The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 8

  Domaldr uttered something to his men and motioned for Soren to bring Breandán forward. When Breandán was shoved into Domaldr’s tent, he could see the extent of the leader’s madness by the toppled table and mess of food scraps scattered on the ground.

  “Leave us, Soren,” Domaldr said, without taking his eyes from Breandán. “Sit.”

  “I have been sitting for hours against the trunk of a tree. I would rather stand.”

  Domaldr grinned. “‘Twas not a request.”

  “You will have me killed for not sitting?” Breandán dared.

  “I will have your tongue cut out for snidely wagging it!”

  “Then without my tongue, you will know not how to find the girl or your brother.”

  Domaldr breathed like a bear on the kill. “Of what do you claim to know? Speak fast before I have you killed for no other reason than my own pleasure!”

  Breandán weighed his options. He could probably escape Domaldr and his men now that he had been cut from the confines of the tree, and track Mara down within a few days. But in contemplating Domaldr’s twin and the skill the man had in thwarting seven men single-handedly, he thought it best to use Domaldr’s army to his advantage. Perhaps while the two brothers were distracted with fighting each other, he and Mara could steal away together without anyone’s notice.

  Cunningly, he fabricated his story. “I am a hunter and a trapper. I know the lay of the land better than anyone. I know of the cavern of which your men speak and I can hunt down any man or beast, rain or not. And since there are two in company, the task of trailing them would be but effortless.”

  “You are awfully certain of yourself,” Domaldr articulated. “How do I know you are not about to send me on a wild goose chase?”

  “I will wager my own life on it.”

  Domaldr nodded, feeling the hint of a wily plan taking shape. “And why would you do all this for me?”

  Breandán raised his cinched wrists. “My freedom, of course.”

  Domaldr cocked his head. “I will have you know I enjoy not being played.”

  “Is that a ‘yes’?”

  Domaldr bit his tongue, removing a dagger from his hip. He held it firstly at Breandán’s throat, leaning in tight for emphasis. “If I so much as think I am being toyed with, I will sooner cut my losses than be made a fool. You understand me?”

  “Clearly.”

  Domaldr eased the knife between Breandán’s wrists and sliced him free. “We leave right now.”

  Rubbing his wrists, Breandán couldn’t help but needle Domaldr again. “You are giving up the grand fight on Baile Átha Cliath to settle a petty score with your brother?”

  “Given the confidence you have in your abilities, I should be rubbing my brother’s face in his losses well before the start of that war. See that I do, Breandán! See that I do!”

  Chapter Eight

  The intensity of the high noon sun pushing through the dense cloud cover marked the end of the rainfall, at least for the moment. But considering it was late July, another storm was sure to blow across the Emerald Isle. And for that, Dægan resumed as fast a pace to Luimneach as his horse could endure.

  When he finally saw the break of the port settlement on the shoreline of the estuary, he slowed to a more comfortable gait, feeling the first wave of security since he and Mara had left Connacht. There was not much said between them in their final journey, nor did this destination stir up any conversations either. He was sure Mara’s mind was filled with the events of the previous night, the horrific picture of him slaying men, a beastly battle of sword and flesh, and honestly, a sight no woman need see. Despite having done away with the bodies before her awakening that morning, he knew well that the memories of those killed were still at the forefront of her thoughts.

  As they crossed the threshold of the high-mounded earth ring that protected the settlement, Dægan could feel Mara’s apprehension in her arms, which were wrapped tightly around his waist. Even as they were welcomed by many of his kinsmen who ran to greet them, Mara’s fears were still evident in the smile she tried to feign for them.

  Dægan descended from his horse first and helped Mara to do the same before announcing proudly, “This is Lady Mara.”

  Immediately, the two eldest of the group, Vegard and Ottarr, bowed their heads in humble greeting, ignoring the fact that the much anticipated affianced girl was unexpectedly dirt-ridden, cut, bruised, and dressed in a soiled gown.

  But the younger man, bringing up the rear, was not so politely reserved. “By the gods, Dægan, the two of you look like the bottom of a sow’s trough!”

