The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  Tait watched him run for a moment, then turned back to face his wife. Ignoring the scowl on her face, he pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her neck, whispering for only her to hear, “Coarse or not, you are going to miss my tongue.”

  Thordia couldn’t help but smile, hiding her blush in the crevice of his shoulder. “Tait, you are incorrigible.”

  “’Tis about time you appreciate it, too,” Tait replied, biting her neck gently.

  Thordia squirmed only to be unsuccessful at escaping his strong arms. But even in his play, Tait was always mindful of her overly-round belly, holding her tightly where it would not harm her or the baby within. He even slid his hand down her side as if to cradle and protect the babe from her own lighthearted twisting.

  Mara thought it was endearing the way Tait acted around his wife. Not too many got the pleasure of seeing this side of him, and most wouldn’t believe it anyway. Tait was typically a serious man with too much responsibility nagging on his last nerves. But when he was with Thordia, it was as if a whole new man emerged. He was blissfully happy, and his love for her shone as bright as the afternoon sun.

  Mara preferred this side of Tait, despite the fact it often reminded her of Dægan and how he was with her. Seeing Thordia wrapped in Tait’s embrace, she couldn’t help but admire their relationship as he stared at her lovingly. He leaned down and kissed her.

  “Take care of my wife, Mara.” Tait said from her lips. “And, let her not have this babe before I get back.”

  “I shall do my best,” Mara promised.

  Tait released his wife once he saw Lillemor, Brondolf and the rest of his men coming down the shoreline. His face fell. “I assume Lochlann is not coming.”

  Mara shook her head, knowing Tait was more than disappointed.

  “His choice,” Tait allotted as he walked away. “We will talk about it more when I return.”

  “How soon can I expect you?” Thordia called to him, a strong sense of longing in her voice.

  Tait turned around and, as he walked backward, he replied with a wink, “Fear not, wife. I will be back before you have a chance to miss me.”

  Mara glanced at Thordia and knew, by her own experience, the woman greatly missed him already.

  ****

  “Must you leave so soon, Brother?” Gráinne asked, her tiny voice breaking the peaceful silence of the valley. “You just returned and I miss you greatly when you are gone.”

  Breandán looked out across the Loch Aillionn, the sun gleaming in the water with the reflection of the nearby trees shimmering amongst the light. Mornings like this were not too common and, regardless of his sister’s droning, it was a good day for a long journey.

  He hugged Gráinne tightly as she sat upon his horse with him, her little stockinged legs dangling over the left side of the saddle. “I miss you as well, but I must do as our king demands.”

  Gráinne held the reins as Breandán had taught her and led the horse around the lake—again—not ready to give up her brother’s company.

  Breandán allowed the detour, enjoying the fact she thought she was clever.

  “I heard you and Father talking,” Gráinne admitted, “about protecting the princess.”

  “Aye.”

  “Is she a real princess?” Gráinne asked, her voice tapering off to an excited height.

  “Indeed.”

  “I imagine she is so beautiful.”

  Breandán smiled to himself. “She is.”

  Gráinne’s tone suddenly changed and her little head dropped. “I wish I were a princess.”

  Breandán looked down at her and lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. Her dark hair hung long and carefree around her shoulders, and her matching lashes feathered dramatically around her deep blue eyes. “The way I see it, princesses are simply born of great men and our father is the greatest man I know.”

  Gráinne grinned brightly, reining the horse to a stop, and then shuffled in his lap to face him. “Do you love her?”

  Breandán recoiled and narrowed his eyes at her, unsure how to answer his little sister’s question. He barely spoke of his feelings to anyone, much less a child.

  “’Tis all right, Brother. You need not answer. I already know the truth.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your eyes tell me,” she admitted. “And…you speak of her in your sleep.”

  “I do?” Breandán asked, trying to wrap his head around his stunning lack of prudence.

