An irritation built up in Breandán but he quickly stifled it, his only consolation being he’d ream Óengus for it later once Mara had left.
“Forgive me, Mara, but the years have not been kind enough to spread word to reach my ears. I am afraid I am ignorant to anything which has transpired between you and your father. But what I do know is he is not well and he wishes to see you before he dies.”
A single tear slipped from her eye, but she quickly wiped it away.
Before Breandán realized it, his body had instinctively stepped forward, his hand extending in front of him as if to take her in his arms. But he quickly willed that impulse away, reminding himself it wasn’t his place to touch her, nor a privilege from which he should benefit.
He crossed his arms to his chest, as if to hold down the one which had a mind of its own. “I know this must be very difficult for you to hear and believe me, I hardly like playing your father’s herald. But since ‘twas in the interest of you, I agreed. I want to comfort you, Mara, but I cannot comprehend your pain beyond the obvious.”
Nevan stepped in at this point, knowing Mara would have difficulties explaining. “Callan has refused to see Mara, despite the loss of her husband and the birth of her son.”
Breandán’s face recoiled. “Why would he do that?”
“I cannot speak for Callan,” Nevan retorted. “You would have to ask him.”
Cowardly bastard, Breandán thought. To deny his own daughter without reason was utterly spineless, though, in truth, it didn’t surprise him much. Callan may have been his king, a man he was supposed to serve, but he never cared for him or the lengths to which he’d go to get what he wanted.
Breandán was now kicking himself for being so blinded by his own desires that he didn’t see through Callan’s scheme. Callan made sure he couldn’t refute delivering his message by threatening to side with Donnchadh, while also knowing his daughter wouldn’t likely refuse either once she knew the price Breandán would pay for failing on his end. It was now obvious Callan counted on using their past relationship in his favor, hoping Mara had enough feelings for Breandán to do what was necessary.
Coward!
Breandán remembered what his father had told him before he left. A man always has a choice. No matter what he is faced with or how far back he is cornered, there is always a choice. And he was making his now.
No one would manipulate Mara, especially her own father.
No matter what strategic vice Callan hoped to place him in, Breandán was not going to choose the wrong side again. He had already done so once in his life with Domaldr and it proved to be the biggest mistake. He would not play the ignorant fool again.
His jaw clenched and every muscle in his body tightened as he tried to reign in his own emotions. He couldn’t help but feel protective of Mara and given her own father was hurting her, he truly wanted to march right up to the conniving bastard—deathbed or not—and blacken his eye.
Nay, both of them.
“I am sorry that Callan,” Breandán offered, no longer choosing to refer to the priggish king as her father, “has treated you in this way. I can only hope, since he is on his deathbed, he has come to his senses. But if you decide you wish not to go to him, I will not hold you to it.”
Óengus shot the Irishman a look. “But, you have orders to—”
“In light of what Callan has done to Mara, those orders are no longer mine to carry out, nor will I allow anyone to force her. This is her choice and I stand by her decision, whatever that may be.”
“And you are willing to risk your father’s—”
“Not another word, Óengus!” Breandán warned. “Now is not the time.”
“But Mara is his daughter! She should know what her father has planned—”
“You mean, what he has threatened to do, naught more.”
“However you chose to see it, Mara has a right to know.”
Breandán’s irritation grew and his tone suddenly adopted a commanding voice. “Óengus, I warn you for the last time, hold your tongue.”
“You have no authority over me, Breandán,”
“He may not,” Nevan interrupted, “but I do. Speak one more word and I shall have you thrown from this isle before your next breath. You are a guest in Mara’s home and I remind you to act like one.”
Mara’s eyes woefully lifted to meet Breandán’s, a thick layer of angst paling her face. She looked as if she were going to pass out.
“Mara,” Breandán said, his voice now calm and caring, though he still fought the urge to reach out and steady her with his own two hands. “You should sit. You look not well.” Another thing for which he’d reprimand Óengus.
