It was later that evening, when he excused himself from the dinner meal to find solace in the woods—a place where he could be alone with his thoughts.
However, it was disappointingly short-lived as he felt the prying presence of another.
“If you are trying to hide, you are doing a horrible job of it, Sorcha,” Breandán uttered without setting his eyes on her. For once, he wished the light rain would’ve continued through the evening, confining the flirtatious girl to her home.
Coming out from behind an oak distantly behind Breandán, Sorcha wore a very surprised look on her face. “How did you know I was there?”
He by-passed her question. “Does your father know you are here?”
“Nay,” she crooned, batting her sultry eyes with her best attempt at innocence.
For most men, her sultry look would have spurred the onset of numerous, if not indecently suggestive thoughts, but to Breandán, it did absolutely nothing. “You should not be in the forest alone.”
Sorcha sauntered up to him, leaving little room between them, her generous breasts nearly spilling over her tunic. “I am not alone,” she said, lifting her hand to touch his cheek.
Breandán caught her wrist and held it away from his body. “Why are you here?”
Sorcha first glanced at the large hand that held her tightly, seeming to take intense pleasure in the feel of his warmth against her skin—and that he was actually touching her. It was not often he would allow himself to get near her, much less boldly grip her hand.
“I heard talk amongst my brothers you were home. I had to see for myself.”
Purposely trying to burst any aspiration she might have for his arrival, he released her and leaned back against the tree. “I will not be staying long. I leave again in the morn.”
“So soon?” she asked, closing the distance once again between them. “Can you not put your hunting off for a few more days?”
“My leaving is not due to another hunting trip in the hills, nor do I have much say on when we depart.”
“We?” Sorcha brows lifted, “Who is ‘we’?”
“Callan Mac Conchubhair’s men, and myself.”
Sorcha dared to lean against him and started to draw imaginary circles around his chest with her finger. “The king? Hm…sounds important, indeed.”
“He wishes to see his daughter one last time before he dies,” Breandán replied, ignoring her countless attempts to lure him.
Sorcha’s finger froze where it was and her eyes altered from lazily lustful to suddenly severe. “The princess? The one you cannot—”
“Have” was the word he knew she meant to say, but skillfully, she changed it to “forget.” He nodded.
“You know…” she belabored, “I can give you what you want, Breandán.”
He doubted she truly knew what that was.
“I can give you what a man of your age needs.” She dragged her hand slowly across his chest, indulging on the hardened muscle beneath her palm.
Her lustful eyes undressing him spoke volumes, and as Breandán anticipated, she had no idea what he desired most of all. He grabbed her wrist again and pulled her hand away. “Your father will be worried if you are not home by nightfall.”
“I can make you forget all about her,” Sorcha whispered, trying another approach. “Stop dreaming of what can never be, and take what you want from what is real—flesh and blood. Mara, by her own vows to another man, denies you what you long for. I will never deny you, Breandán.”
His first reflex was to argue the point of the princess’ marriage—or lack there of—but he went easy on her, knowing his next words would no doubt crush her anyway. “You are a beautiful woman, Sorcha, and any man would consider it an honor to lie with you. But you deserve better. You deserve a husband who would love you with all his heart. I cannot love you the way you should be loved. I would only hurt you.”
Sorcha opened her mouth to speak, but he easily silenced her by drawing his face closer to hers.
“I would hurt you. I would not mean to, but I would. My heart already belongs to her.” Breandán didn’t want to use Mara’s name as that would have been cruel. He merely continued his tender reasoning with, “I was asked to retrieve the princess and protect her whilst she makes her journey through here. I will do whatever is asked of me when it comes to her.”
Sorcha relaxed a little in the shoulders and looked up at him, advocating him with a rightful defense. “If you have been asked, then you can refuse.”
He admired her persistence, despite his immense desire to end this conversation. “’Tis not as simple as you think, Sorcha. Now, come on. I will walk you home.”
Before he could even pick up his longbow, she had already turned around and started to make her way through the forest. He could see the disappointment in the way she walked and the sadness from the position of her low-hung head.
Damn fool. He hurt her already.
Breandán caught up with her. “If it makes you feel any better, you and I are one and the same. We both have longed for things we cannot have.”
Sorcha recoiled in distaste, not changing the speed of her pace toward home. “And that is supposed to comfort me?”
Breandán frowned, knowing his words sounded idiotic. He stepped in front of her, trying again to gain her attention. He put his hands on her shoulders to stop her from going further. “I am trying, Sorcha. You know I have never been good with words.”
Still, she stared at the ground.
“Look at me,” Breandán demanded, gently lifting her little chin. “I do love you, Sorcha. You and I have always been friends, much before anyone ever took notice. And I am honored you would still, to this day, consider me in such a high regard. But that is as far as I can love you. I mean not to hurt you…”
A tear slipped from her eye, which nearly brought Breandán to his knees. His heart sank with pity and he wished there was more he could do than wipe it away. Lord knew words failed him again.
Sorcha reached up and clasped his hand touching her face, holding it now against her trembling lips. She kissed his knuckles though trying to fight the urge of sobbing.
