The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  He wanted to take her into his arms and hold her until the end of time. Forever was a long spell, but he’d enjoy every blessed moment of it. Just to hold her. Just to be near her. Just to look into her beautiful emerald eyes and dwell in her gracious arms.

  He sat down beside her, his hand reaching out to touch her leg covered by her cloak. Her head twisted to see him, her face beset with fright. But it didn’t remain for long. Her wide eyes relaxed into a dazzling sea of green, her smile prompting them to sparkle like precious stones in sunlight. And when his name fell from her lips—those most exquisite rose-colored lips—he felt his groin buck in response.

  He clenched his jaw. “You are still awake.”

  She sat up, the golden flames from the fire flickering in her eyes, a look of relief washing over her. “I cannot sleep. I have tried.”

  Mara glanced down at his hand, the one he hadn’t noticed still resting on her lower leg. He was inclined to remove it, but she reached over and laid hers on top, her fingers tucking slightly beneath his palm.

  It tickled where her fingertips grazed him, sending a jolt of warmth up his arm and into the rest of his body. His hand felt as if it were on fire in comparison to the coolness of hers. Sandwiched between her touch and her dainty calf, he felt her trembling. “You are cold.”

  She remained undeterred. “I am. The fire is not as warm this night. I cannot sleep when I am cold.”

  Was that an invitation?

  “I can certainly remedy that,” he offered. He inched closer, climbing his way behind her. He wrapped his arms around her as he guided her down to the make-shift bed upon the ground. She didn’t protest. She seemed to happily accept the idea, curling closer toward him as he stretched his thick furry cloak around them both. He’d like to say his solution of warming her up was a selfless act, but he figured even she knew better.

  She sighed and let her body melt into his embrace, her shivers dissolving with each passing moment.

  He looked down at her, her head cradled in the pocket of his shoulder. “Better?”

  Another long breath escaped, and her eyes automatically closed. “You are so warm,” she said sleepily.

  Breandán smiled. The sight of her in his arms comforted his restless soul. There was nothing better than this moment. Nothing he could think of to surpass this long-awaited opportunity. He had all but dreamt of this occasion for so many years, and for a second he thought he might be dreaming again.

  “Mara,” he muttered, anxious to determine if she were only a figment of his imagination. But she barely stirred. Only a sweet tiny noise, barely audible behind her closed lips, sprang forth, suggesting she was near a peaceful sleep.

  He pulled her closer and decided he didn’t care to know. Like her, he closed his eyes and snuggled in, the scent of her enveloping him like a satin cloud. In no time, he drifted off to sleep with a smile no one could erase.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Tait had spent a sennight pacing the shores of Inis Mór waiting for Mara to return. From the moment they sailed away, he had a bad feeling. And having to spend his days wondering—worrying—took a serious toll on him. Having Lochlann ask when his mother would return each and every minute of the day didn’t help either.

  The hours of his nights, at least, went by quickly since he had the love of his Thordia to console him, keeping his beleaguered mind busy. But the span of time in the daylight hours crept along at a snail's pace. It was brutally difficult to endure and he swore before long, he’d go insane.

  “It should be any day now,” Nevan said in an effort to pacify the distraught Northman. “I have every faith in the Irishman he will bring her home.”

  Tait gave the king a sideways glance. “Easy for you to say.”

  Nevan strolled closer, looking out across the sea as Tait was. “’Twould be easier on yourself if you would let go of your pride.”

  “Did you come here to nag?” Tait asked scornfully. “Because I shall warn you. I am a man of little patience this day.”

  Nevan wanted to laugh as he couldn’t remember a time when Tait had any patience worth bragging of. “Nay, I came to express my apologies. I prefer not this wedge between us.”

  “’Twas not me who put it there.”

  “Fair enough,” Nevan replied coolly. “I shall admit I am guilty of positioning said wedge amidst our relationship, but you continue to drive it in deeper. How far will you hammer it in before it divides us entirely?”

  Tait rolled his eyes, abhorring the metaphoric speeches Nevan often resorted to. “You forget. I am not Dægan which means your figurative chatter falls upon deaf ears, my friend. If you wish to talk to me, do so directly.”

