She stretched her back from lying on the hard ground, amazed she hadn’t heard a sound after she’d closed her eyes.
“You must have been exhausted.”
She stood up and brushed off her clothes, realizing she was still dressed in men’s breeches. She had nearly forgotten about it but couldn’t help but show her disappointment. She hated to be dressed this way. Hated to be something she wasn’t.
She understood why Breandán was going to such lengths, and for his sake, never made a peep of complaint—even when he strapped the armor to her chest and handed her the heavy helmet for her head.
She readjusted her hair, tucking it once again into the chain mail hood and awkwardly fitted the helm upon her head.
“Here,” Breandán said, reaching out to help her. He took one hand and pulled the chain mail aside, while using his other to push back a stubborn lock of her hair. His knuckles grazed her cheek and his aromatic scent filled her senses, making her knees weak.
She faltered a bit, glad that Breandán had steadied her and blamed the heavy metal of the helmet.
“Two more days of this and we should reach your father,” he concluded. “Think you can still make it?”
“Aye.”
“Of course she can make it,” Gunnar announced firmly as he walked up, his strides arrogant and sound. “She is a strong woman.”
Mara turned her attention onto Gunnar, uncertain of his intent. But before Breandán could open his mouth, she knew the Irishman was about to make his intent clear with the rude Northman.
“I make no arguments against it, Gunnar. But if our course is too swift for her or the route too treacherous, we should certainly adjust to accommodate. Would you not agree?”
Gunnar crossed his arms to his barrel chest. “If anything needs be adjusted, ‘tis Mara’s placement in line. She would be better protected if she were near me. Instead you have her in the center where I could not see her if I wanted. You leave her vulnerable.”
“If an attack were to be made,” Breandán replied, his eyes darkening, “’tis more likely they would ambush the front and flank the rear, using confusion and fear to their advantage. Being a mercenary once, Gunnar, I would think you to know this—to have lived and breathed it. Am I to assume you are purposefully placing the princess at risk by demanding she be at the exposed end of the line with you? Or you have completely forgotten the ways of tactical warfare and are no longer capable of properly protecting her?”
Mara wanted to smile. Neither sounded like something Gunnar would be willing to admit, but it certainly shut him up. She watched Gunnar storm past and rejoin Ottarr at the rear of the mounted group.
She had never seen anything like it. No one dared to stand up against Gunnar and Tait, and yet Breandán withstood both of them in less than a few days. And lived to tell the tale. It was nice to see someone brave enough to put the damnable duo in their place.
The rest of the journey was relatively calm when it came to the two men butting heads. As long as Gunner kept his mouth in control and his complaints to himself, Breandán hardly gave the Northman his attention—at least that’s what it looked like to everyone else. But Mara knew better. While Breandán scouted the countryside, checked broken twigs on the paths, analyzed footprints in the soil, or predetermined things that looked out of place, he laso had his eyes inconspicuously on Gunnar. There wasn’t much that got past Breandán. He was conscientious of everything going on around him, even if he could make her journey more tolerable.
Each night, when they stopped to make camp, Breandán, did his usual—holding her breeches while she ducked behind the bushes. He seemed to have gotten used to the idea as he no longer fisted her pants. Instead, he tossed them over his shoulder nonchalantly and carried on a conversation as though the thought of her nakedness didn’t shake him anymore.
It seemed he’d grown comfortable with her…until last night.
They’d made camp as darkness fell and she told him she wished to wash up in a nearby stream. She remembered his reaction to such a request, his lips thinning and his nostrils flaring. Though he was courteous and never peeked from his guarding post, he reverted to clenching his fists and shifting his stance all the while she bathed. When she was through, Breandán escorted her back to camp and, under his watchful eye, she fell asleep at the warm fire.
The next morning they rode out early and within a few hours, finally came upon the Loch Rí, her father’s keep in the distance. She was never so relieved and anxious at the same time. She had hoped she’d be ready for this moment. But as she stared at the motte-and-bailey stronghold, she knew nothing could have prepared her. Her mouth went dry; there was a catch in her throat she couldn’t clear; and her emotions bubbled inside her. All she wanted to do was turn her horse around and race back home—to Inis Mór. To her son. To a place that was familiar.
Dún na hAbhann should have seemed familiar as she had spent her entire childhood there. But seven years felt like an eternity, and thus eroded all connection she had felt for the place. It even looked different as it stood predominantly on the hill. Prepared or not, she was about to see her father again and hopefully find the answers to all her nagging questions.
Breandán rode over to her, a quiet sense of empathy on his face. “Are you ready?”
She wasn’t, but nodded her head anyway.
“This is as far as we go,” Ultan announced, speaking for the Irish islanders of the group. “We will wait here.”
Breandán didn’t argue, and bowed slightly, leading the way. Mara and the other Northmen followed him across the valley where Dún na hAbhann awaited, its solid palisade walls looking higher than she remembered. As she gazed upon the weathered wood and its impermeable stone gatehouse, she felt as if it were taunting her, voices whispering in her ears to turn back.
