The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  The two Irish friends exchanged glances. “Perhaps later,” Breandán replied. “I think your mother wants to try the bow now.”

  Before she could argue, Lochlann shrugged his disinterested shoulders and then pulled Marcas along by his hand. “All right, but he may not be basking in the waters later.”

  “I shall take my chances,” Breandán stated, another clever smirk gracing his face.

  Mara watched as her son and Marcas walked down toward the northwest end of the isle, while Breandán had already begun to fetch the few arrows stuck within the target.

  She crossed her arms. “I am not shooting a bow.”

  “Oh, yes you are,” Breandán said over his shoulder. He gathered three in his hand and walked back to her. “I want to see if Lochlann comes by it honestly.”

  Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest, not only for the thought of trying archery for the first time, but for the huge smile on Breandán's lips which challenged her to deny him his peculiar request.

  “I have never held a bow, nor do I think I can shoot one without hurting you or myself.”

  He stood in front of her, forcing her to look up at him. “You will not hurt me.”

  Her breath escaped her. He stood overpoweringly close, the heat of his body radiating all around her. She swallowed hard, finding it difficult to keep from glancing at the wide span of shoulders and chest before her. She had serious thoughts of stepping backward but her feet failed to budge. “And what if I hurt myself?”

  “I will not let that happen.”

  He reached for her hand, but it didn’t occur to her what he was doing. All she could comprehend at the moment was the amazing warmth within his touch, the heat of his masculine fingers around her wrist. She barely realized he had placed the bow within her grasp until he gently pushed her fingers around the wood with his own.

  “Is it too heavy for you?” he asked, breaking the course of her thoughts.

  She frowned at the absurdity of his question. “Of course not,” she exclaimed, reaffirming a fast grip upon the weapon and walking past him. Assessing the distant target ahead, she lined herself up with it, standing sideways, feet together. “Now what do I do?”

  Breandán circled her slowly, his face bursting with amusement. He caught and held her gaze as he neared her, his eyes gleaming against the darkened backdrop of gray sky. With the arrows still in hand, he clutched her shoulders squarely and wedged his thigh between hers.

  “Spread your legs.”

  Left aghast by his bold command, he then unashamedly pushed his knee through the narrow space of her thighs and tapped his foot back and forth upon her ankles. Heat of embarrassment enflamed her face as she realized he was only adjusting her stance. She did as she was told, though she wished at this point she could have crawled into a hole. “Is this far enough?” She wished she hadn’t even spoken for her voice trembled.

  “Perfect.”

  Despite his positive reinforcement, she still felt inept. Her father had once taught her how to throw a dagger and how to use her forehead as a blunt object, breaking a man’s nose, but it was so long ago. Shooting an arrow and hitting a target took skill, a talent she didn’t think she had.

  One try, she told herself. One arrow and then she’d be done.

  “Now, pull back on the string as if readying yourself to release it. I want to see your form.”

  She exhaled deeply, knowing he meant to inspect her with scrutiny so he could correct her mistakes. “Must I?”

  “I only want to make certain you hold the bow properly. These are fairly sharp, you know.” He wagged the arrows in his hand before he set them to the ground. “Come on. Lochlann never gave me fits when I asked him to do the same.”

  She was pretty sure Lochlann’s heart didn’t pound in his chest like hers either.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled back on the string and held it, still looking at him. He reached up within the space of the open bow and turned her chin to face the target. “You have to see your enemy in order to hit it,” he joked.

  The feel of his fingertips lingered on her skin long after he removed his hand from her face. Like last night, his manly scent made its way up her nostrils, loitering within her already whirling mind. She almost wished he’d touch her again.

  And he did.

  She felt both of his hands now; one wrapped around her bow hand, clutching her fist with his own—steadying her—while another pushed tenderly at her inner elbow. “’Tis important to remember not to extend your elbow past this point, lest you hurt yourself when you release the string. Trust me, ‘tis not pleasant.”

