Chapter 1

Clan Meic Murchadha, Ireland

The low ceiling of the Meic Murchadha longhouse was stained with the smoke of a hundred years' worth of fires. Too many of the men gathered around the open flame looked like they could easily have been present at the very first one. Their leering eyes darting toward Astrid as if she were a sweet to be tasted, challenging her desire to appear aloof. She'd much prefer to stick her tongue out at them. And cover herself. And rub her ankle. She'd fallen earlier and the throbbing pain was near unbearable.

Instead, Astrid kept her shoulders back, ignoring their roving eyes. Despite the ache in her foot, she was happy to remain where the handsome Pádraig Meic Murchadha had deposited her after the repast. So gallant of him to have carried her in his arms after her injury! With a wink and smile, he had assured her it was "the best view" of the entertainment, which, naturally, included him. That his attention had just as quickly been drawn to the others in the overcrowded room full of warriors and lovely women was a little disconcerting. Especially so after the way his hand had touched her own in an overlong caress before he'd turned away. There were at least two other clans present for the feast, and they were all packed in very tightly.

Brushing her hair over her shoulder, Astrid glanced at Pádraig's petite sister, Daimhin, standing in front of her brother and beguiling all present with her lively story of Brian Boru, the last árd rí, High King. It was not long before her gaze darted to the storyteller's handsome brother—settled on the cushioned seat and leaning back against the wall, a dark fur hanging from his broad shoulders. She'd been hoping Pádraig would shift his interest from the mead in his wooden mug to her, but instead he was listening intently to his sister. Astrid sighed and smiled. She didn't mind one bit that Daimhin had chosen to stand and act out the story rather than sit. It made it easier for Astrid to watch the object of her attention. She only wished to catch his eye again.

The sudden burst of laughter made her jump, but she quickly recovered, smiling along with those around her, nodding in enthusiasm. She cared nothing for these boring stories, but she did so like the look of Pádraig. The thick bearded face and bright blue eyes mesmerized her, which was the only reason she remained in the visiting hall. Her mother had long since retired for the evening. The two of them were visitors for only the one night, and Astrid was determined to do anything she could—well, almost anything—to finally win the handsome warrior's interest.

"Are ye satisfied?" Astrid frowned at the low, quiet voice interrupting her thoughts before she realized it was only Marcán speaking to her.

It took a moment for her to understand his meaning. Glancing down, she realized she'd barely touched the jeweled goblet of wine he'd procured for her. "'Tis fine, Marcán. Many thanks."

"And many thanks to ye." Marcán's tone seemed odd, but when she glanced into his eyes, one blue and one green, she saw no sign of irritation. She shrugged and turned her attention back to Pádraig.

The Meic Murchadha túath was close to her own, only a quick ride away, yet it was so different here, almost like another world. The warriors seemed bigger than life, but their stories failed to hold her attention. They all lacked Marcán's ability to make the words create pictures in her mind, though she'd never admit as much to him. Astrid held back a yawn as she scanned the faces of the men and a few women, whose eyes were wide with excitement as Daimhin started on yet another long-winded árd rí story.

"Ye look tired, Astrid. I can see ye to yer mother."

She turned her gaze toward her brother's closest friend, surprised he was still beside her. "If ye wish to leave, I am certain I can find another to escort me."

His eyes held hers for the smallest moment before he glanced toward Pádraig. "I've no doubt the man ye've been admiring all night would be glad to see ye to her. I am only wondering the state ye'd be in when ye finally made it there."

Astrid's jaw dropped. "What are ye saying?"

"I know ye understand me fine."

Shooting daggers at the man with her expression apparently had no effect. He held her gaze, the dark shadow of a beard hiding his strong chin. His thick brows were raised in irritation—an expression that put her in mind of her brother—the only indication he knew exactly what she was about. Both he and Diarmuid were constantly thwarting her attempts at finding a suitable husband, as if their only goal in life was to have her remain unmarried, untouched, and at her mother's side.

Of the two, Marcán was by far the worst. She could rile her brother into anger and get him to back off. Not so with Marcán. He was solid as a rock and just as immoveable. He'd proven that just hours earlier. Pádraig had quite rightly offered her a ride to his home, and her and her mother an invitation to the evening feast, upon learning of her injury. After all, she'd been injured on his land, trying to retrieve sheep he had stolen from her clan. The Meic Murchadha were forever stealing her brother's sheep. True, the sheep were the offspring of one of their ewes, but Diarmuid had only taken the animal from them because they'd first stolen a cow.