Chills ran down her spine and her heart raced, pounding against her chest. Her nervousness didn’t stop when they rode through the barbican and beneath the sharp metal grates of two portcullises raised high above them. They looked as if any moment they would fall back into place, trapping her inside.
Get a hold of yourself, she scolded.
This had been her home, her safe harbor, and thinking her own father wished to do her harm was utterly absurd. She was his daughter. Blood was thicker than water.
But it was still difficult to understand—if he truly loved her—why he would turn her away in the first place. Without explanation. Without cause. Without so much as a farewell. She wanted to know. She didn’t think she was necessarily ready to know, but she was tired of this needless wondering and wished to put it all aside.
If she could get through Dægan’s death, then she certainly could get through this. The worst he could say was, I wish to cut all ties from you and never see you again, which would be no more appalling than his turning her away the first time. If she could boast anything about this occasion, it would be she was used to it. Her heart had grown indifferent from the impact of his cold-hearted actions and she believed there was not much he could do now to hurt her. She was numb—emotionally uninvolved. And she concluded it was best this way.
Even as Fergus, her father’s advisor and life-long friend, greeted her and Breandán with a respectful bow and invited the Northmen to drink and eat their fill, she remained dispassionate. She had to be, lest the vulnerable part of her heart would be exposed.
She was the last to dismount, glancing around the spacious courtyard at places she used to frequent, like the flowery garden in front of the chapel or the servants’ quarters where she’d eavesdrop on local entertaining gossip. She even recognized familiar faces in the bailey, some of whom would have once ran to her and embraced her. Now, as she stood there among them, she was merely addressed with saddened eyes and a detached looks. She couldn’t tell whether they were despondent by the deteriorating health of their king or the fact she had become a stranger to them.
Despite her efforts to shield her heart, she wanted to cry. Things had changed and time was a
cruel enemy.
Breandán strolled around her horse and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders, gripping her upper arm with a strong hand. “You are not alone.” He ushered her toward the keep, where Fergus had already begun to walk.
“I want you to come with me,” she said hastily, before they reached the stairs leading to her father’s solar.
“I will not leave your side.”
Mara took in a breath and started up the stairs to where Fergus led. She might have been gone for seven years but she certainly didn’t need his guidance. Many years she had spent in this keep. Many days she had spent going up and down this wooden staircase. She could do it with her eyes closed.
At the top, was an open room where guards would loiter in pairs at three corresponding doors. To the right was her bed chamber—was. And to the left, would be her father’s. The middle door had been her mother’s, though since her passing, no one had been permitted entrance. For a moment, she wondered if either chamber was being used by someone else now.
Mara stood still, staring at her father’s double doors. They were guarded as she expected, but no less comforting to know he was beyond them, just inside. She swallowed, trying to rid the dryness from her mouth.
Fergus stepped forward. “We were beginning to think you would not come.”
Mara looked up at him sharply. “Would you have blamed me if I had not?”
He bowed humbly, unable to look her in the eye. “Indeed not.”
Mara stared a bit longer, feeling Breandán’s presence behind her. In no way was he standing close enough for their bodies to touch, but she could feel him as profoundly as if he were pressed against her. Though he probably didn’t know it, his company gave her strength. It put confidence in her weary heart and solid legs beneath her trembling body.
“Does he know I am here?”
“Aye,” Fergus said.
No chance of her retreating now.
“Breandán will come in with me.”
Fergus glanced over her shoulder at the Irishman, his face showing thoughts marked with a definite refusal, but for whatever reason, he yielded to her demand. “’Tis not as if he will not find out soon or later.”
“Find out what?” Breandán asked for her.
Fergus ignored him and stepped between the guards, opening the door. It was dark in the room. Gloomy, with only a few lit torches on the far wall.
Again, she swallowed. Took a deep breath in. Told herself this was not going to affect her. That seeing her father one last time was not going to rattle her. But no amount of coaxing could have readied her for the moment she walked into the room and saw her brash, bold-lipped, cantankerous father lying there, sunken into the mattress, pale, fragile, and dramatically aged.
Her heart sank, pity overwhelming her as she slowly neared him.
“Father?” Her voice was barely audible, but he opened his eyes, looking as if the exertion of lifting his lids were all but strenuous.
His eyes glazed over as he stared at the ceiling, unable to turn his head in the direction of her voice. His dry, cracked lips came together for a moment, as if he were trying to say her name.
She ran to his bedside, kneeling. “I am here, Father.”
His pallid face was stoic and sagging, though she thought she saw him try to smile. His voice finally came, but in a wheeze. “You still look…as beautiful as ever…like your mother.”
Mara smiled, grateful he even remembered her.
His chin trembled as he spoke his next words. “How…is Lochlann?”
Her breath escaped her. A feeling of exuberance took hold of her as he remembered her son’s name and asked about him. “Lochlann is well.” She searched the room for Breandán, verifying his presence within, and smiled because he was with her. “I wanted to bring him—for you to meet him, but…” She hesitated, her emotions climbing. “’Twas not safe.”
