The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  At that moment, the ship rocked a bit, unsteadying her feet. Breandán stepped immediately to his right, his tall broad body stopping her from falling backward. He reached around her and placed her hands on the horizontal horse tie-off for support. “Hold here while I find something for you to sit on.”

  Mara attempted to dissuade him, insisting she was fine standing, but he was already lugging a sack of cargo, large enough for the both of them to sit, right behind her bottom. He gestured with his hand at the wide canvas-covered cargo as if it were a gift.

  He was happy to see her smile—an honest one this time—as she took her place, intentionally leaving room for him.

  “You understand why ‘twas not in our best interest to bring Lochlann with us,” he said, slowly taking a seat beside her. “’Tis not safe for such a young boy. If not for Callan’s failing health, I would not allow you to make this journey either. Believe me, it does not sit well with my heart to have to disappoint you so.”

  She glanced at him, “Worry not. I may be disappointed, but I, too, would not want to put my son in harm’s way. Besides,” she said, releasing her grip on the beam and folding her hands in her lap, “’tis better for him to never meet the man who has forsakened him.”

  Breandán heard the pain in her voice. “’Twill soon be over, Mara,” was all he could say. “And then you can return to your life.”

  She looked at him, her mind probably scrambling over his words. He didn’t mean for them to come out that way. To sound so disheartening, as if her life were ordinary at best. As he thought about it, his words also seemed to insinuate that her life would soon be without him, reminding her he’d no longer have a reason to stay. While he surely didn’t wish for the day they’d part, he didn’t mean for his words to put her on the spot either.

  “What I mean is, you can put this all behind you and move on.”

  She nodded. “I do wish for that. Though my heart will still bear the scars.”

  Before he could console her, another wave pushed at the ship’s side, causing Mara to involuntarily fall against him and into his arms. He couldn’t help but smile at the irony.

  Though it practically killed him to release her, he took her hands and placed them back to the beam in front of her so no one could get the wrong impression. “Perhaps you should continue to hold on,” he recommended, his hands lingering upon hers, at least until he felt her grip tighten around the truss.

  “Go raibh maith agat, a chara,” she uttered in a low voice.

  The endearment she chose to use made his heart skip. He inhaled deeply and tried to keep his composure in such tight quarters. He was thrilled she had considered him a friend, but wanted more than anything to be someone else. Despite his avowal at being a platonic companion as long as she wanted, he desired more. He longed to feel her lips on his again, to dwell in the pleasures of her kiss. And if she dared allowed it, he wanted to slip past the boundaries of her luscious lips and taste for himself the sweetness of her tongue.

  Breandán ignored the twinge in his groin and looked away from her beautiful face, hoping to find things less appealing for which to deflate his on-the-rise erection.

  Ah, Marcas.

  Now that was a sight which would keep any man from thinking depraved thoughts. He was a homely fellow with coarse red hair, a beard—which had grown wild and unsightly these past days—and small beady eyes. His shoulders and arms, like Breandán’s, were fit and strong, but his stomach had begun to protrude over his belt, largely from the steady consumption of mead, no doubt. And he had habits, quite unbecoming Breandán noted, which were enough to turn anyone’s stomach.

  Of the worst, was his constant slurping of drink from his mustache, droplets that settled above his lip. It was utterly disgusting to both hear and watch. But as Breandán continued to gaze upon him, the Irish islanders—gathering around him and laughing at God knows what—didn’t seem to mind.

  Aye, the sight of Marcas was enough to spoil anyone’s sexual appetite.

  ****

  Once they had reached Gaillimh’s bay, the Northmen docked their ships in the wharf and unloaded all of its contents. While the cargo and weapons were being dispensed amongst the men and tied down upon their tacked horses, Breandán and Marcas gained their own steeds from a friend who had agreed to stable them until their return.

  “Ye brought quite a cavalry with ye,” Cináed remarked, eyeing cautiously the hoard of men accumulating distantly in the port. “Why ye be needing so many?”

