Ireland, 1181
Cool spring air rippled the sea, and Brenna Ó Neill pulled her brat around her shoulders for warmth. She stood with her bare feet in the sand, waiting for her betrothed husband's ship.
It had become a ritual she'd kept in the four months since she'd promised herself to Aimon—walking along the shoreline in the hopes that he might return. He'd gone on a trading journey that was meant to last a few weeks. Weeks had turned into months, and despite all their best efforts, the fishermen hadn't found a trace of the vessel.
She raised a hand to shield her eyes against the setting sun, her heart as cold as the lapping waves. Likely the ship had sunk. Perhaps it was her curse to bear, her punishment for choosing the wrong man. And now, she'd lost them both.
As the sun cast its last golden spears upon the shimmering black water, Brenna caught a glimpse of something approaching on the horizon. There were no billowing sails to mark it as a ship. And yet, the massive hulk floated closer, like a ruined fortress. Her heartbeat quickened, afraid of what she might find.
The wood was charred black, with hardly a single mast standing. But there could be no doubt it was Aimon's ship. Her hands gripped her skirts, dread rising up inside her. Were there any survivors?
A lone figure steered it toward the strand, but the ship was eerily quiet on the water. From her vantage point, she couldn't see who it was. As the minutes passed, the sky shifted to dark violet, the sun disappearing.
Voices shouted from the ringfort behind her, and within minutes a small crowd gathered on the shore. Torches flared, and as the vessel drew closer, the excited voices faded into silence. The ship's scarred exterior foretold the deaths of many. But which men lived?
One of the survivors trudged through the shallow water, three men following him. Brenna stepped into the edge of the sea, trying to see who they were. When they reached the shore, Aimon was not among them.
But Quin MacEgan was.
Brenna couldn't breathe when he strode toward her, like a warrior come to claim his conquest. Hardened and fierce, he said nothing to his tribesmen, ignoring everyone else but her. His dark blond hair hung against his bearded face, while green eyes locked with her own.
Quin stopped walking when he stood an arm's length from her. In his eyes, she saw the shadowed longing, mingled with pain. His clothes hung in rags, while dirt and blood caked his face. "He's dead, Brenna."
The harsh words cut through her, and hot tears welled up in her eyes. It was only the ice frozen around her heart that kept her standing. Kept her from crying out with raw anger and guilt. Aimon had gone on this voyage for her, in the hopes of increasing his holdings. Now, his dreams of wealth and glory had ended in death.
As a single drop rolled down her cheek, Brenna knew that she was weeping from guilt instead of loss. Weeping because the man she had denied as her bridegroom was standing before her.
Quin took her hand in his. Warm and alive, she let their fingers lace together as he pulled her away from the others. She didn't voice a single protest when he took her back to the hut she'd planned to share with Aimon.
When at last they were alone, she let herself shatter, grieving for her betrothed. Quin's arms caught fast around her, his strength granting her comfort. Brenna clung to him while he murmured that it would be all right.
But it wasn't going to be all right. At last, she broke free from his embrace. "You can't stay here." She crossed the room and opened the door, waiting for him to leave. "I made my choice not to marry you."
But Quin didn't move. "You might have made your choice, Brenna. But it was the wrong one." Closing the door behind him, he took a step closer. "And I intend to change your mind."
Críost, he was so tired. Quin hadn't slept in days, while he'd fought to keep the ship from sinking. It was God's miracle that they'd made it back alive, after the foreign raiders had stolen their wool and silver, killing most of the men.
He drank in the sight of Brenna, even knowing that she was ready to shove him outside. Her brown hair was braided back from her face, the strands tinted red against the firelight. Stormy gray eyes glared at him with anger.
"This is Aimon's home, and I'm not about to dishonor his memory by letting you stay. He wouldn't have wanted that."
It bothered him that she was building Aimon into a saint. "You never really knew him, did you? You agreed to marry him a fortnight after you said no to me."
"I knew him well enough," she murmured. Then her expression sharpened. "Were you hoping he would die?"
"I tried to save him." Quin bit back the arguments, for she would never understand. He'd tried to save Aimon for her. And the failure haunted him still.
"I don't believe you," she whispered, sinking down upon a wooden stool. She rested her elbows upon her knees, lowering her head.
He kept silent, afraid of saying the wrong thing. He'd have walked upon shards of glass for Brenna, for even a single tear shed on his behalf. The need to touch her, to ease her grief, overshadowed his exhaustion. More than food or water, he thirsted for her.
He took a step forward. Then another, kneeling down beside her on the cold earthen floor. Though he wanted to slide the lock of hair over her shoulder, revealing the smooth tear-stained cheek, he kept his hands at his sides. "I'm not going to leave you this time, Brenna."
"I won't marry you." She turned to him, her face pale. "My reasons haven't changed."
"You were afraid of what there was between us."
"No." She looked down at her hands again, unable to face him. But her face colored with embarrassment.
Quin touched his knuckles to her delicate cheek, leaning in until his nose touched hers. The hushed scent of spring clung to her hair, and he closed his eyes, savoring the closeness. He was alive, here with her. He rested his palm upon her cheek, waiting to see if she would pull away.
Instead, her hand covered his. "Quin, you want something I cannot give."
"For now, all I want is this." He leaned in and claimed her mouth in a heated kiss.
Brenna yielded to him, her arms grasping his shoulders for balance. Sensual and overpowering, Quin pressed her body against the door frame. He trapped her in place, plundering her lips like a conqueror. Hot and hungry, he kissed her like he'd been starving for her these past four months.
Quin had been her closest friend, her protector for the past three years. And though he meant everything to her, he'd awakened a desire inside that she couldn't fight. The feelings he aroused within her were terrifying. She felt herself slipping away, becoming a woman she didn't want to be. And so, she'd pushed him away.
His tongue slid against the seam of her mouth, coaxing her to surrender. She tried to hold herself back, but it wasn't worth the fight. He plundered her mouth, and desire poured through her, down sensitive breasts, spiraling to the intimate place between her thighs.
Quin's hands twined in her hair, both palms cupping her face while he kissed her. Danu, she had missed him. She'd sent him away, believing that once he'd left, she could lock away her feelings. Now that he was back, she couldn't stop herself from pulling him close, falling under his spell. Like a candle flaring to life, she felt wanton, her instincts roaring into desperate need.
I won't do this, she told herself. I can't.
Brenna pulled away, turning her face aside. Her heart was aching, even as it pulsed within her chest. "Leave me alone, Quin."
Quin's green eyes stared into hers, his gaze unfathomable. "You're running away again."
Yes, she was. But he would never understand why she kept herself from him. Why she'd chosen Aimon—an awkward, quiet man who had never kindled a single spark of desire. She'd needed someone who would never expect passion from her. A man who would give her a respectable marriage, allowing her to start again.
Her foster parents had tried to shield her from the stories whispered about her, but they couldn't protect her all the time. Everyone knew where she came from. What she was.
Her throat ached with tightness, but Brenna opened the door. "I want you to go."
"For now."
In his eyes, she saw determination that matched her own. And when Quin closed the door behind him, she sank down onto the floor. Her mouth was swollen, her body awakened into a temptation she couldn’t face.
Be glad that he's gone, she told herself. Instead, the emptiness seemed to swallow her.