  Oh, but his touch is….

  While he held firm to her bow hand, he took his left and grasped her right wrist, raising it so her fingertips rested at the height of her cheek. “When you pull back, your fingers should come right to your lips and your elbow should be level.” He laid his own forearm across the top plane of hers to depict how parallel hers should be.

  Her arms started to weaken from holding the resistance in the weapon. It didn’t help that his innocent touch on the numerous parts of her body diminished her strength.

  “All right, relax your arms,” he directed, his eyes portraying a sense of gratification, as if she had achieved a great feat. “You did very well.”

  Her eyelids fluttered from the compliment and she rested her cramping arms at her sides. Her muscles burned, but she would never admit it. She was more absorbed in his stare, the dual colors of blue and green in his eyes, twisting together in a brilliant kaleidoscopic fashion. His long dark lashes framed them in a perfect oval, the corner strands turning up slightly.

  “Are you ready for one of these now?” he asked, picking up an arrow.

  To be honest, she wasn’t. Her arms still ached and she feared she’d only misfire and dishearten him.

  He circled her slowly, lending a more enticing suggestion. “How about we shoot the first arrow together?”

  She closed her eyes—tightly—trying to calm her raging thoughts and thundering heart. The only thing she could be thankful for at this point was that he couldn’t see the sheer panic in her face.

  “Would that make you feel better?” Breandán asked, completely misinterpreting her silence.

  She opened her eyes and respired at length, reaching deep down for an inkling of bravado. “If we shoot it together then ‘twould mean less chance of me shooting you.”

  He laughed a deep laugh, the great sound of it branching out from behind her and titillating every nerve on the back of her neck.

  “There is that…” he agreed. “But more importantly you would not injure yourself.”

  His hand found hers again, the one which white-knuckled the bow, and he took hold, wrapping the span of his large palm around her fist. His grasp was solid around hers as he lifted the weapon to its correct height. “Ready?”

  “As I shall ever be,” she breathed.

  He directed the bow in front of her, flipping it at a horizontal plane so she could nock the arrow with ease. Suddenly, she felt his body press against her back as he reached around her right side, entrusting her with the slender missile. “Lay the head across the wood of the bow, and then take the tip between your index and middle fingers, affixing it on the string. There you go.”

  Gracefully, his right hand took position, his three fingers lying directly over hers. He tested them first, making sure each knuckle was sitting comfortably within his fingertip grasp so as not to pinch her.

  “Since we now have the arrow in place,” he indicated in a quiet voice behind her ear, “we are going to raise and draw the bow at the same time. Understand?”

  She simply nodded, unable to speak from the sensations of hot flashes and cold chills fluctuating throughout her body. She felt the sturdy wall of his chest at her back, sensing the intimate proximity of his groin to her buttocks. She detected the slightest hint of his breath upon her neck. Surely he was not as aware of the suggestiveness of their position. He was only showing her the pro
per way to shoot a bow and arrow.

  So why should this feel so good?

  In one smooth motion, he brought the bow vertical and drew back the string, both of them poised in a fixed, rigid pose. If she thought his upper body was indicative of a suggestive position then, the feel of the entire bulk of his body crushing against hers now had thoroughly tipped the scales. She could feel every part of his heated warmth searing her back, her arms, her face as he sandwiched it between his own cheek and his bowstring knuckles …even down to the sides of her legs as he stood straddling her feet. To add to her torment, his whispered voice set her afire.

  “Relax, Mara,” he cajoled.

  “I am.”

  “Nay, you are not. Look at your target. See it and be not afraid of it.”

  “I am not afraid of it,” she defended.

  She felt the corner of his mouth turn up into a smile. “Good. Now breathe in with me…then out…and release.”

  Together, they let the arrow fly, hitting the target near the top right corner. It wasn’t a kill shot, but at least she made contact.

  “All right, now your turn…all by yourself,” he said, stepping back only inches.

