Branded By Etain (3 page)

Two lute players seated at the base of the dais struck up a lively tune.

Men, women, and children piled onto the benches bellowing loud greetings and settling in for the festivities. The din of low voices blossomed into vigorous, animated chatter as the crowd entering through the open double doors tripled in number.

As planned, the two brothers separated, Brand taking the right and Nikolas the left. Their five men fanned out through the room picking strategic positions at the tables immediately below the dais in the center of the room.

Brand glanced at the two arched entrances on either side of the dais. One led to the kitchens, the other to stairs leading to the floors above and the twin towers. ’Twas an ancient castle design to make the access to the second floor difficult.

Whoever built the keep had anticipated invasion from inland only as Castle Cairlinne had a clear view of not only the harbor, but the entire coastline for miles. None would be expecting assault from within or by sea.

’Twould be child’s play to sail his langskips up the river. Half would be destined for the curtain walls surrounded by lapping waters, and the other half would head for the kitchen entrance. The foray would be two-pronged. Those men at the walls would scale the walls, take out the meager guards on the ramparts, and wait at the top of the castle’s stairs. The warriors on the langskips at the kitchens, and those on the stairs, would attack simultaneously on Brand’s signal.

He had intended the raid to begin when the full moon divided the midnight sky. By then the feasting would be in earnest and the participants too sodden with food, mead, ale, and wine to counteract the swift incursion.

A momentary hush captured Brand’s attention, and he swept a glance around the crush of people scrabbling for seats. The cluster at the castle’s doors parted to allow a procession of prettily garbed young females to enter. Each woman carried a woven basket from which she tossed flower petals and small branches into the crowd.

Nikolas made his way to Brand’s side. He scrubbed his upper lip. “All is in place. Thorkell and the men await your signal. I repeated your warning that none are to be killed, if at all possible.”

Brand heaved a sigh. He wanted to avoid fatalities at all costs. These people were going to be his, and ’twas easier to conquer and rule when none was enraged over the death of a loved one.

“When begins The Choosing?”

“I know not if I will wait for it. I am loath to gamble on her choosing me.” Brand fingered the stubble on his chin.

Once every five summers on the last night of the festival of Lúnasa, the women of Caul Cairlinne could choose their mate. The church blessed the unions, which lasted a year and a day. After that time, the couples could decide to remain married or separate.

“’Twould be better if she picked you.”

“Aye, but what if she does not?” Brand’s gaze never wavered from the line of marriageable women weaving their way through the hall.

He held his breath when Étaín came into view. Her glorious golden curls hung in glistening tendrils clear to her knees. She had a habit of flaring her nostrils and firming her chin when all eyes were upon her. He knew in his gut she hated being the center of attention.

’Twas her obvious vulnerability that stirred him.

’Twas her startling beauty that had him hard and aching in a heartbeat.

He had studied her these past months searching for flaws, for the arrogance and conceit that always accompanied females of royal birth, and found naught. She spoke to beggar and princes alike with the same gentle inquiry, gifted all with a sparkling smile that twisted his belly into coils, and appeared unaware of the rough sailors and traders who stared at her with blatant, greedy lust.

A slight draft molded the fine linen of the
leine
she wore around her firm breasts. She blinked and unerringly swung her head and met his stare. A smile fluttered around her rosy lips.

Those haunting eyes the color of rich molasses spoke to him.

He fisted his hands, the urge to reach for her nigh overwhelming.

Mine.

She halted for a moment as if hearing his silent declaration, and the sheer joy lighting her features dazzled him. All the blood in his body pooled in his groin. Desire speared him.

Taking a deep breath, Brand inclined his head and smiled.

Her teeth gleamed snowy white under the flickering candles when she beamed at him. Giving a little shake of her head, she dipped into her basket and threw petals and green-needled twigs high into the air. A couple of skips and a hop later, she arrived at the dais, the last female to line up below the table, and made a graceful curtsey.

King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh had taken his place on the dais and stood smiling benignly at the women standing before him, his gaze lingering on Étaín. The pride on his face could not be denied, nor the love.

