The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  She looked at Breandán, watching how he moved in the saddle, drawn to the slight rhythmic rock of his narrow pelvis. She was lured by his swaying lower half, remembering how good it felt pressed against her when he guided her legs around his back.

  Thinking of their intimate embrace made her very aware of what his touch was capable of doing to her. She didn’t want to admit it, but the thought of him caressing her delivered a blessed heat between her legs. Three feet separated them on this rugged trail, a whole group of spectators surrounded them, and the nagging prospect of danger loomed around every corner. Yet her body didn’t know the difference.

  Mara averted her eyes from Breandán’s splendid male body and looked into the nearby forest, trying to divert her mind and clear her head. Her eyes glazed over the numerous tall trees and followed their great lengths down into the ravine, settling on movement at their distant trunks.

  She leaned over her horse to peer further. When she caught sight of a group of men on the path below, an unexpected arrow struck her helmet, the surprise of it causing her to pull back and nearly fall from her panicked horse.

  Before she knew what hit her, she found herself being yanked from her horse. Breandán’s strong arm had wrapped around her waist and hoisted her to the front of his. She heard him call her name and there was no doubt he was terrified for her. His grasp was solid around her body, with no chance of her slipping from his grip as he kicked his horse to run for cover.

  “Mara, for God sake, speak to me! Are you hit?”

  Finally her voice came as she heard the chaos of men shouting, horses stamping and rearing around her, the infamous name of Donnchadh Mac Flainn on every man’s lips.

  “Nay,” she exhaled, her heart racing.

  She realized her eyes were closed tightly and she opened them in time to see Breandán’s wide-eyed face looking down at her in his arms, while the horse beneath them struggled to gain higher ground amongst the clutter of surfaced tree roots and slippery leaves.

  Breandán drew her tighter against him and began shouting orders, his voice strong and commanding. She clutched her arms around him, frightened.

  After dodging between many tightly grown trees, they skirted around a huge boulder and he slipped his arms beneath her. He nestled her against his chest as he slid to the ground and carried her behind a cluster of scraggly bushes. There was no tenderness in his hands as he grabbed her helmeted head and stared into the eyeholes. “Move not from this spot. You hear me?”

  Mara could only nod. Around her, men armed themselves, took cover behind trees and rocks, retaliated with spears and arrows, and bellowed for Breandán and his orders. She could tell he was torn between leaving her and aiding his men. His eyes glimpsed passed her shoulder toward the battle as he determined the safety of her hiding place.

  She felt his frantic hands at her hips, groping her as he searched amid her ill-fitted clothes. He jerked out a dagger at her belt and slapped it in her hand. “Kill anyone who tries to take you!”

  Before she could answer, he grabbed her free hand and forced it around the reins of his horse. “If they get to you, ride off! I will find you!”

  With her breath stuck deep in her lungs, she watched him bolt to his feet and dash through the forest, nocking an arrow to his bowstring as he ran to join the battle. Tears burned in her eyes to see him leave, her heart fearing the worst.

  ****

  “Let them not gain higher ground!” Breandán shouted as he tore through the disarray of fighting men. He had already sunk several arrows into Donnchadh’s men who made haste up the steep hillside and charged forward to take on more.

  By this time, Marcas and those in front of the line had joined the assault, firing off as many arrows as they could at the men trying to press upward from the gulch. “Breandán! Donnchadh has your family!”

  As another arrow left Breandán’s bow, Marcas’ words caught him by surprise. He jetted for cover behind a massive trunk and peered into the valley below. There in a wooden horse-drawn cart was a horde of arms reaching from between the bars, their pleading voices crying to be set free.

  The first face he recognized was Sorcha’s, her ebony hair framing her pale face. Her clothes were tattered and torn as though she had suffered a great deal before being caged. As his anger escalated, he saw his mother and two sisters crouched in the corner, their arms around each other in sheer terror.

