A Prince of Norway: Nicolas & Sydney: Book 2 (The Hansen Series - Nicolas & Sydney)

by Kris Tualla

  Sydney gagged and shook her head slightly. “Tea,” she whispered.

  Worried, Nicolas summoned Maribeth and turned Sydney over to the maid’s care. He paced the ship and waited for Sydney to feel well enough to talk to him. He hadn’t ever seen a woman in such pain and looking so ill who wasn’t in danger of dying. Unable to withstand it any longer, he went below deck to find out for himself. After a soft knock, he let himself into the cabin.

  “Min presang?”

  Sydney had a wet cloth over her eyes, but she flopped a hand in his direction. He closed the cabin door and pulled the tiny chair next to the bed. A bloody rag on the floor suddenly made sense to him. He had been married before; he knew of such things. It just caught him by surprise.

  “Is it your course?” he asked quietly.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Intense relief they had not made another child tingled down Nicolas’ spine and circled to his belly. He wasn’t even aware it had been on his mind, but now he realized the fear had never left him. Pulling a deep sigh, he tried to look concerned, not happy.

  “Is it always like this for you?” he asked, stroking her arm.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  His elderly housekeeper, Addie, did indeed know what she was talking about. She told him that Sydney experienced a cycle soon after he found her—contrary to Lily Atherton’s accusations about the timing of Sydney’s pregnancy. Understanding flitted through Nicolas’s mind and prompted an uncharitable ødelagt liten bitch. Now that he knew what it was like for her, these symptoms were unmistakable.

  “So every month you’ll have it like this?” he probed.

  “Uh-uh.” The shake of her head was almost imperceptible. “My cycle is never regular. Only five or six times a year.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Nicolas commented. Fewer chances for another baby.

  “I do…”

  Embarrassed at her misinterpretation of his words, Nicolas grimaced.

  “…but that’s probably why I only conceived twice in eleven years with Devin.”

  His complacence disappeared. Sydney conceived Kirstie the one and only time they lay together before their daughter was born. “You and I—”

  “Were unlucky.” Sydney lifted the cloth and looked at Nicolas with one gray-green orb. Her skin was pale. Purple circled under the eye he could see. “Or, as it turned out, quite blessed.”

  Nicolas brushed his lips over hers. “Do you ever feel like someone else was in control?” he whispered.

  She dropped the cloth back in place. “All the time.”

  Sydney took her meals in bed that day and did not hold any lessons. She got out of bed for lunch the next day and by the afternoon was feeling well enough to help Maribeth with the additional laundry. Buckets of seawater were hauled onboard and the women scrubbed the diapers and menstrual cloths by hand. They rinsed them in a second bucket of seawater, and hung everything on a line to dry. As thanks to the crew for stringing the line and hauling the water, the women washed a few items for them as well.

  Nicolas asked Sydney to take a walk with him that night. Iridescent foam from the ship’s wake glowed pale blue-green in the bright August moonlight. Flat-topped thunderclouds towered over the southern horizon. Outlined in silver by the moon, their internal lightning glowed in bursts of orange and pink.

  Sydney leaned back against Nicolas’s chest and he held her there. “How amazingly beautiful!” she murmured. “I’ve never seen such a sight.”

  Nicolas rested his chin on her hair, his arms looped under her breasts. His pulse began to race as he considered what he wanted—needed—to say to her. He couldn’t imagine her being pleased with him. He felt like a complete ass, but there was no help for it. The likelihood must be addressed.

  “What’s on your mind, husband?”

  Her words surprised him. He hadn’t quite gotten up his grit just yet. “How did you know?” he stalled.

  Sydney pressed against him. “While you’re a romantic man, your romance usually requires a locked door, not an open deck. Not that I’m complaining, mind you! I’m very well satisfied with your romancing.”

  Nicolas kissed the top of her head in response and corralled his courage.

  “So what is it, Nicolas?”

  He pulled a deep breath, and then his words came out in a rush. “Children. Babies, rather. I don’t want you to have any more.”

  There. He said it. His feelings were sharp as crystal and he wondered if they cut her.

