Book One of the Emerald Isle Trilogy
by Renee Vincent
Coming in August from Turquoise Morning Press
Mara, the daughter of an Irish clansman, was raised to believe the men of the North are heathens - murderous pagans without a moral bone in their bodies. Despite warnings of the Northmen's raids, and the growing threat of another incursion, Mara is continually drawn to her favorite place - the River Shannon. Dægan Ræliksen, a wealthy chieftain from Norway's frozen fjords, secretly discovers Mara at the water's edge. He is charmed by her beauty and sensuous grace. As the days pass, his contentment with simply watching her grows thin. He can no longer deny his unabated desire for the young maiden. His search for a wife has ended. However, Mara and Dægan come face-to-face in a time when Ireland is in turmoil - when every Irishman is being called up to fight against the Nordic foreigners. In these times of upheaval, how can Dægan make peace with Mara's father and acquire the woman he treasures? Furthermore, can Mara move past her fears and find the noble man within the savage?
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Chapter OneConnacht, Ireland 916 AD
I shall marry this woman, Dægan Ræliksen decided. It had been over a fortnight since he first followed her through the green meadows to the waters of the River Shannon, watching her intently. Observing her seemed to give him great pleasure, and every day he would anticipate her arrival, secretly longing to hold her in his arms. Only lately did he grow impatient with his desire for her that this day, he settled on, would finally be the day he’d put his suffering to an end and make her his wife.
She stood amid the knee-high grasses and flowers in a long white flowing tunic, hemmed with an embroidery of vibrant gold at the ankles and wrists. The sleeves were long and tapered. The bodice mildly followed the curves of her dainty torso, blooming into a tasteful neckline that allowed just a slight hint of cleavage to show before a single jeweled brooch, under her chin, fastened a matching cloak at her shoulders.
In days passed, her tunics included colors of deep crimson, indigo, and sometimes an earthy beige, but today’s choice, he noted, was his favorite. She embodied the very likeness of a beautiful Valkyrie, save for her lack of weapons and fair hair. Her color was distinctly dark with shades of auburn glistening like radiant sunlight upon long russet curls. Her skin was smooth like fresh buttermilk and her smile, like a cool drink of water. She stood no taller than his shoulders, but she easily filled the empty space in his heart, if not the entire expanse of his mind for the past weeks.
By her attire, Dægan could only guess her to be an Irish maiden of wealthy descent. This, too, excited him, for in contrast to her befitting nature, she was rugged and spirited, riding her stallion as well as any of his mounted hirdmen to this specific place every day, yet still looking elegant upon it.
In the long hours that she had spent alone, no man had ever summoned or demanded her presence. He found this quite odd, for she was old enough for bedding and young enough for bearing solid, healthy sons. She came and went as she pleased, heedless to the fact that she was the object of another’s longing. Instead, she would often sing, tickling his heart with her exuberant voice, an Irish ballad that danced in his soul.
He was unexpectedly mesmerized by her, chained to the very thought that she could be all his if he only dared to make his presence known. That, in itself, would prove to be the most difficult, for he dreaded that his countrymen’s reputation as savage foreigners would precede any valiant attempt at meeting civilly. He was a handsome man with a persuasive charm, or at least he was told so by other women who had fancied him. Yet he knew an effective come hither approach would not be enough to swoon the innocent soul before him.
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