The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  Æsa glanced down at his dark, sun-kissed hand, only to feel him withdraw his finger and find her sensitive nub. Her eyes fluttered. “Indeed ‘tis.”

  He climbed atop her now, his rigid lower half finding comfort in the soft swell of hers, the warmth of her salacious body tantalizing him to the very core. She certainly had the power to make him lose all focus, to lose himself within the pleasures of their intercourse. The simple, unadulterated feel of her body joined with his was the most incredible sensation he could recall in all his forty-one years. And he was so close to tapping into that rapturous moment when a knock at the door interrupted him.

  Gustaf froze, looking down into Æsa’s surprised eyes. He was not expecting anyone. And for a split second—though it killed him to think it—he wondered if the woman lying beneath him had not given up her old ways completely.

  “Who would that be?” he asked straightly.

  The look in her eyes told him she had no clue, followed by a slight twinge of fear as if he were about to turn on her. He imagined she had endured a lot of accusations, from furious wives who found their husbands bedding her, or even deceitful, scheming husbands who turned against her to keep suspicions at bay. He touched her face, sympathetic of the horrible life she once led, and brought his finger to his lips.

  She nodded in understanding and kept silent, though the fear in her eyes spoke volumes as the knock at the door became a series of impatient pounds.

  Gustaf found his breeches, slipped them on and grabbed for his scabbard, sliding his sword out with the utmost care so those at the other side of the door would not hear. He glanced once at Æsa before putting his hand on the door and ripping it open.

  As if he had been socked in the gut, he withdrew his swinging sword from the many familiar faces standing at his doorstep, his heart pounding from the surge of adrenaline racing through him. “Have you all lost your minds?” Gustaf exclaimed, his eyes wide and tumultuous. “I could have run you through!”

  Jørgen hardly seemed to care, jumping headlong into the matter at hand. “My lord, we have come with great news.”

  “Oh?” Gustaf mumbled unexcitedly, still waiting for his heart to settle. “What news would this be?”

  “I wish not to discuss it so openly,” Jørgen hinted, stressing his point with severe eyes. “May we come in?”

  Gustaf stood straighter, realizing his Æsa was not properly dressed for company. His company, aye. But not theirs. “Give me a moment,” he stated, closing the door.

  He sheathed his sword and looked at Æsa. “We have visitors. My men…”

  Æsa looked relieved and a seductive smile curved her lips. “Is it spring already? Have we been oblivious in each others arms that long?”

  He came to her, wishing he could appreciate her jest the way it was meant. But with his men coming to him only weeks after their parting, he feared the little escape from his bitter vengeful world was about to end.

  He sat beside her and leaned down, taking one last look at her breasts. He cupped her tenderly as he parted his mouth, hovering over her lips. “I need you to get dressed,” he whispered, his thumb stroking over one nipple. He ran the tip of his tongue along her bottom lip, balancing himself on the brink of his passion, before sliding past her teeth and tasting every bit of hers.

  ****

  Gustaf looked at his men gathered around his fire pit, all seven of them, their faces beset with urgency. “Out with it, will ye.”

  Jørgen spoke tentatively, his attention only on his master. “My lord, ‘tis with great satisfaction we bring you the name of the last man who had killed your father.”

  Gustaf cocked his brow. “You are certain?”

  “Indeed,” he allotted with confidence. “But the rest of the news, I fear, will not please you.”

  Gustaf sighed. “Someone else has already killed him?”

  “On the contrary. He is alive and well.”

  Gustaf heard the obscurity in his friend’s tone and knew there was a hitch in the details. “What complications do we face?”

  Jørgen lips narrowed. “He lives with your family.”

  Gustaf’s heart stopped. He didn’t know whether to be angry or overjoyed. He truly thought his family might not even exist. So much time had passed since he had seen them and through his mission, he had never heard word of their whereabouts. In truth, he tried to convince himself they were gone, so he wouldn’t have the compulsion to search for them and possibly put them in harm’s way. He had reminded himself on many occasions, when he’d grown sentimental and the desire to see them had filled his aching heart, to never stray from the plan until the last man was found and given his due.

