The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  As if suddenly feeling the weight of everyone’s stares, Nevan looked up and gathered his wits. “I suppose you are here to see that Mara concedes with his request. I cannot imagine Callan offering her, nor yourself a choice in the matter.”

  Breandán smiled, feeding Nevan’s words back to him. “You know him well then.”

  “Quite. You could say he and I have had a long…” he wanted to say ‘feud’ but in light of his company, he chose to be vague. “We have a long history together. But I am afraid I cannot allow Mara this journey. Tait is not present at the moment and out of respect for him, a decision cannot be reached without his knowledge. In light of that and the long journey you have made, you and your men are welcome to stay here on the isle until Tait’s return. Together, we shall all come to a decision.”

  Ottarr now looked even more disconcerted. “Surely you jest, Sire.”

  Nevan gave Ottarr a sideways glance. “To send these men back without a resolution would be rude and quite unproductive. Need I remind you a man’s life, albeit a foe’s life, hangs on the balance of his last dire wishes, and a deathbed does not luxuriate on wasted time.”

  “And where do you suggest they stay?”

  “The most sensible place would be Mara's longhouse,” Nevan said casually, but then interrupted Ottar’s next protest. “Without Mara, of course.”

  ****

  Breandán swallowed hard, his heart nearly stopping. He and Ottarr seemed to have shared the same look of surprise, though Ottarr was more voiceful about it.

  “This is your idea of sensible?” the Northman muttered.

  “Mara has the largest living space of anyone here. Tait has reconstructed her longhouse in grand proportions to which Dægan had once built, and ‘twould certainly accommodate seven men comfortably. But if you have a better suggestion, Ottarr, by all means, speak forth.”

  Ottarr stepped forward, nearing Nevan. “Do you not realize the ramifications you face once Tait gains word of your excessive generosity?”

  “I will deal with Tait when the time comes,” Nevan said frankly.

  Ottarr scoffed. “I am not sure what I am going to enjoy more. Tait’s wrath upon you…or Breandán. Both will be equally gratifying.”

  Breandán watched the two men carefully. Nevan was obviously a man of great poise as he stood unruffled beneath the Northman's glower. Any other man would have taken complete offense with Ottarr’s statement, but Nevan remained level-headed and, as far as Breandán could distinguish, amazingly tolerant.

  “I can understand your discontentment, Ottarr, but your criticism is premature. You lack the knowledge of what this day has brought me, and I assure you, Tait will understand.”

  “Tait will have your head on a spit!”

  Nevan crossed his arms and tilted his head, unaffected by Ottarr’s continual insults. “I presume that means you are short of a better suggestion?”

  Ottarr nearly spun on his heels in anger. “What I am short on is patience, Nevan. Why do you insist upon appeasing these men? You shall gain naught by it.”

  “On the contrary. When was the last time you saw Mara smile?”

  “What?” Ottarr asked, his face drawn together like a prune.

  “Callan has denied Mara for many years,” Nevan explained, putting his hand upon Ottarr’s shoulder and turning him away from the group. They took a few steps together before Nevan continued. “Even after Lochlann was born, Callan refused to see her. She was practically disowned by her own people—and with Dægan gone, she has been utterly lost. Now, for whatever reason, Callan has come to his senses and asks for his daughter. Do you not think the news these men have brought will excite her to her very core? For once, I want to see her happy again. To make her feel as if she belongs. That, my friend, is what I shall gain. Now if you would be so kind as to send for Mara—”

  “I will have no part in this,” Ottarr interjected sternly. “You want her? Then fetch her yourself.”

  The grizzly old Northman walked away, and to Breandán’s best guess, where the mead supply was plentiful enough to inebriate oneself.

  Nevan stood there, as if contemplating his next actions, until one of his men spoke up.

  “Permission to speak frankly, Sire.”

  Nevan glanced over, assessing the look on the loyal islander’s face, but he seemed to already know what the man was going to say by the way he gave his permission. “Please, speak your mind.”