The moon illuminated a pool of light upon the burned ship. Quin sloshed through the seawater toward the broken vessel, his mood as black as the wood. He climbed aboard, never minding his soaked trews. Inside the boat, four inches of standing water kept the interior wet. The damage was extensive, and Quin didn't know if the boat could be repaired.
Over the next hour, he studied every inch of the remains, trying not to think about Brenna. The kiss they'd shared had left him frustrated and aching for her. He'd savored the taste of her, and the sweet softness of her breasts pressing against him while his hands palmed her spine.
Though she denied it, he sensed the fettered desire buried deep inside of her. It abraded his pride, for never once had Brenna admitted any feelings toward him. He'd tried to transform their friendship into love, but she'd fled from his arms at the first stirrings of physical desire.
And now, all he had was a stolen kiss. He didn't know if it was enough to rebuild anything between them.
Quin reached out to touch a charred beam, and saw the traces of blood upon the wood. The blood of his kinsmen and closest friends. Some were dead, and others had been taken captive. He didn't know if the Moors had intended to sell them as slaves or seek a ransom. But he had to get them back. Somehow, he had to fix this ship and gather a crew of men to seek out the survivors.
A noise alerted him, and he saw Dermot approaching. Quin helped him board the vessel, and in exchange, his friend offered a small cloth-wrapped bundle of food. "I didn't see you at the welcome feast."
"I didn't go." But Quin opened the bundle and found wrapped venison and bread, along with a horn of ale. He devoured the food, the first true meal he'd had in nearly four months. "I wanted to see about the ship's repairs."
"In the dark?" Dermot shook his head. "Quin, let it go. The ship brought us back, and that's all that matters."
"It didn't bring all of us back. Or were you planning to forget about the captives?"
"I haven't forgotten," Dermot said quietly. "But we should speak with the king. He'll want to send men of his own. And we'll need a new ship."
The pointed tone wasn't lost on Quin. But he'd built this ship with his own hands, steaming the planks and fitting them to the frame. Letting it go was like releasing a piece of himself. He knew Dermot was right about speaking to his cousin, King Patrick. Without question, Patrick would offer his assistance.
Dermot rested both hands on the side of the boat, his expression grim. "We shouldn't have left the men."
"We had no choice," Quin responded, handing back the cloth. "The damned ship was on fire."
From the way Dermot studied him, Quin wondered if the men blamed him for slicing the ropes that tethered their boat to the raiders' vessel. He'd made the decision to leave the others behind, to save what men he could.
How many raiders he'd killed that night, he didn't know. The nightmare of blood, fire and death haunted him still. But they'd managed to break free, steering the boat out into the open water.
"We're going to get them back," he stated. "I won't let them die."
"None of us will," Dermot reassured him. "Once we have the king's support, we'll go back."
Changing the subject, his kinsman ventured a smug grin. "I saw you with Brenna. Did she offer you a proper homecoming, then?"
The idle remark ripped apart his temper. "Don't speak ill of her," Quin warned.
Dermot raised both hands in surrender. "Peace, Quin. It was teasing, nothing more."
"I'm going to wed her. You'd best keep your teasing to yourself."
"But…she's a—"
"I'd suggest you don't finish that sentence." He knew what others said about Brenna, but it wasn't true.
Dermot rephrased. "I meant, she isolates herself from everyone. And she was betrothed to Aimon."
Quin crossed his arms. "Not anymore." He'd made the mistake of letting her go, once before. It wouldn't happen again.
Brenna rose to her feet, needing a distraction. At the opposite end of the hut, she gathered a length of wool and a spindle. The mindless task of spinning eased her, while she thought of what to do next. Neither this hut nor the land belonged to her. Though she doubted the chieftain would force her to leave right away, Aimon's brother would claim it soon enough.
She could go back to her mother's house, but it held such terrible memories, she didn't know if she could bring herself to enter. The thought made her ill.
The creamy wool twisted beneath her fingers, transforming from a mass of fleece into thin, even thread. She imagined the vibrant colors she would dye, weaving the strands into cloth. Perhaps crimson or green.
A noise outside her hut caught her attention, but no one knocked. Brenna set aside the spindle and wool, waiting. But there was no longer any sound at all. Had she imagined it?
Feeling foolish, she opened the door. Lying on the ground across her threshold was Quin, his cloak thrown carelessly over his body.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
He rolled over and lifted his head. "Sleeping. Or at least, that's what I intended before you came and woke me up."
"You can't, Quin." What did he think he was doing? What would everyone think of her, if they saw him sleeping outside her hut? "Go back to your own place."
"I haven't a place of my own," he reminded her. "The others won't care if I'm gone. Like as not, they'll appreciate the extra space." She remembered that he slept in a common hut with several of the other unmarried men. Or sometimes in a covered shelter, barely large enough to hold the boat he was working on.
Her answer was to shut the door. No. She couldn't possibly let him behave like this, like a child who refused to give up until he got his own way.
Don’t think about him. Let him remain outside and uncomfortable. It's what he deserves.
But an hour later when the strong winds began, she put her spindle aside. Surely he had left by now. Cautiously, she opened the door a crack. Quin was leaning against her hut, holding his cloak over his head. He sat upon the ground, his knees propped up. The darkening sky began to spatter rain, and still he didn't move.
"Would you like to join me?" he offered.
"Thank you, no."
"It's a nice, cool evening." He sent her a smile that slipped beneath her resolve and pricked at her conscience.
"Why are you doing this?"
He stared at her, and the intensity of his gaze made her long to shut the door again. He was looking at her like he had nothing better in the world to do, than to study her face. "You know why I'm here."
She did. Longing and guilt intertwined, even as she knew it would be a mistake to let him in. When the lightning slashed the sky, she opened the door wider. "Come inside. And stay away from me."
Quin entered the space, rain clinging to his skin. His outer clothing was wet, but he didn't look at all miserable. No, he looked like a man who had achieved his victory, and was more than pleased about it.
After she closed the door, he dropped his cloak upon the ground. Brenna crossed to the other side of the hut. Though she picked up her spindle, her fingers were shaking. Quin raked a hand through his wet hair, and chose a wooden stool to sit upon. "Thank you, Brenna."
She nodded, pretending not to look at him. Though she stared at the wool in her hands, she was fully aware of every motion he made. He stood, trying to peel back the wet clothing. "May I warm myself by the fire?"
She shrugged, but moved to the opposite end. He went over to the peat coals and held out his hands. A moment later, he peeled off the soaked tunic, baring sun-darkened skin. His broad shoulders were ridged with firm muscles, and his chest held the strength of a man who spent his hours bending pieces of wood into the form of a ship.
"You're embarrassing me," he said huskily. But she saw the amusement in his face, for he knew she'd been watching.
"Put on one of Aimon's tunics," she advised. Covering her eyes with her hands, she waited. "Tell me when you've finished."
In front of her, she heard him moving. Heard the rustle of clothing and footsteps coming closer.
"Keep your eyes closed," he murmured.
Brenna felt his presence behind her. Though he didn't move, her skin flushed. She kept her hands closed over her eyes, even as she heard him kneel behind her.
His hands caressed her shoulders, then her nape. She could hardly breathe, her skin half-shuddering with anticipation. It felt so good to be with him, and she hated herself for holding still. Letting him touch.
I'm betraying Aimon's memory, she thought to herself. But then, they'd had no memories at all. Though they had been friends, not once had Aimon kissed her. Not the way Quin had.