  “I know,” Sydney whispered. She was very still.

  Nicolas’s arms tightened around her and he leaned down, pressing his cheek against hers. He couldn’t read her cryptic reply, but he made an assumption. “Are you very angry with me?”

  She paused. “No.”

  His brow rippled. He expected a different answer. “Are you sad?”

  “Yes.” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the heel of her hand. “Kirstie is such a beautiful child.”

  “She is that,” Nicolas conceded softly. “I’m so sorry, min presang. But you understand my fears. I can’t lose you and continue to live.”

  Sydney jerked a small nod, her tear-dampened cheek slippery against his. They were silent a while. The swish and slap of the ship’s wake filled Nicolas’s awareness. He wished he could feel differently. He wished his first wife hadn’t died birthing Stefan and his stillborn twin. He wished he might fill Sydney’s belly with a houseful of children, if that’s what she wished.

  But the very idea caused his heart to pummel his ribs, his skin to sheen with sweat, and pinpoints of light to dance in his vision.

  Sydney’s soft voice pulled him back to the ship’s deck. “Truthfully, we may not need to be concerned.”

  “Oh? Why? Because of your past difficulties?” he posited, relieved but curious.

  “Well, there’s that,” Sydney conceded. “And your injury.”

  Nicolas inhaled quickly. The possibility hadn’t ever occurred to him. He assumed that because he was able to perform sexually that all else was in order. He felt Sydney’s damp cheek warming against his.

  “I’m not sure of this, Nicolas, but it seems that your… emission… is different now than it was a year ago. It’s thinner in consistency. And there’s less of it.”

  Nicolas stood stunned. Could it be? Might that brutal kick to his groin last January actually be a blessing? He was painfully swollen for a fortnight, and it was longer than that before he experienced an erection. Nicolas contemplated the odds, finding the idea unexpectedly pleasant.

  He whispered, “I hope you’re right, min presang. Because bedding you is one of the greatest pleasures of my life.”

  Sydney turned in his arms, quirking a brow. “One?”

  Thoroughly relieved, Nicolas smiled broadly at her teasing. “My life is full of pleasures since you fell into it. That one does happen to be my favorite, however.”

  “That’s a very diplomatic answer, husband.” Sydney lifted her chin. Moonlight caught in her eyes and sparkled them with lightning of a different sort. “Perhaps you should consider politics after all.”

  Chapter Seven

  August 2, 1820

  London

  A surge of rare English sunshine invaded the room.

  “Must you do that?” Sydney moaned. She rolled over and pulled a pillow over her face. Her muffled voice escaped from under it. “Kirstie was up twice last night! And your lusty actions have worn me out.”

  Nicolas laughed and abandoned the window to bounce back into bed, dislodging her makeshift blinder. “Do you know what a temptation you are? To be able to share your bed all night for the first time in nearly five weeks?” His hands explored under the bedclothes, searching for her. “I can’t get enough of you!”

  She threw the pillow aside. “Husband! You don’t intend to—”

  “And why not?”

  “I shan’t be able to walk!” she protested.

  Kirstie whimpered in her cradle and lifted her head, changing the course of the early morning. Wi
th a half-serious moan, Sydney surfaced from under the bedclothes. It was time to begin their first full day in London.

  “There are so many people here,” she marveled later as the Hansen party strolled across the crowded Tower Bridge while Londoners in all manner of dress flowed around them.

  Sydney pointed at a multi-turreted stone fortress. “What’s that?”

  “That is the Tower of London,” Nicolas informed.

  Maribeth spoke up. “William the Conqueror started it in 1066.”

  “Really?” Sydney was surprised by the quiet maid’s interjection. She turned to Nicolas. “That’s over seven hundred years ago!”

  “And every English monarch has had their coronation at Westminster Abbey since William in 1066.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Even crazy King George whom we rebelled against. By the by, did you know that his youngest sister, Caroline Mathilda, was married to Norway and Denmark’s also insane Christian the seventh?”

  “Who was king when you were in Norway?”

