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

by Kris Tualla

  Sydney hurried around the table and knelt beside Vegard. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes held no color. He blinked and squinted, and batted his hands at the air.

  “Vegard?” Nicolas shouted over Sydney’s shoulder. “Can you talk, man?”

  “They are trying to kill me!” his voice was husky and dry, painful to listen to.

  “Who?”

  “THEM!” His hands fell to the floor. “Where am… It’s you?” He frowned at Sydney. She cradled his head in her lap. “I’m so sorry…” he rasped.

  Sydney rested her fingers against his neck. “His heart is beating way too fast!” She looked up at Sigrid, standing with fingers pressed against her lips, pale blue eyes wide in an even paler face. “Has this happened before?”

  Sigrid shook her head.

  “C-can’t b-breathe,” Vegard’s voice was no more than a strained whisper. Sydney loosened the neck of his shirt as he writhed in panic.

  “Try to relax, Vegard,” Sydney spoke in a calm voice and stroked his hair. “Relax and you will breathe.”

  Vegard gasped and his eyes rolled back. He fell limp for a moment, then gasped again. He opened his eyes and searched for Sigrid, then his gaze went to Nicolas, and then to Sydney.

  “I am sorry…” he wheezed. “I was never man enough…” Another wheeze. “To keep her…” He coughed blood. “From him…”

  Another cough, more blood, and Vegard’s body voided. His sightless eyes gazed at beings no living person could see.

  Sigrid screamed again, swayed and fell. Nicolas caught her, and with Anders’ help, carried her to a bench at the other end of the Hall. Sydney closed Vegard’s eyes. His final words tore at her heart and her shoulders began to shake. A loud sob escaped, though she struggled to contain it. Her breathing was as coarse as the dead man’s had been.

  She felt hands under her arms lift her to her feet and guide her to a chair. A glass was pushed into her hand and lifted to her lips. The akevitt burned her chest and set fire to her stomach; but it made her aware. Tears dripped from her cheeks and left dark spots on her satin gown.

  Loud whispers of ‘poison’ wafted around her, along with speculation as to the kind.

  Henbane?

  More likely deadly nightshade. The berries could have been hidden in the soup.

  Why him?

  Sydney craned her neck and searched for Nicolas. He stood across the room near Sigrid, jaw jutting, hands on his hips. She wiped her cheeks, ineffectually. Look at me.

  Nicolas turned as though he heard her thoughts. He crossed the room quickly and knelt at her side.

  “Min presang? Are you ill?” His critical gaze skimmed her face.

  Sydney shook her head, unable to stop crying. “Please take me to our room, Nicolas.”

  “Yes, of course. Can you walk?”

  She nodded and Nicolas helped her, unsteady but determined, to her feet. “Your gown is ruined, I am afraid.”

  Sydney saw for the first time that Vegard’s blood, piss and shit splotched her skirt. “This is what a life ends up to be?” she whispered.

  Nicolas’s arms surrounded her shoulders and parted a path through the scandal-frenzied crowd. He did not loosen his grip until they were closeted in their room.

  Later that night they made love, with more intensity than they ever had before.

  Chapter Twenty One

  November 28, 1820

  Sydney sat by the fire in her nightdress and dressing gown. She nursed Kirstie only twice a day now, mornings and evenings. After the hysteria of the previous evening, they slept a little later, and her daughter was hungry. Nicolas picked at the breakfast tray, looking for any tidbits he might have missed, then sat at the desk. When she finished, Sydney set Kirstie on the floor and she promptly crawled away.

  “I heard the word ‘poison’ last night,” Sydney finally broached the subject. “Who would want Vegard dead?”

  Nicolas shook his head. “Only Sigrid. But she would never kill him.”

  “Maybe it was not meant for him?”

  “I thought of that.” Nicolas turned to his chart. “Who sat near him?”

  “Let’s see, on the one side was Lady Linnet, and that man who owns the bookstore.”

  “And on the other side were the spinster twins, Ellen and Elisa Fredericksen.” Nicolas watched his daughter crawl toward him.

  “Sigrid was opposite him, between Eirik and Canute.”

  “There are no clues there. I mean, Karl, Espen and I were seated elsewhere.”

  Sydney gasped. A prickle of fear stung her skin. “Do you think someone might want you dead?”

  “The throne is a tempting prize,” he conceded. Kirstie grabbed his leg.