Astrid's mother had her own mount, and for one glorious minute, Astrid had thought she'd be able to ride with Pádraig. Marcán had insisted on taking her onto his own mount, of course, and Diarmuid had used that kingly tone of his, saying, "So be it!" Her brother had not even seen fit to join them, but Marcán could not be dissuaded.

A more miserable ride Astrid could not remember. She should have been happily ensconced in Pádraig's arms, enthralling him with her wit and beauty, but she was instead pressed against Marcán's rock-hard chest. His musky scent had lingered on her even after she'd limped away from him to follow Pádraig. Instead of taking the hint and allowing her a graceful retreat, the odious man had scooped her into his arms as if she were a child and asked to see the healer.

The healer's ranting and raving about God's wrath had been even more unbearable with Marcán looking on and hearing it all, his arms about his chest, leaning against the closed door. A closed door! If she needed privacy from outside eyes, she wanted to ask why he had remained. But such an argument would not have moved him. His expression had been tight and stubborn, much as it was now, and it was obvious he lacked any desire to do her bidding.

"I'll be here when ye say the word, Astrid," he said now, his eyebrows still furrowed.

As if she'd ever say the word.

Marcán drifted back to the bench alongside the door, where he'd been sitting all night. This seat kept him quite aware of the many sordid liaisons taking place just outside the visiting hall, under the cover of night. It also ensured he knew exactly where Astrid was.

His head ached and the smoke from the fire was burning his eyes. If not for guarding her, he'd have taken a respite outside long ago. The stars were no doubt twinkling overhead and the warm breeze off the ocean would smell of sea salt. It had been a long day, and he would not have minded sleeping under those stars.

He sighed and looked again toward the blonde beauty. If she sat up any straighter, she'd break her back. But admittedly, those bountiful breasts were one of her best assets. The fact that she was using that knowledge to catch the leering eye of that weakling Pádraig was what was keeping Marcán at full alert.

Between that and her lovely, round arse, the woman was setting off a fire in most of the men in the room. And she was oblivious. If Pádraig ever caught sight of the longing in her eyes when she stared after him, Astrid would be beneath him in no time and in no particular place. The man had no consideration for the women he took. His entire clan shared that trait, even following the old custom of taking several wives. It was as if they all frowned on the notion of restraint as practiced by Christ himself. If Marcán let his guard down, Astrid would no doubt realize her mistake—but only after the damage had been done.

He could not allow that to happen.

"What about yer clan, Marcán?" It was Daimhin, trying yet again to lure him into the circle. Between her flirting and blatant overtures, which had even included straddling his lap while the trestles were being set up for the meal, Marcán was having a hell of a time staying clear of her advances. He wouldn't mind taking what was offered, but she was the daughter of their king, and he did not want to be beholden to any members of the Meic Murchadha clan.

Now all eyes were on Marcán. He held back a sigh of resignation. Daimhin had worded her request in such a way that he could not refuse without a stain against his clan. His leader, Diarmuid, had returned home to finally bed his new wife, and the pride of the entire clan now rested on Marcán's ability to tell a good story. It was a challenge he would normally savor, but he'd prefer to see to his main duty.

One glance at Astrid, whose head was the only one not turned toward him, no doubt because she knew what he looked like, Marcán stood. There was no help for it.

"We've just opened a new cask," Daimhin said, extending a gilded cup to him. "Only the best for ye."

There were at least two smaller clans present this eve. Marcán suspected his unplanned arrival, demanding the release of Astrid and her mother along with the missing sheep, had disrupted whatever Pádraig and his father had been planning. Doran had been in such a hurry to see Marcán gone, they'd returned the sheep and even helped find the missing women, who, it turned out, had suffered a mishap on their way to retrieve the sheep.

