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  His words sunk in swiftly, like water through a rotten vessel. His description of her in a common animal hide was more than she could imagine any man ever saying. “I thank you for your kindness, although I am still not sure what you are seeing.”

  “I see as a heathen sees,” he reminded her sarcastically.

  “Hardly. If anything you have proved yourself…”

  “Worthy of you?” he added.

  “‘Tis not what I meant to say,” she insisted.

  “But what you were thinking.”

  Mara hung her head. “What I meant to say is that you have proved yourself to be a man of great mystery.”

  “I suppose that is a compliment.”

  “Aye, ‘tis. Most men I know can be as easily seen through as the streams that flow toward the rivers, and just as predictable.”

  He ate her words of subtle flattery and fed them back to her. “You have proven yourself to be just as mysterious. I never would have thought a woman would get the upper hand in a struggle with me—twice even. Nor would I have guessed that you would return a kiss.”

  Mara’s face reddened. She had tried many times to forget about that kiss since it had happened, and even as he talked, it was difficult to look at his inviting lips and not relive it all over again.

  Her silence, though, didn’t cut the snide tongue from his mouth. “If my memory serves me well…I would say you kissed me deeply.”

  “I was coerced,” she defended.

  “It took not much,” he said, grabbing the cloak from under her neck and pulling her closer.

  She shied from his intrusive eyes, feeling the heat of his stare setting her ablaze.

  Dægan leaned in. “I know you are avoiding me because you feel ‘tis right. ‘Tis moral. ‘Tis safer. But you needn’t fear me.”

  Mara took a deep breath. “I fear you not, Dægan. I simply know not enough about you.”

  His face recoiled slightly as if her choice of words had stunned him. He released her and crossed his arms in front of him. “What would you like to know?”

  Mara swallowed first before giving thought to his question. “Where do you make your home?”

  Dægan’s gaze deepened as his posture softened. At first, he ignored her. But then he made himself comfortable on the ground, crossing his ankles and patting the place beside him.

  Mara had always thought of herself as strong willed, impregnable in the face of temptation, but Dægan seemed to always find a way to push his way through with very little effort, proudly carving his name on her rock-solid principles. Trust had now become a complicated virtue for her, a thin line between faith and fortitude. If she could help it, she was going to keep from being lured across that line. Accordingly, she chose her own place to sit—away from him.

  Dægan’s grin splattered even further across his face, flashing an open mouth of teeth at her unyielding abstinence. “Perhaps you have heard of my home. Inis Mór?”

  Before she was aware, her mouth dropped slightly and her brows lifted.

  “Ah,” he muttered in careful perception. “I can see in your eyes that my Irish home baffles you. I suppose I have given you too much credit in thinking that you would not share the same feeble mind as the rest of your Erin neighbors.”

  Mara straightened at his blunt insult. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you think your land is yours and no one else’s. You think your Ireland cannot and will not be shared with others. But I assure you there are those, even with the noblest of Irish blood, who already share their lands equally with foreigners like me. Indeed, it may only be to keep peace, but nonetheless, they share. And why shouldn’t they? ‘Tis not as if we just landed here yesterday. My Northern forefathers have been here for more than a century, and just as any man wishes to find a more suitable place to call home, I, too, am here, but—without the need to murder and steal, as you are so inclined to believe. So will many more after me. We are sooner your husbands and brothers than we are barbarous passerbys.”

  “Indeed, you have landed here, but ’tis only a matter of time before your kind are rid from our shores. Even the mighty Romans were kept at bay.”

  Dægan laughed at her again. “The mighty Romans were only deterred because they feared the savagery of the Celts, and that savagery is what brought my forefathers here in the first place. But mind you, ‘tis the rich land and the beautiful kings’ daughters that keep the rest of us here.”

  “And does that include you?”

  He raised his brow. “More or less, but ‘tis never been enough to ground me. I am still a seaman at heart and if I could live upon a ship, I would.”

  The flutter in her stomach bit deep to the bone as she imagined sailing on an open sea. “Not I…”

  “What is it you fear for I know ‘tis not water? I have seen you swim.”

  Mara saw the heat in his eyes within that statement and tried hard to hide her embarrassment in knowing he had probably seen more than just the fact that she could tread water.

  “I suppose I am like my mother in that respect. I have never known her to step foot off of solid ground, or want to.”

  He then narrowed his eyes. “Your mother…she has died?”

  Mara’s eyes defined her surprise. “How did you know?”

  “You have never spoken of her before, and usually a girl holds her mother in high regard. In my experience, women tend to follow their mother’s advice in most everything they do. You however, worry only about your father.” He paused. “I am sorry if I have said something wrong.”

  “Nay,” she said, stumbling over her childhood memories. “I was only nine-years-old when my mother became ill and died. It seemed all too sudden at the time, but I came to learn that she suffered for months. My father sheltered me then, as he still does now.”

  Dægan reflected for a moment. “So you spend your days by the Shannon because that is where you feel closest to her, aye? You go there alone because you want to be and not because there is no one else to accompany you. And you sing the songs your mother taught you because you feel comforted by them.”

