The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  “Oh my,” Lillemor said behind her.

  Immediately, Mara closed her eyes tightly, embarrassed she had walked in on such a sight—and she had stared. She shuffled, wanting to run from the room, but couldn’t as her hands were full and the entrance was blocked by her two friends—not so willing to budge—behind her. “I am sorry,” she said hurriedly, her face sharply turned aside. “We thought you would be hungry. Please, take it.”

  Breandán, who had already snatched one of the dry tunics from the boxbed to cover himself, did as he was told, handing off the trays one by one to Marcas. By the time he had taken the third elaborate tray, the three women had already turned and clumsily disappeared out the door, slamming it shut behind them.

  Marcas looked at Breandán on the brink of laughter. “Did you see the longing in Mara’s eyes? My word, she stared at your—”

  “Keep your immoral thoughts to yourself,” Breandán growled as he fed his arms frantically through the sleeves of the tunic and pulled it down around his hips. “And stay put,” he demanded, pointing a stern finger momentarily at Marcas before grabbing his belt and racing out the door.

  ****

  “Mara!” Breandán called after her. “Wait. Please.”

  Mara turned around to see him securing his belt at his waist, inwardly disappointed he had found a tunic long enough to conceal the alluring features of his body still prominently lodged in her thoughts.

  Her heart sped up as he neared her.

  “I apologize,” Breandán offered first. “I was unaware you were coming back…with food.” A nervousness suddenly took hold of him. “Nevan said you were with…well, that you had…” Breandán stopped himself and tried to gather his wits. “I truly meant not for you to walk in and—”

  Mara’s bright smile interrupted him. “I know. Besides, ‘tis I who should apologize. I should have knocked first.”

  “Regardless, ‘twas not your fault,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the longhouse. “’Tis your home, not mine. I am merely a guest.” He bowed slightly. “A humble guest.”

  Breandán’s blue-green eyes caught Mara by surprise as he leaned forward. They were intense and impenetrable, his dark brows making his eyes that much more astounding. Beyond all that severity, they also beheld an uninhibited compassion within them.

  Thordia gently cleared her throat, breaking the trance between the two.

  Mara released her breath and fidgeted. “Forgive me,” she said, stepping aside to introduce the others. “Breandán, this is Lillemor,” she directed, “and this is Thordia, Tait’s wife.”

  Breandán discreetly bowed again. “’Tis a great pleasure to meet you both.”

  Thordia and Lillemor each smiled, tickled, even, by his presence.

  “And thank you…all of you,” he added, “for the food. ‘Twas very thoughtful.”

  “Is there enough?” Mara asked. “We can certainly fetch more if—”

  Breandán raised his hands. “Please, trouble not yourselves any more than you already have. There is more than enough. Would you care to join us?”

  Thordia spoke up first. “Lillemor and I already had our fill earlier. But I am certain Mara would like to.”

  Mara gave Thordia a sideways glance.

  “You barely ate,” Thordia reminded her with widened eyes. “You should eat. ‘Twould do you good.”

  Mara faced Breandán slowly, biting her lower lip. It was not as if she were necessarily nervous about being with Breandán. It had more to do with being around Breandán alone—or any man for that matter. It had been years since she had eaten a meal with another man in her longhouse.

  Though her heart leapt at the pleasant thought, somehow she still felt guilty as if she were doing something mildly depraved. Even as she looked at Breandán, she couldn’t forget the blessed sight of his bare chest and rippled stomach without thinking of how it would feel beneath her touch.

  Depraved, indeed. She shoved those images aside.

  Thordia gave Mara a little discrete push forward. “We will wait for you at Lillemor’s.”

  “Are you certain you won’t join us?” Breandán offered again, as if he noted Mara’s apprehension and was trying to alleviate it. “Thordia, you are eating for two.”

  “Thank you ever so much, Breandán, but I could not eat another bite.” She and Lillemor smiled in agreement and walked away together, their whispers and suppressed giggles trailing behind them.