Marcán accepted the vessel. Daimhin quirked a brow and went toward the seat her brother was just leaving. Though small in stature, she was solidly packed with large, heavy breasts and an arse to match. She behaved like a lass who knew how to please a man, but Marcán seriously doubted she was not a virgin. After all, she was daughter to their king and valuable as a prize for the right alliance. If she did not prove chaste, any such alliance would be broken and bring shame to Doran. Her flirtatiousness only increased her value, for it could deaden the good sense of a lustful ri túaithe. The message from those swaying hips was as well received as if she'd cupped his balls in her hot little hand. But while he was admittedly a man with strong needs, Marcán alone decided with who and when. This one was never.

Marcán took a full swallow to soothe his suddenly parched throat before walking to the far center of the circle. A hush fell over the room. Even the voices of the lasses who had been in a quiet, ceaseless conversation since just after the meal finally went silent. It wasn't anything he wasn't used to. The women liked to watch him, assess him, consider if the stories they'd heard about him were true. Nothing he couldn't handle, but definitely something he would put an end to if only he could tempt the lass he desired above all others to become his wife. He also knew it was never going to happen. Astrid refused to see him as a man.

His mug was quickly refilled by a lass with dark eyes and fine black hair. She'd met him at the door, her eyes passing over him with far too much interest. Even now, when he took the spot still covered by Pádraig's fur, she snuggled closer to him while Daimhin sat on his left, at a discreet distance.

"What of the caves?" It was Pádraig's younger brother. "Tell us about árd rí in our caves!"

Ian was a charming lad and very smart. Smarter and more circumspect than the rest of his siblings and quick witted, too. Oftentimes his humor was overlooked by others in the clan because it was beyond their grasp. Marcán found that most amusing.

He set all other concerns aside to smile at the lad. "Ye like the stories of the caves?"

The boy, nearly a man now but still awkward, nodded eagerly.

"The caves it is, then."

Marcán's eyes scanned the quiet room, looking at all the faces turned up to him with expectant expressions. For the smallest second, he felt a fit of fear down in his gut. His panic. But he'd overpowered that when he was much younger with the help of his Da—God rest his soul—even though it still liked to poke at him every now and then. Marcán smiled, and all the women, save one, immediately returned the gesture.

"The caves are as dark as they are long, heading deep inside the ground, but ye can still hear the ocean crashing against the hills. The relentless waves from a thousand years past, coming finally to our shores, pounding here just as they did in that faraway place. But the sound is over ye, and around ye, and ye can feel the heaviness of the water pushing down on ye…"

Little concentration was required to keep the story going as Marcán had told this tale, or some variation on it, more times than he could count. Still, the eager faces of those around him, enraptured by the legends of Brian Boru, held his interest. The pride in their expressions was the same as his own, and truth be told, he loved to tell the stories.

As High King, Brian Boru had united the clans. A strong force, they had moved across the island, subduing any who thought to resist. And all these warriors had that same fighting blood in them. It was why they kept the old legends alive. The stories of the way things had been and could be again. The stories of their past.

The small, eager hand sliding up the underside of Marcán's bare leg demanded his attention. A glance at the black-haired lass beside him showed her wetting her lips with a long, slow tongue. An effective gesture, and she'd find more than a handful if she continued her journey up his thigh. But Marcán shifted his legs away from her, offering his best look of disapproval without missing a single detail of his story. Her pout was for his eyes only, as was the seductive smile she flashed him as she shifted, the action disguised as an attempt to get more comfortable, and dropped her hand alongside his hip, waiting for a second try.

Again his mead was refilled, and as the story came to an end, Marcán glanced at the empty spot where Astrid had been not a second earlier, ignoring him completely. Thanks to the determined lass at his side, standing would be an issue. She smiled at him. A knowing smile. A smile that promised much.

He finished the story and then tipped a hand to his head in thanks. The applause was louder than usual, and he chose that moment to turn to the comely lass. "Choose yer ministrations for a better time if ye're wanting anything to come of it."

Marcán grabbed Pádraig's fur to wrap around him and stood. He moved toward the door, which was now open.

"Another, Marcán!" a man's voice called out, but Marcán ignored him. Astrid was nowhere in the room, a realization that put him in a near panic.

Daimhin came up beside him, watching as he turned this way and that, searching for Astrid. She put a small hand on his arm. "That is my favorite story. My thanks."

"My pleasure."

Daimhin smiled up at him. "Is it Diarmuid's sister ye search for?"

Marcán's eyes fell to her. "Did ye see where she went?"