Brand inspected the others present at the high table. He had made it his business to know who was who in Caul Cairlinne.

Étaín’s two younger sisters stood on either side of the king. Irvin, a distant relative, stood at the left end of the table speaking with a couple of his warriors. To the right of King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh, three of the men who stood as Caul Cairlinne’s elderly council watched the assembly while sipping from brass goblets. Five women who had seen at least two score summers stood whispering and grinning at the line of young women before the high table.

Two men on either side of the dais put long curved trumpets to their lips and blew. A series of triumphant, melodic blasts echoed around the great hall.

“Hear ye, hear ye,” one of the elders on the dais yelled.

“The ear of corn has been planted, the bull slaughtered,” another declared.

“’Tis time for The Choosing,” the last shouted.

“Princess Étaín, do you choose or not?” King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh asked, his sole focus on his daughter.

The hall fell silent. Every pair of eyes in the packed chamber trained on the petite Princess.

“I do.” Étaín gave her basket to a young girl. She gathered her skirts, spun about, and glided in Brand’s direction.

The throngs parted. Loud shushes ricocheted around the cavernous chamber.

Brand edged away from the wall and under the light of an overhead torch. His chest burned with the effort to draw breath. He could not haul his gaze from her and was aware of only her, his princess.

She halted two paces in front of him and tilted her head back.

The silence was absolute. Nary a cat meowed, nor a person muttered, not even the wind dared whistle.

His seed nigh burst from his cock when she placed her tiny hand on his forearm and said, her voice ringing and clear, “I choose Brand of Bärvik as my husband for a year and a day.”

Étaín’s declaration reverberated through the hall and resonated in Brand’s ears.

She had chosen
him
.

Inordinate pleasure coursed through Brand, and a blast of energy akin to the one that preceded every battle spiked a blood rush straight to his cock.

Her palm scorched his forearm, and the faint pink of her trimmed fingernails formed a marked contrast to the sun-bronzed skin of his wrist. For a heartbeat, the sensuous sight of her flesh on his paralyzed him, but the gathering in the hall began a buzzing conversation, and his warrior discipline kicked in.

Brand dropped to one knee, captured her wrist, brushed his lips slowly over each knuckle in turn, and repressed a grin at her sharp little gasps. He stood and locked their stares together. “I am honored, Princess.”

Relief eased the knotted tendons in his neck. Brand signaled Nikolas to tell his captain, Thorkell, to stand down, and realized with a start he knew not what happened next.

As if she read his thoughts, she whispered, “You must also choose me before all.”

He glanced down at her, squeezed the small hand he held, and bellowed, “I choose Princess Étaín to be my wife for a day and a year.”

After a moment, he added, to ensure all knew his immediate intentions, “From this moment onwards.”

Delight darkened the tawny hue of her eyes. She peeked up at him from under lush brown lashes. “’Tis the custom to bind our wrists.”

He accepted the silvery stream of ribbon she offered him and looped the fabric around both of their wrists before knotting it.

Brand twined their fingers together. “My lady wife?”

“We wait for the rest to choose, and then we sit at the dais and enjoy the feast until my da dismisses the assembly.”

Where their flesh met, he burned. ’Twas as if she branded him with her touch. The throngs packing the great hall dissipated. He could not concentrate on anything but her, was aware of only her.

She took swift breaths. The low, scooped neckline of her leine revealed the swells of her plumped breasts, and the way her chest rose and fell mesmerized him. She kept sliding sidewise peeks at him. Her dainty nostrils flared when she caught him staring.

As each female picked her mate, the multitudes packing the chamber grew rowdier with catcalls, shouted hurrahs, and loud whistles. Brand’s patience thinned as the evening progressed. Images of Étaín naked, her gold curls strewn on dark furs, creamy flesh glistening in the flames of dozens of torches, mouth swollen and ruby-red from his kisses, danced in his head.

He, warrior trained to avoid distraction from a boy of four summers, could not see, hear, or feel any but her.