His fingers dug into her scalp, massaging her hair and moving to her temples. When her hands fell into her lap, he pressed them back over her eyes. "Don't look, Brenna. I'm not nearly finished."
Quin touched her gently, soothing the fragile skin of her temples. Past the scar that never should have been there. Brenna might have died from the attack. Even now, it infuriated him to see it.
The fools had tried to stone her. Though it had happened three years ago, he remembered it with vivid clarity.
He'd gone out hunting that day, tracking a deer. Brenna had stood only a few paces away from his hiding place in the forest, picking blackberries. She was alone, as she always was. He hadn't seen or spoken to her since he'd returned from his fostering, for she rarely left her home.
Like an angel, she'd lifted her face to the sun, as though trying to absorb it into her heart. Her clear skin appeared luminous, her gray eyes filled with ever-present sadness. Wild brown hair tumbled down her shoulders, touched with fiery red strands.
When had she grown this beautiful? The first stirrings of interest had caught him, and he'd remained hidden, fascinated by her.
He didn't know how long he'd watched her picking berries, but he heard the light tread of footsteps approaching. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he spied two boys, Owen and Ulat, striding forward. Both held leather pouches slung across their shoulders.
Troublemakers, both of them, though they were only fourteen. The chieftain had warned them, more than once, to stay out of mischief. Quin was about to move forward when he saw Owen hurl the first stone.
It struck Brenna on the temple, and Ulat followed with another rock that nicked her cheek. She cried out, covering her head with her hands. Blood streamed down her face, and Quin charged from his hiding place. The instinct to protect her dominated any sense of self-preservation. Ignoring the flying stones, he sheltered her with his own body.
"Whore's daughter!" Ulat taunted. But when he threw another stone, Quin caught it and sent it flying back.
A moment later, he nocked an arrow to his bow. "Get back," he warned, pulling the bowstring tight. "Or that will be the last stone you ever throw."
Ulat stared at him, as though determining whether or not he was serious. Quin shot an arrow into the ground at the boy's feet, as an added warning. With another arrow prepared, he waited for them to make a move.
Never had he felt such a vicious rage against mere boys. But his threat worked. They dropped the stones and fled. Quin kept his bow drawn tight until they disappeared from the forest.
Brenna was crouched upon the ground, her head hanging low. Blood streamed from her temples, and she wept at his feet. He lifted her into his arms, ignoring her protests. "I'm taking you home."
She weighed hardly anything at all, and when he saw what they'd done to her, his fury at the boys magnified. Cursing, he blamed himself for not anticipating the attack.
No one was inside the dwelling when he arrived with Brenna. Quin laid her down upon a fur-lined pallet, filling a bowl with cold water.
"Don't," she whispered, clutching her head. "You must leave. My mother mustn't find you here."
A knot swelled up on her forehead, and he held a damp cloth to the gash at her temple. "They hurt you."
She took the cloth from him, meeting his gaze with her own. "I'll be fine. But you have to go."
"I'm going to tell the chieftain. He'll see to it that the boys are punished."
Brenna shook her head. "This wasn't the first time. Likely, it won't be the last."
"You're wrong." He leaned in, letting her see the rigid anger coursing inside of him. "I can promise you, Brenna. This will be the last time anyone tries to hurt you."
Whether it was her innocent beauty or her lack of protection that lured him, he didn't know. But he couldn't allow Brenna to endure taunts and physical attacks, merely because of her mother.
"I'll send the healer," he offered.
"Don't bother. It's nothing." Though she tried to venture a smile, it didn't meet her eyes.
He took Brenna's hand in his. The skin was calloused, rough from spinning and weaving. "I'm going to take care of you."
And he had. For the next three years, he'd kept a close watch over her, letting all the men in the ringfort know that he was her protector.
Then, one morning he'd found a wrapped parcel. At first he thought it was a blanket, but when he finished unfolding the triangular shape, he realized it was a sail for his boat. Made of the finest cloth, he tested its strength. It would hold steady against the strongest winds, carrying his boat as far as he dared travel.
She'd made it for him. She'd known that, of any gift, it was the greatest treasure she could have given.
And on that day, he'd promised himself that Brenna Ó Neill would belong to him.
"I blame myself for this scar," Quin said, his knuckles grazing the edge. "They hurt you."
His voice was so close to her ear, she shivered. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. If she turned her head a few inches, his mouth would rest upon hers.
Temptation and resolution warred inside, and she opened her eyes, rising to her feet once more. "Boys do foolish things sometimes."
"So do men." He moved in front of her, smoothing her hair behind one ear. He sent her a roguish smile that would charm the wool off a sheep. "If you'd prefer, I can go back outside to sleep."
She shook her head. "They already know you're here. I don't suppose the gossip can get any worse."
He returned to the fire, studying the flames. "I'm not here to make others think badly of you."
"They already think the worst. That I'll be just like my mother, welcoming any man into my bed." When she had returned home after her fostering, she'd spent countless nights sleeping in the forest while her mother had entertained men. On the rare occasions when she'd come back too soon, she'd seen the lust in their eyes. For her.
Brenna crossed her arms over her breasts, shuddering at the thought. Thank God they'd left her alone after her mother's death. Whether it was Quin's doing or the chieftain's, she didn't know. But she'd tried to remain invisible to the rest of the clan.
"It was your choice to isolate yourself from everyone in the ringfort," Quin continued. "No one blames you."
Brenna moved over to her weaving loom, adjusting the threads. "They've teased me for as long as I can remember. I don't need them."
"They need your skills." He pointed to the loom and the multicolored threads she'd woven. Though she hadn't intended to make a pattern on the woolen cloth, she hadn't been able to resist the bright colors.
She began weaving, to give herself an excuse not to speak. For a long moment, Quin watched her.
"Why, Brenna? Why did you say yes to him, and not to me?"
Because Aimon was safe. Because he would never make me feel any sort of desire for him.
Her silence prompted him to crouch beside her on one knee. "I would have given you anything you'd ever wanted."
"Not everything." She passed blue thread through the loom, keeping the weaving tight and even.
From the corner of her eye, she saw his expression grow tight. She'd made him angry, but he would never understand the fear locked deep inside. If she ever let go of the rigid control over her body, she might become like her mother, losing herself in the need for pleasure.
"I'm going to see the king tomorrow," he said, rising to his feet and walking away. "I want you to come with me."
She was about to refuse, but curiosity caught her. "Why?"
"There were captives taken from our ship. I'm going to ask for men, to help bring them back."
Captives? She nearly asked if Aimon was among them, but his taut features made her hold back. Quin had never been one to tell lies.
"Where were they taken? And by whom?"
"I don't know. The Moors often sell men into slavery in Al-Andalus. If we have any hope of finding them, we'll need a new ship." He shook his head with regret. "My ship wouldn't make the passage without sinking."
She set down her shuttle, her heart hastening. "Why do you want me to come with you?"
"Because this isn't your home. And I want to bring you to my cousin's ringfort, to keep you safe while I'm gone."
He rested his hand against the door. "I'm asking you to wed me. Whatever Aimon promised you, I'll grant the same. Even if it means never touching you."
His statement stunned her, and she met his green eyes with uncertainty. He was offering her a home and the vow of his protection, though she'd refused him once before.
"What is your answer, Brenna?"
He could see that she was going to say no. It was written upon her face, and Quin cursed himself for speaking on impulse. It speared his pride, for he'd offered her everything he had.