  Gráinne giggled. “Aye, you do. Last night as you slept, you called her a thaisce.”

  Breandán sighed and settled deeper into the saddle, almost troubled by her words. It was true he referred to Mara as his treasure, but he thought it only in his mind. Never had he ever used that endearment openly, and to know his feelings were coming out beyond his control was quite disconcerting.

  “Worry yourself not, Breandán. I shall not tell a soul. I promise.”

  Breandán nearly chuckled aloud. “You are too smart for your own good, Gráinne.”

  Gráinne liked the compliment her brother gave to her, but frowned nonetheless. “Sister says I poke my nose where it belongs not.”

  “Does she now?” Breandán said, looking her over keenly. “Let me see for myself. Bring your nose up here.”

  Gráinne naively lifted her nose high in the air for Breandán to examine it. With one careful finger, he moved her nose to one side and then the other, nodding and droning upon each new feigned discovery.

  With eyes wide, Gráinne sat in front of him, her mouth slightly parted as she waited patiently for him to divulge his finds.

  “Your sister may have actually spoken wisely for once,” he said finally. “It seems your nose has been in places it should not have. Perhaps…behind the storage house with the twins…chasing geese?”

  Gráinne’s anticipatory face melted and she averted her eyes to hide a growing wry grin.

  “Thought I had not noticed, aye?” He leaned to the left, gaining her attention with a lift of his brows. “Do you not know what Father would do to your behind should he catch you toughening up his fowl?”

  “You will not tell, will you?”

  Breandán truthfully didn’t need her pleas as he had no intention of tattling on his little sister. But he let her sweat a few seconds. “It seems we both possess a secret of the other. Shall we call it even then?”

  Gráinne immediately swung her arms around his neck and hugged him. As he returned the embrace he couldn’t help but concentrate on the simple things. Like the amazing strength of her miniature arms. The way her head and all its bouncing curls tucked so perfectly under his jaw line. And the happiness, if not the sheer sense of comfort, that one little child’s clinch could bring to a grown man.

  While Breandán reveled in the love his little sister offered him, he imagined the unconditional love of his own child—one fine day—to be twice as grand, near indescribable. He was certainly at the rightful age to be a father, and if he had to ponder it, he could actually say he greatly longed for a day when his son or daughter would come into the world and embrace him in this very manner.

  Although the pregnancy and healthy birth of Gráinne had been a complete shock to his aging parents, it had brought an unforeseeable joy to Breandán—which was probably why he and Gráinne had gotten along so well.

  “Please leave me not, Brother,” he heard her say against his neck.

  Pulling back, he saw her tear-filled eyes. “I promise I will come back very soon,” he said sympathetically as he wiped the trail of wetness from her cheeks.

  She sniffed and forced a smile. “Will you bring the princess with you? I would love to meet her. I shall even make her a gift. Mother is teaching me embroidery.”

  Breandán face lit up in a genuine smile as the word “embroidery” came out with a slight impediment. “I cannot promise that, but I will certainly extend the invitation to her.”

  “Thank you, Breandán.”

  “Now, you best take me back before Father
sends out a search party for us.”

  “May we go fast?”

  Breandán lifted her easily from his lap and turned her back around in the saddle. He slipped one strong arm under her and held her close, taking the reins with the other. “Hold tight,” he warned and, in a split second, they were sprinting across the meadow to where the five men, Marcas, and his father no doubt waited outside the crannóg with annoyance.

  Chapter Six

  Æsa stared at Gustaf from across the fire pit of the simple longhouse he’d acquired for their stay in the Faroes. It was small and relatively unfurnished, save for the necessities of boxbeds for sleeping and a hearth for cooking and warmth.

  She wasn’t sure how Gustaf had acquired it so quickly, nor did she much care. But she did wonder what was in store for her when it came to Gustaf’s intentions. He was considerate and kind from the moment he first called her my lady, but aside from that, he didn’t pursue her as she would have thought, especially now since they were off the wretched longship and alone.