  Breandán patted his horse’s neck, satisfied his friend had cared for it properly in his absence. “They have come along to help protect the princess.”

  Cináed jabbed his elbow into Marcas’ ribs. “From yerself, no doubt,” he jibed.

  The two laughed at Breandán, knowing well his fondness for Mara. But Breandán paid no attention to their jest, or the next few that followed. He mounted his horse and looked out, confirming Mara’s safety amongst the group. She was also mounting her steed, and he noticed Ottarr had helped her.

  “If you keep two stalls open for me, I shall pay you twice what I gave you last time.”

  Cináed nodded humbly. “The wife loves the brown hare cloak you gave her. As do I. Ye never fail my family and I am grateful. I would rather turn away ten horses than lose the opportunity to trade with you.”

  Breandán smiled at his loyal friend, waiting for Marcas to mount.

  “Now, be not a stranger anymore,” Cináed declared. “We miss ye here in Gaillimh.” He glanced over his shoulder at Mara. “With things looking up as they are, perhaps you can see to trading here yerself again instead of sending this ill-reputable sod in yer stead.”

  Breandán gave a jolly chuckle as he caught a glimpse of Marcas’ distain. “’Tis very possible, Cináed.”

  And as they rode away, Breandán thought of a lot of possibilities very likely to happen now that Mara was by his side, all of which included a very happy ending.

  ****

  Breandán led the way through the rocky terrain of Ireland’s west coast, which eventually turned densely wooded. As he had warned, they were not following the normal trail through which to trek across Connacht. They were blazing through near impenetrable brush, steep inclines, and dodgy creek beds, avoiding at all costs a run-in with Donnchadh’s crooked army.

  In the past, Donnchadh’s entourage had consisted of stragglers—bands of rogues no more than thirty men to each group in total—dispersed amongst Connacht’s roadways, thieving and breeding fear amongst the Ui Briuin. But with the news of Callan’s deteriorating health, Breandán knew Donnchadh was smart enough to rally the intermittent scoundrels into one organized group, using both their numbers and a commandeering strategy to his advantage. If he wanted to gain Connacht with barely an effort, all he’d have to do was abduct the king’s daughter and hold her for ransom.

  Breandán was not about to let that happen.

  He had ordered Mara to be placed in the very center of the group, offering her ample protection at both the front and the rear, and disguised as a man. He instructed her to change into a kirtle and breeches—the attire of a Northman. If she were dressed as a bare-legged Irishman in only a tunic and cloak, her slim alluring legs would be spotted a mile away. He even went as far as stuffing her long silky tresses into the shroud of a chain mail coif and helmet, hoping she’d blend in with all the other males in the multitude. Taking a step further, he gave her an armored chest plate to strap around her shapely torso, concealing the slight swell of her breasts and the narrow curve of her waist.

  “This is ridiculous,” he recalled her saying.

  But he didn’t care.

  All that mattered was she was safe, relatively hidden from suspicious eyes. Hell, if he had more time, he would have smeared the dark sludge of the peat bogs across the creamy skin of her face to resemble a beard. But he knew she wouldn’t yield to such a measure, especially after she’d practically stomped to her horse once dressed as a man.

  Even Ottarr had s
eemed impressed with his meticulousness and nodded his approval after seeing her “outfit.”

  After journeying for many hours, and only reaching the quarter mark toward her father’s keep, Breandán decided it was best to stop and make camp before it became too dark. His choice was a secluded area of dense forest along a much needed creek for satiating their horses’ thirsts.

  He dismounted and with reins in hand, led his horse toward Mara who was now coming up through the brush. Her body showed signs of fatigue as she no longer sat high and proud in the saddle. Her face was serious, devoid of any smile as she caught sight of him.

  Once her horse halted in front of him, he gave her a sympathetic smile and reached for her. He gripped her waist and steadied her on the way down. “Are you all right?”

  “Aye,” she mumbled, letting her eyes close for a brief moment as she succumbed to the solid ground beneath her feet.