"You couldn't make such a vow," she said flatly. "Not to touch me."
He forced himself to remain still. "I could. If it meant sharing my life with you, I would do it."
"I don't believe you."
"Shall I prove it?" He walked in front of her and placed both hands behind his back. "Do whatever you wish. I won't move."
Her lips drew into a suspicious line. But she set down her weaving and drew closer. Closer still, until she stood a single palm's distance from him. He could smell the light aroma of the soap she'd used in her hair, and her gray eyes remained wary.
It was torment. And when she stepped so close that their bodies touched, he could feel the warmth of her skin against his own. The curve of her full breasts tantalized him, and he couldn't stop his physical response.
She froze, suddenly aware that his body was straining for hers.
"Not my fault," he said with a wry smile. "I've no control over that reaction." But to his surprise, she didn't move away.
"I won't blame you for that. But what I want to know is whether or not you're able to keep your word." She touched his hair, bringing her palm to his face. "I don't think you can."
He closed his eyes, gripping his fists at his side while she traced the line of his jaw, over his mouth. It was unbelievably arousing, having to stand motionless while she tempted him. Quin shivered when her thumbs rubbed the corners of his mouth, and her nose touched his.
If he dared to touch her, he'd lose her. That, and that alone, was what kept him from moving a single muscle.
"I admire your restraint," she said at last, stepping away. "I didn't expect it."
"I keep my vows, Brenna." He moved toward the door. "I'm leaving at dawn for Laochre, to speak with the king. If you decide to come…"
"I can't answer you yet. Too much has happened. With Aimon gone, I can't think clearly." She turned her back on him, her shoulders lowered.
"Why did you choose him?" Quin asked quietly. She'd never told him, and he wondered what her feelings had been for Aimon.
She turned back. "Because he was safe. I knew we would be comfortable together."
"I would have kept you safe, Brenna."
"You don't understand." She rested her hand over her heart. "When I'm with you, I lose myself."
Shame covered her face, and it suddenly became clear. She didn't want any part of her mother's past, nor anything that would cast her in the same light. No desire, no lust. Nothing but simple companionship. She wanted a marriage based on friendship, not love.
"If we married, would it make any difference to you?"
She shook her head. "Every time I touch you or kiss you, I'm reminded of how my mother chose to live her life. I can't let it happen to me."
He didn't know what to say. He'd never really understood how a woman of her beauty and intensity would blame herself for another woman's sins.
"It doesn't have to be that way," he murmured. "I want you, Brenna, more than I've wanted any other woman. For me, there is only you. And there's no sin in that."
"I'm afraid," she whispered.
"Handfast with me, for a year and a day. And if you're unhappy, you can leave me at any time."
She crossed her arms over her chest, uncertainty reigning over her face. "Quin, I don't know."
He leaned one hand against the wall. "You can break free of the past, Brenna. If you'll try."
Dawn slipped beneath her door frame, whispering rays of sunlight filtering inside the hut. Brenna sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. She didn't know what to say to Quin today, now that she'd had several hours to think about his offer.
Though he'd proven that he could keep his promise not to touch her, she hadn't missed the tortured expression on his face. It bothered her, knowing she'd caused it.
Danu, she didn't know what to do. She'd moved into Aimon's hut after she'd promised to wed him. The walls seemed to taunt her now, reminding her of her disloyalty to Aimon.
She couldn't stay here anymore. It held too many memories of the quiet man she'd once thought of as her friend. With a heavy sigh, she began packing her belongings, though she didn't know where she would go now.
A low knock sounded at the door. She expelled a sigh, not knowing what to say to Quin. He'd ended up sleeping outside last night and would expect an answer. But what could she say?
With reluctance, she opened the door. To her surprise, the chieftain, Lughan Ó Neill, stood before her, his face grim. There was no sign of Quin nearby.
"May I come in, Brenna?"
She gave a nod, holding the door wider. Lughan spied her packing efforts and took a seat upon a bench. "I was sorry to hear about Aimon."
Fresh hurt rose up inside, and she held onto her waist, keeping the sorrow buried. "So was I."
"His brother Pól asked me to speak with you."
"I know what you're going to say." Though she knew it was rude, she returned to her packing. "I have to leave this hut."
"Pól has granted you several days," the chieftain offered. "But yes. As the second-born son of the family, this hut now falls to him. He's invited you to stay with them, if that is your wish."
The idea of being surrounded by Aimon's family was akin to being smothered. She had no right to be here, not when they had never married. "It's all right. Tell him I won't burden him by staying. He'll want to keep his wife and family here."
"I'll find a place for you with another member of the clan," Lughan offered gently. "You needn't return to your mother's hut."
She rubbed her arms and shook her head. "Don't trouble yourself."
"You are a member of this clan." Lughan's voice grew sharp, and her cheeks warmed when she realized she'd insulted him. "And therefore, my responsibility. I'll let no one go homeless, nor hungry here."
"Did Quin speak with you?" she interrupted. Had he told Lughan of his intentions or his desire to wed her?
At her query, the chieftain relaxed. "Aye, he did. This morning, he asked for men and horses. He will act as my representative to King Patrick of Laochre, and we'll get the captives back, God willing."
Brenna's spirits sank a little, for she'd expected Quin to say something to Lughan about taking her with him. Why would he? her conscience chided. You've given him no reason to believe you'll say yes.
Even so, she was reluctant to travel with a group of men. Likely Quin hadn't thought of that or what people would say to hear of it.
Just then, the door swung open. Quin's hair was wet, his skin gleaming as though he'd just washed. His green eyes admired her as though she'd just risen from his bed. Her body warmed at his attentions. "Dia dhuit ar maidin."
The chieftain returned the morning greeting. "Have you chosen the men to accompany you to Laochre?"
"I have. But their wives want to go, as well. I'd forgotten that the queen is hosting an aenach just before the Feast of Imbolc."
Lughan laughed. "They don't trust their husbands, do they?"
Quin caught her gaze, and Brenna couldn't bring herself to look away. Handfasting was commonplace at festivals, and this aenach would be no exception. Imbolc marked the beginning of spring and the coming of a fertile year. No doubt the wives intended to keep their husbands from roaming.
She eyed Quin once more. Handsome and strong, there was no doubt he could capture the attention of any maiden he desired. In her mind, she envisioned him embracing another woman, kissing her and laying her down upon a pallet. The jealous thoughts made her fists dig into the clothing she was packing.
To the chieftain, Quin added, "I invited Brenna to come and meet my cousins. With your permission, she may want a change in her surroundings, after what's happened."
The chieftain turned to her. "Well?"
Her tongue felt frozen in her mouth. Quin's expression was steady, not demanding anything of her. She could go or stay. It was entirely her choice.
Though her lips formed the word no, to her surprise, she blurted out, "Yes. If the women are going on this journey, then I will join them."
She only hoped she wouldn't come to regret it.
After a full day of riding, the afternoon sun drifted into twilight. Brenna's dark hair gleamed with a halo of red while the sun set behind her. Throughout the day, she'd hardly spoken to him, but Quin had caught her staring once or twice. He found himself wondering where she would spend the night. Likely with the women.
A pulse of disappointment formed inside, for he'd wanted more time alone with Brenna. He couldn't very well convince her to handfast with him, surrounded by a dozen men and women.