  “All right,” Nevan retorted. “When are you going to stop acting like a spoiled child and realize there are others, beside your haughty self, in this world? You have always behaved as if the only feelings worth expressing were your own. And until you realize you are not the only one with principles, emotions, and legitimate perspectives, you will always be a horse’s arse.” He crossed his arms to his chest as Tait slowly turned around to face him. “Is that direct enough for you?”

  Tait clenched his jaw ready to spat out his rebuttal, but a voice from behind them stole his opportunity.

  “Father, look!”

  Tait glanced at his son pointing toward the vast Atlantic, and followed the direction of his little finger. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of many dark objects shifting and bending in the illusory expanse of the sea. Like a mirage, it was impossible to make out what his eyes observed, but eventually the horizon seemed littered with the unknown objects. The magnitude of their breadth occupied most of the ocean’s surface.

  Similar to fog lifting from water, the objects emerged from the haze and Tait’s heart plummeted into his stomach.

  “God in heaven,” Nevan exclaimed. “That is a lot of ships.”

  Tait’s breathing climbed. “That is a fleet, Sire. And we are as good as dead.”

  Both men were held mesmerized by the great number of longships advancing in their direction. They’d seen multitudes of marauding raiders before, but never to this extent. With their own forces absent from the isle and engaged in a task far beyond reach, it was not hard to imagine a massacre.

  Panic set in, followed by fury. Tait wrenched his body around, his face white with fear. “Alfarinn! Get your mother. Get everyone! The fort! Now!”

  Nevan’s feet began to retreat, still unable to look away from the hoard of sinister vessels lining the sea’s enormity. “I will alert the men,” he stuttered, his assertive voice wavering as he spoke.

  Tait reached out and grabbed hold of the king’s arm, his eyes still fixed on the approaching army. “Wait.” He squinted, peering at the few foremost ships. “I have seen those warships before.”

  Nevan was finally able to tear his gaze from the sea and gawked at Tait. “Are you certain?”

  Tait stood motionless for the span of a few unhurried breaths and then a relieving grin twitched at his lips. “Aye!” he said exultantly. “’Tis Havelock!”

  Nevan hardly believed him. “Now is not the time to be mistaken, Tait.”

  “I am not mistaken,” he cried out in confidence. “I would recognize those ships anywhere. Trust me.”

  Tait slapped Neven’s back and laughed in an over-exuberant response to the immense relief washing over him. He took a second glance at the king and realized the man didn’t share the same emotion. “Why the long face? ‘Tis Havelock. An ally.”

  “Oh, I recall the man,” Nevan imparted. “But I am concerned with the man’s objective in bringing all of Scandinavia with him.”

  Tait reassessed the numbers. It was a great deal of men Havelock journeyed with. “Something must be amiss.”

  “Tait, what is going on? Alfarinn said we must get to the fort?”

  Tait whirled around, forgetting he had sent his son on a mission. He ran to his wife, who rushed to meet him. “My Thordia, I am so sorry. The urgency has passed. ‘Tis
only Havelock who comes. See?” He enveloped her delicate pregnant body in his arms and pointed out toward the sea.

  ****

  Within minutes the entire shoreline was riddled with longships, each one as impressive as the next. Their presence on the isle brought back many memories for each islander who came to see the grand assembly. The grand sight had taken them back seven years prior when Dægan returned from his task of saving Mara from Domaldr, and when he’d died in her arms but a few feet from the shore. Everyone stood reverently quiet; Lillemor with her protective arms around Brondolf, Thordia in the company of her son as well, and Nevan with the support of his people. Emotions ran high, as the many Northmen pulled in their oars and jumped from the sides.

  Havelock was the first to climb the shore, trudging through the brutal waves of the Atlantic with strong, determined steps.

  Tait met him at the breaking point, his arms extended in an open welcome. “Havelock, my friend! ‘Tis good to see you.”

  The two embraced in a hardy hug, the dull sound of their pats thumping upon their solid backs. “Indeed ‘tis. Been far too long for friends to go without visiting.”

  Together they walked ashore, the scores of his hirdmen following behind.

