What made her want to share it with Breandán? She didn’t really know. It was something she wanted to do and she did.
“Mara,” Lillemor interrupted. “Why are you troubled?”
The comb in Mara’s hand halted. She hadn’t even realized she wore a frown as she tended the knots in her hair. She brought the comb down and fingered the carvings on the comb nervously. “Oh, Lillemor. What am I doing?”
Lillemor cocked her head. “You are being a good host to a friend.”
“A gloriously naked friend,” Thordia chimed in again.
“Thordia!” Both women scolded her in unison, though eventually they all giggled as they recalled the splendid moment of surprise.
“Anyway,” Lillemor readdressed. “You were saying?”
“Well, I cannot possibly remember now,” Mara replied, her only thoughts being on Breandán’s bare body. “Even as I stand here, my heart jumps out of my chest at the thought of him.”
Lillemor arose from her bed and joined Mara, taking the comb from her hand. Kindly, she began combing where Mara had left off. “There is nothing wrong with what you are feeling. Breandán is a very handsome man and you are still a young woman with needs.”
Mara shot her a look of shock.
“’Tis only natural for you to think of him in intimate ways.”
“Lillemor, please.”
Lillemor stopped combing. “We both may be widowed but we are certainly not blind. We would have to be to not see what a…fascinating…” She swallowed hard. “Virile body…that man possesses.”
Mara snatched the comb away from Lillemor. “We were not supposed to see him in that way! And if Nevan or Tait ever finds out—”
“Oh, worry not about Tait,” Thordia interjected, chuckling at Mara’s fretting. “If anyone has to worry over Tait finding out, it should be me. I was there as well.” She laid her hands on either side of her swollen belly as if to cover the ears of her unborn child. “And thank goodness I missed it not.”
Again, the women giggled, though Mara was still a bit embarrassed. “He was quite beautiful,” Mara admitted, recalling the muscular bare flesh on Breandán’s lean body.
Lillemor took hold of Mara’s upper arms and turned her. “And what was more beautiful was the way he looked at you. Did you not see it?”
Mara couldn’t answer. She was afraid.
“Mara, do not worry so much about what you are feeling. Simply enjoy it. ‘Tis been seven years and I think you are entitled. I know Dægan is still very close to your heart. He should be. You loved him. You bore his son. But I also know he would gladly step aside and make room in order for you to be happy.”
Mara stared at Lillemor. It was as if Lillemor knew exactly what she had been struggling with all along. And she should know. She, too, had lost her Northman husband and has been living her life alone, raising a son without him. “But what if I cannot put Dægan aside?” Mara asked, desperation and sadness trembling in her voice. “To even think it seems nigh impossible.”
“I am not telling you to forget him or force feelings you do not have,” Lillemor instructed. “All I am saying is let not your feelings for Dægan get in the way. As much as this pains you, you know he is never coming back to you.”
Mara hung her head, trying to keep her tears from showing. She knew Dægan was not coming back but to hear it so bluntly was like a knife stabbing her heart. It was like feeling the pain of his death all over again.
“Mara,” Lillemor said softly. “Follow your heart. If you find Breandán there, be not alarmed. And by all means, push him not away or think you have to. You may find he is exactly what you need.”
“But how will I know what I need?” Mara pleaded. “And what if what I need is not what is best for Lochlann?”
Lillemor laughed and pulled Mara along toward the boxbed. “I believe as a mother, they are one in the same.” She waited for Mara to lie down and then covered her like she would her own child. “Now try hard to find your rest. You will feel much better in the morning.”
Mara sunk low in the narrow boxbed mattress, wanting to believe everything Lillemor had claimed. Especially the last part.
****
In thinking Marcas was fast asleep from being deep in his cups, Breandán entered Mara’s longhouse as quietly as he could so as not to awaken him. Once he got past the door he could see his friend was right where he had left him, sleeping like a babe—or in this case, a drunken sod with an empty stein still in hand.