When it was time to set up the camp, Quin spoke with the others and the men split up to hunt for the meal. Brenna started to join the women, but he caught her hand. "I want you to come fishing with me."
She hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the others. "They'll want my help. We still have to set up the tents and—"
"Go on, Brenna," Dermot’s wife assured her. "There are enough of us to manage."
Quin sent the woman a grateful look, but Brenna remained unconvinced. He took her hand, not letting her argue anymore.
The ground was soft from the rain, the moss beginning to form upon fallen logs and stones. Evening sunlight dusted the branches of the trees, and as he led her deeper into the woods, they followed the stream.
"Quin, I don't think there's a pond," she told him. "I doubt if we'll catch any fish at all."
"It wasn't fish I was after," he told her.
She stopped walking and rested her hand upon an oak sapling. "What do you mean?"
He stood before her. "I wanted to speak with you alone, before we reach Laochre tomorrow."
Her eyes lowered to the leaves upon the ground. "I'm not ready to give you an answer yet, Quin. Don't ask it of me."
He touched the sapling above her hand, their skin barely touching. "That isn't why I brought you here."
"Then why did you?"
He studied her gray eyes, recognizing the doubts within them. And the fear that he couldn't seem to coax from her. He didn't want that shadow between them, not when he would lay down his life before hurting her.
"Because I wanted to spend time with you. Away from everyone else."
She eyed him with suspicion. "Doing what?"
He guided her deeper into the forest, to a clearing he spied ahead. "Convincing you to wed me, a stór."
She stared at him, consternation furrowing her brow. "Quin, we should go back before it gets dark."
"It won't be dark for another hour." He stopped walking when he saw a circle of five standing stones in the expanse of grass. Surrounded by trees, the stone ring appeared in the center, as if touched by magic. "Look at what I've found."
Interest transformed Brenna's face, and she walked forward to examine it. The granite stones were just above her height, and spiral carvings marked it. Quin ran his fingers over one of the stones. "Do you suppose they held ancient rituals in a place like this, long ago?"
She gave a tentative smile, reaching out to touch. "Perhaps."
Exploring the surface with her hands, she stopped when she reached his palm. The smile faded into more apprehension. But Quin didn't move his hand. Instead, he stared into her eyes, letting her see all the caged desire he felt. Right now he wanted to remove the blue gown she wore, sliding the wool from her shoulders until she stood bared before him. He wanted her with a visceral need, as though she were a part of him that had gone missing.
"Quin," she breathed. Her hand reached out to touch his, but even so, he saw the regret in her eyes. She'd already given up on him. And no matter how hard he tried to reshape her future, she was still caught in the past.
"You aren't your mother, Brenna," he said. "Whatever choices she made have nothing to do with you."
She drew her hand back as if he'd struck her. "I know that. But I'll never be the kind of woman you want, either."
She couldn't have been more wrong. Beneath her shield of fear was a woman of compassion, a woman who understood him as no other had. "I've wanted you for three years, Brenna." He guided her back to press against the granite, while he rested both hands on either side of her shoulders. "Nothing's changed."
Though he gave her every opportunity to escape the embrace, she startled him by resting her cheek against his chest. "I don't know if that's true anymore."
Quin drew her close, a measure of hope dawning. It was the first time she'd willingly come to him.
"You were right. I did choose Aimon because I was afraid to marry you." She touched his face, and in her gray eyes he saw the hurt. "You deserve better than a woman like me."
"You're the woman I want, Brenna."
She stepped out of his embrace and walked toward another standing stone. For a time she stood with her back to him. "But you don't understand me. I've never told you anything about what it was like."
"Tell me now."
Her shoulders lowered with shame. "I don't know who my father was. Even when I was a girl, my mother would often leave and follow the Norman soldiers. Once, she took me to their camp with her."
Quin's chest tightened at the thought of a young girl exposed to such a place. "Did anyone harm you?"
She shook her head. "But I saw what she did with them. And I ran away." When she looked back at him, he saw the tears spilling over her face. "If it weren't for my fostering, I'd never have known a family."
"But you did." He moved behind her, resting his hands upon her shoulders. "And they took you away from her for years."
"I wanted to stay with them." She wiped the tears away. "I felt safe there."
"You're safe with me," he swore. "And you'll have your own family one day. Your own children, if you'll let me give them to you."
She stared back at him, her face stricken. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to let any man touch me. Not in that way."
He brought her palms to his heartbeat, and she let them rest, though he felt the tremor in her hands. "Do I frighten you?"
"What I feel for you frightens me."
Her words dissolved the last of his good intentions. Right now, he wanted to comfort her, to show her that he would never ask more of her than she could give.
Quin took her hands in his and brought them around his waist. "Don't ever be afraid when you're with me." He took her face in his hands. "You're mine, Brenna. As I am yours. Ever since the day you wove the sail for me. Since the day I first kissed you."
She lifted her eyes to his, filled with such pain. "I don't want to live like this anymore. Help me to not be afraid."
Though Brenna suspected Quin was going to kiss her, he didn't. Not yet.
Instead, he removed his tunic, letting it fall to the ground. The strong planes of his arms were unyielding and firm, like the ships he created. His stomach was ridged with tight lines, and she spied a white scar near his ribs.
Though she tried to put on a brave face, he sensed her apprehension. "I'm offering myself to you, Brenna. There's nothing to fear."
He lifted her hands to his chest, letting her touch him. With her fingers outspread, Brenna explored his chest and shoulders, running her hands over the taut muscles. And though her heartbeat quickened, an unexpected languor seemed to spread over her, as though her body were fully attuned to him.
When Quin reached for the ties on her gown, she hesitated. In the cool evening air, gooseflesh rose over her arms. Anxiety welled up, and she reached out to stop him.
But Quin eased the gown away until he bared her breasts. Brenna longed to cover herself, but he pulled her body to his, skin to skin. Her breasts were small, her nipples tight against the heat of his chest.
His hands moved up the side of her arms, grazing her sensitive skin. Between her legs, she grew damp, and he slid his thigh within them, to support her weight.
"You're everything to me, Brenna," he murmured, bending his mouth to her throat. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
He supported her against the cool standing stone, while his other hand moved to touch her breast. Shyness struck her at the vulnerable position. No man had ever seen her exposed like this, and she desperately wanted to hide herself from his gaze.
"You're like silk," he whispered. "So incredibly soft." His thumb caressed the tip, coaxing an unexpected response that pierced her to the core. Gentle, and wicked, he stroked her aroused nipple until she twisted from the deepening sensations.
When his mouth covered her breast, she couldn't stop the moan that escaped. His tongue caressed her, his mouth suckling in a way that made her press her womanhood against his knee. A shuddering gasp erupted from her throat, and she no longer knew if she wanted to break free or draw closer.
Brenna hardly felt the cold anymore, as the wildness rose up once more, like a fever she couldn't control. Between her legs, she craved him. Needed him. She ached, and when he shifted his thigh to caress her intimately, it was too much. The drowning desire was killing her, and Brenna used all of her strength to shove him away.
"I can't do this. You have to stop."
They hardly spoke to one another on the rest of the journey. Though Quin had taken her back to the camp without question, she knew she'd offended him. His stance was rigid, like a man enduring physical frustration.
Misery dogged her, even when they reached Laochre the following day. Brenna wondered if she should have succumbed to his touch, no matter that she'd grown uncomfortable. But she couldn't bring herself to speak of it.