Callan closed his eyes as if to say he understood. “I would not…want to…put him in…danger.”
Mara lifted the blankets and sought his hand, squeezing it gently. His hand felt frail and lifeless, cold to the touch. She rubbed it soothingly, trying to bring warmth to his bony fingers.
Callan obviously felt her kindness and turned his head toward her. “I am…glad…you are…here.”
“As am I, Father.”
Before Callan could say much more, he started to cough. His body shook terribly and his face puckered in pain. “Shh…” she consoled. “You need not speak anymore. I am here. I will not leave you.”
Callan endured a long episode of coughing and gasping before he was able to settle down again. His face grimaced as he gathered his breath. “There is…something I must…tell you.”
“Please,” she begged. “There is no need to talk. You will only encourage the cough.”
“I have to tell…you this,” he said breathlessly. “My heart…aches…for hurting you…but I…was only…trying to protect you.”
Assuming her father was apologizing for shunning her, she shook her head, interrupting him. “It matters not now, Father. Please, try to rest.”
Fergus stepped around the foot of the bed and gained Mara’s attention. “Let him speak. This is all he has wanted since he grew sick. He has not much time.”
Mara had no idea what could be so important, to risk her father’s well being for the sake of getting out his last words of love. She knew he loved her and didn’t have to hear it from his dying lips to believe him. Sure, she doubted it seven years ago when he had turned her away, but as she watched her father struggle to breathe, his past cold-heartedness didn’t seem to matter anymore.
“Go on, Sire,” Fergus urged.
Mara stared at her father. Hoping he wouldn’t get himself in another exhaustive state of hacking. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, his eyes fluttering through his struggle.
“I love…you,” he finally said.
“I love you, too, Father.”
“And I…have always…loved you.”
“I know this,” she crooned, squeezing his hand between hers.
“But you are…not mine.”
Mara’s first instinct was to scoff. To think he was starting to lose his mind. To think he was talking nonsense now. “Why would you say something like that? You know I am yours.”
Callan tried to shake his head but it hardly moved against the pillows propping up his head. “Your mother…and I…never…”
“Father, enough,” she said as calmly as she could.
“She loved…another before me. You are…not my daughter.”
Suddenly, Callan began coughing again, the violence of the fit increasing as he thrashed about trying to gain his breath. Mara grew fearful. His words balancing on the brink of her thoughts while she witnessed him huffing and panting.
Fergus came to him now, his one hand resting kindly at the bedside, while the other lay upon Callan’s shoulder. “Settle, Sire. ‘Twill pass soon, but you must settle. Relax…”
His fight only worsened and soon his eyes widened in panic. His breath could no longer be taken in as if his lungs had closed. His coughing had subsided, but his chest deeply caved in with each desperate inhalation, the dire need for air never filtering through.
“What is happening?” Mara asked aloud.
“He cannot breathe.”
Mara stood up, having a difficult time watching her father die. She had watched Dægan die, in her arms, and seeing Callan’s struggles to breathe only reminded her of her husband’s last moments.
She backed up, hardly knowing what to do. Barely able to speak. She grew hot, feeling like the room was closing in. Spinning. Her stomach soon turned over and she felt she was going to vomit.
Her feet felt as if they were actually nailed to the floor and all she wanted to do was get out of the room. She had to. This was not what she imagined. She was supposed to be unattached and impassive. Instead, somehow, she had gotten sucked into caring again. Into baring her heart wide open.
A
t last, she was able to take a step backward, but she bumped into Breandán. The solid wall of his body stopped her abruptly. She spun around, burying her face in his chest. His name emitted from her lips.
Breandán simply held her. The warmth of his embrace sheltered her from the dreadful images swarming in her brain. The pleasant smell of his heady scent brought about new things to reflect upon, like the steady sound of his breathing and the peaceful rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat in her ears.
She concentrated on those things, trying to count the beats, trying to slow her breathing to match his. Trying to squeeze out the sting of her hot, burning tears.
She barely knew she was crying until the sound of her father’s struggle ceased and her whimpering broke the stillness of the room. She held her breath now, the silence deafening, the thought that her father had finally succumbed to his death pounding in her head.
Confounded by impulse alone, Mara turned slowly…ever so slowly in Breandán’s arms, and looked at her father, his body still and lifeless.
Her legs buckled and before her eyes could close, she felt two strong arms lifting her from her feet.
Chapter Twenty-six
Breandán descended the narrow staircase of the keep with Mara in his arms, his heart aching, his tongue in knots. She had already endured so much and had come so far to see her dying father, only to find out he was not her father at all.
Bastard!
How could Callan do so such a thing? What purpose did it serve to reveal such news when he knew it would only hurt her? And then to leave this world without telling her who her real father was!
If not for Mara draped within his arms, he would’ve asked those very questions. But all he cared about was getting Mara the fresh air she needed and getting her as far away as possible from all this heartache.
Instinctively, he held her closer, wishing they were somewhere other than her childhood home, filled with memories, abundant with people who would no doubt be concerned for her and swarm him.
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