To her surprise, Breandán pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest. It was the first time he had ever physically embraced her and he hoped she could feel his sincerity since his ability to verbalize it proved ineffective.
Chapter Four
Dark water of the Atlantic lapped against the sides of Gustaf’s longship, heading southeast from Iceland to the Faroe Islands. The wind was brutal, but sufficiently swift in carrying the ship to its destination—to Gustaf’s ambition—by morn.
All eight men were huddled within the shallow hull, their wolfskin cloaks wrapped tightly around them. Each eagerly anticipated the journey’s end so he may gain at least one good meal and a long night’s sleep next to a roaring fire before heading into the unknown, hunting down the last man involved in Gustaf’s father’s slaying.
Twenty-three years ago, when this man-hunt had begun, they were as hell-bent as Gustaf. But no one could have predicted the amount of time and determination this single task would require, as each assassin seemed to be further and further from reach.
In the beginning, the first few were easy to find. But as word spread about their peculiar deaths, so did the remaining murderers—some taking refuge in places not even fit for man or beast.
Regardless of the dangers and difficulties of tracking down each assassin, Gustaf’s men remained loyal, and they’d follow him anywhere until the last man was found. Most times, their aggravation and extensive fatigue was never spoken of. But this day, virtually sleep-deprived and literally starving, it was impossible for them to keep any rising complaints under a shroud of secrecy.
“You should have pushed Ragnar harder for the last man’s name,” Jørgen criticized. “Instead, we are left to search the ends of the world again. It took us four winters to find Ragnar! Who knows how long we will be searching for this next bastard.”
> Gustaf kept his composure, despite the fact he really wanted to kick Jørgen overboard. “The man was hanging from his rafters by his own bowels and never uttered a word. What else could I have done to persuade him?”
“You could have tortured him more.”
Gustaf snorted at that remark. “What was worse than the fate he was already facing? Better yet, let us hang you by your insides and you can tell me what would be more tortuous.”
Jørgen remained silent, fearing his chieftain might actually do it.
Everyone was famished, exhausted, and—with the countless years of avenging Gustaf’s father—sexually frustrated. They had forgone a great deal for him and Gustaf understood the reason for their short tempers, which might have been why he softened and offered his next suggestion.
“We have been at this for quite some time and I cannot be more pleased with the sacrifices you all have made on my behalf. You have made my vengeance, your vengeance. You have all bled with me, starved with me, nearly froze to death with me, and,” Gustaf added with a wry smile, “celebrated each success with me—each of the nine notches on my sword.” He paused only to ponder his final anonymous victim. “The last man is yet to be found, but we are so close. So close I can taste it.” Again he broke the string of his oration, swallowing back his enthusiasm. “But I am willing to rest my head and my weary bones over the coming winter. As a token of my gratitude, I shall gift you, my friends, with your freedom. To do whatever ‘tis you want. Sleep for days; go home to your women—if you have any left.”
Gustaf then looked at Øyven, the youngest of the group and jokingly suggested, “Or you can find yourself some accommodating livestock. I have heard the ewes this time of year are relatively docile.”
In unison, the men laughed, making jibes at Øyven for his—at no fault of his own—extensive abstinence. It had been an ongoing jest, smoldering for many years, but Gustaf relit the fire.
Øyven had joined the group at the tender age of seventeen after his entire family was murdered, missing out on the merriment young men often experience during that post-pubescent time. He was filled with too much rage and restitution to have indulged in such pleasures.
Now that twelve years has passed, his passion for vengeance had slightly subsided, making way for an extremely disgruntled erection. But the men, just as sexually deprived, spared Øyven no sympathy in their ridicules. Gustaf heard everything from ‘’tis been so long even Snorri ‘the Long-Beard’ was looking good to the lad’ to ‘Øyven’s cock might have shriveled up and fallen off.’
Poor bastard.
Gustaf waved his hand to settle the joyous chatter. “All right, men. ‘Tis obvious we all could use a much needed retreat—some of us more than others,” he derided again with a wink. “Once we land on the Faroes, you can all go your separate ways and reconvene at the first sign of spring. Here,” he added, kicking his wooden chest forward at their feet. “There should be enough in there to gain you a boat to Gokstad and back.”
“But what will you do?” Jørgen asked, his brows crowded above his dark eyes. For such a long time, the men had gone everywhere with Gustaf, so it was highly unusual he would not accompany them now.
Gustaf glanced at the woman sitting at the prow of the ship, her hair falling down her shoulders from the hood of her previous master’s cloak. Her face was reddened from the cold wind and her eyes drowsy from the lack of sleep. Despite her weariness, she still looked like a goddess.
Admittedly, Gustaf was hard put to imagine anything else but her beneath him. And he had every intention of getting her in that position as soon as he landed.
But he didn’t think that was what Jørgen meant.
“I plan to stay on the Faroes,” Gustaf allotted. “The isle is swarming with rogues and gossipers; someone is bound to know something about our last little coward.”