  “Do you believe your life is in danger?” Sydney clutched her dressing gown, eyes wide.

  He paused, frowning. “I didn’t.”

  “And now?”

  Nicolas stared at the floor, his expression unreadable.

  “Nick?” It was almost a sob.

  His eyes rose to meet hers. “Now, I think our game might be more dangerous than we anticipated.”

  Kirstie pulled herself to stand, her chubby fingers grasping the hem of Nicolas’s breeches. Nicolas patted her soft, gold-brown curls. “But that’s a very extreme consideration, Sydney. Perhaps it was simply Vegard’s ill health that took him.”

  Sydney leaned back in her chair, not believing it for a minute. “Perhaps you are right.”

  “He was not well in 1806, remember. And he was most certainly not at all well before last night. Do not stress yourself, min presang. I shall talk to Anders about precautions, though I don’t feel I am in any danger.”

  “Please do, Nicolas.” She leaned forward and speared him with her gaze. “We cannot lose you.”

  Kirstie let go of Nicolas’s leg and stood. Her parents stared at her.

  “Are you going to walk today, liten datter?” Nicolas grinned. Kirstie bounced a little on bent knees, then moved one foot forward.

  Sydney pushed from the chair and hurried over to crouch in front of her daughter. “Come to mamma, little one!” She held out her hands. Kirstie smiled and moved her other foot.

  “Come on, come to mamma.” Sydney wiggled her fingers.

  Kirstie seemed to decide, right then, to walk. She took three more steps and fell, giggling, into Sydney’s arms.

  “Will you look at that!” Nicolas beamed. “See if she will come to me!” He leaned elbows on his knees and held out his hands. Sydney turned Kirstie around and set her on her feet facing him.

  “Come, liten datter, come to your pappa!”

  Kirstie took four steps and grabbed Nicolas’s huge hands. He swept her into the air over his head. “That’s my girl!”

  She chuckled and kicked, fist in her mouth. He set her in his lap and tickled her tummy, causing her to laugh and wiggle.

  Stefan opened the door from his adjacent room. “I’m going to the stable now.”

  “Stefan! Look what Kirstie has learned!” Nicolas set her down and she toddled to Sydney.

  “Good. ‘Bye.”

  Sydney laughed, lifting her delighted daughter. “Well, he was not impressed!”

  December 12, 1820

  Vegard’s funeral had been held just two days after he died. Sigrid wore black, including an obscuring veil, and appeared to dab her nose. Only those very close to her could detect the tiny flask in her handkerchief. By nightfall, her words were badly slurred and she could barely stand. Once her maid helped Sigrid upstairs to her apartment she did not reappear for a week. When she did, her skin was an unhealthy splotch of crimson.

  The sun finally showed itself this early afternoon, swinging low and yellow around the horizon in its short winter’s path. The sky was lavender and orange. Christiania’s snow cover was crusted hard and slick on top, all loose powder blown away.

  Sydney found Nicolas with Stefan and Leif. The boys were riding hunters and learning to take jumps in the corral. She stood next to him and shaded her eyes against
the glare of the weak sun off the icy snow.

  “Why is there a statue of a naked woman in our chamber?” she asked.

  “They came?” Nicolas’s deep blue eyes betrayed his excitement.

  “They?” Sydney’s heart sank. “There is more than one?”

  “A mermaid and a dragon. They are antique bow carvings from Viking ships.”

  “Husband?” One brow lifted. “The question remains.”

  “I bought them.” Nicolas grinned.

  “Why?”

  “Would you accept that they are a first anniversary gift for my beautiful wife?”

  “Not if you expect there to be a second anniversary,” Sydney half-teased.

  “Fair enough!” Nicolas slipped his arm around her waist, his blue eyes dancing. “I wanted them. Trust me, min presang, there is a precise method to my madness.”

  “What are we to do with them?”

  “Nothing for now. Simply enjoy them.”

  Sydney scoffed. “And later?”

  “They go back to Missouri with us. That is, if we do.”

  Sydney rested her hand on Nicolas’s back as she watched their son take jumps on the hunter. “I do trust you not to have lost your mind. Barely.”

  In their room after dinner, Nicolas ran his hands over the rough statues. They stood taller than Sydney and were crafted from the trunks of ancient oaks. Each was too heavy for one man to move by himself. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “These are perfect.”