  Breandán removed the conical helmet from her head and the plated armor from her chest, alleviating her from the strains of supporting their heavy weight. As if they weighed nothing to him, he threw the armor over his one shoulder and tucked the helm under his arm. “There. Is that better?”

  She nodded, wiping the beads of perspiration from her forehead. “I would feel better if I could lie down and sleep.”

  “You should eat first,” he advised, taking her reins. “There is a spot over yonder with a nice clearing where you can rest yourself. We will make a fire there soon and you can eat. Will you be all right while I tend to the horses?”

  Sleepily, she nodded though he doubted she truly heard what he asked.

  “Wander not off on your own. If you must relieve yourself, come to me first.”

  Again she only nodded, but this time Breandán noticed the fabric of her overly large breeches was moving as if her legs were fidgeting within. He cocked his head to the side unable to hide his amusement. “You have to go now, do you not?”

  “Aye,” she said, biting her lip. She gazed around at all the menfolk swarming the place. “I have never had to do so in front of…and how do I do it in these breeches? ‘Tis not as if I can do what I must do standing up.”

  Breandán wanted to laugh. She was so cute standing there, garbed in ill-fitted men’s clothing, looking anything but masculine behind all that mail. Her long dark hair was still hidden under the coif, and her feminine figure was swallowed up by the drapery of clothing. But there was no denying she was all woman underneath when he looked into her eyes.

  Fortunate for her, one would have to get close in order to make those assumptions, and he swore no one would have that opportunity. They’d have to get through him first.

  “Where can I go?” Mara asked, her knees now locked together.

  He briefly looked around for Marcas and motioned for him.

  “You may want to take her upstream,” Marcas suggested as he took the reins and armor from Breandán. “Some of the men have already relieved themselves while watering their horses.”

  “Thanks for the warning. And keep a sharp eye while I am gone.”

  Marcas grabbed Breandán’s sleeve, whispering for only his ears. “For Donnchadh? Or Gunnar?”

  Breandán glanced around the remaining men unpacking their belongings, Gunnar no where to be seen. “Both,” he whispered back.

  “Hm…this ought to be a joy.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Breandán kept his eyes on the surrounding terrain, though his attention was hard-put to ignore the princess who sat crouched behind him in the bushes, naked from the waist down. He had told Mara to simply pull the breeches to her knees and sit on her heels, but she wasn’t convinced she could do her private business without urinating on them. And so there he stood, his back to her, holding her trousers in his hands.

  The situation was utterly difficult to overlook.

  Impossible to ignore.

  And thus, many images came to mind: the curvaceous bow of her hips and thighs; her two sensuously shaped calves. He had never truly seen her legs in that way, but his imaginative mind hardly cared for precise details.

  He also came to find his groin was not all that concerned with reality either. He sighed, gripping her breeches in a tight, disgruntled fist, while he took another moment to scan his eyes across the secluded landscape.

  “So, tell me more about Gunnar,” he said, trying to redirect his mind.

  “What is it you want to know?”

  Breandán shifted his impatient legs. “Why did he decide to stay on the isle after Dægan died? He was one of Havelock’s mercenaries, right?”

  “Aye, he was.”

  “So why did he stay?”

  “I know not.”

  Breandán heard a rustling and turned for a second, only to find her standing with her hand out, her lower half still concealed by the shrubbery. Self-conscious of her nude state, he politely turned his head back around and handed her clothes from over his shoulder.

  “I only know that he was tired of the mercenary life,” she added while slipping her legs into each pant. “He has been very loyal and trustworthy since he’s been with us. I know Tait is pleased.”

  “Do you trust him?” Breandán asked.

  There was a pause of silence, as if she had stopped redressing for a second. “Why do you ask?”

  “I have a duty to protect you whilst we are visiting your father. And I have always believed it wise to keep friends close and enemies closer.”

  Mara appeared from behind the greenery, her face puckered with confusion. “You consider Gunnar an enemy?”

