Moved by her words, he pulled her closer, his heart stirring in his chest. She felt so good there. So perfect. So right. And holding her in this very spot, the place where they had had their first deep, meaningful conversation about love and Dægan and his memory, was very special to him. That Mara was willing to welcome him into her world and share her most precious memories without thinking he was invading.
Like everything else, they would journey through life together, Dægan’s memory not far behind. In truth, Breandán welcomed the valiant Northman who lingered in Mara’s heart, for their love made Mara who she was. And that’s what Breandán fell in love with from the very beginning.
As he pressed a kiss on the top of her head, he looked beyond the crashing waters below and into the tranquil horizon. He felt a presence there though his eyes could not see. And it brought a smile to his face.
With the gentle breeze wafting passed, he breathed it in, a warm reassurance blowing through him. He may not have seen or heard anything, but—wrapped around him and Mara—he felt Dægan there. Protecting them.
After a few moments, the sound of footsteps broke the peaceful silence. He and Mara both looked up from their tender embrace to find Nevan approaching, a leather satchel in his hands.
“I hope I am not interrupting,” Nevan said considerately.
“Not in the least,” Breandán said, eyeing the unknown item in the king’s possession. Before he could inquire, he saw Mara take notice of it as well, her eyes entranced by the sight of it.
“Is that…?” Mara uttered, her hands reaching to touch it.
Nevan offered it to her. “I thought you would remember.”
She took it in her hands reverently, staring. Hugging it against her chest, she asked, “How did you get it back?”
“I never traded it,” Nevan admitted, watching her revel in its return. “I knew what this book meant to you. To Dægan. And I had not the heart to give it away.”
“But we needed it,” Mara stated. “Our homes were completely destroyed by the fire and we had naught with which to trade in order to gain the supplies necessary for rebuilding. How did—”
“Through my own past travels, I had accumulated enough goods of value for such an event. Besides, my daughter needed a home. And though you knew it not at the time, I would have given my sword arm to see you happy.”
“I cannot believe you saved it.”
As Breandán listened, he watched Mara open the leather bag with extreme care and slip out an old book, still not fully comprehending the magnificence of the age-old volume. “What is it?”
Realization hit her. “Forgive me, Breandán. This book,” she said holding it out for him, “is St. Ciarán’s book of the Gospels.”
Breandán was still confused. “And why do you have his book? Was he not a holy man from many centuries ago?”
“Aye he was, yet this book has survived the passage of time, submergence of water, and fire.”
Breandán narrowed his eyes, finding it hard to believe her. He glanced at the book, its condition relatively unmarred. “Fire and water?”
“On many occasions actually.”
He looked at Nevin quizzically and then back at the book. “May I?” he asked, wanting to inspect it for himself.
“Of course. Please do.”
As he took the book from her hands, he noticed an unusual smirk on her face. “What?”
“Not a thing.”
Careful not to tear the thin vellum pages, he split the book in half, his eyes resting on the beautifully calligraphy and colored images of its content. Though he was not able to read a word of it, he was enthralled by the meticulous work, which went into making such a book. Not only that, but he smelled something.
Automatically, he drew in a breath and cast his eyes toward the sky.
Not a cloud in sight.
Again he drew in a breath.
Nevan and Mara both laughed. “What do you smell?”
“Rain,” he said, baffled. “But I cannot understand why?”
Nevan put his arm around them both. “I shall leave you two alone.” And he walked away toward his fort, a leisurely skip in his step.
“In all seriousness, Mara, why do I smell rain?”
She gestured toward the ground for them to sit. “Everyone smells rain when they open the book. Dægan once did. I did. And now you.”
Breandán flipped through the pages, his interest climbing with each turn. “So tell me more about this book. And how Dægan came to own it.”
“I would love to,” she said, gazing into his eyes. “But first…”
Breandán was not prepared for the kiss she pressed to his lips. Her inviting mouth was soft upon his and her barely-there tongue caressed him all the way to his soul. He felt shivers run down his back and a heat burned in his veins.
He opened his eyes when she pulled away, though she still lingered close enough for their noses to touch. “What was that for?”
She took a deep breath in, drawing in the overwhelming smell of rain. “Because I belong here,” she said, touching her palms to the ground on either side of her. “And here is where you are.”
Breandán reached up and stroked her cheek. “There is no other place I would rather be.”
THE END
The Fall of Rain
Book Three of the Emerald Isle Trilogy
Prologue
Ireland, Present Day
Leif Dæganssen was soaked to the skin. The cool June rain beat on his back and thunder rolled across the heavens as he staked his shovel into the saturated ground outside his quaint Inis Mór cottage. Normally, he would never think of digging in the ground on such a terrible night. But every bone in his body urged him onward. Though he had no idea what he was looking for, his gut told him that something grand and unique might very well be hidden beneath his porch.
Leif was not a superstitious man. In fact, his livelihood as an archeologist never allowed him to consider supernatural practices. After years of schooling and countless, tedious digs, he believed only in things explainable through science, carbon dating, and the naked eye.
This was different.