  Dægan looked at Mara. “And this would be my brother, Eirik. I told you he was charming.”

  Mara noticed that Eirik was just as rugged as Dægan, but a bit shorter in stature, making up for it with rude aggression. His hair was darker and mildly tousled from the day’s labors, but no less handsome than his older brother.

  “Eirik, please. ‘Tis obvious they have been through an ordeal,” a woman said as she pushed him aside. She was of tall stance, nearly matching the height of the men, with golden hair and crystalline eyes. Her clothes hung loosely around her waist, but she possessed enough womanly curves that even the cloak, layered overtop, could not hide her shapely figure—a body Mara imagined most men fancying. “Look at you, Dægan! Your leg is gaping and your nose is broken!”

  Mara stiffened at the notion as she was the one who broke it. To her relief he passed over it quickly, embracing the woman warmly and saying, “All minor scrapes, Lillemor, dear.”

  “So what happened to you?” Eirik asked, taking rein of the horse. “Did you try your charm on the lady a little too soon? I see she has gotten the best of you.”

  Lillemor broke in again, her eyes planted firmly in Mara’s direction. “You will have to excuse my husband. He has been stuck in the hull of the ship for too long, tarring with lingering fumes.”

  “Which brings me to question,” Dægan quickly added, ushering Mara and the group toward the longhouses, “how is the knarr coming? Finished, I hope?”

  “Ah, the knarr…” Eirik said. “It seems we have run into some complications.”

  “And what would those complications be?”

  “Lack of men.”

  Dægan raised his hands, insinuating his confusion. “I left a whole fleet of men for you, Eirik.”

  Vegard approached at this time. “Aye, but I sent them to Port Láirge to trade the pelts we have acquired. With summer coming to an end, the furs are in high demand and no one in these ports has as many as we. Delaying the trip would have only resulted in losing the highest-offered shilling.”

  Dægan stopped in his tracks, his irritation quite evident. “How many did you send?”

  “Nearly fifty. We had four knarrs heavily loaded and to send any less would have made for a tiresome journey for those at the oars.” Vegard narrowed his eyes. “I thought you would be pleased at the number, m’lord. Not often do we fill more than three vessels at a time.”

  Dægan sighed. “I am pleased, Vegard, but the timing is what piques me. I need those men. Desperately…”

  “For what?” Ottarr finally spoke, seeing Dægan’s obvious distress as he dragged his hands through his hair.

  “Lillemor,” Dægan said, faking a remote sense of delight. “Would you be so kind as to show Mara to my longhouse and fetch her some clean clothes, please?”

  “Of course, Dægan.”

  “Thank you. I will meet you there in a moment, Mara.”

  Mara nodded toward everyone respectfully and followed Lillemor into the spread of longhouses, symmetrically arranged within the semicircular stronghold. It was evident to Mara that the fortification was entirely the work of the Northmen, with houses being the longest she’d ever seen and grass strangely growing atop the roofs. There was a central wooden pathway dividing the settlement into two equal halves, which also connected both the north and south gates. This, she figured well enough, was not only for convenience, but for aid
ing in the defense of the stronghold against an attack. Those two gates were the sole means of entering the protected port, and the only other alternative was through the harbor on the west side. Despite the overprotective enclosure of the settlement, it was not an exclusive community for it contained a mixed populace of busy craftsmen, common farmers, bartering merchants, a few smiths, and slew of others in between. Mara still may have been in Ireland, but this was definitely not the Ireland she was accustomed to, and she hurried to catch up with Lillemor.

  ****

  Dægan waited until Mara was further than ear shot before addressing the three curious men before him. “I need as many men as I can gather because I have to take the girl back to her father.”

  “What?” Eirik asked. “You just got here.”

  “Missed me that much, aye, Brother?”

  “On the contrary,” he remarked, shaking his head.

  “M’lord,” Ottarr disrupted impatiently. “Again, why the need for so many men?”

