Erinsong (14 page)

Her gaze slid around the room as she fought
off a rising panic. A small blaze danced in the central pit, an
aromatic fire of freshly hewn pine. Smoke rose in undulating
ribbons and disappeared through the hole in the roof. A swath of
silver light from the half moon shafted in the same opening,
illuminating a bed on the far side of the fire. Her bridal bed. She
turned away quickly.

“Ye needn’t have carried me, ye know,” Brenna
said. “I could easily have walked.”

“No, that would never do.” Jorand shook his
head. “Do you not know it’s bad luck for a bride to trip on the
threshold? But if a bride is carried over, she has no chance to
misstep.”

“ Tis a custom I’ve never heard.”

“Hmm, must be one from my people.”

“Mayhap ye know it because ye’ve carried a
wife over your threshold before. Have ye remembered aught?”

He frowned and looked down, as if searching
for a fresh memory. “No, Brenna. There’s nothing more.” A smile
turned up the corners of his mouth. “And for the first time, I’m
grateful. All I want to remember, all I want to think about
tonight... is you.”

He took her hand again,
lacing his fingers with hers. When he lowered his head to kiss her,
Brenna’s chest constricted as she gulped a quick breath. True, he’d
kissed her before, but never as husband, never
with the right to follow the kiss with... She suddenly
noticed the bandage on his hand, stiff with dried
blood.

“Oh, I need to tend this or
‘twill go bad.” She tried
to ignore the
tiny thrill that shot through her when she touched him. Her body
ran cold then hot so
quickly, she was in
danger of losing her balance. All
business, Brenna unknotted the bandage and surveyed the long
slice in his palm, making a tsking
noise
of disapproval with her tongue and teeth. “Did
Father Michael not tell ye a mere drop of blood would
do?”

There was no chair in the hut, so she led
Jorand over to sit on the edge of the bed. Brenna reached beneath
it and found the small bowl filled with a healing paste she knew
Moira had prepared for this purpose. Brenna unwrapped her own hand
and showed him the small triangular wound.

“Ye see?” She dabbed a bit
of paste on the spot and
wrapped it with a
fresh strip of linen. “Once mine
has
healed, ‘twill not even leave a scar.”

He took the ends of the
cloth and tied the knot for
her across the
back of her hand, running a thumb
over her
knuckles. Then he held out his palm for her
ministrations. She fussed and clucked over the length
of the cut while applying the medicine and tying
a bandage.

“I cannot say the same for
ye,” she went on, realizing she was prattling as badly as Moira,
but unable to
stop her nervous tongue.
“Ye’ll bear a mark on that hand from now on, or I’m much
mistook.”

“That’s what I wanted,”
Jorand said, as he settled both hands on each side of her waist. “A
year and a
day. That’s all I can lay claim
to you, princess. But by
this cut, you’ve
claimed me for the rest of my life.
From
this day forward, I’ll carry a scar to remind me
that you were mine and I was yours.”

Brenna bit her lip. He
feared he’d forget her as he
had his
former life. How difficult it must be not to
be able to trust a body’s own memory. Still, it
pleased
her that he wanted a remembrance
of her. As she looked down into his eyes, she realized she’d
need
no token, no scar to remind her of
him. Already, his
fine features were
burned into her soul.

“I’ve never seen this bed
before,” she said, trying
to distract
herself from the pull of those indigo eyes.
“I wonder where Da got it.”

“Does it please you, princess?” The low
rumble of his voice made Brenna’s knees wobble.

“ ‘Tis very fine,” she
said. Suddenly the reason for
the bed, an
image of her body twined with his, writh
ing and straining, popped into her head. Brenna was
grateful he couldn’t see her flush with color in
the dim light.

“I made it myself. There
wasn’t time for much
carving, but that can
be mended later. I couldn’t give
you
beauty, so I settled for stout.” The heat in his gaze left no doubt
he expected to need a sturdy bed before morning.

He cradled the back of her
head in
his palm, gently but insistently,
lowering her mouth to his. When their lips finally met, the contact
made
Brenna startle and try to pull back,
but he held her
fast. A bewildering
maelstrom of emotions swirled in
her,
curiosity at the new delight he’d awakened, and
terror that at any moment could send her out the door,
screaming.

His lips moved over hers,
setting her senses reel
ing. When her mouth
parted slightly, his tongue slid
into her,
tracing the curve of her teeth, seeking out
her soft places. Warmth spread deep in her belly.

Brenna jerked back as if
he’d scorched her with a
hot iron. This
time, he let her go.

“What’s wrong, princess? You’re as skittish
as a yearling colt.”

“Nothing,” she lied. “I... I just need to
take down me hair for bed. If I sleep in these plaits, ‘twill be a
mass of tangles by morning.”

“Let me help you,” he offered.

Before she could protest,
he stood behind her, working the sprigs of flowers from the
intricately
woven strands. He ran his
fingers through her waist-
length tresses,
shaking loose the braids. When he was finished, he gathered a
fistful of her hair and
brought it to his
lips. Jorand inhaled deeply.

“Your hair is a wonder, Brenna.”

She laughed. There was nothing wonderful
about her. Moira was the one who made men’s eyes go slack-lidded
with desire. Brenna hadn’t lived a lifetime in the same keep with
her fiery-haired sister without realizing a few truths about
herself. She turned away from him.

“ ‘Tis not. ‘Tis wild and
curly and the color of a
mouse—”

“It smells fresh as grass
on a summer day,” he said,
undeterred.
“And I love the way it curls around my
fingers. Can you not believe I find it fair?”