She touched her hand to her throat, beads of sweat clinging to her skin. “I need some air.”
Nevan jumped forward, taking hold of her elbow. “Indeed, you look quite distraught. Come, let us step outside.” He flashed a stern look at Óengus, who was the lone culprit, before leading her out the door.
Breandán’s eyes, however, were not as merciful.
Chapter Ten
As soon as the door closed, Breandán confronted Óengus, his eyes still fuming.
“You best tell me what you know about Callan and why he turned his daughter away.”
“I know naught more than you.”
“And you are a liar,” Breandán snapped back, his hands clenching at his sides.
“Breandán,” Marcas interrupted kindly.
“You have hardly said a word since we landed,” Breandán stated sharply toward his friend. “I suggest you continue to do so.” He glared back at Óengus. “And, as for you—”
“I swear to you, Breandán, I know naught why Mara’s father had refused her. He never told anyone. The only person who would likely know would be his advisor, Fergus. He is the one who turned Mara away.”
Fergus turned her away? Breandán didn’t see that coming. He thought better of the king’s advisor—until now. Breandán straightened. “Then I suppose your services here are no longer needed.”
Óengus crowded his brows in surprise. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means if you want to make it back to Gaillimh before dark, I recommend you leave now.”
“Surely you jest,” Óengus protested.
“Does it look like it?”
“But, we are all soaked to the skin—”
“And you all are going to get soaked once again when you board the currach. So there is no sense in wasting precious hours standing around this fire waiting for your clothes to dry.”
“And what do you expect me to tell the king when I return without his daughter?”
“I care not what you tell him,” Breandán barked. “With any luck, Callan will be dead before you make it back. But you can inform Fergus I will be coming for him, with or without Mara, and he had better have answers for me.”
Óengus stood dumbstruck. “That is the message you want me to take to the king?”
“Aye,” Breandán said matter-of-factly.
“Have you no concern for your own people? The risk you put them in for forcing Callan to ally himself with Donnchadh?”
“His threats frighten me not. No matter with whom he is allied, we will fight Donnchadh and we will win.”
Óengus shook his head. “You have lost your mind.”
“And you are losing daylight.”
Breandán continued to stare at Óengus until the herald finally realized the young Irishman had neither the pity nor the intent to change his mind. Reluctantly, all five of Callan’s men walked around the far side of the hearth to keep from having to pass Breandán on the way out. Each one walked out the door, save for Óengus who lingered.
“You will regret this one day, Breandán. Mark my words.”
“And there will come a day when Callan will regret he once hurt Mara.”
****
Breandán sat down onto the boxbed behind him and molested his scalp with a stiff hand. He knew he would not regret hi
s decision concerning Callan as Óengus proclaimed, but he was more troubled with Mara and how upset she was when she left. He couldn’t shake the look she had given him or the tears that had filled her eyes.
God, what he wouldn’t give to run to her and comfort her. But having the opportunity to console her wasn’t going to happen tonight. He wasn’t even sure where Nevan had taken her, and he was damn sure he wasn’t going to overstep his bounds by searching for her. He could only hope Nevan would return soon with word. He’d stay up all night waiting if he had to.
Thinking it was very likely his wait would be long, he decided to get more comfortable. He removed his bow and quiver from his shoulder and sat them on the boxbed beside him before he finally looked up at his silent friend.
“Forgive me for speaking to you in that manner, Marcas. I had no right.”
Marcas sighed. “Are you granting me permission to speak now?”
Breandán rolled his eyes at Marcas’ sarcasm knowing he’d speak his mind regardless. “What is it you want to say to me?”
“Say to you?” Marcas repeated. “You actually have to ask?” Marcas scoffed and paced the room freely. “My life has been threatened, on several occasions mind you, and you have the gall to sit there and ask me what ’tis I want to say?”