  And now, to find out the last cowardly man had the gall to place himself in the same vicinity as his own family—hiding away in the safety of his loved ones—was about as spineless as they come. It was enough to make his blood boil.

  Still unable to entirely grasp this turn of events, he tried to keep a sensible head, tried to put his emotions aside and think judiciously. He had never been rash in the past, always patient until he was undoubtedly certain he had the right man. He never wanted to wrongly kill an innocent man because of haste and wouldn’t start now. “What makes you certain this man is our last target?”

  “We met a man who—”

  “You what?” Gustaf snapped, displeased with his men’s oversight. No one was to know anything about their activities and it was crucial to their mission that no one even know Gustaf existed. “You brought someone else into this?”

  “Not anyone, m’lord, but a friend of your father’s. He says he knows you.”

  “And that is even worse, Jørgen! You have jeopardized this mission and the safety of my family. What is to keep him from running to them and blabbing?”

  “Well, he cannot exactly run to them when he is here…with us.”

  “You brought him here?” Gustaf asked, though it really wasn’t a question. He was trying to reiterate the idiocy of his decision by repeating it for Jørgen.

  “Aye, he is here. Along with his mercenaries, all five hundred.”

  Gustaf thought his skull would blow off. “And why would I need five hundred strangers when I am perfectly able to kill one man with my bare hands?” His hands, without his realization, actually formed a ring in front of him as if he were choking the life from someone—Jørgen’s neck easily substituting.

  Jørgen grew nervous. “He insisted, m’lord.”

  Gustaf stood quickly, towering over his sitting friend. “Am I to assume you take orders from him now?”

  The door opened suddenly and in walked a large man, bearded and burly, with shoulders like an ox. “Get not your breeches in a bunch, Gustaf. He still follows you. I, however, follow any son of Rælik, especially if it means righting my friend’s wrongful death.”

  Gustaf’s eyes widened. He remembered well the resolute Northman standing in his longhouse. As a child, he remembered striving to be like Havelock, fearless and commanding. Stalwart. He was, as Jørgen mentioned, a great friend of his father’s but he still had reservations about bringing Havelock here. With the admittance of so many, the risk of things going wrong was too great, and he hated to make mistakes, especially when victory was this close.

  Gustaf walked over to the man, amazed that age hadn’t changed him much except for the deep wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and the gray discoloring his blond hair. As he embraced him soundly, he also found the man’s strength was exceptional, hard to believe as he knew the man was coming on sixty. “’Tis good to see you, Havelock.”

  The old man gripped his shoulders and took one hard look at Gustaf. “Ah, your father would be proud if he could see you now.”

  “And you know, I have a duty to my father,” Gustaf replied. “But I cannot permit you to join in on my vengeance. ‘Tis mine. And I will not be thwarted of it.”

  “Words of a good son,” Havelock praised. “I am not here to hinder your plan. I only wish to aid you.”

  “As you
can see,” Gustaf gestured toward the men at his back, “I have enough aid with these men. They have been with me through this long search and I wish not to replace their passion with anyone else’s. They deserve to feel the satisfaction of triumph, and I aim to give them that and more.”

  “I doubt it not. You have always been an honorable man, much like your father. But if you want to get to the last man, you will need me.”

  “With all due respect, Havelock, I have found each of the nine bastards without your help, and I think I can handle the last measly one myself. In truth, I have barely enough silver left to compensate my own men, much less all of yours.”

  “Rest assured, neither I, nor my men, expect payment.”

  “Then why so much fervor?”

  “Because my heart bleeds inside my chest for the death of my great friend. One of my own mercenaries had a hand in Rælik’s death and I cannot stand by and let him get away with it. Your family, unaware of this man’s past, is in grave danger. And I owe it to your father to protect them.”