He dug on a hunch, an innate feeling coursing through his veins. By rights, the rain should have slowed his progress, or, at least, made him think twice on the idiocy of this escapade. But the aching muscles in his back and arms from the extreme measures of cautionary excavation seemed to be fueled by the dousing of the Erin rain. The more it drenched his clothes, the more he scooped dark, sopping mud away from his lattice-enclosed porch.
Shovelful after careful shovelful, he dug away the soil, ignoring the long heavy sighs of his younger brother, Kristoff.
“How long are we going to be out here in this storm digging for worms, Leif?”
Leif paid him no attention. He concentrated on the depth of his ditch around the front of his house and the silent calculations he made in his head. The perimeter hole he had already dug was about a foot deep and he knew the topsoil would eventually give way to rock-solid limestone beneath. A few more inches—at max maybe a foot—and he’d find something.
He could feel it.
As sure as the rain dripped from every strand of hair in his face, he could feel his adrenaline rising at the thought of his shovel hitting something solid.
“Leif!” Kristoff yelled, jerking him by the arm. A flash of lightning ripped across the midnight sky. Both flinched at the heart-stopping crack and peered above.
Kristoff turned his attention back to Leif. “This is insane! We’re going to get killed out here!”
“Then go inside,” Leif snapped back. “I’m not quitting.”
“And I’m not letting you get struck by lightning over some stupid gut feeling!”
Leif squared his shoulders and leaned in close, the rain spitting like needles in his face. “I’m. Not. Stopping.” He staked his shovel deep in the ground. A low thud reverberated around them.
“Did you hear that?”
Kristoff look
ed at Leif skeptically. “I did…”
Leif’s face lit up brighter than the violent streak of lightning that passed overhead. “I told you I’d find something!” He dropped to his knees, throwing his gloves aside as he dug beneath the last bit of mud. Using as much caution as he could muster, he tore away handfuls of soil, feeling for the object his shovel had struck. Within seconds, his fingertips scraped against something solid.
“I feel it,” Leif uttered breathlessly. “It’s right here.” Like a dog pawing for its buried bone, he kept pulling away at the dirt until the top could be seen.
“Holy Halfdan Haroldsson,” Kristoff mumbled as he saw a distinct pagan carving come into view. As the rain washed it clean, a whole slew of carvings took form before his very eyes.
Leif glanced at Kristoff. “Now, do you believe me?”
“Hell yeah, I do! Come on, dig it out!”
Leif didn’t need his brother’s encouragement. For years, he had been trying to convince Kristoff that this Irish island was the home of their Norwegian ancestors. More importantly, that the house he had bought two years ago was likely sitting atop their settlement. He had no proof. Only a vibe he felt from the moment he stepped on the treeless island.
Until now.
Even in the dark of night, through the shroud of Ireland’s unmerciful rainfall, there was no mistaking the Scandinavian carvings on the wooden artifact. They were telltale coils of a history forgotten—instantly recognizable designs spiraling and twisting into a complex weave of creatures, demigods, and beasts.
To a pair of young archeologists, it was like striking gold.
“What is it?” Kristoff asked as he found its edge and began digging.
“I don’t know. Perhaps a shield…or a weather vane from a longship.”
“No,” Kristoff said, peeling hunks of mud away from the side. “It’s thicker than that. It’s…holy shit…it’s a…”
“It’s what?”
“I don’t know! It’s a…”
Words escaped them as their excitement vaulted in unearthing the sizeable object from its grave. Neither man was confident enough to say what they thought it could be, but one thing rang true. It was a large find—literally.
In the archeological world, antiquities, such as a small coin or even a glass bead, were significant discoveries. Most times, if one were found, it was purely by accident. Then, once the find was made pubic, archeologists from all walks of life would try to establish the site as historical and gather funding for a further, more intensive dig. Finding anything beyond the small artifact, takes months or even years of dedication and careful excavation with skillful hands.
Leif had found something substantial within a matter of minutes, and it was certainly nothing short of impressive. As he and Kristoff lifted the heavy, wooden relic from the muck and mire, they lost all sense of speaking. They stared at the highly decorated object. Their eyes traced every complex loop and spiral of the elaborate, dated designs.
This was no accident. This coffer had called to Leif—had beckoned him to buy this property. Though it proved nothing about his ancestors specifically settling here on this very spot, it did confirm that someone of Scandinavian descent had visited the isle. He was determined to find who and hopefully link them with his Norwegian descendents.
Gazing at the stunning carved box through the pelting rain, Kristoff broke the silence. “We’re going to be famous.”
Leif shot Kristoff a grave look. “No. We’re not telling a soul about this.”
“Are you out of your mind? Do you not know what this is?”
Leif disregarded his brother and took hold of the box, trying to stand in the slippery mud. All he wanted to do was take it inside and get it out of sight, but the blasted quagmire beneath him wouldn’t cooperate. He lost his footing and fell on his backside.
Leif let out a curse, and tried again.
“Here,” Kristoff said, thrusting out his hand. “Let me help you.”
Gasping a firm hold, Leif stepped out of the shallow ditch and made haste up the two meager steps of his front porch. As he suspected, Kristoff navigated past him and opened the door wide so he could pass through with ease.