  Breandán grinned, watching Mara rock back on her heels.

  “If you would rather not—”

  “Oh, please, that is absurd,” she dismissed, trying her best to keep Breandán from feeling uncomfortable.

  “What I mean is,” Breandán rephrased, “would you rather we eat in a place less private so as to limit the talk of the isle? Perhaps the mead hall would be a better venue.”

  Mara smiled, admiring the lengths to which he was willing to go to save her reputation—a reputation hardly worth much concern considering she was no longer a delicate maiden. And it was Nevan’s idea to offer the food to begin with. If he didn’t want the possibility of her sharing a meal with Breandán, then he shouldn’t have sent her. He should have done it himself.

  “How very considerate of you, Breandán, but I think it unnecessary. Besides, ‘twould be an honor to eat with you.”

  ****

  The meal they shared was a quiet one. The only time Breandán had spoken at all was after Mara inquired about Óengus and his men. And even then, he was short on details.

  If she could peg anyone who was at ease with the meal, it would have been Marcas. She often found him grinning slyly and making jests from time to time, though Breandán looked hard put to appreciate it.

  Marcas had poured himself a third stein of mead when Breandán finally felt the need to reprove his nonchalant behavior beyond the usual grimaces. “Do you not think it wise to pace yourself a bit?”

  “I am merely catching up on the days I lost,” he replied with a wink made for Mara to catch, “voyaging across Mother Erin with you.”

  Curiosity suddenly overtook Mara. “Why have you come, Marcas, if you mind not me asking? I understand Breandán’s reasons for making the journey—and even Óengus’ purpose. But what are yours?”

  “Someone has to watch over this knave,” Marcas joked, elbowing Breandán in the ribs.

  “Aye,” Breandán said rolling his eyes. “And no amount of carefully watching me has done you a lick of good. You are still an ungrateful dolt.”

  “You are only green with envy because Mara prefers a sense of intrigue.” Another wink was cast on her behalf. “She has already seen what little you have to offer, Breandán.”

  “’Tis called being polite,” Breandán uttered under his breath, “and I wish you would offer the same.” He turned to Mara. “My apologies…”

  “Please, apologize not,” Mara waved off. “I enjoy it. In fact, Marcas, you remind me a lot of Eirik, Dægan’s brother.”

  “He was a dolt as well, aye—Ow!”

  Judging by the way Marcas winced and the sharp scowl on Breandán’s face, Mara assumed he had been kicked beneath the table. Her laughter filled the room and eventually Breandán smiled. She was glad for it.

  “So, you have a son,” Breandán interjected.

  Mara’s eyes lit up immediately. “I do. His name is Lochlann.”

  “A name very fitting from the father who sired him, no doubt.”

  Mara agreed with a nod. “He resembles his father in many ways.”

  “How old is he now?”

  “Six,” she said proudly. “Though he wishes he was a score and six.”

  “Since I have yet to meet him, I assume Lochlann has joined Tait in his travels?”

  Mara sighed. “Nay, he is staying at Nevan’s fort, learning the ways of a warrior.”

  Breandán looked at her askance. “And this troubles you?”

  “’Tis not the lessons in warfare that trouble me,” Mara explained. “He is a boy and skills of th
at nature are to be expected. In these times, a man must learn at an early age how to defend himself, but…” she hesitated, looking down at her hands which had already started to nervously wring together. “He is lost and I cannot help him.”

  “Lost?”

  Mara looked up from her lap. “Aye. He desires to be exactly like his father, yet…” Her words failed to come forth as it pained her to speak of her family’s hardships with others. It was difficult enough to admit them to herself, much less before a man like Breandán, who, in all honesty, she’d rather make believe they were doing quite well.

  “All young sons go through this, Mara,” Breandán said, predetermining her thoughts.

  “They do?”

  “Of course. Six is a very tough age for a boy. They have so many aspirations and so many elders to please, yet their awkwardly built bodies are not comparable to the size of their hearts. And when the meager strength of their arms fail to succeed in a task otherwise effortless for a man, ‘tis a direct strike against their very pride. Even Lochlann’s warrior father fought against those things in his youth, I would imagine.”