  He was so unlike the other men in her life. He never ordered her around or pawed at her. Even after they both bathed and ate well beyond contentment, he never made a motion to satisfy his other primal needs. And she knew he had them, for she assuredly felt his raw desire when she straddled him on the longship.

  Instead, he sat a distance from her, sharpening his dagger upon a small block of stone.

  She watched him with intent, each stroke of his knife scraping against the charcoal-gray whetstone in a rhythmic fashion. His hands, which held the sharpening implements, were large, strong, and masculine—something she always admired in a man as they often indicated a similar inner strength.

  His hair, newly washed and damp, was a beautiful combination of blond and reddish-brown, hanging slightly above his broad shoulders.

  Perfect for running her fingers through as he’d lie upon her.

  His face was equally pleasant to look at, with eyes of the clearest blue she’d ever seen. His brows and closely trimmed beard were darker than his fair-colored mane, accentuating the well-defined structures of his nose, cheekbones, and jaw. His mouth was perfect and enticing, with lips at the right fullness and curvature.

  Beneath his tunic, though she had only her rampant imagination to assist her, was probably a well-muscled torso with a thin layer of blond chest hair, and a flattened stomach. Most men she had to ‘entertain’ were often wealthy men who had not a care in the world, their sagging, plump physiques corroborated their overindulgent way of life.

  Gustaf was far from lazy and she expected his body to more than represent his active lifestyle. In truth, she desperately longed to find out. To see and touch every bulging muscle in his near-perfect body. But he didn’t seem as interested in carnal affairs as he did on the longship. He only appeared content to hone his dagger.

  “How old were you when your father was killed,” Æsa asked, hoping to bait his interest with casual conversation.

  Gustaf looked up from his work, but the knife continued to skate across the gritty stone, never missing a beat. He gave the question thought before answering. “I was in my eighteenth year.”

  Figuring Gustaf was nearing twice that now, her eyes widened in disbelief. “You have been avenging your father all this time?”

  His hands suddenly halted, but the even tone of his voice remained. “I have a duty to him until the last man falls.”

  “And what of your family?” Æsa asked curiously. “Where are they?”

  Gustaf looked down at his hands, a sense of guilt washing over him. “I know not where they are.”

  Her heart filled with sympathy as she heard the sorrow in his words. “Have you searched for them?”

  “When my father was killed, I left in haste. My rage kept me from seeing anything beyond revenge. But after several summers, I returned to Hladir, only to find everyone gone—not a trace of them anywhere. I can only assume…and hope…my brother, Dægan, led them away to a safer land.”

  Æsa could sense the tiny strand of hope Gustaf was holding on to and dared not sever it. In her own cruel past, she had learned all too often what a man is capable of doing when all his hopes are shattered. Fortunately, she only had a few minor scars to prove it.

  After a few moments of silence, Gustaf set back to striking the stone, and spoke as if anticipating her running thoughts about his family. “I know my brother. Dægan would not allow anything to happen to father’s people, nor would he give one ounce of homage to the man who commanded our father’s murder. I am certain he left as soon as it was feasible. But where? I could not begin to guess.”

  “Have you not tried to find them beyond Hladir?”

  Gustaf’s hands slowed, and eventually he put his dagger and the small stone aside before answering. “I suspect by now they all think me to be dead. ‘Tis better that way. And safer for them. With one man still at large, there will always be a threat to my family. I cannot bear to put them in harm’s way.” He sighed and nodded as if to convince himself of his own words. “One day, I shall be reunited with them.”

  Æsa sat there in silence, not thinking her original question would have taken them down this rocky road. It left her with a sense of uneasiness as she sat across from him, bewildered.