  Gustaf’s heart sank, as if pounding in his stomach now, making him sick. He had to sit. “Where is my family?”

  “An isle off the west coast of Ireland. Inis Mór. They have lived there for many years now, allied with the Irish. Your brother, Dægan, took them to the island a few years after you left.”

  “And how do you know all of this?” Gustaf asked, staring at the floor.

  “I had the privilege of fighting alongside Dægan,” Havelock began, sitting beside him.

  “Against whom?”

  Havelock paused through the span of a few breaths. “Your other brother, Domaldr.”

  Gustaf’s eyes narrowed and a fire inflamed his soul. He knew all too well the kind of man Domaldr was and it didn’t surprise him he had returned to inflict his evils on the family he betrayed so long ago. “What did Domaldr do this time?”

  “It seems Dægan had taken an Irish wife, the daughter of the Connacht king. But your brother, Domaldr—”

  “Do not call him that.”

  Havelock took back his back words immediately. “Forgive me. Domaldr had wanted to overtake Connacht so he could gain status with Sigtrygg during their struggles with Baile Átha Cliath, but he knew he would have a better chance if he had leverage.”

  “Dægan’s wife…” Gustaf presumed.

  “Aye. And Domaldr succeeded. He took the princess right out from under Dægan, killing Vegard, Svir, and many more of your father’s people in the process. He burned everything to the ground as he left and even set to killing Dægan, but slipped up.”

  “And Dægan called upon you to help him get her back?”

  “Like I once told Dægan, I nearly fell over myself when I heard I had the chance to fight alongside Rælik’s son.”

  “So what happened?” Gustaf asked, dreading the rest of the story as his family didn’t seem to obtain happy endings very often.

  “Dægan was able to retrieve his wife and slaughter Domaldr’s men, but not before acquiring his own share of wounds. They proved to be fatal. We were able to take him back to his home on the isle, but eventually we lost him.”

  Hot tears burned Gustaf’s eyes. “And Domaldr?”

  “The king of Connacht hung him for the crimes against his daughter.”

  “You are sure?”

  Havelock put his hand on Gustaf’s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “I saw him myself.”

  Gustaf took a deep breath trying to cool his rising anger. “And you are telling me one of your mercenaries…who fought side by side with you and Dægan…is the man who killed my father.”

  “I know it sounds preposterous—”

  “Indeed it does!” Gustaf barked, standing up to pace the room. “It makes absolutely no sense.”

  Havelock stood as well, his heart in his hands. “What if I told you that man was my son? Would you believe me then?”

  Gustaf stopped in his tracks, his face jolting in shock. “Surely you jest.”

  “I wish I were. It sickens me to know my son was capable of doing such a thing. Of stabbing me in the back and twisting it deeper with his lies. He and I never had a good relationship, but when he came to me years ago—begging for protection against King Harold ‘the Fairhair’—I took him in, not realizing what he had done. I assumed Harold was after him just as he was with so many of our people from Hlardir and my son assumed the same, never knowing it was you and your men who were after him. He said he feared for his life. What was a father to do?”

  Gustaf listened intently, pitying the man as he spoke.

  “I only found out what he had truly done a few moons ago. And even now, it sits in my gut like a stone.”

  Gustaf took a deep cleansing breath, though it did little to make him feel better. “You put me in a very difficult situation, Havelock, as you know I have every intention of following through with my vengeance. I have a duty to my father. And I will not fail him. But knowing ‘tis your son who looks death in the eye, pulls at my heart.” Gustaf hung his head. “I am torn, my friend.”

  Havelock came toward him. “Let not my relationship cloud your senses. He may have my blood coursing through his veins, but he is no son of mine. Not anymore.”

  Gustaf eyed the Northman carefully, confusion harping at his mind. “And so I ask you again. Why such fervor? Why such vehemence when you know your son will die?”