Through the dark, he walked straight into the open space of the living room and into the adjoining kitchen, setting the object on the table. He could feel his heart hammering at the excitement of finally seeing his find under the blessing of light.
Stepping back, he reached for the light switch on the wall, pinching it between his fingers, unable to tear his eyes from the dark object displayed on the table. He heard Kristoff’s heavy footsteps approaching, but he didn’t have the strength to flip the switch.
“Turn it on already!” Kristoff demanded.
“Not yet.”
“What do you mean, not yet? Turn on the light.”
Leif studied his brother in the dark. “If I turn this light on, you must promise that what we see stays between us. No one is to know what we’ve found. And I mean no one.”
“Why?” Kristoff scorned. “We found something highly prized and we could—”
“We’re not going to tell a soul,” Leif instructed direly. “Think about it. If we reveal what we’ve found here tonight, this place will be swarming with media, treasure seekers, and museum enthusiasts. My home will no longer be mine and my life’s work will be ruined. I have spent countless hours tracing our ancestors to this very isle and this…this,” he said gesturing toward the table, “could very well be the missing link to finding my distant family. Please, Kristoff. Don’t spoil this for me. Don’t take away my one chance of uncovering my past. Our past.”
In the shadows of his kitchen, Leif heard his brother heave a heavy sigh. The moments ticked away with each bead of water dripping on the cheap linoleum floor.
“Fine. I give my word. Now turn on the bloody light.”
As he beckoned, Leif flipped the switch, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. It was not just a carved artifact, beautifully sitting on his table above a puddle of muddy water, but a chest—a chest that quite possibly held more riches than one man could fathom in a lifetime.
Chapter One
Kentucky, USA
A billow of dust trailed behind Lorraine O’Connor’s midnight blue 1975 Corvette as she sped down the winding gravel lane and halted in front of Patrick’s garage. At the sound of her slamming door, he stood up from his stooped position, letting his horse’s hoof slide from his dusty chaps and onto the ground. He leaned against the animal’s hind quarter and patted its rump.
“Oh boy,” he muttered, followed by a contemplative sigh. “Looks like you’re only getting the front shoes on today, Mr. Pride.”
Patrick watched his childhood friend march up the steps to the back entrance of his Cape Cod home and disappear behind the sliding glass door. Though Lorraine never glanced toward the barn, he knew by the resolve of her feet hitting the pavement and the hard draw of the door, short of shattering his glass, that something terrible had gone wrong.
A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t help it. If something had gone awry with Lorraine and Jack on their Sunday afternoon picnic, then that would mean she was free from Jack ‘the dick-smack’s’ control. At least until they got back together again.
Oh, how he hated that asshole.
Jack was Lorraine’s fiancé, but he certainly didn’t earn that title as far as Patrick was concerned. On more occasions than he could count, Jack had treated Lorraine like dirt, bringing her to tears. Then, he’d turn it around and make her feel as if she were the one to blame. She’d apologize like she always did, and do something grand to make up for it. Being an only child and spoiled by wealthy parents, Jack would take advantage of her generosity, never thinking twice about the amount of money she’d spend on him. Lord knows she couldn’t afford it. But that was Lorraine.
Many times, Patrick tried to talk some sense into her, to make her realize that Jack could never give her what she truly deserved.
Lorraine would shrug her shoulders and defend Jack, excuses Patrick never bought.
What really upset Patrick was when Lorraine’s parents both died in a tragic car accident last year and Jack had the gall not to attend their funeral. He claimed funerals were too difficult for him and that the only one he’d attend would be his own.
That was the day Patrick stepped in.
He had to. She was heartbroken and lost. Since she didn’t have enough money to keep the house, which her parents had mortgaged twice, he suggested she move in with him. He hadn’t really expected her to accept the offer of living on a hundred-acre Kentucky horse farm, but to his surprise she agreed and had been living there ever since.
However, much to Patrick’s disappointment, Lorraine never dropped her pathetic fiancé and still had big plans of marrying him. The only thing Patrick liked about the guy was that he couldn’t seem to commit to a date, keeping Lorraine on hold until he was ready. Or, as Patrick assumed, until something better came along.
“Want me to finish up for you?”
Patrick glanced at his hired hand, Andy, who stepped out of the barn stall with a rusty old pitch fork. “You don’t mind?”
“Got nothing else to do,” Andy said, hanging the tool on the wall. “You still want me to tack up the two horses when I’m done?”
Patrick reached around and unbuckled the worn, leather farrier chaps from his waist and legs. Removing them, he gladly handed them over, stretching his aching muscles in his lower back. “Nah, forget it,” he said, his eyes glued toward the house.
“What about the rest of your appointments this evening?”
Patrick removed his cowboy hat by the brim and wiped his sweaty brow with his forearm. “Cancel them. Tell them I’ll get to them later this week.”
“Sure thing.”
As Patrick walked out of the barn, he put his hat back on and pulled his cell from his pocket. He sighed. He hated to make this call, but it was necessary. Everything was necessary when it came to Lorraine, even if he had to disappoint his girlfriend—again.
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 68