"I believe she followed my brother outside."

His chest tightened, and in five long strides he was through the door and outside, the air surprisingly cool against his face and other parts that had become heated.

"Astrid?" he called into the darkness. There were several groups gathered about. Some glanced at him, but he saw no sign of her light hair.

Approaching the first group of men to his left, he yanked back on the shoulder of a red-haired man.

"Hey!" The young man's protest was quickly cut off when he caught sight of Marcán. Instead, he raised his hands up before smiling. "D'ye wish to join us?"

It was Eric, one of their young warriors. A pup! But smart enough to know not to mess with Marcán. Beside him a tall, dark-haired woman was undulating against Eric's twin brother. Their mouths were locked together, and Eoghan's hands were making free with her body. Two other men were watching, mesmerized and no doubt aroused.

Marcán glanced back at Eric with disgust. "Have ye no care how ye treat yer women?"

Eric merely shrugged, turning back to his brother, and smiled. "Is she even one of ours?"

The man's hands slid down to grab her arse, his hips assuring all that his tarse pushed against her. The other two moved in closer, not keeping their hands off. The lass did not appear to protest, but Marcán had to be certain. He pulled on her bare arm to break her from the embrace.

Her mouth fell open, her hooded eyes flying open, too, and an angry expression stole across her face. "Hey!"

"Ye're wanting this attention?"

She wiped at her mouth, eyed him up and down with interest, and then smiled. "Aye, and I would be pleased to have ye join us."

He shook his head, more in disgust than in answer, and turned toward the next group. They were tall warriors, older than the other four, discussing Brian Boru in what sounded like a heated debate. No women among them.

"Marcán?" Eric called to him, pointing as he spoke. "If 'tis Astrid ye're looking for, ye best follow the path back up through the woods."

Eoghan again had his hands on the lass, making free with her along with the others, but she broke free to speak. "Do not fash yerself," she said with a laugh. "Pádraig was with them."

Them? With a clenched jaw and fisted hands, Marcán pushed his way through the brush to follow the path, no bigger than a deer trail. Astrid wouldn't even be marriageable if Pádraig got his hands on her. Diarmuid cared for his sister, but he was tempting fate by leaving her unmarried so long. The lass was ripe to experience being with a man. She'd be in trouble if left on her own.

Her lilting laughter carried to him and he followed the sound.

"Oh, Pádraig." Astrid's voice.

The lower voices didn't carry as well, but as he approached them, he saw there were four men in total with her.

Marcán's blood rushed through his body like a river ready to flood its banks, his heart pumping as fast as if he were preparing for battle. And in truth he was, a battle for her innocence. He paused and watched, forcing himself to regain control of his emotions before he went charging in.

Sitting in the small circle, Astrid leaned nearer to Pádraig and laughed again, her head tipping up and her shoulders dipping forward, giving them all an eyeful of her assets. Again she was offering herself up to any man with eyes in his head, and the men encircling her leaned in closer. Pádraig was the closest, touching her hair and then her shoulder, but no doubt all were stiff in anticipation of accepting her blatant invitation. Removing the fur from his shoulders and draping it across his arms, Marcán approached.

"Astrid?" Marcán kept his tone low and controlled. "What d'ye here?"

The men stood, appearing surprised, ripped out of their lustful thoughts. That confusion swiftly changed to discomfort when they caught sight of Marcán's expression. They moved away from her, opening the circle and allowing him a direct view of her, still seated beside Pádraig.

Her hair was tousled and her eyes were widely innocent. She dipped her head, eyeing the men from beneath her lashes.

"Nothing." Her voice held a husky tone. "We are… talking."

The men turned back to him and waited. Could they actually have any expectation of his consent? Mayhap in the Meic Murchadha clan. Marcán slowly gazed at each man in turn, looking him right in the eye, before finally settling his gaze again on Astrid.

"Do they all know ye are Diarmuid's little sister?"

Each man took a step back. All but Pádraig, whose face maintained a look of superiority, his hand still on her shoulder like he owned her.

Marcán moved closer to Astrid, and the other men continued to yield, stepping even farther away. "Pádraig."

"I thought ye were telling yer stories, Marcán," Pádraig said.

