Erinsong (7 page)

“A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved,” he
whispered. “What happened to your brother?”

Brenna wasn’t sure why, but it seemed right,
seemed safe to tell him. “Sean was killed by the Ulaid, a
neighboring clan.”

“And your mother took it hard.”

“She was fair wild with
grief.” Brenna was only a
child when her
tall, strong brother died. Una, Queen of Donegal, had wailed like a
banshee when Sean’s
arrow-pierced body was
carried into the keep. Her
usually mild
features contorted into a snarling mask
as
she demanded Brenna’s father launch a blood
feud against the offenders. Looking back, Brenna
barely recognized the frenzied harridan with her
mother’s voice.

“Sean’s death was an
accident. Some men of Ulaid,
led by their
king’s son, Ennis, were hunting and
strayed into Donegal. They mistook Sean for game in
the thicket. It was a foolish waste, but it could
have made the rivers run red. Me father settled the matter without
a war.”

“How did he do that?” Keefe wondered. Killing
a noble heir was a heinous offense, never mind that it was
accidental.

“He marched to the Ulaid’s
stronghold with the
whole of the Ui Niall
clan at his back, demanding the
life of
the Ulaid’s son in exchange,” Brenna ex
plained. “Me father convinced their king, Domhnall,
that none would be served by a blood feud.
Better
that one should die for peace
between the clans, said
he, than dot the
land with widows and grieving
mothers on
all sides over an accident. This way, loss
was divided with an even hand. Me father is a wise
man. The Ard Ri in Tara could not have brought us
a
fairer solution.”

“Then honor was satisfied.” Keefe nodded his
approval.

“Aye,” she said. “The
Ulaid’s son Ennis went will
ingly to his
death a hero. The arrangement suited everyone but me mother. The
blood of Domhnall’s firstborn wasn’t enough. She’s never forgiven
me Da for not avenging Sean properly.”

By finger widths, Brenna
had watched her mother re
treat into
herself till she was little more than a shell of
the woman she’d been. Desperate to replace her
lost son, Brian Ui Niall’s wife produced a string of stillborn
infants at yearly intervals. Then she stopped bearing even those
pitiful bundles of malformed flesh. Brenna’s mother pulled away
from her husband and eventually from her daughters as
well.

Only the chair captured her
attention and anchored
her wandering mind
in this world. An unnatural preoccupation at best, the queen
polished and shined it daily till the wood gleamed. All she cared
for was that chair. When it was broken during a late-night carouse
in the keep, Una of the clan Connacht stopped caring
altogether.

“Every Feast of Imbolc, I half expect Da to
leave her and be done with the marriage.” Brenna clamped her hand
over her mouth. She hadn’t intended to voice that fear, especially
not to this strange man. What was it about his calm silence that
invited her confidence?

“What’s the Feast of Imbolc?” Keefe didn’t
even look up from his carving. He seemed to accept her startling
confession without a qualm.

“ ‘Tis the first of February, the day on
which all marriages are renewed or dissolved,” Brenna explained.
“Either party may leave and no discredit will come to them if they
do. ‘Tis a sensible custom, whatever Father Michael may have to say
about it. Da says it’s saved many a soul from the sin of
murder.”

Keefe chuckled. “Your
father
is
a wise
man, princess.”

“Aye,” she said, knotting her fingers
together. “But not even a wise man can mend a broken heart.”

Keefe stopped working long enough to fix her
with a steady gaze. “Some things that are broken must be dealt with
quickly and not be allowed to get worse. Take this chair, for
instance. It’s a good thing I came upon it when I did. If it had
been left in the weather much longer, the wood would have dried out
and warped beyond my ability to repair it.”

The Northman’s eyes were
like deep forest pools.
Brenna felt
herself in real danger of falling into them.
He seemed to see right into her heart and glimpse her
secret shame.

“If something gets brittle,
no amount of care will restore it.” He ran a calloused hand over
the chair. “
But we caught this in time. As
you said, it’ll never be the same. But in some ways it will be
better. Stronger.
Even more beautiful for
its imperfections.”

She was certain he wasn’t talking about the
chair anymore. Brenna’s heart thudded against her ribs. Surely he
must hear it.

“Most men seem to want perfection,” she said
softly.

“And there are those who
find perfection boring.”
He leaned toward
her ever so slightly, as if daring her
to
shove him away. “The important thing is not to let
the damage stand, not to harden with the passage
of
time.” His voice lowered to a husky
rumble. “You’ve suffered, Brenna. I see it. It’s in your eyes every
time
you look at me.”

Slowly, as if he were
afraid she might startle and bolt away, he reached over to cup her
cheek in his palm. His hand was warm, but Brenna was sure
the
heat blooming in her
face would scorch him.

“Let me help you, princess.”

His mouth was so close to
hers. His warm breath feathered over her lips. All she need
do
was turn her head and she knew his lips
would cover
hers. She’d already seen his
hands work a miracle in wood. Could this man somehow take her
guilty heart and make it right again?

“There ye are!” Moira’s voice interrupted her
thoughts and Brenna jerked herself away from the Northman.

“I’ve sounded the dinner
bell three times. Have ye
not heard it?
Oh, look!” Moira’s eyes fairly danced
with
delight. “Ye’ve mended Mother’s chair. What a
fine clever man ye are, Keefe Murphy!”

When Moira stepped lightly
into the shed to inspect his work, Keefe beamed under her
praise.
Brenna could hardly blame him for
turning his atten
tion to her pretty
sister.