He sighed, wishing Marcas would give up the drink. He knew why Marcas often resorted to it, and couldn’t blame him. His mother had killed herself after his father had been caught up in a torrid affair with another clansman’s wife. He fell into the drink at a young age and has stayed there ever since.
Breandán tried hard not to be too judgmental but he feared the drink had now become such a part of him, he couldn’t let go.
He neared his friend and carefully slipped the cup from his hand. He froze as Marcas stirred, but after a few unintelligible burbles, Marcas went right back to snoring.
“Sometimes I think you need a woman more than I do,” Breandán whispered.
He squatted down and picked up a few logs of turf beside the boxbed and placed them in the fire to keep his friend warm throughout the night. Once the fire took hold, he looked around the familiar home for a place to sleep for the night. He could’ve chosen the boxbed immediately across the fire from Marcas, but a certain bedchamber behind a pair of double doors was more enticing. It was where Mara slept and that was more than enough reason for him to stand and have a look.
Within his first few steps, part of him had reservations about prying into Mara’s private quarters. Once he got to the beautifully carved doors, his curiosity won over.
He slowly opened them and stood in awe. Inside was an absolutely amazing sight. The walls were draped with tapestries, probably bought in a far-off land. There were carvings of intricately connected designs engraved in the wood face and sides of the boxbed, and within it lay silks and linens fit for a princess.
He smiled, imagining the immense trouble Tait had gone through to make it as Dægan once designed it. If he could say anything good about Tait, it was his tenacity to have gone to such lengths.
Breandán entered and took great care in sitting upon the bed, almost as if it would break beneath his weight. The mattress beneath him was soft, and the feel of the crimson silk against his palm was cool and slick. He’d never felt anything like it before.
Another smile formed on his lips as he imagined the feel of Mara’s skin to be quite similar to the feel of the foreign fabric against his callused hand. Reverently, he lowered himself to the full length of the boxbed, breathing in the scent left behind on the plush textiles. It filled his mind with contentment and for once, he was not afraid to close his eyes and dream of Mara.
He thought back to when she’d first seen him standing in her longhouse. The immeasurable delight he felt in seeing her smile and feeling her tight embrace against his rigid body. The faint smell of her, though more predominant than anything he remembered from that moment, had reminded him of the summer sun, of honeysuckle and lavender. As he lay on her bed, he could distinctly smell those same fragrances.
Then his mind wandered to the cliff’s edge where she’d lain beside him. He almost wanted to laugh aloud as he thought of how determined she was to keep the distance between them, quite different from the impulsive embrace a few hours before. Despite her efforts at the cliff, he recalled the way her scent had no qualms in drifting in his direction, and the sheer joy he took in savoring it again.
He kicked his boots to the floor and pulled the thick linens over his body, settling himself within the swathe of the blankets infused with her aroma. Aye, he would have no fear in closing his eyes. He was rather certain Mara would be in his dreams tonight and he could only hope she’d willingly come to him again.
Chapter Sixteen
Breandán felt the presence of someone standin
g beside the boxbed and opened his eyes. A faint smile twitched at his lips.
Mara.
He noticed there was no expression of surprise on her face as she had found him lying in her bed. Only a look of delight as she stared down at him with lid-wilted eyes. Her suggestive gaze awakened the part of him he’d long thought dormant.
For the moment, he was thankful for the blankets which hid his arousal. But then, she removed the large woolen cloak at her shoulders and they did nothing but tent over his lower half. He felt his heart jump within his chest and his groin ached as she was completely naked in front of him.
Dreaming, he reminded himself. I am only dreaming....
But his cock failed to listen, straining against the front of his tunic and the weight of the blankets.
He watched as she dropped the cloak and slid beneath the covers. As if paralyzed, he waited to see what she would do next, his heart now thumping.
An immense heat gathered beneath the covers as she lay beside him, her naked back resting firmly against his chest. She shifted closer, a move so subtle he almost missed it, had it not been for her small bottom pressed solidly against his groin. He began to believe he wasn’t dreaming and she was indeed snuggled within the concavity of his body.