Marcán looked at his hand on Astrid's shoulder. And waited. Time slipped by. One of the other men coughed, and Pádraig finally removed his hand. Heaving a deep sigh, he moved to stand with the others. Marcán refused to acknowledge Astrid's crestfallen expression when he extended his hand to her.

"And I thought ye would keep to yer own women rather than taking advantage of an innocent lass." Marcán handed the man his fur.

"This lovely lass asked me to show her the hot springs."

When Marcán looked again at Astrid, he had hoped for some show of guilt. Instead, he was met with a defiant glare.

"Oh did she?" Marcán asked as he shifted his gaze to the other men. "Were ye afraid ye'd lose yer way on yer own?"

Pádraig offered a small smile. "If the lass wishes for the men to join us, they are more than willing, and I do not object."

The man was speaking of accepting the offer he'd believed she was making. Marcán tasted blood where he'd bitten his cheek to hold back his angry words. Rather than speak to Pádraig, whom he was tempted to strike, he turned to Astrid. "Did ye wish for more from these men than seeing the hot springs?"

Her eyes were angry, and her shoulders had rounded to their natural bend. Relieved to see her drop the flirtatious facade, he smiled. Just in time, he noticed the flash of anger and realized his smile had been misinterpreted. She thought he was laughing at her. He caught her hand just before it made contact with his cheek.

"How dare ye!" Astrid said, letting loose her tirade.

Though striking another was a punishable offense, Marcán was more than willing to stand there and let her have at him. She did not care for him, but her behavior—willfulness… stubbornness… whatever Diarmuid wanted to label her rants—was merely an indication of the great depth of her passion. Marcán recognized it because he was the same way. Mayhap that was what drew him to her. That he would not be the one to guide her to that knowledge was like a knife to his gut.

His tone hardened. "I dare because I am here to protect ye."

She ripped her hand out of his grasp and stopped just short of stomping her injured foot. Her voice shrill, she said, "I do not want ye to protect me! I want nothing of ye!"

Marcán debated the wisdom of continuing this discussion in front of the men shifting uncomfortably around them. The right thing for him to do would be to allow them to leave, but he did not feel so inclined. Better the men wait to learn what he planned to do to them for leading the innocent sister of a powerful, neighboring ri túaithe off to have their way with her.

"I'll not allow any man to take advantage of ye."

She fisted her hands to her waist, bending toward him. "They were not taking advantage of me."

"No?"

Marcán spread his arms, his palms facing upward, indicating the men around her with his gaze. In turn, each man looked anywhere but at her. Or him. She looked at only one man. Pádraig. And when her eyes started to fill with tears, Marcán took a step closer. It was a response he couldn't have stopped if his life depended on it. She looked so small and helpless, he wanted to pull her into his arms, stroke her hair, and reassure her she was safe and protected. That was not what she wanted, so he moved no closer.

Astrid turned on him, her mouth tight and her nostrils flaring. "Ye have no right to interfere, Marcán."

When she would have stomped past him, she winced at the pain in her damaged ankle. He grabbed her arm before she fell. "We are not done here."

She huffed, turning her back to all of them, but remained silent. Marcán's palm twitched to spank that bottom, so sweetly presented. She deserved that and much, much more. Battles had been started over less than this. It gave Marcán no small relief that Astrid was showing off her worst side in front of the great Pádraig Meic Murchadha. The thought was enough to make him lightheaded. Surely now the man would keep clear.

"Well?" Marcán said to the others, widening his stance when the lightheadedness increased. Music drifted to them from the longhouse. The dancing had begun. The men exchanged uneasy glances, but it was Pádraig who finally spoke up.

"We've not touched her, Marcán."

"Aye. Not even a kiss," one of the other men said.

Astrid snorted loudly.

"Can ye see clear to allow us our leave?"

Marcán wanted to punch the man right in the face, but the sincerity he saw there soothed his ire. It was Astrid's behavior that had led to this situation, and he knew she had no notion of what she had done.

Marcán blew out a breath. "Ye're not to touch this one, do ye understand me?"

The men nodded while Astrid shifted, her head turned away from them.

One of the men thought to speak, a true mistake. "Ye do know how she—"

Marcán held up a hand to halt the words. "Ye'll not touch her."

"We'll not," the man said, shifting from one foot to another. "Ye have our word."

