The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  That was the only way she could describe it.

  Her mind had been filled with incessant thoughts of Breandán; his valiant words, his spine-tingling touch, and his unforgettable muscle-bound body. Even upon waking this morning, he was the first person she thought of.

  As pleasant as that was, he had still brought her a sense of unrest with the news of her father’s condition, and put many on the isle in an uproar. Still, she couldn’t forget what else Breandán had brought her—sheer happiness.

  Aside from her son’s birth, she couldn’t remember a time after Dægan’s death where she had been this happy, this…excited! From the moment she had burst into her longhouse to see Breandán—to see for herself if he was truly there—she had been on a strange high. A place where even the most depressing tribulations, such as her father, couldn’t get to her. It seemed Breandán had helped her to find a strength she long forgot she had, the part of her that refused to give up hope. The part of her that believed in small blessings.

  Perhaps, Breandán, himself was a small blessing…

  She smiled, wanting to believe it, wanting the freedom to rejoice in it as Dægan had always done with his windfalls. But her elated thoughts would only lift her so high before she’d remember others involved. What others would think of Breandán. What the islanders would say behind her back. What Tait would do when he came home and found Breandán here. And above all, what Dægan would think about her feeling this way.

  Dægan may have been gone from this earth, but she loved him and wanted to do things that would make him proud of her…as if he were still physically here in her life. The cold, hard truth of it was that Dægan was not here to approve or disapprove. He was absent in every way. She couldn’t touch him. She couldn’t look at his beautiful face. She couldn’t feel his touch upon her and grow weak with it.

  And she missed it all.

  She didn’t know she missed it until Breandán held her in his arms. Prior to that, she had never given thought to a man touching her, nor did it keep her up at night. Now, because of one innocent embrace, one simple touch in the stable, one slight look of hunger in Breandán’s eyes, she found herself craving more of those things. Those intimate things only a man and woman can share.

  Oh God, it has been so long. Years.

  As Lillemor reminded, it had been seven long years and it was difficult to know what was natural and what was forbidden. She liked Breandán and she knew her feelings were not out of context, but her immodest thoughts put a whole new twist on the matter. She hadn’t expected to feel things of that grandeur, especially for someone who was not Dægan.

  Was this right? Was it even appropriate to imagine Breandán in such a way? He was a man whose conduct seemed to conform to the standards of moral behavior, and her thoughts, by no means, came close—particularly those which involved the bare skin of his muscled chest, stomach, arms, thighs....

  She quivered, reflecting upon it.

  Excitement.

  No other word could possibly encompass the diverse emotions running through her. And Lillemor was wrong. She didn’t feel any better this morning about the thoughts she’d had. About the things she thought of doing with Breandán.

  Good heavens, she shouldn’t be thinking them at all!

  She increased her pace and shook the images of Breandán’s strapping body from her head. She had to.

  Once she reached the front door of her longhouse, she stopped to listen, wondering if she’d be interrupting Breandán and Marcas’ sleep. Or walking in on Breandán changing his clothes again.

  For a split second, she smiled, but then scolded herself thereafter. Knock, Mara, she told herself. She raised her fist to the wooden door and heard a distant fit of laughter from behind her.

  She turned to find her son with Breandán carrying baskets of seaweed and Marcas on his knees, struggling with his share. They were too far away to notice her, but she could hear Lochlann laughing as Breandán helped his friend to stand. A few words were exchanged between the trio, followed by more easy laughter.

  She smiled for it was not a familiar sight to see Lochlann enjoying himself, nor hear such gaiety. As a mother, it brought her great joy.

  For a moment, she had a compulsion to run to her son and hug him, but thought otherwise, as she didn’t want to disturb him or the bonding taking place between him and Breandán.

  This was new for Lochlann and she was so happy he’d found gratification with some other adult besides herself, some other males besides Nevan or his brother. They had all been there for Lochlann out of duty, but Breandán’s reason for being there was not bound by obligation. The deal was he would teach Lochlann how to shoot a bow, not help him with chores or entertain the child for pity sake.

  As she watched Breandán follow her son over the small crest of the hill, he didn’t look as if he were pitying the boy at all. In fact, he looked as if he were actually enjoying himself.

  “What is wrong?”

  Mara flinched from the stern voice beside her. She found Ottarr, like her, looking out into the field. “Not a thing,” she affirmed.

  She heard him grumble under his breath before he turned to leave.

  “Ottarr,” she said, her voice halting him in his tracks.

  “Aye?”

  “Why do you harbor such hatred for Breandán?” It was a simple question really, but Ottarr seemed to struggle with the right words, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.

  “I should ask you why you don’t.”

  His words cut deep, condemning her for the side she’d taken. “I realize many were killed because of me—”

  “Nay!” he retorted loudly. “Because of Breandán.”

  She gathered her own thoughts on the matter, knowing she was taking a stand on very shaky ground. “You are a smart man, Ottarr. I know this because Dægan put his faith in you on many occasions. And I know you held him in the same high regard.”

  Ottarr stared at her, his face serious, his lips straight and narrow between the long hairs of his gray mustache and beard.

  “You trusted Dægan enough to make the right decisions.”