  Breandán’s first thought was of his father. Was he all right or had Donnchadh’s men killed those whose ages would have held them back?

  An onslaught of arrows forced him to duck back behind the tree. Hurriedly, he nocked another arrow to his bow, listened for their approaching heavy footsteps, and emerged from behind the trunk, his arrow sinking dead center into the enemy’s chest.

  The others, however, were too close for him to be able to fit another arrow to his bowstring in time. Their arrows were already marked for him.

  He spun to avoid the first released missile and slid aggressively on his bottom down the sheer rise, taking out the legs of the other man. As they both skated down the wet-leafed ground, Breandán unsheathed his dagger and stabbed the man deep in his chest. Without waiting, he pulled the knife from the victim and drove it into the ground above him, keeping himself from tumbling further down the hillside.

  Before he could get to his feet again, a familiar voice called his name.

  Gráinne!

  He spun around and saw one of Donnachadh men with his dirty paw in his sister’s hair through the cage. Holding her soundly against the wood, he had a sword in his right hand, ready to run her through.

  As he watched Gráinne cry in pain from the guard’s cruel hold, her innocent face being crushed against the bars, rage engulfed him. He couldn’t see the enemy closing in on him, nor hear Marcas’ warning as he fought to get down the hill. All he could focus on was the cowardly bastard who planned to kill his little sister.

  He jolted forward and ran to her aid, stabbing and punching every man who had rushed to surround him. No one could hold him back or slow him down. Within a few long powerful strides, he was close enough to the guard to leap onto him and tackle him to the ground.

  With lightening speed, Breandán mounted the swordsman, clocked him once in the face and then drove his dagger into his chest. He barely had a chance to breathe when he felt the presence of others encircling him.

  Without thinking, he stole the dead guard’s sword and came up hacking at anything that moved, taking out the legs of those nearest him. As he looked up, he saw Marcas and Ottarr, running down the hillside to join him. The other Northmen followed, their swords severing bodies and limbs as they passed. He could only hope the Irishmen, who were more skilled with bows and arrows, would not pursue the same strategy. They would be more beneficial if they eliminated the enemy forces from a point of vantage.

  Breandán hadn’t the time to worry about it for another enemy’s sword rapidly swung across his midline. He ducked to avoid it and buried his own into the man’s gut, coldly leaving him to die upon the ground. Again, another man made his best attempt at cutting him wide open, only to fail. With so many of Donnchadh’s men coming for him, he climbed onto the cart his people were caged in and gifted one of his father’s men, Féilim, with the sword he had pilfered.

  In hearing the uproar, Breandán realized he had not only given his people a fighting desire to save themselves but a means to do it. While Féilim thrusted the broadsword through the vertical rails, the rest had taken to using whatever they had available—their fists, their nails raking over tender eyes, their belts whipping around unprotected necks, choking them until their weapons could be taken and used against them.

  Above all the voices shouting, Breandán heard his mother’s cry, her frail voice calling his name in desperation. And that was enough to spur him more.

  He nocked his arrows with fluency and took out many men advancing toward the cart. At times he had to stop and punt a few men who had tried to climb atop the cage with him, bu
t he made enough headway to keep the foe at bay.

  “Breandán,” Aoife called, distracting him.

  He knelt down on the cage and shoved his hand through to his elbow just to be able to touch her momentarily. “Mother,” he said breathless. “Where is Father?”

  “I know not. There were too many…”

  His mother’s words cut him straight to the heart. He couldn’t make himself believe his father was dead. He wouldn’t. “Father will be here.” He glanced toward the towering ledge above them. “I am certain of it.”

  Sorcha reached up as well and grabbed his arm. “Breandán, I am so scared.”