  Gustaf had been through a lot in his life and she didn’t know how to comfort him. Her past life had not required a talent to console, but to simply make one temporarily forget their troubles. By now, she assumed he was not the type to partake in such wanton acts and for that, she respected him more. She was not used to being in the company of a complex man—a noble man with principles—and she was starting to second-guess her grand idea of enticing him with idle talk.

  “Where is your family?” Gustaf inquired, arising from his seat to take a new one beside her on the boxbed.

  His large presence sent Æsa’s heart to skip. “I have no family left,” she said, finding, for the first time, it difficult to look him in the eye.

  “What happened to them?” he asked, brushing back a stray lock of reddish hair hiding her face.

  “After Harold became king, there was a huge revolt. My family was slaughtered and I was taken as a slave. I was very young and had no one.” Her next words were hard to admit. “I would go where I was needed. Until they would tire of me.”

  Gustaf’s voice quieted. “I will never tire of you, Æsa.”

  Her eyes finally rose to meet his. “There is not much you can say I have not already heard.”

  “Indeed,” he said agreeably. “But I imagine the kind of men who have pined for your attention and cajoled you with an eloquent tongue were naught more than wretches and cowards who find complete amusement in passing a woman around like a frivolous good. You are in my home now. What you hear from my lips will always be the truth. I have no desire to waste my breath on falsehoods.”

  A smile gathered on her lips. “If you are naught else, you are certainly charming.”

  Gustaf made a sound resembling a low hum. “I am pleased I am at least something in your eyes.”

  For Æsa, Gustaf was more to her than she ever thought possible. Regardless that their involvement had only begun a few days ago, she felt safe with him and, for once in her life, did not wish for better.

  As he continued to gaze into her eyes, she was undoubtedly in foreign territory. She had no idea how to behave in front of him or what to offer without offending.

  Normally, for the food and the warm bed provided for her, she would have been expected to impart both lustful looks and sexual favors, making every attempt to please, if not tantalize. But Gustaf didn’t act as though he were counting on garnering anything more than a harmless conversation.

  “You have done so much for me,” Æsa said timidly. “And I have naught with which to repay you.”

  “I need not reparation,” Gustaf replied, his voice steady as he lifted her chin with one hooked finger. “Nor do I expect it.”

  To her dismay, he stood to leave her company, and before she reali
zed what she was doing, she reached out for his forearm. “What if I want to?”

  Gustaf glanced at her from the corner of his eye and then at the slender hand across his limb. “You need not think like that anymore. You are free to come and go as you please without having to first please another.”

  Though his words were the most gracious she’d ever heard, they also came as a blunt force to her heart. Did he not want her? Was she not good enough for him because of the past life she had led?

  How could she blame him, though? She was a whore and had been for most of her life. But to think Gustaf was disgusted by her now, so much that he would not even think of accepting her touch, came with a blow hard to withstand. She released him and her face fell shamefully.

  Gustaf narrowed his eyes, reading her pain as if it were written across her forehead. He sat back down beside her and brought his hands up to her face. “That was not a rejection, my lady. That was me granting you free will. No longer are you a thrall.”

  Æsa felt the warmth of his hands upon her and couldn’t help but shiver. His straightforward contact sent her heart aflutter and her wits scurrying to the farthest part of her brain. She hardly had anything to say as it was, much less try to speak sensibly in the wake of his heavenly touch.

  “You are trembling,” Gustaf said softly. “Do I frighten you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why do you shake like a scared rabbit?”

  ****

  Gustaf stroked his thumbed across her cheek, wondering how a woman who once had little to no modesty—practically mounting him on his longship in front of his men—could suddenly turn timid in the palm of his hands.

  He knew this was not the first time she had felt a man’s touch, and if anything, the stroke across her face was probably the most innocent contact she had ever felt.

  Gustaf, however, could not claim the same. The smooth skin of her flushed face felt so good beneath the callused skin of his hands and admittedly he longed to touch more of her.

  “Answer me, Æsa,” he whispered, nearing her to the point of their noses touching. “Why do you tremble?”