  He nodded once and looked away, almost as if he knew where this conversation was headed.

  “And seven years ago, Dægan chose to ally himself with Breandán. He allowed him to escort me home to my father and he also looked to him when he needed to breach my father’s walls.”

  Ottarr crossed his arms to his chest and waited for her to finish, though the look on his face told her he grew impatient.

  “If Dægan was man enough to let down his pride and trust in Breandán—even after he had brought Domaldr to our shores—then why can you not do the same?”

  Ottarr sighed. “Dægan let down his pride then because all that mattered to him was you and your safety. But I imagine if he were here today, he would not be as eager.”

  “Why?” Mara asked, slightly defensive. “Because Breandán is being kind to me and my son?”

  “Because Breandán has an ulterior motive, just as he did seven years ago.”

  Mara could feel her throat tightening. She didn’t mean to take offense to any of this, but for some reason, Ottarr’s grudge with Breandán rubbed her the wrong way. “Breandán cares for me. ‘Tis no secret. He even proclaimed his love for me in front of Dægan and Tait.”

  “I know,” Ottarr stated. “Tait told me what he had done.”

  “Then all you have proved to me is Breandán is genuine,” Mara concluded. “And you are selfish.”

  Ottarr furrowed his bushy brow. “Excuse me, m’lady?”

  “Look at my son,” Mara said, gesturing toward the hillside. “Lochlann is happy because of Breandán’s genuine interest in him.” She purposely emphasized the word “genuine” to accentuate her point. “Can you not see his happiness?”

  Ottarr saw it, but she could see he was still irritated by the site of Breandán. For that, she continued to belabor her point.

  “If you continue to hold this ridiculous, groundle
ss grudge upon a man who has done naught but put a smile on my son’s face—Dægan’s son—then you are naught more than a selfish man.”

  Ottarr and Mara stared out into the field, watching as Breandán lifted Lochlann from his shoulders and knelt down before him. He exchanged some words with the lad and handed his bow to him. He seemed to be showing Lochlann how to hold it since he then moved to stand behind him. After some time, together, they had shot the first arrow, and Lochlann must have done well, for Breandán praised him and gave him another arrow from the quiver upon his back.

  “Your bitterness will do no good except to surely break Lochlann’s heart. Are you truly willing to hurt my son for the sake of your pride?”

  Ottarr sighed. “Dægan was like my own son. You know I would never hurt his.”

  Finally, the old man softened.

  “Then help me,” Mara said, placing her hand upon Ottarr’s forearm.

  He looked at where she had touched him. “Help you to do what?”

  “Tait is supposed to return any day now. And you know, as well as I, he will not find Breandán’s presence here appealing.”

  Ottarr cocked his brow. “And what makes you think I can make any headway with Tait? Perhaps Nevan is the better man considering he seems more apt to welcome the Irishman than anyone else on this isle.”

  “Tait takes Nevan’s advice into account, but in the end, Tait does what he wants. You, however, he listens to. You were Dægan’s advisor and you are his advisor now. Your long-standing relationship, alone, makes you more than competent to handle Tait.”

  “You flatter me well, my lady, but your words fail to convince me that I will succeed when it comes to Tait.”

  “All I ask is for you to try.”

  Mara’s attention drew toward the distant hillside again the moment she heard Breandán’s cheers. She looked up in time to see Marcas standing beside her son as well, congratulating him for his superior marksmanship. “Wait until your mother sees,” she thought she heard him say. Breandán then tousled Lochlann’s hair and said, “Certainly. I will go get her for you.”

  Her heart leapt with excitement. In light of the grievous company standing next to her, she straightened her merry face and pretended not to hear Breandán.

  Or the fact that he now ran toward her.

  Ottarr looked at her inquisitively. “I see your interest in Breandán is not solely for Lochlann’s sake, is it? Perhaps, you find the Irishman—”

  “I find him sincere and dependable,” she interrupted. “He is a friend, and no matter how you choose to see it, Ottarr, I cannot forget he, too, once put his life on the line for me. While in the hands of Domaldr, he would have given his life for me had it come to that…I saw it in his eyes.”

  Ottarr fed her words back to her as he left. “Right. Because he is…genuine.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Excitement again vaulted over Mara’s heart and went straight up her spine, tingling the hairs on the back of her neck as she saw the broad smile on Breandán’s face. She nearly fell back against the door of her longhouse, struggling to find the solid ground beneath her feet. Her hands went automatically behind her and found the strength of the wood door only a few inches away. She leaned backward for stability.

  Breandán slowed his pace to a casual walk, and there was a hint of swagger to his gait as he drew near. “Good morning,” he said pleasantly.

  She exhaled at the delightful sound of his voice, trying to regain her composure. “A fine morning ‘tis.” She looked up at the overcast hovering about them. What an idiotic thing to say! But his continual smile held agreement with her—or he was just as oblivious.

  The sound of a slamming door erupted—Ottar’s she suspected—which erased his smile immediately.

  “Is everything all right?” His sincerity bled through his handsome face.

  “Ottarr and I were simply discussing Tait.”

  A quirky grin upturned the corner of his mouth. “Tait?”