  He looked into her tearful blue eyes. “I will keep you safe,” he said with confidence, despite the strong sense of defeat hovering over him. He knew he and the Northmen couldn’t keep this up for long, especially when Donnchadh’s men seemed to be multiplying as the battle wore on. Even with Ultan and the rest of Nevan’s men at the top of the ravine sniping men below, Donnchadh’s men outnumbered them nearly two-to-one. With their forces divided, it was only a matter of time.

  What really made him fearful was knowing Mara was still atop the hill—alone and vulnerable—while he was down below protecting his helpless family. From his position in the narrow valley, he was oblivious to what could be transpiring on Mara’s end. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be in two places at one time and the thought nearly drove him mad.

  As he started to stand, a man with a battle ax lunged toward him, his weapon about to descend upon his head. He twisted away, the bloodied blade barely missing him. The ax busted through the thick cross-posts of the prisoner cart, splintering its framework and jarring Breandán awkwardly to the ground. But before the man could pull the hatchet from the fractured wood, Breandán rolled beneath the cart to the other side, stood up and drew his bow. Without hesitation he let it fly. The arrow darted straight through the man’s shoulder, jolting him backward.

  The man took hold of the shaft with one hand and broke off the fletching with the other. Breandán drew his bow again and aimed more precisely for a kill-shot. No sooner than the man dropped, a scream erupted from the chaos.

  “Breandán, watch out!”

  He caught a glimpse of a fast approaching swordsman about to run him through. He spread his stance, braced his feet for the frenzied opponent, and was damn sure he’d not come out of it alive. There was no time to nock an arrow and he had neither a shield to deflect the sword, nor a comparable weapon to counter with.

  At the very last minute, a lone mysterious horseman sprinted down the other side of the ravine and leapt from his horse onto the unaware enemy.

  In astonishment, Breandán watched the helmeted warrior bring the foe to his knees and slit his throat in one swift motion. From the corner of his eye, he also caught sight of a huge army of horsemen running full speed down into the valley toward him. His heart sank, assuming they were Donnchadh’s reinforcements.

  But a roar of excitement erupted from the Northmen around him, their swords held high in exhilaration. There was no need to dread for Breandán finally laid eyes on his savior. The warrior stood up and nodded once in greeting.

  Tait.

  A smile came to Breandán’s lips. Immediately, he wanted to thank Tait, but the Northman unsheathed his sword and began scything his way through the cluster of brawling men, aiding those who needed it most.

  No one could have predicted this turn of events, with both Tait saving his life and the surprise of so many horseman and warriors joining in the fight. In truth, he had no idea who they could be, especially with the massive numbers they boasted, but Breandán was never so glad for their timely assistance.

  “Breandán, get me out of here!” Féilim shouted from within the cage, jerking on the broken pieces of wooden bars.

  Breandán quickly found the battle ax left from the man he had killed and double-fisted, swinging it around with great force at the thick ropes barring the door. The blade severed the tie and the door fell open, allowing Féilim to jump out and unite with the others.

  Instantly, Liam’s clan poured out of the cage like water from an opened dam. Breandán guarded the opening, his bow drawing and releasing in rapid succession at anyone who tried to come near.

  As Sorcha and his mother started to make their way out of the rudimentary barricade, Breandán stopped them. “There is nowhere for you to go. You are safer inside. Stay.”

  “I want not to,” Sorcha said in a panicked state. “We have to get out of here!”

  “Nay,” Breandán replied sternly, his hand grasping her upper arm as she tried to jump from the cart. “I cannot protect you if you scatter about.”

  Sorcha looked at the hand clutching her arm, his touch stunning her.

  Breandán neared his face to hers. “Please, Sorcha. Do as I command.”

  Sorcha’s eyes widened at something behind him and she quickly gasped. He released her and rotated around just in time to see a man about ten yards away with his bow stretched taut. A million thoughts ran through his mind. If he moved to avoid the arrow, it could pass right through the cage and injure, or kill, one of his loved ones. But if he didn’t move, he risked being hit himself. Even if he attempted to let it sink into a nonfatal area of his body, the injury alone would impair his ability to keep fighting and protect anyone from further danger.