  Mara smiled feebly, knowing Breandán’s insight was dead right. She should not beat herself up for things she couldn’t help, for things that happened to her beyond her control. She was left a widow, Lochlann was left fatherless, and she was forced to play both parents. But still, she harbored the brunt of the responsibility.

  “Mara,” Breandán said, leaning across the table toward her. “Lochlann would feel this way with or without his father in his life. ‘Tis nothing you are lacking. Trust me, this shall pass as he grows stronger.”

  “How do you know that? You have yet to meet him.”

  “You forget, I was once a boy myself. And only time can remedy this.”

  Mara inhaled deeply, letting Breandán’s supportive words blow through her heavy mind like a gentle breeze. “Would you like to meet my son?”

  Breandán straightened in his chair and smiled at the invitation. “I would be most honored.”

  “Marcas?” Mara asked, realizing he had been held out of the conversation. “Would you like to join us?”

  Marcas playfully cringed. “Hm…more strangers to meet in the dark? More swords to be drawn? Nay, I believe I shall stay right here.”

  “Fair enough,” Breandán replied with an unwillingness to put more effort in convincing him. “I should not be gone long.”

  Both Mara and Breandán arose from their seats and headed toward the door. Breandán opened it and ushered her through kindly, but poked his head around, gaining Marcas’ attention. “Go raibh maith agat.”

  Marcas rolled his eyes first then tipped his stein to his lips, gulping the honeyed liquid until it was empty. “You owe me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Breandán followed Mara to the stable behind the longhouses. It was a meager building compared to the rest, but large enough to house an assortment of precious livestock.

  There were separate stalls for the horses, though most were empty save for four, and a large area where the sheep congregated for the night. One massive dairy cow stood in its own compartment, chewing her cud without much interest. Even as they neared her, she barely noticed their presence. However, the four horses did, nickering with their ears perked high, hopeful for a treat.

  Out of all the eager horses poking their heads over the stall gates, Mara saw Breandán catch sight of a large, muscular draft horse, the width of its shoulders barely fitting within the frame of the stall door.

  “Whose horse would this be?” he asked with bewilderment.

  Mara grinned timidly. “’Twould be Tait’s.”

  Breandán reached up slowly and rubbed his palm admiringly up and down its muzzle. “What breed is it, might I ask?”

  “A Fjordhest,” Mara answered, intrigued by Breandán’s strange regard for the ornery beast. “They are only found in the western part of Norway. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I fancy one.”

  Mara wanted to laugh. “You want an obdurate, ill-mannered stead?”

  Breandán finally removed his eyes from the horse. “He is not ill-mannered.”

  “Presently, he is not. But place a saddle upon him and you will wish you hadn’t.”

  Breandán narrowed his eyes at her. “You have ridden him?”

  Mara shook her head adamantly. “I favor my neck unbroken. But I have seen his temperament and he would just as soon throw you as to let you put one foot in the stirrup.”

  Breandán stroked up into the horse’s forelock and around his ears. Contrary to the way she described the equine, it lowered its head as if to encourage more. “May I?”

  Mara’s eyes widened a bit as she read the excitement in Breandán’s voice. “Ride him?”

  “I would love to, but I think Tait would not take kindly to that. I only want to sit upon him. Feel him beneath me.”

  “Did you not hear what I said about this horse?”

  “Oh, I heard you,” Breandán insisted. “But this horse is not temperamental.”

  “So, I am a liar?” Mara joked.

  “Hardly,” Breandán said, nodding his head once. “I would rather wager Tait is simply too stubborn to take the time with such an impressive animal.”

  “You remember Tait well, then.”

  “One does not forget a man like Tait.”

  Mara couldn’t agree more on both accounts. On many occasions she had seen the wild spontaneity of this horse and the trouble Tait would go through to mount up, often getting bucked off or roughed up. And never did he once use patience to break the high-strung animal—only an exhaust the horse enough to ride it mentality.

