Chapter 1
Clan Meic Murchadha, Ireland
The low ceiling of the Meic Murchadha longhouse was stained with the smoke of a hundred years’ worth of fires. Too many of the men gathered around the open flame looked like they could easily have been present at the very first one. Their leering eyes darting toward Astrid as if she were a sweet to be tasted, challenging her desire to appear aloof. She’d much prefer to stick her tongue out at them. And cover herself. And rub her ankle. She’d fallen earlier and the throbbing pain was near unbearable.
Instead, Astrid kept her shoulders back, ignoring their roving eyes. Despite the ache in her foot, she was happy to remain where the handsome Pádraig Meic Murchadha had deposited her after the repast. So gallant of him to have carried her in his arms after her injury! With a wink and smile, he had assured her it was “the best view” of the entertainment, which, naturally, included him. That his attention had just as quickly been drawn to the others in the overcrowded room full of warriors and lovely women was a little disconcerting. Especially so after the way his hand had touched her own in an overlong caress before he’d turned away. There were at least two other clans present for the feast, and they were all packed in very tightly.
Brushing her hair over her shoulder, Astrid glanced at Pádraig’s petite sister, Daimhin, standing in front of her brother and beguiling all present with her lively story of Brian Boru, the lastárd rí, High King. It was not long before her gaze darted to the storyteller’s handsome brother—settled on the cushioned seat and leaning back against the wall, a dark fur hanging from his broad shoulders. She’d been hoping Pádraig would shift his interest from the mead in his wooden mug toher, but instead he was listening intently to his sister. Astrid sighed and smiled. She didn’t mind one bit that Daimhin had chosen to stand and act out the story rather than sit. It made it easier for Astrid to watch the object of her attention. She only wished to catch his eye again.
The sudden burst of laughter made her jump, but she quickly recovered, smiling along with those around her, nodding in enthusiasm. She cared nothing for these boring stories, but she did so like the look of Pádraig. The thick bearded face and bright blue eyes mesmerized her, which was the only reason she remained in the visiting hall. Her mother had long since retired for the evening. The two of them were visitors for only the one night, and Astrid was determined to do anything she could—well, almost anything—to finally win the handsome warrior’s interest.
“Are ye satisfied?” Astrid frowned at the low, quiet voice interrupting her thoughts before she realized it was only Marcán speaking to her.
It took a moment for her to understand his meaning. Glancing down, she realized she’d barely touched the jeweled goblet of wine he’d procured for her. “’Tis fine, Marcán. Many thanks.”
“And many thanks to ye.” Marcán’s tone seemed odd, but when she glanced into his eyes, one blue and one green, she saw no sign of irritation. She shrugged and turned her attention back to Pádraig.
The Meic Murchadhatúathwas close to her own, only a quick ride away, yet it was so different here, almost like another world. The warriors seemed bigger than life, but their stories failed to hold her attention. They all lacked Marcán’s ability to make the words create pictures in her mind, though she’d never admit as much to him. Astrid held back a yawn as she scanned the faces of the men and a few women, whose eyes were wide with excitement as Daimhin started on yet another long-windedárd rístory.
“Ye look tired, Astrid. I can see ye to yer mother.”
She turned her gaze toward her brother’s closest friend, surprised he was still beside her. “If ye wish to leave, I am certain I can find another to escort me.”
His eyes held hers for the smallest moment before he glanced toward Pádraig. “I’ve no doubt the man ye’ve been admiring all night would be glad to see ye to her. I am only wondering the state ye’d be in when ye finally made it there.”
Astrid’s jaw dropped. “What are ye saying?”
“I know ye understand me fine.”
Shooting daggers at the man with her expression apparently had no effect. He held her gaze, the dark shadow of a beard hiding his strong chin. His thick brows were raised in irritation—an expression that put her in mind of her brother—the only indication he knew exactly what she was about. Both he and Diarmuid were constantly thwarting her attempts at finding a suitable husband, as if their only goal in life was to have her remain unmarried, untouched, and at her mother’s side.
