There he stood; a monument of beauty and power, sturdy as the ground beneath him. He had long blond hair, a well groomed beard, and skin darkened from the sun. His hands showed scars and calluses from years of hard work, yet his clothes presented a different story, one of wealth and importance. His tunic was made of the finest wool, a lovely shade of cerulean with a tablet-woven braid around the neckline and hem, which came to rest at his knees. His legs were bare, save for his calves wrapped in the soft cow-hide of his boots. His eyes revealed a sense of maturity and intrigue, yet even the darkness could not hide their color for they were as blue as the ocean he sailed. Before her stood a being that only one word could suitably describe.
“Lochlannach,” she breathed.
“Lochlannach, aye? I like the sound of that. It means lake dweller does it not?”
She remained quiet.
“‘Tis a good name,” he said, sitting down. “Better than the ones I have been called before. You needn’t fear me, this I swear. I know that my word means naught to you. But I assure you, I will not harm you.” He then took his dagger, still within its sheath, and tossed it to her.
She was surprised to find her hands tied together as the blade hit her lap, for she was far too engrossed with her captor to have realized it. The knife’s hilt was intricately adorned with silver and gold, as was its sheath, and it was quite a substantial piece of weaponry for a barbarian to own.
No doubt stolen.
“Cut yourself free,” he stated, “But, I would not run away if I were you. You are about a day’s distance from home and your knowledge of tracking landmarks will not help you under this night sky as the clouds are moving in quickly. Getting lost would be the least of your worries for there are others who search for you, and although their determination may very well match my own, they are truly without care of gentlemanly conduct or your well-being. And as much trouble as I have gone through to keep you from these men, I cannot say for certain whether I would have the might to do it again.”
His words were a heavy warning roped with a little strand of humor, like the gentle twine that held her to the tree. She picked up the dagger and began to run the blade carefully across the rope, slowly shredding its binding, until it gave way and fell into the folds of her gown. Aggravated with her circumstances, she threw the rope into the fire, watching it twist and ravel from the heat. And just like the rope that diminished as it burned, so did her hopes for escape.
As a king’s daughter, she was sure he would use her to get what he wanted, and feared just how far he would go. For that reason, she placed the dagger at her side slightly under her gown, just in case his gentlemanly conduct warranted drastic measures.
“We have traveled all day. You must be hungry.” He pointed to the meat left on the spit. “Go ahead. I have already eaten.”
She grabbed the skewer, devouring the meat quickly. She had no idea how hungry she was until she tasted the roasted hare. It was still warm, and amazingly, the primitive meal was the best she had ever eaten. Within minutes, the meat was gone and she wiped her mouth of any charred residue, only slightly embarrassed in eating so voraciously.
“Thirsty?” he asked, reaching for his drinking pouch. He seemed to give thought to throwing it to her, but changed his mind. “May I bring it to you?”
The thought spun in her head like a storm. As much as she wanted him to keep his distance, he did not overlook her fear as something trifling, and actually asked for her consent before meandering through it. She swallowed her fear and relinquished a nervous nod, for she was exceedingly parched.
Dægan slowly arose from his side of the fire and approached her, keeping enough space between them as he sat beside her. “Here,” he said, holding the pouch in front of her. “Drink it all if you like. I have more.”
She accepted it and drank just as quickly as she had eaten.
“How is your head?”
Mara flinched at the approach of his hand, but he stopped short. “Your head…you fell from your horse. Remember?”
She touched where he was pointing and winced. “Where is my horse?”
“’Twould appear that it gave us a much needed diversion to keep the men, who were after you, busy in the forest. I am certain they have probably secured it back at the river by now. I would have. No sense in letting a perfectly good mount go astray.”
“Then why did you?” she snapped.
Dægan’s lips crept into smile. “Because I took a beating in its stead.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “I should warn you, a broken nose, reminiscent of the one you already have, hurts much worse the third time around.”
“Ah, so I do have black eyes. I was wondering if you left any marks on me.”
She frowned. “You speak as though you enjoyed it.”
“Perhaps,” he said, squeezing his nose gently between his thumb and fingers, which evidently brought a sudden pang between his eyes. “Perhaps not.”
“Who were those men?”
“I know not,” Dægan stated with a shrug. “Their presence was as much a surprise to me as it was to you. But if you would have listened to me, they would never have known we were there in the first place, nor would you have that nasty bump on your head.”
“So, this is entirely my fault?”
Dægan’s brows kindly lifted. “I know the means by which I saved you from those men was not as noble as you would have liked, but nonetheless, you have been saved.”
“And I suppose you want compensation from my father worth its weight in silver, aye?”
“I want naught from him. Mayhap a bit of gratitude from you would suffice. Need I remind you, if not for my timely presence, you would be a whore for those men on the Shannon. Who knows how many would have had you by now. The way I see it, you are indebted to me for saving your life, not to mention your precious maidenhead.”
She gasped at his arrogance, but could only counter his rude boasts with a gaping mouth and a tied tongue.
Dægan lifted his finger to her chin and closed her mouth for her. “My apologies, my lady. Perhaps, we can start over. Say with introductions?”
She hardened to stone and crossed her arms. “I see not how knowing your name will help you any.”
“Very well. Then let us begin with yours.”
She turned back to glare at him but his head was tilted benevolently to one side and his eyes were caring and honest, as though he were truly interested in her, and only her. His hair had fallen off his shoulder and several small braids adorned with silver clips flashed in the firelight. They were minute, but incredibly detailed with illustrious designs.
Despite his unmistakably Norse features and what she had been taught to believe, he was well groomed and clean. Quite frankly, he was the most beautiful thing she had ever laid eyes on. He was not at all what she thought the Fionnghaill should look like, or act like for that matter, and she assumed that outlandish lies and exaggerated stories existed only because no one had dared to get close enough. By her own understanding, he was surely more than a savage…but no less than a man, who only inquired of her name.
Finally she gave in, for names were harmless enough. “Mara. My name is Mara.”
Dægan smiled at the name given to him, and boldly brushing back a lock of her hair. “Are you hurt anywhere else—Lady Mara?”
“Nay.”
“Are you certain?” he asked again, this time looking into her eyes for evidence of a wandering mind. “You took quite a fall.”
“I am fine,” Mara insisted. “‘Tis not been the first.”
“Do you always make a habit of falling from your horse?”
Mara’s mouth naturally curled into a smile, but she forced it away as quickly as it appeared.
“Ah, you find me funny,” Dægan pointed out.
“I find you odd and unfounded. Nothing more.”
“Perhaps I would be less of those things if you knew my name.”
Mara said nothing. Although she was remotely curious, she did not want to give him the satisfaction of thinking that she cared. So she turned away from the draw of his beautiful eyes, and just as she expected, he offered it all the same.
“I am Dægan of Hladir, son of Rælik.”
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