  “It so happens that my plan of gaining my Irish bride with a flattering amount of silver has been thwarted. There were men who had just disembarked on the shores of the Shannon and from my guess, they were Danes set on the spoils to be gained from Baile Átha Cliath’s impending war. We barely escaped with our lives, but in doing so, I was unable to meet or converse with Mara’s father. We left Connacht without his consent or knowledge.”

  Ottarr straightened his stance and spoke bluntly. “In other words, you took her.”

  “I had no choice,” Dægan spat. “They were not after me and the silver in my keeping. They were after Lady Mara. They would have killed her to silence what news she would bring of their landing. What else could I have done?”

  “I told you going alone was foolish!” Ottarr scolded.

  Eirik jumped in as well with his complaints. “And what am I supposed to do with the seven heifers you were going to offer as a bride price?”

  “Feed them,” Dægan articulated, a bit of sarcasm feathering his words as he snatched the reins from his brother’s hands.

  Ottarr crossed his arms. “Now, where are you going?”

  “At this moment I plan to bathe, eat, and rest my mind until morn when my thoughts can run fresh. Inform the few men that are left in my command to make ready when I need them. And finish that blasted knarr, Brother!”

  ****

  The large rectangular room was cool and dim, absent a fire in the pit centrally located in the longhouse. On each side were long boxbeds filled with fur hides and woolen blankets, raised a few feet from the dirt-packed floor covered with mats. There were carved wooden chests with strange figures and designs at each end of the beds, and a bare table with few chairs for sitting.

  The house and its contents were simple and unimpressive, suggesting that Dægan lived merely on necessity. The only things in the room worth a second look were the chests themselves. Mara shook her head, dispelling the urge to look inside, but what efforts she made to uphold decency were soon carried away by the wings of curiosity. And what would it hurt? She just wanted to see what Dægan thought valuable enough to stow away.

  She knelt closer, placing her hands on top of its lid. The wood was even more beautiful than she expected, with patterns of connecting circles and intertwining serpents. Although the art was truly pagan, she could still appreciate the intricate work that had been put into the wood.

  The lid was heavy, sturdy on its hinges as she opened it. Inside were men’s clothing made from expensive linens and fancy embroidered hems, several cloaks of wool and fur, and jeweled brooches of many sizes entirely detailed and just as complex as the chest itself.

  Interested in the contents of the other chest, she opened it as well, finding chain mail, armor plates, quite a few daggers, silver coins, and one sturdy helmet with a bronze inlay. The collection of items was very valuable and likely to be the assets of many mercantile journeys.

  Between the numerous ships in Dægan’s possession and the worth of his belongings, she soon realized the extent of wealth he had established and promptly stood, feeling a bit guilty with her prying. Upon her sudden act of remorse she found Lillemor in the doorway watching her, the woman’s eyes now a dull gray.

  Mara tried to offer the start of an apology, but the woman walked in dropping an armful of small logs and kindling for the fire, unsympathetic of her efforts.

  “You will not find anything in here for which to wear. This is where Dægan stays between his voyages and as you can see, there is nothing by way of a woman’s influence here. Come with me and I will find you something suitable.”

  Lillemor left the fire pit, leading the way to the next adjacent house. It was similar to the twenty other longhouses made of turf and timber, but larger in size than Dægan’s. The hearth, box beds, and chests were all in the same locations, but boasting a greater capacity. In the distant corner stood a large weaving loom, a table set with wooden bowls, and a pot of roasted meat above the fire. Looking up, Mara noticed dried meat and herbs hanging from the rafters for future dinners.

  Lillemor went straight to her chest and pulled out a simple linen shift, a green woolen cloak and two silver brooches, rattling against a fine linked chain. “‘Tis not what nobles are used to, but ‘tis clean.”

  Mara took the clothes, slowly grasping the strange new world she had stepped into. “Does everyone here know of who I am?”

  “Of course,” Lillemor replied without hesitation. “‘Tis not every day that a man like Dægan finds something worth holding on to. Considering he is a merchant, he is more apt to trade his finds than keep them. But the heart is a different matter, and I have not seen him this restless, nor this content all at the same time. I must say he fell in love with you the first time he saw you.”

  “Fell in love?” Mara repeated.