Of the two, Marcán was by far the worst. She could rile her brother into anger and get him to back off. Not so with Marcán. He was solid as a rock and just as immoveable. He’d proven that just hours earlier. Pádraig had quite rightly offered her a ride to his home, and her and her mother an invitation to the evening feast, upon learning of her injury. After all, she’d been injured onhisland, trying to retrieve sheephehad stolen from her clan. The Meic Murchadha were forever stealing her brother’s sheep. True, the sheep were the offspring of one oftheirewes, but Diarmuid had only taken the animal from them because they’d first stolen a cow.
Astrid’s mother had her own mount, and for one glorious minute, Astrid had thought she’d be able to ride with Pádraig. Marcán had insisted on taking her onto his own mount, of course, and Diarmuid had used that kingly tone of his, saying, “So be it!” Her brother had not even seen fit to join them, but Marcán could not be dissuaded.
A more miserable ride Astrid could not remember. She should have been happily ensconced in Pádraig’s arms, enthralling him with her wit and beauty, but she was instead pressed against Marcán’s rock-hard chest. His musky scent had lingered on her even after she’d limped away from him to follow Pádraig. Instead of taking the hint and allowing her a graceful retreat, the odious man had scooped her into his arms as if she were a child and asked to see the healer.
The healer’s ranting and raving about God’s wrath had been even more unbearable with Marcán looking on and hearing it all, his arms about his chest, leaning against the closed door. A closed door! If she needed privacy from outside eyes, she wanted to ask whyhehad remained. But such an argument would not have moved him. His expression had been tight and stubborn, much as it was now, and it was obvious he lacked any desire to do her bidding.
“I’ll be here when ye say the word, Astrid,” he said now, his eyebrows still furrowed.
As if she’d eversay the word.
Marcán drifted back to the bench alongside the door, where he’d been sitting all night. This seat kept him quite aware of the many sordid liaisons taking place just outside the visiting hall, under the cover of night. It also ensured he knew exactly where Astrid was.
His head ached and the smoke from the fire was burning his eyes. If not for guarding her, he’d have taken a respite outside long ago. The stars were no doubt twinkling overhead and the warm breeze off the ocean would smell of sea salt. It had been a long day, and he would not have minded sleeping under those stars.
He sighed and looked again toward the blonde beauty. If she sat up any straighter, she’d break her back. But admittedly, those bountiful breasts were one of her best assets. The fact that she was using that knowledge to catch the leering eye of that weakling Pádraig was what was keeping Marcán at full alert.
Between that and her lovely, round arse, the woman was setting off a fire in most of the men in the room. And she was oblivious. If Pádraig ever caught sight of the longing in her eyes when she stared after him, Astrid would be beneath him in no time and in no particular place. The man had no consideration for the women he took. His entire clan shared that trait, even following the old custom of taking several wives. It was as if they all frowned on the notion of restraint as practiced by Christ himself. If Marcán let his guard down, Astrid would no doubt realize her mistake—but only after the damage had been done.
He could not allow that to happen.
“What about yer clan, Marcán?” It was Daimhin, trying yet again to lure him into the circle. Between her flirting and blatant overtures, which had even included straddling his lap while the trestles were being set up for the meal, Marcán was having a hell of a time staying clear of her advances. He wouldn’t mind taking what was offered, but she was the daughter of their king, and he did not want to be beholden to any members of the Meic Murchadha clan.
Now all eyes were on Marcán. He held back a sigh of resignation. Daimhin had worded her request in such a way that he could not refuse without a stain against his clan. His leader, Diarmuid, had returned home to finally bed his new wife, and the pride of the entire clan now rested on Marcán’s ability to tell a good story. It was a challenge he would normally savor, but he’d prefer to see to his main duty.
One glance at Astrid, whose head was the only one not turned toward him, no doubt because she knew what he looked like, Marcán stood. There was no help for it.