  “Nevan,” Tait said, gesturing a hand in the king's direction. “You remember Havelock. The great warrior from the Hebrides.”

  Havelock let out a guffaw. “Ah, you flatter me well, Tait, though others may beg to differ.” He held out his hand for the king, and Nevan graciously gripped his arm with both hands, awarding a firm shake.

  “’Tis a pleasure to see you again,” Nevan announced. “Any ally of Dægan’s is always welcome here.”

  “So what brings you to Inis Mór?” Tait chimed in, his curiosity killing him.

  Havelock threw a sound arm around Tait’s shoulder. “I have a surprise for you.” He glanced around the islanders and gestured their inclusion. “All of you.”

  He pointed toward the nearest ship and every head turned toward a single man bounding over the gunwale into the crashing knee-high waves. His dark blond hair blew in the wind and his wolfskin cloak flapped like a gray flag at his back. There was pride in each pace the man took to get to shore. His body never faltered from the bashing water at his legs, his back ramrod straight, his chin held high.

  The closer he came, the quieter the isle got, save for the surf, which continued to break at his ankles. Tait, however, was the first to speak, his feet faltering him as he walked toward the stranger. “How can it be?” he mumbled, his voice lost amid the splashing water.

  Once Tait finally reached the man, he stood stock-still, his eyes pouring over inch of his face. He swallowed, hardly believing who stood in front of him. “Is it really you?”

  The man grinned from ear to ear. “Aye, Tait. ‘Tis I.”

  Tait let out a cry of joy that all of Ireland could have heard, his arms immediately wrapping around the fellow. “God’s teeth, it is you! Where have you been? We thought you dead!”

  The two men exchanged abrasive hugs and their joyous laughter echoed above the ocean’s clamor. “Believe me, Tait. If I could have returned to my family, I would have a long time ago. But—”

  Tait cut his explanation short by embracing him again, not caring what his reasons were. All that mattered to Tait was the man was alive and well. “God’s teeth, I cannot believe you are here! Come. I want you to meet my family.”

  Tait hauled him ashore and led him into the group. An uncommon hush fell over everyone as the man’s familiar face took them by surprise, especially Nevan. The king’s face turned white and his eyes widened.

  “Dægan?” Nevan stammered out.

  Tait laughed. “Nay, this is Dægan’s older brother, Gustaf.”

  The king staggered and grabbed his chest as if to reaffirm his heart’s beating. His breath expelled from his lungs in utter astonishment. Tait reached out for Nevan’s arm, steadying him. “Are you all right?”

  Nevan gave a nervous chuckle. “Of course I am all right.” He took another long look at the handsome Northman, his eyes still unconvinced he wasn’t seeing an aged version of his departed friend. “Forgive me, Gustaf, for mistaking you for Dægan. The resemblance is quite uncanny. Though I do not believe in such things, I could have sworn I was seeing a spirit before me.”

  Gustaf lent a helping hand as well, grasping the Irish king’s other arm. “I take no offense with being mistaken for a man such as Dægan. I am honored you would think of me in his greatness, even if ‘tis only in appearance.”

  Nevan continued to stare, a distinct smile advancing across his lips. “You bear a likeness to his humble generosity as well. It gives me great pleasure to stand in the presence of another valiant son of Rælik.” He patted the brawny hand upon his arm. “I welcome you and your men to our shores.”

  “And this, Gustaf,” Tait said, pulling his pregnant spouce into his arms. “Is my wife, Thordia.”

  “Ah, Thordia,” Gustaf droned, taking her hand and looking her over. “I remember when you were a young girl, ogling over Tait when he was barely twelve years old. I see your father, Ottarr, finally gave in. Or if I know Tait,” he quipped, “your father did not have much of a choice in the matter.”

  Laughter erupted amongst everyone. Even Thordia took pleasure in it, clasping her hands to Tait's face and kissing him.

  Tait accepted her kiss, and dipped her over his forearm to finish it. Cheers went up around them. It was a grand moment to have Gustaf on the isle and everyone seemed very welcoming to his unexpected arrival. Tait was overjoyed and continued to introduce those around him.