  “While we all trust your judgment, Breandán is still one of Callan’s men.”

  “Noted,” Nevan offered with a nod. He then scanned his eyes over the man in question. “Show me your heel, Breandán.”

  Breandán narrowed his eyes, not fully comprehending the king’s strange request. “I am not sure I understand.”

  “Remove your shoe and show me your heel,” he repeated. “Mara and I once talked about that fateful day when Domaldr had come here and did the unspeakable to his own brother. She told me if not for a certain man, Dægan would have been murdered on the spot. And the man who spared Dægan, should bear a deep scar across his heel.”

  Breandán’s breath escaped him. He never fathomed for Mara to remember the sacrifice he made on Dægan’s behalf. Nor did he expect her to reveal it to others. It was such a long time ago, and until now, he’d nearly forgotten about the out-of-sight scar on the bottom of his foot.

  He reached down and pulled his boot off, turning around to lift his foot for all to see.

  As if completely satisfied, Nevan averted his eyes to the skeptical islanders. “As you can see for yourself, this man was Dægan’s ally. And if Dægan can trust in this man, then so can I. Now, go and send Mara to meet me at her longhouse. Go.”

  “But, Sire…”

  “Go.” Nevan gestured with a flip of his hand. “That is an order.”

  As the islanders straggled one-by-one back to the mead hall, Nevan stood sound in his decision.

  He looked at Breandán and his ocean-soaked companions. “You all must be cold. Come,” Nevan motioned with a slight jerk of his head. “Let us get you settled for the night.”

  Chapter Eight

  In Mara’s longhouse….

  It was a thought that kept circulating through Breandán’s mind as he and his men walked up the shoreline, the cream and sable-colored pebbles beneath his feet numbering like the possibilities.

  How would Mara react when she’d see him?

  How would he feel sleeping in her very bed?

  How would she feel knowing he was sleeping in her bed?

  And how long would this streak of luck last before Tait returned and spoiled it all? Considering the cold reception he had gotten from Ottar, he half expected Tait to outright kill him when he got back.

  Despite the obvious threats hovering around him by both the Northmen and the Irish islanders, the only thing that concerned him was Mara. So many years had separated them and he wasn’t all that certain she wouldn’t feel as bitter as the others.

  As Ottarr had said, Breandán was the very reason Domaldr had landed upon these shores and brought with him death and destruction to Dægan’s family. Though his was not the hand that killed Dægan, he was still relatively responsible for the losses they endured from then on.

  And nothing he could do or say now—no matter how noble or selfless—would ever make up for that. If he could relive those days, he would have certainly done things differently.

  At the time, he was barely a score, hardly a man, and too naïve to have known the consequences of his actions, much less to have fathomed the daughter of his Irish king in love with a Northman.

  Perhaps the many years of loneliness had given Mara ample time to reflect on his involvement, eventually making her resentful. The possibility of that, alone, made him nervous as hell, and gave him a strong motive to turn around and sail back home.

  To his better judgment, he continued to follow Nevan toward Mara’s longhouse.

  Nevan opened the door and stepped inside, allowing Breandán and his wear
y travelers to enter behind him. The warmth of the room was a blessing; a roaring fire burned bright in the central hearth.

  The main room was spacious and eerily identical to the way Breandán had once remembered it seven years ago. Even the intricate carvings were present around the massive doorframe and above the entrance to—as he could only assume—Mara’s bed chamber.

  Nevan was right. Tait had rebuilt it to replicate Dægan’s previous handiwork, down to every last detail of woven tapestries hanging on the walls to the matted floors. But what really caught Breandán’s eye was a carved chest at the foot of one of the perimeter boxbeds.

  He’d never forget the significance of that chest when he was standing before Dægan—head to head—for the first time.

  ****

  “Why would you even care to save this from the fire? You had a purpose and it had naught to do with selflessness! Come on! Tell me! Why would you bring this?”