  Those memories and more danced around in Mara’s head with the harmony of her mother’s laughter floating in sweet song. She was amazed at Dægan’s careful yet poignant perception of things and wondered how a pagan could have such an incredible outlook on life, taking notice of its tiny rewards.

  Dægan spoke again kindly. “Now that I know your mother is no longer with you, the days I spent watching you by the river feel quite intrusive. Again, I am sorry.”

  There was an awful silence between them and Dægan made the first attempt to rid it from their company. “Mara, I believe I have trampled on something I should not have and I would be more than willing to speak of other things.”

  “Do you still have your mother?” Mara asked, returning to the subject.

  Dægan took a deep breath. “I do. I think you will really like her. I know she looks forward to meeting you.”

  “Your mother knows about me?”

  “My mother encouraged me to find a bride so she could have her grandchildren soon. She fears her age, but I swear she still has an iron fist and a stare that would even send Thor running with his hammer between his legs.”

  Mara actually laughed aloud with him, despite the reference to his pagan god. His laughter was calming, and it was quite fascinating to learn so much about a man who was deemed heartless and murderous.

  Mara decided to walk on the eggshells of religion. “Your god, Thor…he controls the storms in your world?”

  Dægan sported a grin. “Aye, among other things. For the traveler, he is believed to protect, and for the warrior in battle, he instills bravery without fear.”

  “You believe in many gods, do you not? Is it not absurd to think there is a god for each detail of your life?”

  “Is it not absurd to think that one god can do it all?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then your god is a very busy god.”

&nbs
p; “Do not mock Him!”

  “Ah, you misunderstand,” Dægan said, raising his hands to cut short the incrimination. “I am sure ‘tis a belief passed to you by your mother, as was mine, and I am well reminded to never forget what she has taught me, including when to politely change the subject.”

  Mara smiled. “Being a man, I would think you to learn most from your father.”

  “Being a son, I have learned that mothers are often times smarter than their hardnosed partners and more aware of things around them. More reflective, I would say. So when it comes to my mother, I am not ashamed to admit that many of the skills I have learned are from her.”

  “Tell me one.”

  “All right,” he said, lifting his chin in thought. “How about making you smile?”

  “I would hardly regard that as a skill.”

  “If I haven’t the skill to make you smile, then that means you are truly enjoying yourself. Either way, I think the odds are in my favor.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Are you still cold?”

  “Nay,” Mara dismissed quickly.

  He shook his head at her fraudulent claim and quickly leaned across the cavern floor to reach his hand under the cloak, pulling out her leg. He scoffed at the telltale goose bumps. “You lie.”

  She jerked her leg back. “So what if I do?”

  “Considering I aim to take you as a wife, I would think you to speak only truths to me,” he lightly reprimanded. “A husband takes not kindly to a wife’s fibs, no matter how innocent they may be.”

  “Well, then you have more than proved my point that men, such as yourself, always want things they cannot have.”

  “If you are going to group me with the likes of other Northmen, then you should remember that we are quite able to take things we want. Hence, your Baile Átha Cliath.”

  She stiffened, knowing he cared little for the port and more for the things he could acquire, like her affections.

  He reached out, sliding his hand past her neck and into the mass of dark hair that hung above her shoulders, grasping it to bring her closer, his breath upon her lips. “You are correct in saying that desires often come from things we cannot easily gain—mine, being that of your love. By all accounts, I do wish I could steal it. But I am not that sort of man. I will wait. Forever and a day…I will wait.”

  Chapter Five

  The rain was relentless. Its never-ending downpour played out a monotonous rhythm on the ground, putting Mara in a trance that kept leading her to daydream about Dægan and his arms wrapped tightly around her, kissing her, and whispering his love for her. It was a fantasy at best, but one that was somehow finding its way into her every thought. But how could it possibly be love? She barely knew him and he barely knew her. Yet as little as she knew of him, she trusted him as though he were a friend of many years, and was going with him to a place far from her own familiarity, simply because he deemed it so, to avoid danger.

  Of course, he never used his brute strength, his dagger, or any other weapon to convince her. If he used anything at all, it was his sensuous kiss and his heated touch. How could she offer that as a plausible excuse should her father find her and demand an answer? It was ridiculous! Utterly embarrassing to think she was manipulated by a man’s kiss—and then again, quite amazing.

  Dægan, on the other hand, was being more constructive with his time, checking his horse’s hooves one by one, and sweeping through its coat with a carved bone comb. She watched him tend the equine with gentleness and patience, regarding his hands as meticulous. They traced over every inch of the horse’s back and legs, care that by anyone else’s viewing would have seemed overzealous. But to her, it was charming.

  Suddenly, Dægan spoke, shattering the stupor she was in. His voice was low as he conveyed some secret words with the animal.

  “You speak ‘horse’?” Mara asked in jest. “Is that also one of the skills you were referring to earlier?”

  “If ‘twould change your thoughts of me, then aye,” he said, stroking the horse’s back one last time before sitting next to her. “But I have others that are far more impressive.”