  “You seriously want to get on this horse?” Mara questioned, still on the fence.

  “Every horse is rideable, Mara. But not everyone is able to ride the horse.”

  Mara loved this hidden side of Breandán. The side of him that was confident and certain—and to her surprise, a bit daring. She crossed her arms and cocked her head. “And what if he tosses you on your backside right here in this stable.”

  “’Twould only hurt my pride, I assure you.”

  Mara shook her head and sighed. “If you feel you must…”

  Breandán’s smile lit up the darkened barn like a torch as he gently unlatched the stable gate. Given the lack of space for him to squeeze through, he gently ushered the horse backward and entered slowly beside the beast.

  Mara watched attentively, silently praying he would not get hurt in the process.

  The horse looked almost as astonished as she was that Breandán had dared to enter the tight enclosed stall. It snorted and immediately pinned its ears back flat against its head, warning Breandán with wide eyes and flared nostrils.

  Breandán stood still and outstretched his hand, palm prone in an unaggressive manner, letting the horse smell him. After a few moments of allowing it to get acquainted, Breandán eased his other hand up to its withers, petting and praising the horse as it began to put up with his presence.

  After some time, he was able to get the horse to relax its posture through his constant crooning and gentle strokes across its back. Eventually, the massive steed turned its head away and began licking its lips.

  Mara wanted to close her eyes knowing the next thing Breandán would attempt would be to get upon its back, but she didn’t dare. She was already mesmerized by his quiet horse-handling skills, much less miss the amazing feat of bravery.

  She watched Breandán lean on the horse first, still hearing his low voice murmuring within the dusky stable. She couldn’t make out his words exactly, but she assumed it was not what he said, as much as it was how he said it that kept the horse calm and accepting.

  Once the horse seemed to tolerate Breandán’s angled weight, he applied more, this time directly upon its back with his whole body, his feet dangling from the dirt floor. To Mara’s surprise, the horse hardly flinched.

  By the time she exhaled in relief, Breandán had already gripped its roached m
ane and swung his leg up over its back, fully mounting the horse.

  Mara smiled, pleased at his little triumph. “If only Tait were here to see this,” she claimed proudly.

  “I doubt he would have let me as you did.”

  Mara heard the slight insinuation in Breandán’s words, delving loosely on the matter of trust. And yes, if it came right down to it, she did trust him. She had in the past and had no reason not to now. But what to respond with was another matter altogether. The look in his eyes all but made her stomach flutter inside her.

  With him straddling the large horse, his tunic was forced higher up his legs, revealing his entire calf and the lower portion of his thigh, both quite alluring to her eyes. She even noticed since he was sitting on his tunic, it pulled rather tightly, adhering to the shape of his small, tone bottom.

  Breandán patted the horse’s neck and slid back off, landing on both feet with a thud. As he turned to leave the stall, the horse followed.

  “I think you have made a friend,” Mara proclaimed.

  Breandán looked over his shoulder as he exited the stall and latched the gate. The horse firmly nuzzled once at his cheek, shoving Breandán’s head to one side. “Perhaps I have,” Breandán agreed with a laugh, returning the gesture with a good scratch around the horse’s cheeks and muzzle.

  “I believe he would follow you anywhere.”

  He slowly stopped petting the horse and turned toward her. “I would rather think you would follow me anywhere.”

  Mara smiled nervously and looked down at her feet, words failing her.

  Breandán closed his eyes. “That was entirely too forward.”

  Mara could feel the heat of his embarrassment. Or was it her own body’s reaction to the kind warmth of his words? Either way, she felt her cheeks flush and a tingling sensation spread throughout her body.

  She liked the way those words sounded on his lips. It had been a long time since a man had commented on what he’d like from her. But Breandán was right. It was too forward, or perhaps too soon. She needed some time. He barely landed on her shores and, already, she had seen him naked, shared a meal with him, and was now blushing like a love-struck adolescent girl.