  “The insane Christian the seventh. I left in 1807, and he died in 1808.”

  “You must tell me more about that sometime,” Sydney stated. “In case that information becomes important once we’re there.”

  “I will.” Nicolas grinned. “Of course, King William the Conqueror was of Norwegian descent.”

  Sydney’s look was skeptical. “And how is that?

  “It’s God’s truth!” Nicolas lifted Stefan and pointed at the castle. “William was Norman, or ‘Norseman.’ Vikings settled in the north of France. The area was called Normandy as a result.”

  Sydney shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything so old.”

  “I’m hungry, Pappa.” Stefan tugged at his hand. “Can we have lunch?”

  “I believe that’s a fine idea!” Nicolas looked around. “How about that tavern over there? Next to the bookstore?”

  “Ooh! A bookstore! Might we stop there after we eat?” Sydney shifted Kirstie on her hip.

  “Let’s do. Maribeth, might you enjoy a book as well?” Nicolas asked. “It appears you have finished reading your others.”

  A shy smile spread across her face. “Ja herr. Jeg ville like det.” Yes, sir. I would like that.

  Nicolas threw his head back and laughed. “Godt gjort! Well done!”

  Sydney wandered through the aisles of books and inhaled the

  essences of ink, leather and paper. She selected two books for Stefan, then found Nicolas in a section of newly printed books.

  “Look at this.” He held out a book. “It’s called the ‘Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.’ And the author is Washington Irving, an American. Seems to be a collection of essays.”

  “Will you buy it?”

  “Yes, I believe so.” Nicolas looked up from the book. “Have you found aught?”

  Sydney shrugged. “I don’t know. Have you any suggestions?”

  One corner of Nicolas’s mouth lifted. “Are there any romantic novels?”

  Sydney laughed. “I’ll see.”

  Maribeth selected two books about Norway. She counted out coins in the palm of her hand and accepted the wrapped package with a beatific smile. Sydney nudged Nicolas.

  “We did a good thing, bringing her.”

  “That we did,” Nicolas agreed. “She is truly blossoming.”

  ***

  The ship to Christiania was very much like the ship to London, and so were the sleeping arrangements. After nursing Kirstie the first night, Sydney lay abed and listened to Nicolas. He wasn’t breathing like a man asleep, and there was no hint of a snore.

  “Are you awake?” she whispered.

  Nicolas answered in kind. “I am.”

  She slid off the bunk and joined him on the floor. She curled against him and rested her head on his shoulder. “What’s weighing so heavily on your mind?”

  Nicolas sighed and stretched as far as he could. He turned toward the tiny porthole. Moonlight haloed his strong, Nordic profile. “When I was at the dock this morning seeing to our passage, an argument occurred. A dandy shot a longshoreman and didn’t appear to care. As though the man’s life meant nothing.”

  Sydney shuddered. “Oh.”

  “Taking a human life is…” Nicolas drew a shaky breath. “Well, it must never be taken lightly.”

  Sydney laid her hand against Nicolas’s cheek. “How many men have you killed?” She felt his jaw tense. “I know of Edward, and you were right to act the way you did.”

  Nicolas nodded, then swallowed. Sydney felt his throat work as though it were too dry to complete the task.

  “Three,” he rasped. “The first one happened in Christiania. You may hear of it, so it’s best I tell you now.” Nicolas pushed himself to sitting on the mattress, so Sydney sat up as well. His eyes were black in the dim light.

  “When I went to Norway, I had need to learn sword fighting, so I was trained by Christian’s best swordsman. It was difficult, but I worked hard at it. And I did well.

  “This swordsman, his name was Einar Borgsen, had a wife by the name of Disa. She watched us train on the odd occasion, but I didn’t think anything of it. Then one day, Einar came to me in such a fury as I’d never seen. He was shouting at me, and Disa was crying and screaming at him.

  “It was hard for me to follow their Norse because they were arguing with each other, but Einar said something to the effect of, ‘You fucking cuckhold, I’ll cut off your cock and then cut out your heart’!”

  Sydney’s jaw dropped. “Nicolas! Were you?”