“What did you expect to happen when we arrived?” Breandán asked, eyes narrowed. “A feast in your honor? Besides, I never asked you to come in the first place.”
“We nearly died tonight!” Marcas growled back.
“You knew well where we were going. I never hid that from you. In fact, as I recall, I tried to warn you.”
“You said the Northmen might be a bit begrudged toward you. There is quite a difference between men holding a grudge and a madman who is aggressively bitter! Did you not see the look in the old Northman’s eyes? Two more breaths and I swear he would have run you through and paraded your head around the isle on the end of his sword.”
Breandán glanced toward the door. “You might want to keep your voice down then. Ottarr may have been mad, but by now, I would wager he is still mad, and drunk.”
As if the notion of inebriation had a magical affect on Marcas, he suddenly stopped ranting and flopped down on the boxbed across the room from Breandán. He closed his eyes and let his head rest on the wall behind him. “I could certainly use a drink.”
Breandán nonchalantly detached his drinking pouch from his belt and tossed it to his unsuspecting friend.
Marcas glanced down at the pouch in his lap and raised a single brow. “You call that a drink?”
Breandán nearly laughed. “’Tis wet.”
“So am I,” Marcas said, gesturing toward his entire body. “But I doubt you would want to lift me to your lips.” He eyed Breandán for a moment. “Speaking of things lifted to one’s lips…”
Breandán shook his head. “I was wondering how long ‘twould take you.”
“What? Am I not permitted to speak about Mara?”
“Honestly, I would rather you not.”
Marcas grinned boldly. “I saw the look on her face and the embrace she gave you. I am not blind.”
“Blind is the only thing no one could ever accuse you of being.”
Marcas laughed as if he were proud of that very indication. “I also saw the way you embraced her.”
“And that surprises you?”
“Not in the least. But I cannot say the same for Nevan. He seems very protective of her…in an odd sort of fashion.”
Breandán couldn’t help but be surprised by his friend’s perception. “This, coming from a man who barely recognizes his own name once a pair of breasts walks into the room?”
“Someone had to take notice. You were a bit preoccupied.”
Breandán couldn’t help but smile. He was very preoccupied when Mara was in his arms. The whole longhouse could have caved in around him and he wouldn’t have flinched. “So, what do you mean by ‘odd’?”
Marcas leaned forward toward the fire, rubbing his cold hands together. “As if Nevan has more of an interest in her than a concern. Something more personal to him.” He blew warm air into his cupped hands and extended them out toward the fire, trying to warm them.
Breandán did the same and soon he was deep in thought about Mara and her self-centered father, about Nevan and his place in Mara’s life, and about the whole evening in general. So much had happened and so little had been resolved. As protective as he was with Mara, he wanted to amend it all.
If only she were here…
The longhouse door opened and Breandán immediately stood only to see Nevan enter and shut the door behind him. Breandán’s posture relaxed in disappointment. “Is Mara all right?” he asked worriedly.
Nevan’s eyebrows rose as he saw the longhouse was less five persons. “She is doing quite well considering she found out her father is dying. She is staying with Tait’s wife, Thordia, for the night. But where are the others?”
Breandán had nearly forgotten about them. “I sent them back to Callan. Given the way Óengus behaved and the distress he caused Mara, I thought it not necessary they stay.”
Nevan quirked his brows. “You sent them away?”
“Aye.”
“And Óengus was receptive to this?”
Breandán turned his mouth under. “Not exactly. But I gave him not much choice.”
Nevan nodded, seemingly pleased with Breandán’s forthright. “Here,” he said, offering the stack of clothes he was holding. “I believe you two are in need of these.”
Breandán accepted them, humbled by the king’s graciousness. “I am sorry my presence here has caused quite a stir.”
“Sometimes a little excitement is good for everyone,” Nevan said vaguely. “Let us hope the rest of your stay is pleasant.”
With Tait soon to return, Breandán didn’t hold his breath.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?” Nevan asked. “You are welcome to join me in the mead hall once you get settled. Eat. Drink.”