With that comment, everyone seemed content. And for the first time, the men were happy, if not festive as they prattled on about future plans and frivolous dealings. Most talked about what they had in store for their women upon arriving home and the simple delights of eating unstale breads, hot boiled meats, fresh harvested greens, and creamed tarts. Each proclamation got louder and louder as they thought of better things to indulge upon.
Gustaf smiled. He was glad to have appeased his loyal men, for as vengeance goes, there was not much to be had except satisfaction, and even that wears away rather quickly.
Yet, out of the corner of his eye, he found he was not the only one smiling. His female guest was staring right at him and with a look that stole the breath from his lungs.
As if she read his very thoughts, she stood up and walked toward him, awkwardly making her way across the rocking hull and through the unmindful, clamoring men.
Gustaf let go of the steerboard to take her hand and steady her until she could sit beside him. To his amazement, she straddled him.
“Why were you smiling?” she asked seductively.
A bigger grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I should be asking you the same. ‘Tis not as if there is anything upon this wretched langskip a woman would find worth smiling about.”
She turned her mouth under, contemplating his decree, before smoothing his beard with the back of her hand. “I believe I would beg to differ.”
“Is that so?”
She answered him with only a slight nod of her head, never taking her eyes from his.
Gustaf could feel the weight of her beautiful stare as if she were boring a hole into his soul. Her eyes, up close, were even more entrancing than he remembered. They were thinly rimmed in the darkest shade of cobalt, and by the time the lustrous flecks of her irises reached her pupils, they had blanched an icy blue. He had to will himself to look away.
If only the rest of his body could be willed so easily…
He glanced down at the very place where her body met his, a place she had so easily stimulated by her insinuative position. It had been a long time since his body reacted this way. “Do I get the pleasure of knowing your name as well?”
As if she, too, felt the thrill of his erection, she smiled deviously. “Æsa.”
“I am staying on the Faroe Islands,” he declared, implying an underlying message. “Would you care to stay with me? Or would you rather accompany Øyven? He would no doubt enjoy the companionship.”
Æsa glanced over her shoulder. “He is but a lad.”
“Aye.”
Æsa looked deep within Gustaf’s eyes, holding his gaze for a time. She touched his soft-bearded face, feeling the strong, prominent jawline beneath. “I prefer to be with a man.”
He inhaled deeply, settling the excitement she stirred in him. “I should warn you,” he said, gently referring to her past life, “I will not share. In fact, if you wish to stay with me, you will have to refrain from rewarding favors to anyone.”
It seemed she was happy to give up the degrading life she led, for she simply stated. “How soon before we land?”
Not soon enough, Gustaf thought.
****
Mara stood alone in her longhouse, stirring a pot of boiled meat for the coming evening meal. It was a large home for her and her son, but Tait had insisted upon it when he rebuilt their settlement on Inis Mór. In fact, he custom constructed her longhouse to replicate how Dægan had once built it—complete with carved wood entrances, a huge storage area off the main room, and a private bed chamber that held a beautifully carved boxbed and silk tapestries.
Mara didn’t need all those amenities, but she didn’t object to Tait’s fanatical devotion as she understood it was his way of keeping Dægan’s memory alive.
He and Dægan were inseparable. They had a strong connection to each other, which was born the day they swore a blood oath as adolescents. They were not brothers by blood, but in slicing their palms and clasping a symbolic ring, their blood ran together, establishing them, from that moment on, as brothers for life. And no one, not even Domaldr, Dægan’s departed twin, could equal that bond.<
br />
Even after Dægan’s death, Tait never let anyone forget about their late chieftain. He’d tell stories—grand stories, which may have been a bit exaggerated—of Dægan’s bravery and skillful combats with challenging opponents. It was nice to hear them, even if they were a little biased.
Mara recalled the many times Tait would begin his tales—the utter silence around the elongated mead hall as he’d narrate the story in such an absorbing, poetic fashion. Even the small children of the group were mesmerized by his elaborate discourse.
Mara, however, was not only fascinated by the stories of her husband, but exceedingly engrossed as she wanted to remember every little detail so as to pass it on to their son, Lochlann. The more she knew about Dægan, the more it helped her to heal during her most difficult time.
Losing Dægan was the hardest thing she’d ever had to endure. But having a child—Dægan’s very son—growing inside her, enabled her to stop dwelling on the past. To stop reliving that horrible moment when he died in her arms and to look forward to the moment his child would come forth from her womb.
It was as if this child was purposely given to her, a way for Mara to trudge on despite Dægan’s absence, a way for Mara to still have her husband in her life. As a matter of fact, her son was an absolute reproduction of Dægan with golden hair, a fiery temper, and stunning blue eyes, which lit up like sparks in the night.
A slamming door brought Mara’s meandering thoughts to a sudden halt. She turned to find her son stomping passed her at the hearth. He made his way toward the table behind her, slumped in his chair, and crossed his arms—a normal day’s ritual.
“Good afternoon, Lochlann,” Mara said quietly with a sideways glance and a motherly smile.
“Is it?” he spouted off. “I would not know.”
Mara went back to stirring her pot and ignored her son’s irritation. “Did you finish your chores?”
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 39