“Come to supper then, when
ye’ve a mind to,”
Brenna snapped as she
skittered out of the shed. All
men were
idiots, she decided.

“ ‘Tis plain to see how
boring he finds perfection,”
she muttered,
going on to denigrate the man’s heritage back several generations.
But she saved her
most damning
imprecations for herself.

What a fool she was! Thank
the saints above Moira
arrived when she
did. Brenna had almost let a man lure her into lowering her guard
with his honeyed words and deep-as-the-ocean eyes.

Now she knew Keefe Murphy
was indeed a “fine
clever man.” Next time,
she’d be doubly wary.

The chair was finally finished.

Brenna insisted he keep the
work out of sight lest her mother stumble upon it in progress and
be dis
mayed, so Keefe kept it covered in
the shed when he
wasn’t working on it. He
stained the new pieces to
match the old as
closely as he could. Then he rubbed
the
whole chair with oil till the wood gleamed. The repair turned out
even better than he’d hoped.

The princess kept him
hopping during the day, fetching water, mucking out stables, and
generally serving as her beast of burden. With a start, he
realized that he didn’t mind. Even when Brenna’s tone turned
caustic, he found himself listening for her
voice, wondering where she was when she wasn’t
di
recting his labor.

Brenna was a puzzle. Keefe
was sure she’d been drawn to him. He’d certainly felt the
attraction be
tween them. It was strong as
a riptide, but she fought
against it like
a swimmer caught between the shore and the deep. His Irish princess
was no shallow shoal.

As he worked the wood,
snippets of memory came
back to him—places
he was sure he’d seen. He remembered a seemingly bottomless lake
whose surface shone like glass on calm days. It was in the Pictish
lands, that wild country populated by fierce tribes who paint
themselves blue before battle. In the dark depths of that lake, a
terrible monster was rumored to live, a beast so horrible as to
defy description.

Brenna was like that lake.
Somewhere in her past,
there lurked a
monster. It would be worth his time,
he
decided, to sound her depths and uncover it.
What
ever beast plagued her, Keefe was
determined to slay
it and free her from
its power.

If she’d let
him...

“Are ye sure ‘tis
finished?” Her voice roused him
from his
thoughts.

“It’s as good as I can make
it,” he said as he hoisted
the chair onto
his shoulders.

“Come, then.” Brenna led
the way, carefully avoid
ing getting too
close to him, he noticed. Ever since he tried to kiss her, she’d
been skittish around him,
like some wild
young creature desperately needing the
crumb he might offer, but fearful of the touch of his
hand.

Keefe smiled as he trailed
her to the keep. There’d
be another
chance. He’d make sure of it. And this
time he wouldn’t let her get away without feeling the
softness of her lips under his.

It seemed the round hall of
Brian Ui Niall was al
ways full of
retainers. As far as Keefe knew, these men all had farmsteads
nearby, but they managed to
find their way
to the keep for a meal and a horn of ale
on a regular basis. Keefe surmised their food and
drink was the price of the Donegal’s
kingship.

His queen, Una of Connacht,
didn’t exactly pre
side as hostess at
these nightly feasts. It was more as
though she haunted them. Dutifully, she took her
place beside her husband and picked at her food.
Her dark-ringed eyes sent a message of silent reproach to
the king at every glance.

Since Brenna had explained
to him how simple di
vorce was on this
island, Keefe wondered why the
king didn’t
leave his somber queen. Then he saw the
way Brian Ui Niall looked at his wife. The king loved
her—or at least loved the shadow of the woman
she’d been—too much to let her go.

The rowdy conversation in the hall ceased
when Keefe strode to the center of the room with his burden. He
gently placed the chair before Brenna’s mother.

“I believe this belongs to you,” he said,
dropping to one knee before the queen of Donegal. Then he rose and
stepped back.

Una looked up from her lap
and stared at the chair.
A light kindled
behind her eyes and Keefe caught a glimpse of the beauty she’d
been. As though the queen was finally aware of her surroundings,
she
swept the room with her gaze until her
pale eyes met
the king’s anxious
steel-gray ones. Her mouth curved
into a
trembling smile. She stood, walked slowly to the center of the
room, and laid a quivering hand on the repaired back.

“I thank ye,” she said in a hoarse
whisper.

Keefe’s mouth lifted in a
smile. When he turned to
look at Brenna,
he saw her wide eyes glisten with tears. Her soul shined through
those gray orbs, bare
to the world. And it
was a beautiful soul, full of kindness for all her bluster, and
all the more lovely for the
secret pain
she bore.

He’d overheard several of
the Irishmen praising
the charms of the
coppery-haired Moira, but if they
could
see Brenna as he did, they’d easily dismiss
Moira’s delicate allure. Brenna’s beauty went clear to
the bone.

“Northman, it’s in your
debt I find meself.” Brian Ui Niall laid a hand on Keefe’s
shoulder. “When ye
came to us with naught
but a brave heart and a keg of
fine ale, I
didn’t spare your life out of charity. I hoped
to learn something of an enemy that’s caused us no
end of woe. And I wanted to use that new
knowledge
to harm ye and your countrymen
if I could.” The
king’s voice crackled
with emotion as he watched his wife settle happily into her
precious chair. “And now
ye do me this
great kindness.”

“It was nothing,” Keefe
said. “You gave me a
chance at life when
many would have taken it away,
whatever
your motives.”