When they arrived at Laochre, she saw that the king had used a Norman design for his castle, similar to the holdings she'd seen in the northeast. With large square towers and walls greater than a man's height, she didn't doubt that King Patrick had the wealth and means to bring back the captives from Iberia.
She craned her neck as they passed through the gate, spying an impish boy smiling down at her from the murder hole. Within the inner bailey, a small group of women were practicing archery. They were guided by another woman with dark hair, cropped to her shoulders. To her shock, Brenna spied a sword belt around the woman's waist.
"That's Honora MacEgan," Quin answered, nodding toward the woman. It was the first time he'd spoken to her in half a day. "She married my cousin Ewan this past summer."
"A female warrior?"
Quin shrugged. "Patrick saw it as a way to increase our forces. Only the women who choose to fight are asked to train with Honora. It's not required."
Brenna studied the women. They wore modified men's clothing, but their long braided hair gave evidence to their sex. Lean and strong, she saw an air of undeniable confidence. There were several men, presumably engaged in repairing a stone wall, who openly flirted with them.
Instead of being embarrassed, the women appeared to enjoy the attention. One sent a taunting smile to the men before pulling back her bow. She held the weapon tight, showing off the honed strength in her arms, before loosing an arrow into the center.
A pang of envy caught Brenna. To be admired instead of scorned was something she'd not experienced before. And these women made her all too aware of her own insecurities.
Moments later, Quin lifted her down from her horse, bringing her to meet Ewan MacEgan. The dark-haired warrior greeted her, and Brenna noticed the similarity in the men's green eyes. Ewan had a more muscular build, in contrast to Quin's taller form, but both men were undeniably strong.
"We received word about the captives," Ewan said. "Tonight we'll meet with King Patrick and discuss our strategy."
"Will you be wanting women to go and fight?" a female voice interrupted. Honora MacEgan joined her husband, and he kissed her in greeting.
"A stór, there's only one woman I'm wanting. And not for a fight." Ewan sent his wife a mischievous smile, and Honora grinned.
Brenna found herself warming to the couple, seeing the devotion between them. She looked back at Quin, but his expression was strained.
It was her fault, though he'd not spoken one word of blame. Once again, she'd let her fear of desire control her, and she was tired of that coming between them. Time and again, she'd pushed Quin away, as if she didn't believe she had the right to happiness.
You're not your mother, he'd said. And she wasn't, not at all. There was only one man she wanted in her life. The man who had stood by her all these years.
"I'll arrange for a place for both of you to sleep," Ewan was saying. His expression narrowed, as if trying to determine whether or not to separate them.
Brenna took a deep breath and turned to Honora. "Might I ask for your help?"
Ewan's wife turned curious. "Of course."
Though her heartbeat clamored in her chest, Brenna took Quin's hand in hers. Though shyness made it difficult to speak, she wanted Quin to know her answer.
Steeling her courage, she forced the words out. "Quin and I are promised to one another. I would like to handfast with him tonight, before he leaves on the voyage."
After the disastrous evening he'd spent with her in the woods, Brenna's acceptance was the last thing Quin expected.
He'd been so distracted, thinking of her during his meeting, that he'd hardly heard a word spoken by his cousin, the king.
"You may take a dozen men," King Patrick offered. "Along with horses and two ships."
He'd bowed, but Patrick stopped him. "Quin, how many captives were taken?"
"Six," he admitted, offering the names of the men.
"And how do you intend to find them?" The king's expression grew wary, as though he didn't believe it could be done.
"I'll return the ship to where we were attacked, off the coast of Iberia. We'll search along the coastline and find whatever survivors we can. I suspect the Moors wanted to sell the men."
"And if you don't find them?"
"We will," Quin insisted.
"But you can't remain at sea forever," Patrick remarked. "Especially not if you're leaving a wife behind."
Quin colored at the reminder, while his nerves grew anxious. Though Brenna had agreed to handfast with him, he wondered if she might still change her mind.
"You have until Midsummer's Eve," the king commanded. "If you haven't located the men by then, I'll expect your return."
Quin nodded and departed the king's chambers. Though he looked for Brenna, Honora and Queen Isabel had taken her away to prepare for the handfasting. He spent the remainder of the afternoon and early evening pacing.
When the moon rose over the castle, the king's men escorted him outside the grounds to a smaller circle of stone huts. There, he saw his cousins and friends gathering near a small bonfire.
In front of the fire stood Brenna, her hair crowned with purple heather. She wore a moss-colored gown that accentuated the red tints within her brown hair. Though she tried to smile at him, he noticed her white pallor and the way she clenched her hands together. She didn't like being the center of attention.
Queen Isabel and Honora stood nearby, their faces bright with anticipation. Flowers decorated the huts, and from the delicious smells of roasting meat, he knew Isabel had spent the afternoon preparing for the ceremony. His cousin's wife loved nothing better than to organize feasts and celebrations.
As he reached Brenna's side, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. She gripped his fingers, her mouth compressed with fear.
"Are you certain this is what you want?" he asked, beneath his breath.
She managed a nod, and as the priest blessed their union, binding their hands together, he never took his eyes from Brenna. Her cool fingers warmed in his, and when he kissed her, it was hardly more than a whisper upon her lips.
As the feasting and drinking progressed, he saw that his new wife was becoming more and more overwhelmed. The queen had set aside one of the huts for him and Brenna, decorated with more flowers.
"You've had enough of this, haven't you?" he whispered into Brenna's ear.
"No, I'm fine. Really."
Quin ignored her, lifting her into his arms despite the ribald comments and cheers. Brenna's face turned crimson, but her arms stayed around his neck. As he took her into the bridal hut, everything else seemed to slip away except for her.
And tonight, he wasn't about to let her go.
Brenna sat down upon a wooden bench, her heart racing so fast, she was afraid she'd faint. But it was done now. She'd spoken her vow to Quin, and tonight he would become her husband in body, as well as in name.
It terrified her, though she trusted him.
He barred the door, retreating toward the fire. Minutes stretched, and still he didn't speak. The silence nearly suffocated her, and at last she approached him, touching his arm. Quin spun without warning.
"Críost, I wasn't expecting that. I'm sorry." He ran a hand through his hair, venturing a smile. There was a shadow beneath it, and she knew her behavior the other night had caused his wariness.
"Are you tired?" She clasped her hands together, not knowing what else to say.
"No." He didn't face her, and so she touched his shoulder again. His muscles were knotted, rigid as she caressed him. She marveled that she was able to reach out to him, without any fear of him pushing her away.
"Why did you say yes to the handfasting, Brenna?" he asked, pulling her into his arms. He stroked the line of her hair, down to her jaw.
"Because I'd rather be with you, than alone." She closed her eyes, inhaling the warm male scent of him. His lazy caresses against her hair were making her relax. Though she hadn't touched any wine or ale, it was as if she'd drunk a dozen cups. Her hands moved up to his tunic, slipping beneath the rough wool.
Quin tilted her face up to look at him. "I’m leaving for Iberia tomorrow morning. We've only this night together."
She knew it, and it only strengthened her resolve to endure the physical intimacy that lay ahead. To answer his unspoken question, she stood on her tiptoes and offered a kiss. Like a blessing, his mouth came down upon hers. His tongue probed at her, and she opened to him, trying not to be afraid of the arousal rising up within her.