  She looked over her shoulder, still feeling his hovering presence. “I think not.”

  “I know you can do it. Besides, you only injured the poor fellow. You need to put him out of his misery.”

  She had to laugh. “And what if I miss?”

  He bent and picked up another arrow, reaching around her again to hand it to her. “You still have one more after this.”

  She sighed and snatched the arrow. “Fine. But this is the last time.”

  “Better make it count then,” he teased.

  She brought the bow horizontal to her hips and nocked the arrow to the bowstring, linking her three knuckles around it.

  “Remember,” he said in a low soothing voice against her ear. “Set your feet first, draw and aim in one motion, breathe, and release.”

  Right.

  “Relax, Mara,” she heard him say. But how could she? Even though he was no longer pressed against her, she could still feel him as though he were. The raw heat of him, the intoxicating smell of him filling her senses, the silvery hum of his voice—every aspect of his sensual archery lesson distracted her the task at hand.

  Somehow, she found the initiative and drew the bow, finding an anchor point at her lips. She studied the target for a moment, took a breath in, and blew out slowly. When she released the arrow, she felt a gust of cool air blow past her earlobe, causing her to flinch. The arrow never faltered from its intended destination, sinking straight into the hay target, dead center.

  “Well, look at that,” he said in surprise.

  “Did you blow in my ear?”

  He winked. “I did. But you did not let it distract you. Nicely done.”

  Didn’t distract her? Little did he know....

  From behind them, someone cleared their throat. She and Breandán turned around, finding Ottarr standing there, a stern look of judgment on his bearded face.

  “Tait’s ships are approaching. You should take Breandán to your longhouse. ‘Twould be best if he is not seen upon landing.”

  Mara nodded, understanding exactly what Ottarr was trying to do.

  “Have you sent for Nevan?”

  “I have.”

  “What about Lochlann?” she asked in a heightened concern. “He is with Marcas—”

  “I am not concerned about Lochlann or Marcas. Get to the longhouse where Breandán will be safe.”

  Mara didn’t push the old man, or try to reform his ill-manners for talking over Breandán as if he wasn’t standing right beside her. She handed the bow to Breandán and gestured toward her home, her heart beating rapidly for a whole new reason.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Mara,” Breandán said as he followed her brisk pace. “’Tis going to be all right.”

  Despite his words of confidence, she didn’t feel at ease until she walked through her longhouse door and closed it behind them. And even then, she still felt anxious.

  He tried again. “I fear not Tait’s return and there is no reason why you should either.”

  She gave him an odd look and paced deeper into the main room. “Perhaps you know him not as well as you think you do.”

  “Oh, I remember him well. He roughed me up a few times when I first met him,” he admitted. “But Dægan never allowed it to go much further.”

  She stopped in her tracks and stared at him sternly. “Dægan is not here to protect you.”

  He studied her. “Is that what Ottarr and Nevan are for? To protect me?”

  She didn’t answer. Yes, Ottarr and Nevan were the very men she had hoped would be able to talk Tait down, to make him see Breandán as a friend and not a foe. But even as she had total faith in their abilities to underplay the Irishman’s presence, and persuade the gruff Northman not to react hastily, she still feared Tait’s anger would get the better of him.

  She paced some more. When that didn’t help, she sat on the closest boxbed, her hands wringing her tunic.

  ****

  Breandán took notice of her overwhelming angst and sat beside her. “Why do you fear Tait so much?”

  She looked at him now, her eyes soft and compassionate, far better than the severity of before. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear she held a dire concern for him. By the worry in her face, he might go so far as to think she may actually care about him—more than she realized.

  “I fear what Tait will say…and what he may do. I am afraid he will hurt you.”

  Her words pulled at his heart. “The only way he can hurt me is if he harms you. And judging by the amount of care he took in replicating this grand longhouse, I suspect he would never do anything detrimental toward his best friend’s widow.”