  “And this is my son, Alfarinn,” Tait established, his hands soundly on the lad’s shoulders.

  Gustaf knelt down in front of him, a sense of pride exuding in his gaze. “You are your father made over, lad. I wager,” Gustaf claimed as he joggled the pommel of the sword at the boy’s belt, “you are quite the skilled swordsman.”

  “Indeed, he is,” Tait exclaimed, tousling his son’s hair.

  Gustaf arose, taking notice of another boy nearby. “And this must be Dægan’s son.”

  Lochlann stepped forward, his bright blue eyes gleaming. “How did you know?”

  Gustaf winked at the boy. “Anyone who knows Dægan could not fail to recognize his offspring.” He glanced at Nevan. “Now that is what I call uncanny.”

  “Then I am certain you can settle on whose son this is,” Tait replied, pulling a shy Brondolf forward.

  Gustaf shook his head. “He has got to be Eirik’s.”

  “And this is Eirik’s wife, Lillemor,” Tait indicated.

  The shapely woman walked up to Gustaf and embraced him. “My heart is overjoyed to see you again. Eirik would be so happy to know his eldest brother is alive.”

  Gustaf closed his eyes and held her tight. Tait noticed that he looked like a man whose heart ached for the loss of his brothers and assumed Havelock had been the one to divulge the tragic story of their deaths before arriving.

  Tait watched Gustaf keenly now. It was pitiful to watch the eldest son of Rælik contend with all his emotions at once. His head hung wearily as Lillemor stepped back from his arms.

  Gustaf glanced up at everyone, taking in all the numerous faces focused on him. “I cannot express my joy in finally being reunited with my family. I have long since yearned for this day.” His voice faltered as he tried to continue. “What would make it most ideal is if I could see my mother.” He turned to Tait now. “I am certain she has aged incredibly and ‘tis the reason she does not greet me on this shore. Please take me to her.”

  A haunting silence descended upon the diverse congregation. Tentative eyes shifted toward Tait as they waited for him to explain the tragedy of Gustaf’s mother.

  Tait prepared his words in his head. “Your mother…” His might for a revealing Nanna’s death foundered with each breath he took. His face grew hot as he felt Gustaf’s heavily staid gaze, the sensation of perspiration prickling all over his skin. Being the bearer
of this dreadful news unnerved him to the point of pain. His heart was not up for this. He had seen so many suffer. He had comforted so many broken hearts, and damnation he was going to have to do it again.

  He looked to Nevan for encouragement. He was always good for that. But even Nevan was also at a loss.

  Gustaf averted his eyes toward the sky, his hands on his hips. In an instant, his face plummeted and his mouth trembled. It was obvious he comprehended Tait’s disinclination and began to break down. “When?” was all the man could ask.

  Tait took in an extensive breath. “Not long after Dægan died. Her heart was not strong enough to take the pain. She held on for a few years but…”

  Was it really necessary to go into the details? Tait hoped he’d not ask. “Her passing was peaceful. In her sleep it seemed.” He swallowed, his mouth extremely dry. “Gunnar had found her one morning—”

  “Who?”

  Tait saw the sudden change in Gustaf’s face. His furrowed brow hovered densely above narrow and accusatory dark eyes. His once grief-stricken body tensed in an impulsive, angered poise. It was a peculiar sight indeed, and Tait could only assume Gustaf was having difficulties digesting the heartrending news. Any man would.

  In addition, he realized Gustaf probably didn’t have any idea who Gunnar was in the first place, given he was gone from his family for more than twenty years. He neared Gustaf, gripping his shoulder. He could see the man was on the brink of madness. “’Tis all right. Gunnar is a friend.” He nodded toward Havelock. “He is Havelock’s son. He used to be a mercenary but decided to give up that life and—”

  “I know who he is,” Gustaf growled.

  Tait removed his hand, noticing the storms raging in Gustaf’s eyes. “I know you expected not to come here and learn of your mother’s death. ‘Tis not something any loyal son is ready to hear.”

  Gustaf lunged forward and gripped Tait’s kirtle with both hands. “Where is he? Where is Gunnar?”