There's nothing to fear, she reminded herself. And when she thought of the night she'd pushed him away, she realized that no matter what happened, Quin would never make demands of her.
In his green eyes she saw the raw need, the tight control over his body. He was rigid against her stomach, and knowing that she had caused such an arousal was humbling.
"I won't run from you this time," she promised.
He didn't smile. Instead, he removed his tunic and trews, standing before her naked. Powerful and strong, the beauty of his body was unlike anything she'd expected. The urge to touch him came over her, but she made no move toward him.
Instead, she loosened the ties of her gown. Her pulse pounded as she removed her own clothing, standing bare before him.
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," Quin murmured. His words washed over her like an invisible caress.
She waited for him to touch her, and when at last he drew her body against his, she shivered with gratefulness. His wide hands moved down her spine, tracing every inch of her. He cupped her bottom, and when she spread her legs slightly, his hands slipped between her thighs.
A shudder caught her when his fingertips dipped into the moisture at her center. The brief touch staggered her, and when she stepped away from him, he let her go.
"Lie down on the pallet," he ordered. With knees shaking, Brenna obeyed. The pallet was lined with soft furs, and the sensation against her bare skin was heady. Quin strode toward her, his erection bobbing forward. He knelt beside her, and Brenna clenched the furs in anticipation.
"Not yet, a stór," he whispered. He spread her hair out, down to cover her breasts. Using the long strands, he rubbed them against her nipples. The silky sensation puckered her breasts, and after that he exposed them to the air. A shimmering breath of desire caught her, and she tried to pull him down atop her.
Her attempt to rush him met with failure. Quin's dark gaze swept over her body, and he sent her a slow smile.
"We've only one first time together, a stór," he whispered. "And I intend to make it last all night."
Brenna gave a faint nod, and he leaned over her, kissing her lips…her throat…down to her breasts. As his mouth tasted the hardened nipples, he ran a hand across her ribs and stomach, down to her thighs. She instinctively tightened her legs together, even as her mind ordered her body to relax.
This was Quin. He'd promised to take care of her. To guard her with his very life. And though he hadn't said it, she sensed that he might love her.
She exhaled a gasp when his hand moved behind her knees, his mouth lowering to her mound. He stopped to look at her, his green eyes heated with desire. "Tell me if anything bothers you. I'll stop."
The promise was not made lightly. She knew he was referring to the other night, when she'd lost her courage.
"Don't stop," she whispered, pulling his head down for another kiss. He met her mouth roughly, like a man on the brink of losing himself. He pulled her knee up, lifting it over his hip as he kissed her. Against her wetness, she felt his length caressing her. When he moved his shaft, rubbing her intimately, she trembled.
But he didn't join their bodies together. Instead, he drew back and lifted her other knee. Moving lower, his mouth nipped at her inner thigh. Then across the other. Brenna tried to close her legs, but he held them apart.
"Trust me, a stór. I only want to kiss you again."
She waited for him to cover her body with his, but instead of taking her mouth, his tongue slid over her woman's flesh. Wet and sleek, he covered her, setting her senses on fire.
"Quin," she gasped, unable to stop the intensity from building. She fought him back, trying not to let the fierce pleasure consume her. But when his mouth nipped at the hooded flesh above her center, sucking hard, her body trembled.
"Do you feel it?" he murmured against her body. His tongue licked her, penetrating gently. "Don't resist what's happening to you. Let go, Brenna."
"I can't," she whispered, even as his mouth coaxed her to an even higher point of pleasure. It was almost painful, the burgeoning sensation that wound her tight.
"You can." With his thumb, he entered her body while he worked her with his mouth. She was almost sobbing, her legs shaking.
"No. I need you to stop."
Quin withdrew his hand abruptly. It was hard to breathe, her lungs catching in quick gasps. Brenna's eyes flooded up with shame, for even at this she was a failure. Whatever it was he wanted, she couldn't give to him.
She wanted to weep, for she'd let him down once again. Quin studied her, his face unreadable. She half expected him to leave the hut in disgust. But right now she felt ready to break apart. It angered her that she couldn't be the sort of wife he wanted or needed.
After all these years, she still couldn’t bury the past. But instead of anger, she saw strained patience upon his face. A strange smile flickered over his mouth. "I shouldn't have rushed you like that," he said. "You weren't ready."
He stretched out beside her, his body still heavily aroused. His manhood rested against his stomach, thick and hard.
"I'm sorry, Quin. I thought—"
"No. It's all right," he reassured her. "There will be time enough for this."
But there wasn't. He would be leaving with his men in a few hours. She reached out to hold him, resting her cheek upon his chest. Though she'd been uneasy about being naked around Quin, she was starting to grow accustomed to the intimacy. Her hand moved over his skin, stroking a pattern. His eyes were closed, but she didn't think he was sleeping.
Her gaze turned to his manhood, and she wondered what it would feel like in her hand. Would it be hard and rough? She reached out tentatively with a single finger. Quin spasmed when she touched him.
"Sorry."
She pulled her hand back, but he shook his head. "You can touch me all you want, a stór. My body belongs to you now."
The idea intrigued her. Perhaps she might be a failure in lovemaking, but she knew there were ways to bring a man pleasure. She cupped the base of him, running her fingers along his length. A sharp exhalation erupted from his mouth and she took her hand back again.
"No, Brenna. It feels good." He opened his eyes and she saw the ferocity of his need. "Straddle me while you touch."
She felt awkward, but positioned herself atop his hips as she explored the length and head of him. Quin was moving his body in a rhythm in counter to her strokes, and her hand grew wet where she fisted his length. To her surprise, she realized that her own body was beginning to respond in the same way.
Her wetness ached to be filled. She wanted to feel him inside her, to satiate the hunger. Slowly, she raised herself up and he met her gaze when she positioned him at her entrance.
"Brenna," Quin breathed, his face taut as she slid against him. Her body took the place of her hand, sheathing him. Though it was tight, it didn't hurt as much as she'd thought it would. He was adjusting her hips, lifting her slightly and when she sank down, a jolt of warmth pooled inside her.
It was like before, the spicy arousal starting to build. But this time, she was able to control the sensations. Experimentally, she lifted up until only the tip of him remained inside. When she slid down again, an answering shudder pulsed in her womanhood.
It felt…good to be joined with him. And as she began to move up and down, she saw the same reactions upon his face. She was giving him the same torturous pleasure he'd tried to give her. And the power, knowing that she was making him feel so good, only drove her to ride him faster.
Flesh to flesh, hardness to softness, she increased her pace, her excitement rising. Quin sat up, changing their position so that she sat with her legs around his waist. His mouth fastened over her breast once more, sucking and tasting the nipple. Brenna almost stopped, but Quin urged her to keep taking him inside, impaling her with his shaft.
The wildness of mounting him, over and over, suddenly took hold. She gripped the back of his head, forcing him to endure the sensation until his face tightened in pleasure. Seeing the ecstasy and fulfillment broke apart her control, and a frenzied climax erupted within. He gripped her hard as she shattered, both legs still wrapped around his waist.
Even when he laid her back down, keeping his body joined with hers, aftershocks rippled through her.
When at last she managed to open her eyes, Quin wasn't smiling.
Never in all his dreams had he ever imagined a night like this. Even when he was spent inside her, Quin couldn't let go of Brenna. He held her close, stroking her spine and the luscious curve of her bottom.
"How do you feel, a stór?"