He pulled her hair to one
side, then planted his lips
on her neck
below her ear. His mouth, that incredible blessed mouth, sent both
tingles of pleasure and
flashes of alarm
dancing along the surface of her skin.

“I do find you fair, my
princess. All fair.” He untied
the
drawstring at the neck of her tunic and pulled the
opening wider, baring her shoulders. “Your sweet
voice, your wondrous hair, your soft skin...”

His voice grew thick with
desire and Brenna felt
his lips on her
neck again, lower this time, following
the
line of her shoulder.

Her skin screamed for his touch and where his
mouth traveled, the need was not abated, but rather increased.
Without realizing she did so, she leaned back into him and he slid
his hands around her to cup the softness of her breasts.

She’d been nauseated when
Connor dared touch
her so intimately. Now
the tips of her breasts ached,
straining
against the cloth of her tunic. When he thrummed a broad thumb
across them, she whimpered in bewildered need.

“Ah, Brenna,” he said,
burying his face in her mass
of curls.
“You please me so.”

His hands worked at the
tunic, tugging it off her shoulders, pinning her arms to her sides.
His mouth traveled up the back of her neck in featherlight kisses.
Jorand’s broad, blunt fingertips danced over her collarbone,
running from her shoulder to the base of her throat. Then his hand
slid downward to caress the tops of her breasts where they
bulged
above her lowered tunic, pressing
against the fabric.

Having her arms confined
made Brenna feel help
less and short of
breath. She struggled to free her hands and accidentally eased the
tunic lower. Her breasts sprang free and the drawstring opening
dropped to her hips.

Jorand put his hands on her
shoulders and slowly turned her around. He met her eyes. Then his
gaze traveled by finger-lengths downward, past her
throat, over the hollow at its base where Brenna
was
sure he must see her pulse banging
wildly, and then even lower to her bared breasts.

Her nipples hardened as he
stared at them word
lessly. In the
firelight, his expression was unreadable,
but Brenna was aware his breathing had also changed.
He extended a hand, stopping when Brenna shrank
back, then advancing when she straightened her spine, determined to
go forward with the full bargain. After all, she’d
promised.

As he traced a lazy circle
around each berry-colored
areola, a
nameless longing washed over her, warm as
midsummer rain. She found herself leaning forward into his
touch. Then he covered her aching breasts with his palms, pressing
and gently kneading her
soft flesh as his
lips covered hers once more.

Brenna groaned into his
mouth, startled by her re
sponse to the
confusing sensations his hands sent swirling through her. She was
not ignorant. She knew what to expect from a man. But nothing
she
knew of the way of a man with a maid
had prepared
her for his gentleness, for
his intent to give, not take.

When he pulled her closer,
she didn’t resist. The coarse linen of his shirt rubbed against her
sensitive
nipples. One of his hands slid
down her back to trail
slow circles at the
base of her spine.

His tongue filled her mouth
and even as he thrust it in, Brenna was aware of a heaviness, a
dull throbbing deep in her belly. The emptiness of her womb
cried out in silent spasm. It was longing, she
realized.
Longing to be filled.

Brenna pulled back breathlessly. She’d had no
idea such a thing was possible. Men were slaves to lust, of that
she was sure.

N
o
one ever told her a woman could want as well.

Jorand peeled off his
shirt, baring his well-muscled
chest and
arms. In the flickering light of the fire, the
small hairs on his chest and arms gleamed like
fila
ments of gold, like the delicate
strokes of liquid metal
she used to
illuminate pages of Holy Writ with cross-
hatching and fantastic swirls. The body of her husband
seemed no less a work of art.

And no less holy.

“Come to me, Brenna.” When
he spread his arms
open in invitation, she
went to him willingly.

The feel of his skin on
hers was heaven itself and
she pressed her
hard-tipped breasts against him,
resting
her head on the solid expanse of his chest. His
heart throbbed under her ear, and as he wrapped his arms
around her, she heard the great muscle in his chest start to
gallop. She inhaled deeply, taking in his masculine
scent.

He held her tenderly, even
though she felt a hard bulge against her belly. Since the time
she’d caught
him bathing in the stream,
she knew he was gifted in
his male part.
But the reality of the size of his stiff
phallus suddenly struck home as his hand cupped
her buttocks and pressed her against
him.

She shivered.

“Are you cold?”

“No.” She took the opportunity to pull away
from him.

“Good,” he said smiling. “I’m inclined to see
the rest of you, wife.”

Before she could protest,
he tugged the tunic down
over her hips and
dropped it in a pool at her feet.

His breath hissed over his
teeth. “By the gods, Brenna,” he said softly. “You make
me want to never sail again.”

His gaze nearly scorched
her. In reflex, she covered
her sex with
her hands.

“No, princess,” he said, his voice husky.
“Let me look at you. Let me ... touch you.” He replaced her hands
with his own large one, his fingers tangled in her soft, curling
hair, caressing, probing, seeking out her deepest secrets. When he
grazed a sensitive spot, a jolt of pleasure rippled through her
whole body and Brenna gasped.

“Hmm.” He’d made the same
sound when he tasted one of Moira’s tarts, a deep satisfied sigh.
“It’s time to
try out that bed, I’m
thinking.”

Jorand scooped her up once
more and carried
her
to the waiting bed. Brenna sank into the wool-stuffed
mattress, the linens cool on her feverish skin.
She watched, breathing uneasily, as he untied his trews and lowered
them.