  “He is due to return home any day now,” she shrugged.

  “And you fear this?”

  Fear? Yes. And she figured he, too, was concerned about Tait finding him here, though his face never gave the impression. Unable to predict Tait’s reaction to such a surprise, she could only offer a sliver of advice. “I think ‘twould be wise for you to take caution with him.”

  He chuckled aloud and Mara noted it was the first time she had ever heard him laugh. She wondered if it meant he found her warning to be humorous, though she certainly wasn’t trying to be facetous.

  Breandán glanced over his shoulder. “Have you a moment?”

  Her eyes lit up and she secretly pressed her fingertips against the wood of the door again for support. His eyes could persuade her to put aside everything she may have needed to do for this one span of time he requested. She could barely look away, or deny him, for that matter.

  “Your son wants to show you something.”

  Ah, her son. She suddenly remembered his bow lessons. How could she forget? “Of course I have time for him. Has he made progress?”

  “Progress?” Breandán asked, as the two of them starting walking. “Lochlann has more than made progress this morning.”

  “Really,” she said, pretending not to have any knowledge of it, but guilt settled in once it slipped from her mouth. “I must admit…I was watching you.”

  His brisk pace slowed as he glanced at her inquisitively. “Watching me?”

  Heat flushed her face immediately as her words came out wrong. “I mean, I was watching you and Lochlann together. I had heard his laughter from across the field and…and it was a beautiful sound.” She looked down at her feet, feeling the weight of his eyes on her. “I am grateful for the time you have given him today.”

  “’Tis a pleasure. Truly. He is a good boy. And he is not as lost as you think. He knows what he wants…and as he matures, he will learn how to gain it—like his father.”

  Mara smiled. She doubted Breandán knew how much his words of encouragement really meant to her. To hear him commend Lochlann and to be comfortable enough to measure him up to the larger-than-life warrior father Lochlann aspired to be like, was quite gallant of him. Most men would have felt a sense of inferiority when speaking of Dægan. But not Breandán. He seemed very comfortable with Dægan’s memory—on many occasions, she thought, recalling their conversation at the cliff’s edge last night.

  What’s more, she knew Breandán’s reason for saying such things wasn’t for trying to win her affection, as Ottarr seemed to believe. It was because he cared. Simple as that. And it was such a comfort to be with a man who wasn’t out to gain something for himself through being with her.

  I am simply here to see you and be with you as long as I am allotted. Beyond that, I wish not for more.

  “You are smiling,” he conveyed with a cute little smirk.

  Her grin spread wider.

  “Will you tell me why…or is that too forward of me?”

  She walked a few more steps before answering him. “Why does anyone smile?”

  “In my experience, pleasant thoughts…happiness,” he replied. “So why not say it?”

  Again the weight of his eyes pressed upon her and all she could do was look at the ground before her. She feared if she met his stare, she’d trip on her own two feet again and fall flat on her face.

  “Mayhap Marcas was right?” he prodded lightly. “Is it you prefer intrigue?”

  She dared to look at him. “Do I intrigue you, Breandán?”

  He laughed again, but never answered her.

  When they had reached the crest of the small hill, she saw Lochlann standing very still, his right arm bent sharply at his cheek and his left extended far in front of him. His legs were spread evenly. Everything about him was poised and patient. And then suddenly, without any movement from his body, he released his fingers from the taut string and an arrow whizzed forward at great speed, hitting the make-shift hay target dead center.

  Mara’
s eyes widened in disbelief. She’d never given thought to her son being an excellent marksman. Especially so soon.

  Lochlann immediately turned around to face her, a proud look upon his face. “Did you see, Mother?”

  “How could I miss it?” she exulted.

  “And that was only after a few tries,” Breandán added. “Once I showed him how to properly hold the bow, he did the rest.”

  She flashed Breandán a look of gratitude, unable to hide her joy. This was a huge step for her son. He’d found a talent he was good at, naturally. Something to help raise his self-esteem. Something to make him feel like he was a warrior’s son, and without much assistance and false praise. This was indeed a skill he possessed, and Breandán helped to bring it out of him.

  “Now all he needs to do is grow into that bear cloak of his,” Marcas jibed, shaking the boy’s shoulders playfully.

  She half expected to see Lochlann get upset with the ridiculing, for he’d normally take great offense to such a thing. But she was happy to see him return the rough housing, grabbing Marcas around the legs and wrestling him to the ground, smiles and laughter still present. She knew Marcas allowed the boy to take him down and was also appreciative of his efforts. Both he and Breandán made more headway with Lochlann than anyone else who had ever tried, and neither man seemed to act like it was a chore. If she had to guess, they seemed to enjoy the youngster.

  “All right, you little Northman,” Marcas grunted as he escaped the boy’s grip and stood. “How about you show me that fish you were talking about this morning.”

  Lochlann gathered himself to his feet, straightening his cloak. “You mean the one that could swallow you whole if he wanted to? The water beast?”

  Marcas rolled his eyes. “So you claim, but I am not one to believe in fish stories. I have to see it with my own eyes.”

  “Do you want to see the water beast, Breandán?” Lochlann asked earnestly.