  No decision was a good one.

  His world suddenly moved in slow motion. He saw the arrow leave the bowstring, aimed for him, but Sorcha hurdled over the cart door and stepped in front of its path. Her body fell into his arms, her eyes locking on his.

  “Sorcha!” he exclaimed, supporting her limp body. He could feel the long shaft jutting from her back, a warm wetness seeping around his fingers.

  At first, he was shocked by what she had done, thinking she had unknowingly walked into the line of fire. But after seeing her face—the quiet serenity of her sweet satisfied smile—he knew she had unselfishly stood between him and death.

  Rage gripped him now. His eyes coursed a red hot path toward her killer, the murderer making haste to nock his next arrow. But it was too late. A dark blond Northman had ridden passed, taking off his head with a momentous swing of his sword.

  The impressive Northman reined his horse around and faced Breandán, locking eyes with him as if searching for a specific face. Breandán thought he recognized the blond warrior, but when his face didn’t seem to meet the Northman’s criteria, he rode off, continuing his crusade of mowing down Donnchadh’s men.

  “Breandán,” Sorcha breathed.

  Oblivious to the battles waging around him, his eyes quickly fell on her and he lowered her limp body carefully to the ground, cradling her. “’Tis all right, Sorcha. I am here.”

  A forced smile took shape on her dirt-ridden face, her tears leaving pale streaks behind. “You are safe now,” she said proudly.

  Breandán returned her smile, though he really wanted to scold her for doing such a thing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to give her life for him. He was supposed to protect her. And he could’ve if she would’ve listened to him.

  Foolish girl. You selfless, foolish girl!

  “Why…” was all he could muster as he held her.

  “Because I love you.”

  God in heaven, what was he to say in response to that? He had known she’d more than fancied him, but never had he given thought to her actually loving him. Perhaps he should’ve taken the opportunity a fortnight ago and told her he loved only Mara. Maybe if he’d hurt her then, she wouldn’t have been so apt to sacrifice herself.

  “I am cold, Breandán,” she said as her eyes glazed over. “I cannot feel you anymore.”

  He held her closer, giving her the solace she needed. “I am here. I will not leave you.”

  His eyes welled with tears. How cruel he felt to hold the woman he cared for who had given her life to save his.

  Sorcha had been a childhood friend and until this moment, he truly hadn’t known how much she loved hi
m. He felt guilty for never taking her amorous enticements seriously. And all he could think of now was the other woman in his life unmindful of his deep love.

  Mara.

  He had kissed her and held her on many occasions, but all the while, skirting around his true feelings so as not to persuade her into something she was not ready for.

  Guilt, regret, and pain consumed him as he held Sorcha in his arms, and he knew, as her were eyes fixed on his, she thought he truly loved her in return. He let her believe whatever she wanted. He would not be so cold as to taint her last precious moments on earth with the bitter truth.

  “This is all I ever wanted, Breandán. To be in your arms…”

  He stroked her face with the back of his hand, soothing her with his touch. When she didn’t react anymore to his tender care—her eyes staring harrowingly at him—he knew she had passed.

  He reached up and closed her lids for her, embracing his friend one last time as he said his silent farewell in her ear.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Breandán’s head jerked up in surprise as he heard his name called distantly from behind. To his joy, he saw his father, along with a few last men from his village, riding down into the ravine.

  With reverent care, he picked up Sorcha in his arms and placed her body inside the cart with his mother and sisters. He felt his mother’s hand brush across his face in sympathy. It was difficult to look at her and all the rest of the faces in the cage as he laid Sorcha within. He was supposed to protect them. Not the other way around.

  His mother grasped his hand. “Where is the princess you were to look after?”

  Breandán stared at her, shaking, his heart torn between his family and the woman he loved more than anything in the world. He glanced upward, to the ridge above them. “I hid her away…”