To his surprise, Étaín gave him concise backgrounds on those at the high table. Though she thrummed with excitement and rocked from one foot to the other, his new wife described each female participating in the rite and her chosen mate in a low, composed, musical voice.

Halfway through the line of females below the dais, he recognized from the slight nuances in her tone those women she counted as friends and those mates who did not meet with her approval. He memorized the names and faces of any who gave her pause.

When her thumb absently stroked the heel of his palm, a red haze of lust blazed across his groin. He shook his head, but the violent action did naught to banish the lewd visions fueling an unbearable stiffening of his cock.

Nikolas, standing to the left and behind them, cleared his throat and murmured in their particular Norse dialect, “That one is none too pleased at her choice.”

The warning inherent in his brother’s voice vaulted Brand back to battle attention. He studied the man, Irvin, who Étaín had described as a distant relative. Irvin conversed with the king in short bursts. He appeared angry and several times jutted his head in their direction.

Brand estimated Irvin to be a score and five summers. He had the height and build of a Norseman, and his powerful forearms and wide shoulders spoke of daily swordplay.

“It matters not what Irvin says. ’Tis my right to choose and none can deny me, not even Da.”

Startled, Brand swept Étaín a hard glance. “How come you to speak our dialect?”

A dusky rose stained the elegant line of her cheekbones.

Were her nipples the same color? Would they darken to a delicious cherry after he had suckled them long and hard?

“Does it displease you, my lord? I seek only to learn your ways and believed ’twould be beneficial if I understood your tongue.”

She would learn his tongue this night, for he intended to lick her from tiny toes to arched brows. By Loki’s mischief, she distracted him.

He abruptly released her hand, hooked a thumb on his sword belt, and forced his thoughts to the matter at hand. “Who taught you our dialect?”

“A monk who traveled your lands.” She stared at the stone floor and he knew her answer to be deceitful.

The trumpets sounded shrill and piercing, signifying the end of The Choosing.

Brand worked his jaw to loosen the sudden tension tightening his muscles. Somewhat was amiss. His nape prickled.

“I feel it too,” Nikolas muttered, speaking now in Farsi. “I will scout the keep during the feast. Your new father by marriage bids you approach the high table.”

Brand hastily focused on King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh and choked back a curse. The monarch’s scowl shouted contained fury. How had he offended the man?

Setting his palm to Étaín’s elbow, Brand urged her forward, threading a careful path between the benches. He hooded his eyes and scrutinized the king.

The monarch stood mayhap a half a head shorter than Brand, had a broad forehead, sparse wisps of gray hair, a hooked nose, thin lips, and a line of blue etchings in the hollow of one cheek.

The folds in the king’s neck belied the youthful firmness of the ruddy skin covering his face. He had seen at least two score and ten summers.

Brand had gained a history of the family and the kingdom during the past months. Étaín and the two younger daughters were the progeny of Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh’s third wife who had died giving birth to a stillborn son. The king’s second marriage had been fruitful indeed. His second wife had birthed four sons and three daughters. All had been killed in a Viking raid and Caul Cairlinne burnt to the ground ten and nine summers before.

Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh had been taken prisoner, no doubt to be blood-eagled by his captors. Brand had witnessed the slow, tortuous death practice as a mere boy and the vision of a berserker slicing the screaming prisoner’s ribs from the spine, and breaking them one by one, remained as fresh as ever.

He relaxed his facial muscles, and bowed to the king.

“Arise, warrior. Daughter, this man is your choice?”

Étaín met her father’s ferocious glower with nary a beat of hesitation. “Aye, Da. He is.”

“What know you of him?” The monarch folded his arms across a massive chest draped by a velvet tunic the color of wet leaves in the height of summer.

“Naught but what my heart tells me.”

The king scowled and stared at his child. “Have you e’en spoken with this man?”

“We have spoken, Da. We have broken a morn fast together. He is Brand of Bärvik, a remote settlement on another isle. Daren the blacksmith shoes his horses and is fashioning a new shield for him.”

The monarch considered Étaín, his stare piercing and severe. “We will speak of this later, daughter, and I will have Darren’s hide for allowing you two to court without my permission.”