  Mara pointed to the long scar across the inside of his upper arm. “Such as surviving the man who did this to you?”

  He looked for himself as if he totally forgot about the lengthy scar. “Ah, this one…I did battle with a man who drew his sword like his insults…very carelessly. He aimed for my heart. And missed.”

  “And you did not?”

  “I missed on purpose, only to maim him instead. He now bares the mark of my sword across his face. A scar just about as big as this one.”

  “You killed him not?” she asked, amazed at his restraint.

  “Nay. He had insulted my brother, Gustaf, not me. Killing him would have been an easy punishment for his offenses. Now whoever looks upon him will see that he was given a warning and he does not need another, should he speak ill once more.”

  Mara admired his interpretation of the dispute. “What did he say about your brother?”

  “’Twas a long time ago,” he dismissed.

  “Please tell me. I want to know more about you…and your family.”

  “Why? Why know me at all?” Dægan taunted, finding her inquisition to be groundless, considering she seemed more content to lump him with thugs and savages.

  “We have naught else to do,” Mara proclaimed, glancing at the rain behind him.

  Of course, she’d say that. Heaven forbid she’d admit to caring about him. But looking into her green eyes, he saw a safe place within them, a peaceful sanctuary with rippling waves of tenderness, and before he knew it, he was spilling his mind like a skald.

  “He called Gustaf a fool for trying to avenge my father’s death, which in turn led to his own.”

  “Your father was killed? By whom?”

  “Harold the Fairhair, or the Blond Bastard, as I like to call him. He was a greedy man, a man who wanted all of Norway for himself and gave everyone the choice to either give up their titles and serve him, or leave the country. My father, Rælik, chose neither. He had been a respected chieftain of Hladir for many years and he was known for his great words in council. He had most of the support of the neighboring clans, so he feared not Harold’s threats as the others in the south had. I was barely a man of sixteen, but I can still remember the way the people trusted and supported my father.”

  He paused, taking a few breaths to prepare himself for the next part of the story that was always difficult to think about, much less speak of.

  “One day, Harold sent ten men to kill him. Unfortunately, my brothers and I were away on a merchant journey when it happened. When we returned home, we were told of the news and Gustaf became enraged. He left the next morn to find the men who had done this to our father…never to be seen again.”

  Dægan cleared his throat, committed to keeping that blasted lump from even remotely hardening. “Nevertheless, I suppose the man who threw the insult was correct. My brother was a fool to think he could take on ten men single handedly.”

  “Nay,” Mara said softly, touching his hand. “Gustaf simply loved his father. The insult would have been, if he had done nothing at all.”

  Dægan felt the harsh sternness leave his body as her hand lingered upon his. For the first time, she was standing with him on common ground. Not only was she willing to put herself beside him in sympathizing with his brother’s hasty vengeance, but she was actually reaffirming it with a touch. And her coalescence did not end there. She smiled back at him with a kindness so warm and true that he actually thought he felt it like rays of sunlight on his face.

  “I am sorry I will never get to meet your brother or your father. But I am certain that when I look at you, I am seeing them in some way or another. Maybe you have your father’s eyes or your brother’s courage. Either way, they are still a part of you. You should keep them where everyone can see them.”

  To Dægan’s disappointment, Mara suddenly seemed aware that her hand was st
ill upon his and she pulled it away, trying to hide whatever uneasiness she was feeling thereafter.

  “I suppose your love of traveling came from your father?” she modified quickly.

  “Aye.”

  “Where have you gone?”

  He raised his brow. “Where have I not gone?”

  “Have you a favorite place?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, come now,” Mara persuaded. “Surely there is one your mind cannot forget.”

  Dægan thought for a moment. “I suppose there is one,” he said readjusting himself casually closer. “There was a place, very recently.”

  “What was it like?”

  Dægan took in a long breath and sunk deep into the thought of revisiting the tender haven within Mara’s arms. “’Twas very warm and the sun seemed to always shine even through the threat of rain.”

  “Really,” Mara said trying to imagine such a place. “Was there a meadow?”

  He envisioned her eyes. “Naught but green, as far as my eyes could see. And yet, as I stood amid its vastness, I felt the intimate welcome of a delicate embrace as if nature had a lover, and I, its only desire. I, too, reached out to hold it. I felt the whisper of the wind from a bird’s wings on my lips and the thunderous rejoice of the gods in my ears.”

  “It sounds absolutely beautiful! How did you find it?”

  Dægan grinned insatiably. “I would like to say I happened upon it by accident, but I would be lying.”

  “So you have been there before?”

  He almost laughed at how easily she was drawn into his metaphorical conversation. “I have been to similar places, but none have caught my eye or my senses so profoundly.”

  She nodded. “Were you ever afraid?”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid,” she repeated, trying to find the right words, “of going beyond the horizon and…”

  “Falling off?” he finished for her.

  “I suppose that is what I mean.”

  Dægan tried to rub the tautness of a growing smile from his cheeks. “There are not any edges to fall from, at least not on this Earth.”