Breandán gave Marcas a sideways glance knowing Nevan’s latter mention sparked his attention. “Nay. I believe ‘tis best we stay here. At least until…some tempers have cooled.”
A wide smile crossed Nevan’s face and Breandán knew he, likewise, contemplated the amount of mead Ottarr had steeped himself in by now. “Perhaps you speak more wisely than I, Breandán.” He turned toward the door, but stopped as he opened it. Waiting. Finally, he faced Breandán with a serious look on his face. “Thank you,” he said with a sincere nod, “for making Mara smile again.”
****
Breandán stood bewildered. He did not expect those words to fall from the king’s mouth. And it seemed Marcas was right. Nevan did have a more personal interest in Mara, almost like a father would.
But why?
“Give me those,” Marcas demanded, snatching the pile of tunics and cloaks from Breandán’s hands. “I have stood in these wet clothes long enough.” He searched through them aimlessly until he found a pair that suited him, and threw the rest on the boxbed behind Breandán. “Are you not going to change?”
Breandán’s thoughts halted. “Aye. I was thinking.”
“About what?” Marcas asked as he fiendishly ripped his clinging wet tunic over his head and replaced it with a dry one.
“About what you said about Nevan…about him having an interest in Mara further than a normal concern.”
Marcas raised his brows. “You are actually pondering something I said?”
“Aye,” Breandán uttered as he, too, removed his sodden cloak and tunic. “I think you may be onto something.”
“Really.”
“I overheard Nevan when he was speaking to Ottarr about Mara’s happiness. And then he expressed his gratitude with me for making her smile. Why would he care so much about that?”
“He is a thoughtful man?” Marcas guessed.
“Nay, it goes beyond that….almost like he is family. Perhaps he is Mara’s uncle…mayhap Mara’s mother and Nev
an were siblings.”
Marcas scoffed. “So you think Nevan and Callan are brother-in-laws? With the hatred they share between them, I doubt it.”
Breandán looked at his friend askance. “Stranger things have happened. Look at Dægan and Domaldr. They were twins and yet they hated each other. Aye…” he mumbled. “There has to be something that ties Mara to both Callan and Nevan…but what?”
Marcas rubbed his temples. “You are hurting my head with this.”
Breandán stood there, staring into the dancing fire, unaware of the cool air spreading goose bumps across the bare skin of his body. He was too absorbed with thoughts of Mara to even care about the draft, or that Marcas had snuck away searching the back rooms of the longhouse for more turf for the night.
Breandán then thought about what he wanted to say to Mara if given half a chance. What he would have said if no one had been around during their embrace.
He drifted to thoughts about his dream the other night and how astonishingly real it still seemed. How her soft skin felt beneath his palm and how sweet her mouth tasted in their kiss.
Oh, that kiss….
He’d never forget it.
Sparks jumped from the fire and floated upwards as Marcas added the new logs of turf he’d found. Breandán suddenly came back to reality and stared at his friend. “Where did you find those?”
Marcas motioned behind him. “Back there. Whole storage room full.”
“You have no right to go searching through Mara’s house.”
“’Tis turf. I think she will not care.”
“That is not—”
Breandán words were suddenly cut short as the longhouse door flew open.
Chapter Eleven
Mara, along with two other women, stood frozen beneath the doorframe, their arms extended in front of them, holding grand displays of meats, breads, and cheeses on wooden trays. Each of the three sets of eyes were large and full of shock as they gawked upon Breandán standing near the hearth—naked.
Mara swallowed hard, unable to take her eyes from him. He was splendidly hard-muscled around his shoulders and arms, his torso long and lean, his brawny chest slightly overhanging a rippled stomach—the perfect body of a skilled archer. And then, as her eyes dropped lower, taking in the powerful lines of muscle running through his thighs, they settled on the patch of dark hair and his sizeable manroot.
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