  There was a silent deadly stare between Dægan and Breandán that was long and barbed with jealous animosity. Neither blinked or flinched as they gaped deeply into each other’s souls. “You love Mara,” Dægan finally said. “You brought this in hopes to win her heart should I have died. To begin where I left off.”

  Mara stepped forward, touching Dægan’s forearm, which was clenched at his side. “That is absurd, Dægan. He pulled it from the fire so I might trust him. Tell him, Breandán.”

  Dægan scornfully coaxed the Irishman. “Aye, Breandán. Do tell.”

  “Fine. I love her. But what good does it do to proclaim it? My heart’s longing will never be satisfied. At the least you might find consolation in that, Northman. Be that as it may, I will protect her with every beat of my heart and there is naught you can do about it.”

  ****

  “Breandán?” Nevan asked. “Are you all right?”

  Breandán turned around sharply, shaking the vivid memories from his mind. “Aye,” he said, fumbling with how to answer the king sensibly. He could see the king was turning over his own share of questions. “I am a bit taken by the sight of this room,” he said, exaggerating on the longhouse as a whole.

  Nevan offered a quaint smile. “Aye, well, as I said before, Tait was very adamant about replicating Dægan’s home down to the finest detail.”

  At that moment, the door of the longhouse burst open and Mara stood in the doorway.

  ****

  Mara saw Breandán standing in her home, just as Nevan’s men had claimed when they had reentered the mead hall. They actually had to repeat themselves before she fully understood who they were talking about. Even during her flight across the settlement, she nearly doubted them, figuring there had to be some mistake.

  But Breandán Mac Liam was really here, in her very home.

  He was dressed in a white linen tunic that extended to his knees, his calves bare and muscular. A leather belt and a long hunter’s dagger hung low across his narrow waist. Upon his wide shoulders lay a stunning grayish-white cloak of mountain hare, which she imagined he trapped himself.

  By her recollection, Breandán looked the same as he did years ago—lean and tall with the same boyish handsomeness. Yet, some things were noticeably different about him. His hair was much shorter than before, cropped nearly to his scalp, which now accentuated a strong jaw she had never noticed when his hair was shoulder-length. And he stood more erect with an undeniable confidence in his face and posture.

  Though her eyes clearly did not deceive her, she found it hard to believe Breandán was standing—flesh and blood—right in front of her.

  “Is it really you?”

  Chapter Nine

  Breandán held poised, his own dismay keeping him frozen in his spot. Whatever reasons he feared in seeing Mara again, they were still at the forefront of his thoughts, and he dared not incite her by reacting too hastily.

  Mara stared at him with a look of bewilderment, a gaze that was hard to decipher between awe and hatred, but damn if she wasn’t as beautiful as ever.

  Her dark hair trailed her back in one long, thick braid with a few loose strands framing her perfect face. Her lips, slightly parted in wonder, were full and lush. Her body was still dainty. And her waist hardly gave proof she had ever birthed a child.

  Those were the few things he noticed because all he could really focus on was her eyes. How could he forget their brilliance? They were the color of emerald fire with flecks of golden sun behind dark feathery lashes.

  And God, if they didn’t look right through him now!

  Breandán swallowed, feeling a prickling heat rising from his chest and up his neck. Despite that his clothes were soaking wet from the ocean waves and cold against his skin, he was burning up inside.

  Mara was absolutely mesmerizing. And when he thought he was finally capable of speech, her mouth slowly curved into a bright smile. His heart slammed out of beat as he watched her beautiful face light up like a flame, her jade eyes dancing with glee.

  Mara ran to Breandán, not even noticing Nevan, or the six others standing in her home. There seemed to be no thought in her actions, just an uninhibited determination to run straight to him.

  Before she could reach him, he threw his hands in front of him with a hasty warning. “Mara, I am soaking wet!”

  But it was too late. Her body, though tiny compared to his muscled form, crashed into his. Her arms immediately wrapped around his back, undeterred by the dampness of his clothes.