“Hold me, Breandán.”
Her words slammed him into reality. Sure, he was fully clothed and his layered garments separated his skin from the suppleness of hers. But if he held her—like she so asked of him—his arms and hands would not be hindered by anything. He’d have full access to virtually any part of her—front or back.
He swallowed hard and stretched his arm across her body beneath the blanket. But he couldn’t bring himself to lower it. There was still that part of him which felt he hadn’t the right to touch her in such a way—even if she did ask. By right, she was not his.
Aye, he was dreaming. He had to be.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, preparing to feel her body dissipate at any moment. Instead, he felt her slender fingers grasp his hand. It was a simple touch really, but one that rocked him to the core as his palm now lay on the tender swell of her breasts.
She was amazingly soft. The natural rise and fall of her breathing pushed her breasts further into his palm, and he couldn’t help but feel a tiny nipple grazing the underside of his fingers.
He heard her exhale, a long sigh he came to believe that she’d found comfort in his embrace. She fell limp against him. Still, he was a rigid as a board. He was well aware of his fierce erection and he hoped she was in a sleepy enough state not to detect it against the small of her back.
He tried to relax as she did, but his mind wouldn’t let him. All he could think about was Mara’s bare flesh against him and the urgent desire he had of pulling her body closer.
“Breandán,” she whispered.
“Aye?” he asked, not realizing how dry his throat and mouth had become until he spoke.
“Breandán!”
****
Breandán’s eyes flew open upon hearing an urgent tone of voice, and he found Marcas staring at him from the edge of the boxbed. Automatically, he drew back in astonishment and then glanced down at his empty arms. He discovered he was spooning a pillow in place of Mara.
He rolled to his back in disappointment, running his hand along his scalp and squeezing his eyes shut in hopes of blocking out the lingering images. “That was a rude way to wake a man, Marcas.”
“Oh is it now? Well, at least you had not a knife stuffed beneath your chin like I had.”
Breandán cocked his brow. “What are you talking about?”
Marcas leaned to one side, thumbing behind him at a small boy wearing an oversized bear cloak, standing in the doorway.
Breandán sat up curiously and grinned. “Is it morning already, Lochlann?”
“Aye, ‘tis.”
“Did you not hear me?” Marcas griped. “The boy nearly ran me through!”
Breandán laughed in spite of his friend’s rebuttal. “It seems he is a very good judge of character at such a young age.”
Marcas scoffed. “He is fortunate I broke not his little arm!”
“I was protecting my longhouse,” Lochlann defended. “No one said anything about him staying here. Only Breandán.”
“Well,” Marcas replied, crossing his arms. “I see where I rank.”
“Mara and I were not gone long enough for your name to come up,” Breandán said, rubbing his eyes of sleep.
“I am certain other things came up though.”
Breandán shot his friend a scolding glare. “Not in front of the boy.”
“Ach, he is too young to know what that means.”
“Too young to know what?” Lochlann asked, his hands now resting defensively on his hips.
“Ignore him, Lochlann,” Breandán said, climbing out of the bed and slipping his ankle boots on. “I do.”
“That can go both ways you know.”
Breandán disregarded Marcas’ warning and strolled past the young lad toward the hearth in the main room. “So, have you seen to your chores as your mother demanded?”
The boy fidgeted. “I was hoping you could help me with those.”
Breandán turned his mouth under in thought as he stoked the fire. “I see not why I couldn’t. What is it you must do?”
Lochlann neared him. “I have to gather seaweed and take it to the field. Five baskets.”
Breandán glanced over the boy’s shoulder at Marcas who was exiting Mara’s chamber at a casual pace. “I am certain we can help. Is that not right?”
“I am ignoring you,” Marcas stated, plucking a hard biscuit from Lochlann’s hands as he walked past.
“Hey! I brought them for Breandán,” Lochlann protested mildly.
