content to study every curve.

  Mara, perhaps sensing his apprehension, took his hand and placed it on her breast. She sighed at the feel of his warmth, and closed her eyes at the pleasure.

  Breandán snaked his other hand around her narrow waist, claiming her full lips again. Dying to hear another one of her whimpers, he cupped her breast wholly and drew his thumb across her hardened nipple, bringing forth a shudder and a tiny squeal.

  “Breandán,” was all he heard, but it did not come from Mara. It was all male and very stern. He whipped around to face the voice behind him, shocked in seeing a furious figure standing there.

  Breandán gasped, his eyes flashing open to find himself sitting by the fire, with Marcas looking at him oddly. He searched his surroundings seeing everything was as it should be, and the figure of another man—to his relief—nowhere in sight.

  “Are you all right?” Marcas asked. “Chasing Mara in your dreams again, are you not?”

  Breandán finally allowed himself to breathe. “Nay. She came to me. She was there in my arms, in my very possession.”

  Marcas sighed and shook his head, knowing it was another fruitless dream. “And I suppose you’re actually gathering meaning from this.”

  Breandán pondered the actual difference between this dream and the ones from his past. “Aye, I am.”

  Marcas rolled his eyes. “Then you had better pray for a miracle.”

  Breandán swallowed the reflux of his bubbling emotions, still coming to terms with the unexpected variance of his dream and the cruelty he suffered with its sudden end. Though he was very wide awake, he could still feel the remnant sensations of Mara’s skin on the palms of his hands and the distinct smell of honeysuckle as if it weren’t a dream.

  For the first time in his life, he did exactly what Marcas suggested. He prayed an opportunity would be gifted him so he’d have a valid reason to see her, if only one more time.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning proved to be just as cruel for Bre
andán. The breeze coming off the Atlantic was harsh and forceful, blowing vindictive rain-filled clouds across the sky. What showers he’d hoped would not fall until late evening, threatened to arrive sooner, and right on the tail end of his long journey to his father’s homestead.

  Leading the pair of horses that drew a cart brimmed with venison, hare, and hides, he ascended the top of the hill and looked into the valley below. A rush of familiarity and nostalgia came over him as he gazed upon the large crannóg, positioned strategically in the shallow end of great Loch Aillionn.

  It had been a few months since his last visit and he hated that his livelihood would often determine the frequency of his returns. If hunting was scarce or the market demanded more hides and meat than he could supply, his visits were less often. However, he was finally able to catch up, and the surplus of trappings which he toted along, was a grand gift to his father to make up for lost time.

  “That is odd,” Breandán remarked as he stood beside his horse, holding its bridle in one hand and his thick hare cloak tightly under his chin with the other.

  Marcas came beside him, slightly out of breath. He, too, grasping his cloak from the bullying wind. “What is?”

  “’Tis very quiet.”

  Marcas gave Breandán a sideways glance. “Sure ‘tis! God, Himself, couldn’t hear anything with this bloody wind howling in His ears!”

  “That is not what I mean…‘Tis much too quiet down below,” Breandán stated decisively. “There is no one in sight.”

  The more Breandán thought about it, the more he was convinced something was wrong. He didn’t like that nothing was going on near the crannóg. In fact, he couldn’t even find one single person moving about between the small thatched houses.

  Féilim’s three sons should have been out splitting wood, or at the least, arguing about who splits more in less time. Somhaire’s young twin daughters should have been furtively chasing the geese around the back of the storage house. The women of the lake dwelling should have been busy tending the large caldrons of food at the numerous hearths—which veritably also lacked the necessary fires. And above all, his father should have been out tending the distant fields. Nothing was within the realm of normal.