Erinsong by Mia Marlowe Page B

under her hem and retrieve the coveted trophy, but the murderous look in Jorand’s eye backed the youth up against
the line of his companions.
    “They mean no harm. Ye must
give them me garters,” Brenna whispered, turning her back to him
and lifting her hem high enough to bare the delicate bands of blue
tied in neat bows at the back of her knees. “Untie them and toss them to the lads.”
    Jorand knelt and tugged the ribbons free, his
thumb brushing the crevice behind her knee. A shiver tingled up her
thigh and Brenna thought her legs might buckle on the spot.
    Her husband tossed the
garters to the waiting crowd and was
roundly cheered for his generosity.
    ‘ Tis nearly
time. The realization spread
panic through her veins. Brenna swayed on
her feet.
    “Are you well?” Jorand put an arm around her
waist to steady her.
    “Oh, aye,” she answered,
willing the shiver in her soul not to work its way out to her
muscles. “‘Tis only now I cannot keep me
stockings up.”
    “Then we’ll have to remedy that by taking
them off,” Jorand said with a smile. Before she could protest, he
scooped her off her feet and carried her toward the round hut that
had been prepared for their use.
    The bridal pair was hailed
all around, and a small procession of well-wishers dogged them on
their way. Lewd suggestions and offers of
lascivious assis tance were shouted after
them good-naturedly.
    “If you would truly help a
man in desperate straits, then open the door,” Jorand bellowed.
“As you can see, I’ve quite a handful
here.”
    Approving laughter erupted
from the crowd and Padraigh scurried to
swing the portal wide.
    “I’m in your debt,” Jorand
said to him as he carried Brenna into the
waiting darkness. “See that you shut it
behind us, friend.”
    Padraigh winked broadly and did as he was
bid.
     
     

Chapter Fourteen
     
     
    Once they were inside the wedding bower,
Jorand stood holding her in his arms as if she were light as
thistledown. Brenna scarcely breathed. He moved to kiss her but she
turned her face away.
    “Ye can put me down now.”
    He lowered Brenna to her feet and turned back
to slide the heavy brace on the door. The noise of feasting went
on beyond the opening, but it was muffled. The riot of merrymakers,
her dear family, the priest who’d said the blessing over them—they
were all shut off from her and she was alone with her handsome sea
warrior, her Keefe Murphy.
    Man and wife.
    The short months since she’d found her
Northman on the beach whirred through Brenna’s mind in a blink.
From hated stranger to wedded husband in less than the turning of a
season. How was it possible it could have come to this?
    Her gut churned with nervousness.
    It was one thing to imagine being a wife.
Even the ceremony had a hazy, dreamlike quality, as though it had
happened to someone else, not to Brenna herself. Now reality
crashed into her with no mercy at all. Why had she ever agreed to
such an arrangement? Brenna could hear the pounding of her own
heart.
    Her gaze slid around the room as she fought
off a rising panic. A small blaze danced in the central pit, an
aromatic fire of freshly hewn pine. Smoke rose in undulating
ribbons and disappeared through the hole in the roof. A swath of
silver light from the half moon shafted in the same opening,
illuminating a bed on the far side of the fire. Her bridal bed. She
turned away quickly.
    “Ye needn’t have carried me, ye know,” Brenna
said. “I could easily have walked.”
    “No, that would never do.” Jorand shook his
head. “Do you not know it’s bad luck for a bride to trip on the
threshold? But if a bride is carried over, she has no chance to
misstep.”
    “ Tis a custom I’ve never heard.”
    “Hmm, must be one from my people.”
    “Mayhap ye know it because ye’ve carried a
wife over your threshold before. Have ye remembered aught?”
    He frowned and looked down, as if searching
for a fresh memory. “No, Brenna. There’s nothing more.” A