  “No! Later I discovered that Disa kept a diary where she wrote out imaginary scenarios. She apparently liked to describe various sexual acts, in great detail, and had chosen me as one of her characters.”

  “And Einar found the diary, I’m guessing.”

  “That he did. And no amount of denial or explanation could sway his misguided conviction that I was performing a very impressive array of nearly impossible conjugal acts with his wife.”

  “Oh, Nicolas. What happened?”

  “He went after me with the sword. At first I only defended myself while I tried to figure out what was happening. I knew he thought I was bedding his wife, but I didn’t know why! I just kept telling him that I was not. And Disa kept telling him I was not.

  “With all the shouting, it didn’t take long for a crowd to gather. Einar was berserk! He kept after me.” Nicolas ran his hand through his hair. “He laid open my cheek.”

  “That’s where the scar came from,” she whispered.

  “Finally, he yelled at me to ‘stop being such a coward!’ and was I ‘no more than a weak American fop?’ Then he cut me—” Nicolas touched the scar over his heart, “—and I knew he would kill me if I let him. I fought in earnest then. In a couple of strokes I got him in the neck. He bled to death.”

  Nicolas turned to the tiny window again. “I sat down hard on the ground. My arm was shaking and burning. And I started to cry.”

  He faced Sydney, then. Embarrassment sunk his cheeks and twisted his brow. “Imagine that? Here I was this tall, strong, bearded buck, blubbering on the ground like a child. I couldn’t stop for a very long time.”

  Nicolas looked down and pleated the blanket between his fingers. “I didn’t go to dinner that night. I sent word to Sigrid that I was in my room. As I hoped, she came to me. I was so hard, I hurt.”

  Straighten the blanket, and pleat it again. “I used her violently that night. I don’t know why it was like that, but Gunnar told me about war and battles and the need to fuck afterwards.”

  Nicolas lifted his eyes to Sydney. “I’m sorry about the language, but the act in that case has nothing to do with love. It’s not at all gentle and is very one-sided.”

  Sydney touched his cheek, tracing the scar. “That explains why whores do such good business around battlefields.”

  One side of Nicolas’s mouth curved up. “That it does.”

  “I assume you were not held responsible for Einar’s
death?”

  “No. There were enough witnesses to uphold the fact that I tried not to hurt him, and then acted in my own defense when he pressed.”

  “What happened to Disa?”

  Sydney watched his brow twitch. “I don’t know.”

  “Thank you for telling me, Nicolas.”

  Nicolas nodded. “As I said, you may hear of it.”

  “Was the other in Christiania as well?”

  Nicolas shook his head. “I prefer not to talk about it.” He slid down and patted the mattress. “Come warm me. I need you.”

  ***

  The wind on this trip was colder and blew harder. As they drew closer to Norway, a change came over Nicolas. He seemed to stand taller, hold his head higher. He was more formal with the crew on this ship than he had been on the crossing. And in turn, they were more respectful of him. They called him ‘sir’ all the time, and one surprised deck hand even titled him ‘your lordship.’ Nicolas merely smiled and didn’t bother to correct him.

  “Mamma?”

  Sydney was tucking Stefan into bed. “Yes?”

  “Is Pappa a king?”

  Sydney started; Nicolas had resolved not to tell Stefan the true nature of their journey. He believed them to be walking into a politically charged situation and didn’t want Stefan inadvertently used as a pawn. If he knew nothing, he was of no help to any side.

  “Why do you ask me that?”

  Stefan shrugged. “He looks like a king.”

  Sydney smiled. “That he does.”

  “Is he, Mamma?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  Stefan thought a minute. “I bet he could be. If he wanted.”

  You are more right than you know, little man. Sydney pushed back the perpetual auburn tangle and kissed her stepson on his forehead. “Go to sleep now.”

  Once the children were settled, Sydney ferreted out a bottle of wine and two glasses. She found Nicolas on the deck, reading his new book by lamplight.

  “Is it a good book?” She handed Nicolas the bottle of wine.

  His inquisitive look was tempered by a crooked grin. “Yes it is.”