  Lillemor noticed the unexpected shock on Mara’s face. “Did he not tell you?”

  “Not with words, nay.”

  Lillemor turned her mouth under. “I am surprised. Dægan is usually full of words. A good skald’s curse is also his blessing.”

  ****

  Mara returned to Dægan’s longhouse and found him and his brother sitting on the boxbed. A swath of linen bandages now lay across Dægan’s thigh and a warm fire crackled in the hearth. His lips drew at the sight of her. “Did Lillemor have any clothes to fit you?”

  Mara envisioned herself swimming in the curvaceous woman’s tunic. “She had clothes to offer me, but…”

  “Worry not,” Dægan reassured. “Tomorrow I shall go down to the harbor and pay a visit to Torvald. He always has a good selection of tunics on his ship. I have heard that his wife makes them from the brocade he acquires in Byzantium.”

  “Truly?” she asked in surprise. “I have never worn silk before.”

  “Well, I suppose we must remedy that,” Dægan hummed, his voice rich and deep. “Come, have a seat beside me.”

  Mara meekly entered the main room and sat beside Dægan on the boxbed, still wary of Eirik who sat closely at Dægan’s left. For some reason she found it difficult to feel at ease with the brother’s company, a basis she presumed would fade once she got to know him better.

  “How is your leg, Dægan?”

  “I am better now,” he stated with a strong sincerity gleaming in his eyes.

  “Come on, Brother,” Eirik voiced, rolling his eyes. “Quit suckling the good woman for attention! I lost more blood cutting teeth than you did on that scratch. I regret to say, Lady Mara, that Dægan will milk a goat ‘til her teats are bloody before he is finished.”

  Dægan hit his brother in the back of the head. “Your manners, Eirik.”

  But Eirik gave a jolly chuckle. “I am sorry m’lady. Allow me to put that another way.”

  “Nay, he will not!” Dægan cut in, grabbing his brother by the tunic and pulling him closer to face a furrowed brow. “Say your farewell, Eirik.”

  Eirik strained to exchange glances with Mara from the position Dægan held him in, but he nodde
d his parting to his best ability, signing off with a quick peck on Dægan’s lips.

  Dægan called out in disgust, pushing him forcefully. “Damnation, Eirik, you clod! Leave!” He watched as Eirik almost tripped over himself, laughing and running for the door in amusement. Dægan remained taciturn until the door slammed shut. “I apologize for Eirik’s behavior,” he said wiping his mouth crossly. “He is rather repulsive at times and is completely oblivious to when his welcome has been well worn.”

  “‘Tis all right. I mind not,” Mara said, hiding a smile. “He seems to have quite a way of being the instigator.”

  “He is quite the horse’s arse!” Dægan corrected.

  “Nonetheless, the two of you seem very close.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I reckon ‘tis nice to have a brother,” she said, considering the thought of a sibling.

  “I reckon ‘tis doubly nice to not.”

  “You do not mean that,” she chided. “I imagine deep down you are equally fond of his jests, particularly the kiss he gave you.”

  “’Twas not a kiss,” he pointed out.

  “It certainly looked like one from where I was sitting.”

  Dægan seemed to jump aboard a whole different ship, forgetting the irritation his brother had caused him. “To the untrained eye, I suppose ‘twould appear like a kiss,” he said softly, pressing dominantly closer. “But I would be more than willing to show you what a real one entails.”

  Mara froze, for in this moment he lingered seductively at her lips, just separating his mouth enough to bring about a fluttering of butterfly wings inside her. She tried not to let that show, to not seem nervous or scared, but somehow her emotions billowed inside her and her breath staggered out in erratic gasps as he left no room between them.

  ****

  Seeing Mara’s anxiety plainly written across her face, Dægan brought a reassuring hand to her jaw before his lips scarcely touched hers. After dawdling on tenderness, he finally opened his mouth and enveloped hers, brushing his tongue ever so gently across her savory lips. He made sure it was a long, gradual kiss; a sweet compromise of patience and passion, quite different from the raging course of beastly need that rapaciously clawed its way into being below his waist.