  Breandán stood there, his arms open and suspended as if he had no idea what do with them. He wanted to bring them down around her, to envelope her with all his might, but he was afraid to allow himself to touch her—that if he made the slightest motion toward her, she’d dissipate into thin air like in his many tortuous dreams.

  Eventually, against his nagging reservation, he found the will to let his arms fall. With it came an immense relief as he felt the warm, delicate mass of her body remaining within his grasp. Mara was finally in his arms and she was real.

  Breandán’s emotions ran high. Her faint fragrance coupled with the bold feel of her body against him made his heart pound and his blood race. She smelled of expensive oils, quite exotic to his nose, but it was the sweetest aroma he had ever encountered. He drew in a slow breath, savoring it as if it were the last blessing with which he would ever be gifted. He trembled with excitement.

  “You are shaking,” Mara said, pulling slightly away from him. At that moment, she seemed to remember how much taller he was compared to her since she had to tilt her head back in order to meet his gaze. “Come, warm yourself by the fire,” she insisted, taking his hand.

  Little did she know the simple act of placing her hand in his warmed Breandán to his very soul. Even if he had been totally submerged in the icy waters of the sea, her touch would have lit him afire.

  As she turned to lead him, Mara realized Breandán was not the only man in the room. She found Nevan, grinning rather pleasantly as if humored by her lack of perception, and the half dozen waterlogged guests already gathered around her hearth.

  “Nevan,” she uttered in surprise. Scanning the other faces, she found another recognizable face—one of her father’s men. “Óengus,” she voiced softly. “Please, forgive me. I saw you not, else I would have greeted you properly.”

  “Believe me, Mara,” Óengus said humbly. “Your greeting surpassed all the others we have received so far.”

  In unison, the men chuckled and Mara didn’t appear to be surprised. “So you all are the reason Ottarr is drinking himself silly.”

  “There was a bit of a skirmish over whether or not to allow Breandán and his crew to come ashore,” Nevan admitted. “But, as you can see, no harm done—save for Ottarr’s pride. I hope you minded not that I brought them here. They were wet and cold from our inhospitable shore and I knew you would have a fire.”

  “Of course. Please,” she said, gesturing toward the pit. “So, what brings you here?” Mara asked, initially directing her inquiry to Óengus.

  Óengus glance
d over her shoulder at Breandán, waiting for him to divulge the answer to her question which had cut right to the point.

  Through his delay, Mara glanced behind her at Breandán, pieces of the puzzles still not fitting into place. “What are you all doing here?”

  Breandán held fast to the ground beneath his feet. The look she gave him—the innocence of her pleading eyes—nearly sent him on his backside. God, he hated to be the one to tell her the news!

  He looked respectfully toward Nevan, waiting first for his permission. Though it was his duty to deliver the message, it was still Nevan’s isle and he didn’t want to trample on the man’s feet any more than he already had with his unexpected arrival.

  “Go on,” the king shrugged. “She must know sooner or later.”

  Mara’s attention fluttered back and forth between the men. “What must I know?”

  “Mara,” Breandán said, contemplating his next words. “You father has sent me to take you to him.”

  Mara blinked back her surprise. “My father…” she repeated.

  “Aye.”

  She took a deep breath as if to gather her strength, but only one word fell from her lips. “Why?”

  Breandán crowded his brows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why does my father want to see me?” Mara repeated, but this time an unrestrained bitterness tainted her words.

  Again, Breandán was confused by her question. Why would any father want to see his daughter? Because he loved her—that’s why. And from what Breandán had remembered years ago, Mara reciprocated his love. He had seen it with his own eyes. But clearly, things had changed between them.

  Hoping to not look the fool, he replied, “Your father loves you.”

  “Does he?” Mara asked rhetorically, shooting a quick look toward Óengus. “I fail to see it.”

  Breandán momentarily looked toward Callan’s herald. Judging by the way Óengus quickly averted his eyes, Breandán knew he withheld something—something that was certainly significant enough to leave Mara heartbroken.