  He reached out and took her hand in his, a reaction he barely had control over. She closed her eyes as if she longed for his touch. “You are trembling.” He slipped his other hand beneath, wrapping both of his around hers, and squeezed gently.

  She bit her lip.

  Compulsion overtook him and he reached up, cradling her face while his thumb brushed lightly over her bottom lip. “Hurt not your lip over me.”

  She seemed to freeze, but not in fear. She gave him the impression she were about to succumb to his touch and lean her cheek into his palm.

  He held his hand there, unable to drag it away, reveling in the creamy smoothness of her face and the delicate lines of her rosy lips. He wanted to sample them, nearly drunk with the thought of it.

  His head spun from gazing into her beautiful green eyes and trying to figure out whether he was being drawn into this moment by her coercion or being taken by the current of his own desires. There was something in the way she looked at him, the way her lips parted, the way she glanced at his mouth as if she wanted him to kiss her.

  He swallowed hard. This was not the time or the place with the threat of Tait drawing near. The last thing he wanted to do was have the tempered Northman walk into the longhouse and find him kissing Mara. He’d rather not give the man a legitimate reason to kill him.

  But it was too late.

  The door of the longhouse flung open and there stood Tait, breathing like a ravenous panting dog, his eyes narrow and fuming. It was obvious to Breandán he’d ignored everything Ottarr and Nevan may have said to soothe him, to appease him long enough to think sensibly. And he was here, following his own gut instincts.

  Both Mara and Breandán dropped hands and stood. Tait undoubtedly looked as if anything could set him off, as if he dared them to defend themselves, but neither was willing to provoke him.

  Out of concern for Mara and her safety, Breandán slowly turned his body to face Tait head on, protectively placing her behind him.

  That was enough to incite Tait. “You bastard!” he growled and charged forward. His fist came out of nowhere and struck Breandán across the left eye.

  From the momentum of Tait’s rig
ht-handed punch, Breandán was hit off-kilter and fell onto the boxbed, feeling a hot wetness pour into his eye. He quickly wiped the slick blood from his vision and tackled Tait around the knees, bringing him to the floor. Tait was a powerful man, but Breandán had a clearer mind and agility on his side. His only goal was to take Tait’s back and keep him matted so he couldn’t strike out again.

  Though he struggled to outmaneuver the aggressive Norse brute, Breandán successfully rolled on top of Tait and seized his right arm. He bent it up behind him and laid it along the spine, holding him in a compromising position short of breaking the man’s wrist or popping his shoulder out of socket.

  “Tait, I want not to fight you!” Breandán gritted, straddling the Northman across his back. Foolishly, his attention came upon Mara. “Get out!”

  Tait felt the give in Breandán’s grasp and fought like a madman to get up, swinging, kicking, snarling.

  Breandán could’ve kept him down, but it would’ve required punching him in the kidneys or across the back of the head. He wasn’t comfortable with injuring a man Mara deemed as family. Instead, he fought back defensively, keeping Tait from making contact with him, or worse, making contact with Mara as he thrashed wildly about the ground. “Mara, I said get out!”

  She didn’t listen to him and his restricted method of fighting only added to his struggle. Finally, Tait exploited Breandán’s limitations and recovered to his feet, unsheathing his dagger.

  Breandán jumped to his feet as well, knowing Tait had to be subdued. There was no other alternative. It was either that or someone was going to get seriously hurt. He feared it might be Mara.

  With only a few seconds to decide, Tait came rushing at him, his knife slashing across his midline. Breandán jumped back, the blade missing his gut.

  Fortunate for him, the crazed Northman had so much force behind his slice that it carried his upper body forward, allowing Breandán to feed Tait through a choke hold, before he crashed to his back. The drive of their fall caused Tait’s forehead to hit the floor, knocking him silly. But Breandán had no intention of thinking the man was finished. Tait was stunned, for sure, but not at a point of giving up.