  Havelock gathered his thoughts. “Your father never wanted to admit his son, Domaldr, was foul blood. No father ever wants to admit that. But because he closed his eyes to it, Domaldr hurt many people. Your people. If I can learn anything from your father, ‘twould be not to look away from your enemies. Especially if they are family.”

  Gustaf became a bit nervous. He knew his men were anxiously looking to him for guidance and his orders, but with Havelock in the picture, it seemed nigh on impossible to come to a decision—a choice he’d have to live with for the rest of his life. He thought ahead, imagining himself, dagger in hand, looking eye to eye with Havelock’s son. Could he do it? Could he actually find it in himself to take this man’s life knowing he was his father’s friend’s son?

  As he ruminated over the situation, another question popped into his weary mind. “How would we do this without endangering my family?”

  “Like I said, he has no idea who is hunting for him, nor does he think I know. As far as he is concerned, we would be coming to the isle to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate?” Gustaf asked, furrowing his brows in confusion.

  “Of course. What do you think your family is going to do when you step off our ships after all these years?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Breandán was amazed at the fluency of the Northmen who prepared the ships, both the swift longships and the sizeable knarrs, for the journey ahead. They had worked all of the previous evening and into the morning hours loading goods, weapons, extra linens, and stockpiles of food into the cargo ships, while checking its rigging, support masts, and strakes with a thorough-going eye. He was glad to see nothing slighted because of haste. Every one seemed to understand the gravity of this voyage, with only Mara’s safety at the forefront.

  He also noted Tait was especially cautious, verifying that no wears or frays had formed on the woolen sails, or that the ship’s oak sides were sound and well-caulked, even after Hansen, their master shipbuilder, affirmed their superior condition.

  Though Breandán knew Tait didn’t fuss over the vessels’ reliability for his satisfaction, it still pleased him to know the Northman cared enough about Mara to put his larger-than-life pride aside. He’d take every bit of scorn from Tait—even the occasional glares and purposeful shoves when he’d accidentally get in the way—if it meant heightening the chieftain’s diligence toward Mara’s welfare.

  Breandán and Marcas had helped where they could, considering they had never done anything of this nature before—furling the huge sails, loading the heavy pine masts, and carrying crates and chests of supplies to the ships. As he
presumed, Nevan and the islanders were also present to help to lighten the work, if not discourage another heated brawl. But, if there was ever a chance for Tait to insult Breandán throughout the day, or take something from his hands as if he weren’t capable of simply carrying it, he took it.

  Breandán didn’t let it get to him. He knew Tait was trying to torment him until he couldn’t bear it anymore. Or to Tait’s great pleasure, spark a rematch.

  He smiled inwardly, finding it humorous that the Northman was going to extreme childish lengths to goad him. Even Gunnar tried his hand at it on more than one occasion. And Breandán refused to give them the satisfaction of thinking it agitated him.

  Truthfully, it didn’t. He was a grown man and he had big enough shoulders to tolerate their constant ridicule. Marcas, however, was growing weary with it.

  “How much more can one man take of this?”

  Breandán patted his friend’s back. “’Twill soon end once we are aboard.”

  “You mean once you are aboard with Mara.”

  Indeed.

  And he was right. When they had boarded the deep hull of the large knarr, he was as content as he could be, being in the presence of Mara. He was doubly glad to be separated from Gunnar, who was better fit to man the steer board of the longship leading the way, and to find relief from his long hard stares.

  They stood near the mast, where the horses were stalled, in the central hold at the lower level of the knarr. Above them, at the stem and stern, were higher platforms where men sat at benches built for rowing the impressive sea-going craft. Although the men above were vulnerably exposed to the elements, the weather this day proved to be welcoming. Of course to Breandán, the sky could have been filled with dark steely clouds and torrential rain, and it still would have been bright and sunny in his world.

  He looked at Mara, taking notice of her long face. “Are you comfortable?”

  Mara smiled, though it seemed forced. “As comfortable as one can be upon a ship,” she said, stroking her horse’s soft muzzle. “I only wish Lochlann could have come. I have never been away from him.”