Branded By Etain Read Online Free Page A

revealed the swells of her plumped breasts, and the way her chest rose and fell mesmerized him. She kept sliding sidewise peeks at him. Her dainty nostrils flared when she caught him staring.
    As each female picked her mate, the multitudes packing the chamber grew rowdier with catcalls, shouted hurrahs, and loud whistles. Brand’s patience thinned as the evening progressed. Images of Étaín naked, her gold curls strewn on dark furs, creamy flesh glistening in the flames of dozens of torches, mouth swollen and ruby-red from his kisses, danced in his head.
    He, warrior trained to avoid distraction from a boy of four summers, could not see, hear, or feel any but her.
    To his surprise, Étaín gave him concise backgrounds on those at the high table. Though she thrummed with excitement and rocked from one foot to the other, his new wife described each female participating in the rite and her chosen mate in a low, composed, musical voice.
    Halfway through the line of females below the dais, he recognized from the slight nuances in her tone those women she counted as friends and those mates who did not meet with her approval. He memorized the names and faces of any who gave her pause.
    When her thumb absently stroked the heel of his palm, a red haze of lust blazed across his groin. He shook his head, but the violent action did naught to banish the lewd visions fueling an unbearable stiffening of his cock.
    Nikolas, standing to the left and behind them, cleared his throat and murmured in their particular Norse dialect, “That one is none too pleased at her choice.”
    The warning inherent in his brother’s voice vaulted Brand back to battle attention. He studied the man, Irvin, who Étaín had described as a distant relative. Irvin conversed with the king in short bursts. He appeared angry and several times jutted his head in their direction.
    Brand estimated Irvin to be a score and five summers. He had the height and build of a Norseman, and his powerful forearms and wide shoulders spoke of daily swordplay.
    “It matters not what Irvin says. ’Tis my right to choose and none can deny me, not even Da.”
    Startled, Brand swept Étaín a hard glance. “How come you to speak our dialect?”
    A dusky rose stained the elegant line of her cheekbones.
    Were her nipples the same color? Would they darken to a delicious cherry after he had suckled them long and hard?
    “Does it displease you, my lord? I seek only to learn your ways and believed ’twould be beneficial if I understood your tongue.”
    She would learn his tongue this night, for he intended to lick her from tiny toes to arched brows. By Loki’s mischief, she distracted him.
    He abruptly released her hand, hooked a thumb on his sword belt, and forced his thoughts to the matter at hand. “Who taught you our dialect?”
    “A monk who traveled your lands.” She stared at the stone floor and he knew her answer to be deceitful.
    The trumpets sounded shrill and piercing, signifying the end of The Choosing.
    Brand worked his jaw to loosen the sudden tension tightening his muscles. Somewhat was amiss. His nape prickled.
    “I feel it too,” Nikolas muttered, speaking now in Farsi. “I will scout the keep during the feast. Your new father by marriage bids you approach the high table.”
    Brand hastily focused on King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh and choked back a curse. The monarch’s scowl shouted contained fury. How had he offended the man?
    Setting his palm to Étaín’s elbow, Brand urged her forward, threading a careful path between the benches. He hooded his eyes and scrutinized the king.
    The monarch stood mayhap a half a head shorter than Brand, had a broad forehead, sparse wisps of gray hair, a hooked nose, thin lips, and a line of blue etchings in the hollow of one cheek.
    The folds in the king’s neck belied the youthful firmness of the ruddy skin covering his face. He had seen at least two score and ten summers.
    Brand had gained a history of the family and the