She raised her head to look at him. "Not afraid anymore."
"Thank God." But even as he withdrew from her, he didn't let go. It was as if he could make her a part of him by holding her skin to his. He'd known that she was a passionate woman, but he'd never expected that she needed to be in control to find her own release.
He kissed her cheek and throat again, his hands kneading the soft flesh that led to the sweetness between her legs. Brenna rolled over, her hands poised against his chest. "What are you doing, Quin?"
He sent her a wicked smile. "Making up for lost time. And ensuring that you'll miss me when I'm gone." He penetrated her with his fingers, feeling the warm wetness of her arousal. Though it was too soon for him to make love to her again, he wanted her to experience yet another awakening.
Brenna answered his smile, but it was quickly replaced by a sweet moan. She shuddered against his fingers, and he found the place that deepened her arousal. Her hips arched and flexed in rhythm and he exerted pressure, loving the sensation of her wetness around his thumb and fingers.
"Will you think of me when I'm gone, Brenna?" he teased, penetrating her again. He stroked her into a frenzy until she gripped him hard, biting back a scream. Ripples of fulfillment overtook her, and Quin reveled in the shocked pleasure on her face.
She pulled him down for a deep kiss. "I wish you didn't have to go. And I wish I'd said yes to you, so much sooner than this."
"I'll come back to you, Brenna. I swear it."
***
Dawn broke through their night of lovemaking. And when he boarded the ship, Brenna stood on the sand watching. A harsh aching took hold of him, seeing her standing on the shoreline, apart from the others. As the waves took the vessel out to sea, he didn't take his eyes from her.
His wife. His reason to return.
And yet, as the wind took hold of the sail, taking him farther away, he feared he would not see her again.
Laochre had become a second home to Brenna. When Queen Isabel had learned of her weaving skills, she'd set her to work creating tapestries for the castle. In time, some of the younger children came to watch, and Brenna found herself instructing the girls. No one treated her differently here, and as Quin's wife she found a new home with the MacEgans.
But still, she missed him.
She waited along the sand each night, waiting for his ship to return. But month after month passed, and there was no sign of them. Midsummer's Eve came and went, and Brenna feared the worst.
Another month went by, and she was at her loom when Liam MacEgan came running in. "Brenna! The ship is here!"
She practically threw the skeins of wool across the room, racing toward the shoreline behind the young boy. Already men were sloshing through the water, running to their loved ones. All six captives had been found, and Brenna smiled with thanks that Quin had succeeded.
She waited, her heart trembling within her chest as the last man disembarked from the boat. He moved slower than the others, and she raised her hand to her throat when she saw who it was.
Aimon.
A low buzzing rang through her ears, confusion sweeping through her. But Aimon was dead. Quin had said so himself.
Had he lied to her? She couldn't believe he would betray her like that.
She didn't want to believe it, but within moments Aimon stood before her. His blond hair was longer, and no longer was he the calm, placid man she'd known. Fury permeated every feature, his brown eyes narrowed upon her.
"I thought you were dead," Brenna whispered. She didn't know what to feel right now, for Quin had not emerged from the ship.
Aimon's hardened gaze showed not an ounce of sympathy for her plight. "I was wounded. Not dead." He gripped her wrist while several of the MacEgan tribe members watched. "But I hear that you didn't wait for me."
She hardly heard what he was saying, so sickened was she to think of what had happened. And where was Quin? Was he hurt as well?
Before she could ask, Aimon jerked her forward and Brenna stumbled to the ground. Her hands pressed into the sand, her eyes stinging as she stared up at him. One of the MacEgan men, Ruarc, stepped forward to help her, but Aimon sent the man a furious look.
"I spent the last few months fighting to stay alive. For her." Blistering anger ridged Aimon's face. "She was never anything but a whore's daughter. Lucky that any man would want to wed her."
He spat upon the ground. "Blood will tell, won't it, Brenna? For you've become a whore yourself."
The shocked faces of the MacEgans made her skin flush. She hadn't told any of them about her mother, and Aimon couldn't have humiliated her any more.
Honora MacEgan stepped forward and helped her rise to her feet. With her arm around Brenna, the woman glared at Aimon, her hand poised upon her sword. "That's enough. Brenna is wed to Quin now. She's one of us."
Dermot approached her, his face sober. In a low voice, he offered, "We didn’t know Aimon was alive, Brenna. None of us did."
She met his gaze with her own fear, but managed a nod. "Where is Quin now?"
"He gave himself to the Moors," Dermot admitted, "in order to set Aimon free."
Brenna's heart splintered, for she knew he'd done it on her behalf. Hot tears slid over her cheeks, and Aimon's mouth curled into a snarl. "It would serve her right if he's dead."
Summer waned into autumn, and Brenna slipped into a despondency. Though Isabel and Honora tried to coax her into taking part in the tribe's activities, she'd retreated into isolation.
Exhaustion and fear were her constant companions now. But that night, she’d risen to her feet once again, her shoulders heavy with despair as she’d walked to the shore.
A whore, Aimon had called her. Though the insult meant nothing to the MacEgans and they'd exiled him back to the Ó Neill clan, the word bothered her. For the truth was, she'd gone back into Quin's arms without grieving for Aimon at all. She had betrayed him, not only with her body, but with her heart as well.
She'd loved Quin, with every part of her spirit. From the moment he'd rescued her from the boys in the blackberry bushes, to the night he'd helped her overcome her fears of lovemaking, she'd given herself to him. And now, she needed him more than ever.
The moonlight slid over the small channel leading to the sea, the waves quiet and calm. There were no ships to bring him home, and though the king had sent men to search for him, there had been no sign that Quin was alive.
Brenna stood carefully, familiar tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Only a tiny boat lay upon the water, a fisherman bringing in his catch for the night. Once again, she would return to her hut alone.
But something held her feet in place. A familiar shape caught her eye, and she looked back at the small boat. The oars cut through the water at a swift pace, faster than a fisherman would ever move.
Fragile hope caught within her. When the moon emerged from behind a cloud, she started to weep.
Quin threw the oars aside, running through the water until he reached her side. Strong arms encompassed her, and she gripped him hard. He'd grown thinner, but he was alive and whole. It was enough.
"I love you," she whispered, drawing his mouth to hers. Quin kissed her, their tongues tangled in a fervent reunion. Holding him in her arms once more mended all the broken pieces of her heart.
When he ended the kiss, Quin cupped her jaw. "I swear to you, I didn't know that Aimon lived," he insisted. "I saw him struck down in battle."
"Padraig told me what happened." Brenna covered his hand with hers. "And I vowed I would wait for you, no matter how long it took for you to be free."
"I've thought of you every moment for the past season," he swore. "And to find you waiting for me—" His voice broke off, and he drew back.
In wonder, his hand moved down her body to the rounded stomach beneath her gown. The new life growing inside her seemed to sense Quin's presence, and a slight tremor rippled through her skin as the babe kicked. Quin's hand moved over the child in a light caress, and he enclosed her in an embrace once more.
He touched her stomach again, unable to stop his smile. "When will our child be born?"
"In winter."
Quin appeared awed by the forthcoming birth, and he leaned down to kiss her once again. "I love you, Brenna. Now and always."
"I love you, too, Quin." Their hands linked together as they walked along the sand. Brenna kissed his palm in a silent prayer of thanksgiving. "Welcome home."
THE END