  Breandán crossed his arms, looking very serious. “I consider him a potential threat, the same as I would Tait if he were here.”

  “You mean a threat to you?”

  “Hardly,” Breandán stated, ushering her through the woods toward camp. “But as far as I am concerned, any person who has not your best interest at heart—on this journey—is a threat. It may sound overzealous, but I must perceive it that way. And you did not answer my question.”

  Mara glanced at him, a quirk to her smile. “I thought I did.”

  “You countered me with three questions of your own, but you never answered mine. I asked if you trust Gunnar.”

  Mara thought long on the issue. Far too long for Breandán’s taste.

  He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back before she could enter the clearing where the others gathered, looking her deep in the eyes. “Mara, this is important.” He enunciated each word for her. “Do you trust him?”

  She held his gaze. “I cannot say Gunnar has given me reason not to trust him. He has always been there for us. He has even been there for Brondolf.”

  “Brondolf?”

  “He is Lillemor’s son.”

  “Go on,” Breandán encouraged, his attention peaked.

  “Brondolf was one of the first to come upon Nanna, Dægan’s mother, one morning. He and Gunnar had found her dead in her bed. To a four-year old boy this was very difficult. He was quite distraught. And since then, has not spoken a word.”

  Breandán couldn’t help but be taken aback. “Not a word? At all?”

  “Not even to his own mother. But Gunnar has taken it upon himself to help the boy. He is always there with him, shadowing him, more or less like a protective father.”

  “But…” Breandán interjected for her.

  “But, to my eyes, it seems Brondolf welcomes not Gunnar’s company...as if he is uncomfortable with his presence. Even Lochlan stands clear of him when he can.”

  “Has Lochlann ever told you anything suspicious about Gunnar?”

  “Nay.”

  “But you think Gunnar had a hand in Nanna’s death.”

  Mara drew back. “I never said that.”

  “’Tis me you are talking to, Mara. Whatever you say to me, whatever you suspect, will not leave my lips.”

  She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. “I have never openly accused Gunnar of anything. Nor would I have any evidence even if I did. But my heart fee
ls something is amiss.”

  Breandán was glad Mara trusted him enough to express her reservations with Gunnar. He had his own, being the observant man he was, but he had never had the time, nor the opportunity to get to know Gunnar or put to rest his wary thoughts. He’d watch Gunnar more closely now.

  He reached for her and tipped her chin up. “You are safe with me. You know this right?”

  She swallowed. “I do.”

  Breandán couldn’t help but glance at her lips, how they puckered so perfectly when she said the word ‘do.’ God, what he wouldn’t give right now to feel those lips on his. To be able to take her lips simply because he wanted to and because she’d want it as well.

  Even now as he looked at her, he could see she turned the same thought over in her head. Go ahead…kiss me, he begged inwardly.

  He almost thought she was going to as her eyes drifted to his lips, but a rustling behind them caused her to stiffen and turn away.

  “Marcas,” Breandán uttered. If his friend was anything, he was always rather untimely. “Is everything well?”

  “If by well you mean Gunnar is taking charge of things, ordering us all around? Certainly. Things are more than well.”

  “If it keeps him preoccupied, let him. In the meantime, I will be scouting the area. Take Mara back for me and make sure she eats before she sleeps.”

  “Of course.”

  Mara turned to face Breandán, her face sincere. “Please be careful.”

  He smiled for her, her well-wishes like a harp’s strum on his heart.

  ****

  The next morning, Mara awoke to the low dulcet sound of her name.

  She opened her eyes and found Breandán squatted down beside her, his handsome face smiling warmly.

  “We are all loaded and ready to go,” he said, holding out his hand to her.

  She took it and sat up, seeing all the men were as he said; mounted and in lines, waiting for her. She must have fallen into a sound sleep soon after her meal, for the last things she remembered were the men straggling over to the fire, chatting about their day, drinking to the days to come, and guffawing every now and again over who-knows-what.