Each man passed by, one by one, nodding at Marcán and glancing back toward Astrid. Only Pádraig hesitated. Marcán wondered if the man was actually considering trying to take her with him. Let him try! To Marcán's great disappointment, Pádraig continued on, disappearing with the rest of the men toward the music.

Alone with Astrid, Marcán felt the weight of her dismissal of the situation. She still had no idea what they had expected—she'd only wanted the attention. Again he cursed Diarmuid for believing he should continue to wait to marry her off. That Marcán wanted her for himself was irrelevant. He was the same as Diarmuid in her mind and wanted nothing to do with him. It was not meant to be.

Watching her stiff back, Marcán knew things had to be said that she didn't want to hear—things he didn't want to say. It was her behavior that had gotten her into this predicament, and if Marcán hadn't arrived so quickly, she might have been ruined.

Marcán pulled at his neck, finally feeling a wash of heat from the nearby pools.

"Astrid. Look at me."

She lifted a hand to her face, wiping her cheek. "I do not want to see ye… ever again."

"Now, Astrid."

"Do not talk to me as if ye have a right to order me around."

"I'll not ask again."

Astrid whirled around, her mouth squeezed tight with anger, her face awash in tears. Marcán struggled against the sight of her frailty and innocence and his duty as the one protecting her.

"Ye have no idea what ye've done," Marcán said.

"What I've done? How dare ye…"

Marcán closed his eyes and stopped listening. Diarmuid was a thousand times a fool. His sister was going to get herself with child, and nothing Marcán could say would make a difference. She wanted to be taken! She begged to be taken! Not out of the carnal need for sex, but for the thrill of being desired.

He opened his eyes, and she slammed her mouth shut.

"Let us sit." He was suddenly done in, and it was a relief to settle onto the ground. Astrid obeyed but kept her distance. "These men would have taken yer maidenhead and given ye no further thought."

Her eyes widened at his bawdy words.

"Not Pádraig!" She all but spat the words at him, her faith in the sly fox that strong.

Marcán scoffed. "Pádraig would have been first betwixt yer legs."

Her quiet gasp surprised him, and he swallowed hard before continuing.

"Ye're a lovely lass, but yer need is for a man to love ye." He didn't dare touch her, despite the heat pouring off her. She kept her eyes on him as he spoke. "I wish only to protect ye from those who would take what is meant for yer husband alone."

Her eyes were unusually bright, as if he held her full attention. "Yer husband is the man who should take ye to his bed and show ye what it is to be loved in all ways until ye are moaning his name in yer release."

Marcán's words were shattering him inside. Little though she knew it, he was revealing his deepest desires, sharing what he wanted with her but would never have.

"I was not taking something away from ye. Never that. I want something more for ye. Ye'd not have known passion with these men. Men don't need passion for release, just a willing lass, and ye send out a sign that ye are willing with every flip of yer hair."

Her expression flashed with anger, but he had to finish, to tell her what she needed to hear. Then he would never say these words to her again, because it was ripping his heart out to imagine her with another.

"Ye need to save yer maidenhead for the man who'll protect ye, even from yerself. The man who will unselfishly put yer needs above his own and come to ye alone for his release. The man who will stay by yer side no matter what. That is the way of our clan, Astrid. Mayhap not all clans care so strongly for their women, but we do."

She continued to watch him a bit longer, the anger slipping from her expression. When she glanced back toward the sound of the music, Marcán's eyes closed ever so slightly, and he finally released the breath he'd been holding.

"I do not see how I can go back in there." She turned a sideways glance at him. "I've been out here alone with ye."

She said the last with such displeasure, he squared his shoulders and stiffened his expression.

"What will they think?" she asked.

"I'll be happy to redden yer bottom as ye deserve." His flat tone left little room for argument. In truth, he'd not be able to punish her, not now. Not when the reality that he must give her up to whoever would become her husband felt like a cold blade piercing the depths of his heart. But she didn't need to know that. Let her wonder if he would carry out the punishment. When her expression turned dubious, he added, "Or I can bring ye to where yer mother is sleeping. Ye could curl up beside her and rest for the night. We're headed back at daybreak."

She smiled up at him, and his breath caught at her loveliness. "With the sheep, I hope?"

He offered a wide grin. "Indeed!"

"Then I will accept yer suggestion. Ye may bring me to my mother."