Marcas dropped lazily onto the nearest boxbed in the room and reclined against the wall, taking his first bite. “Then I suggest you bring more tomorrow, else Breandán will not have any then either.”
Breandán shook his head. “Worry not about me, Lochlann. Your mother fed me well last night. I shall be fine.”
Lochlann offered the single biscuit left in his possession. “But I brought it for you.”
Breandán took notice of the boy’s look of disappointment. Evidently Lochlann had gone to his own amount of trouble to bring the small breakfast to him. He accepted it. “I will only take it if you have already eaten.”
Lochlann smiled. “Nevan fed me. He always feeds me well.”
“He is good to you?” Breandán asked, fishing.
“Aye. He does things with me.”
Breandán heard the slight inference that someone else didn’t. “I imagine he is a good man to learn from. Not everyone gets to be chieftain nor do they remain chieftain for as long as he.”
“My father was a chieftain,” Lochlann added proudly.
“Indeed he was. A great chieftain as I recall.”
Lochlann hung his head. “My father did not get to be chieftain long.”
Breandán let out a quiet, lengthy sigh, pitying the lad for the father he never knew. “Nay, he did not. But perhaps one day, you will grow to be chieftain.”
“Me?” he asked, as if the idea never occurred to him.
“Of course, you,” Breandán said, crossing his arms. “You are Dægan’s son, are you not?”
Lochlann nodded his head, but he still looked as if the notion of being chieftain were out of the question.
Breandán came to him on bended knee and straightened the ill-fitted bear cloak upon the boy’s narrow shoulders as he spoke. “You wear a chieftain’s cloak. You have the blood of a chieftain pumping through your veins. And you are Lochlann, son of Dægan, son of Rælik. There should be no doubt in your mind as to where your destiny lies.”
Breandán could see the slow change taking place in the boy. He suddenly stood a little taller and took in deeper breaths to fill his miniature lungs. Maybe it wasn’t his place to say such things to Lochlann. Maybe he just gave Tait another reason to hate him. But hon
estly, he didn’t care about either. Lochlann needed a push in the right direction and he took the initiative.
“Are you ready to take on those chores?”
“I am.”
“Marcas?” Breandán asked, rising to his feet. “You ready?”
Marcas had his eyes closed and his hands folded neatly across his stomach, never answering the call of duty.
Breandán looked at Lochlann and frowned.
“He is ignoring you,” Lochlann stated matter-of-factly.
“I wager he would not ignore you should you unsheathe that dagger from your belt and stuff it beneath his chin again.”
Lochlann snatched the dare. He took all but two steps forward, unsheathing the weapon from his belt before Marcas raised one eye open and caught the boy’s wrist.
“Easy, now, you little rascal!” He playfully fought to remove the knife from the child’s grip, tickling him so he’d release it, and tossed it to Breandán. “Keep that, will you?”
“Afraid of a boy more than half your size, eh?” Breandán ridiculed.
Marcas put Lochlann in a headlock and rubbed the top of his head with his knuckles, ignoring yet again the youth’s objection. “’Tis not that I fear him, but that I do not trust him. He is a Northman.” He released him, laughing at the sight of Lochlann’s disheveled blond hair as the lad tripped to get away.
Breandán caught the boy and straightened him. “You better start giving Lochlann a reason to trust you. He shall be a chieftain one day and you never know when you may actually need his alliance.”
Marcas scoffed at the remark while Breandán winked at the boy beside him.
Chapter Seventeen
Mara stepped out of Lillemor’s longhouse, a fresh breeze meeting her face, carrying the scent of rain. She looked up into the ominous gray sky. Indeed, a mild storm was blowing in.
She breathed the cool air into her lungs as she walked to her longhouse, trying to revitalize her drowsy self. She didn’t sleep well last night, though it wasn’t out of the ordinary—for many years she was unable to sleep due to her profound grief. But last night’s sleeplessness was caused by a whole different reason, one she was not accustomed to—excitement.
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