  “Perfect, are they?” Sydney looked askance at him. “I suppose I should be glad that the only women you pay for these days are old and made of wood!”

  December 6, 1806

  Christiania

  “I love it when a man plays music!” Sigrid breathed, snuggling under Nicolas’s arm.

  In deference to visiting dignitaries from Russia, a feast honoring St. Nicholas had been planned. A tippling Muscovite aristocrat wooed Sigrid aggressively all through dinner, until Nicolas rescued her. They stood outside the Great Hall, in the shadows, and listened to the strains of the fiddles.

  “Do you?” Nicolas looked down at her.

  “Mm-hmm.” Sigrid’s eyes closed and she slid her hand down her throat, over her décolletage and to her waist. Nicolas strongly desired to trace that path with his tongue. “There is something so completely sensual about it,” she murmured.

  “I was thinking about taking up the Hardanger.” For at least half a minute, now.

  Sigrid’s eyes opened and met his. “Why, that would be wonderful! I would adore it if you could play for me!”

  Nicolas warmed deep in his belly. “Then consider it done.”

  “I know a shop where they make the most beautiful fiddles! They are painted and inlaid with mother-of-pearl!” Sigrid grabbed his hands. “I shall take you there tomorrow! It will be my Christmas gift to you!”

  Nicolas shook his head. “You don’t need to buy me a gift!”

  “But I want to! And I will pay for your lessons as well!”

  “Does it mean that much to you?”

  Sigrid smiled a smile that Nicolas recognized well from their experiences in bed. “I would be completely undone watching you, naked as the day you were born, stroking a Hardanger by firelight.”

  “Then I shall learn as quickly as I can!” Nicolas promised. After all, it was not often that a nineteen-year-old lad could impress a married woman of twenty-seven with his skill at seduction.

  Christiania

  December 25, 1820

  Nicolas hefted his bow and pulled it over the strings of his Hardanger fiddle. He was not exactly certain how he came to be in this position; he had never played for anyone outside his family! Even then, it took a substantial amount of coaxing from Sydney before he truly felt comfortable doing so.

  Now he stood in the Great Hall, amidst several musicians, preparing to play for a group of visiting dignitaries from Moscow. His lips twitched at the irony.

  “Do you know O Hellig Natt, O Hellig Barn?” the music master asked.

  “Yes,” Nicolas nodded.

  The master waved his hand and set the beat. On cue, the musicians launched into the song. Nicolas kept up and hoped no one in attendance could actually hear him play.

  When the song ended, Nicolas heaved a relieved sigh and looked for Sydney. She sat on the edge of her chair, beaming at him. He could not help but smile in response.

  I love you, she mouthed.

  He winked at her, suddenly quite pleased to have played.

  ***

  The next morning Sydney snuggled against Nicolas, seeking his warmth. He shifted to accommodate her. The sun was not going to come out today, choosing to hide behind a flurry of white confetti thrown sideways by the wind. That was fine with her. The revelry of the past week had worn her down.

  Christmas in Akershus Castle consisted of endless dinners, balls and hunts. They attended church on Christmas Eve in a stave structure which existed centuries before Martin Luther reformed, and took the children in spite of Anders’ disapproving glare.

  Yesterday, Sydney insisted that Nicolas sit alone with her and the children for an early dinner, even though there was a banquet planned in the Great Hall. They exchanged gifts before tucking Stefan and Kirstie into their beds.

  “You may be a candidate for the throne of Norway,” Sydney told him. “But you are a husband and father first.”

  Now Sydney fingered her new gold cross on its braided chain. She smiled. The gift was perfect. She gave Nicolas a leather-bound book of blank pages. His name was impressed in gold leaf on the front.

  “For your thoughts and memories,” Sydney explained. “Stefan is too young to understand what choices you face, and why you choose as you do. This is a way for you to let him know.”

  “That is very thoughtful, Sydney. I would not have considered it myself. Thank you.”

  Last night after he played his fiddle for her in the Hall, they made love in front of the fire, lying on the rug and wrapped in her fur-lined cloak. Half his body was illuminated in the orange light, the other half disappeared into shadow. His eyes were black with desire. His hair tumbled freely over his shoulders; he looked like a wild Viking and took her with as much urgency.

  Afterward, they lay wrapped in the cloak and whispered to each other, reaffirming their relationship and their path.

  Then he took her again, slowly that time. Coaxing her response, building her pleasure, a lover constructing a pyre intended to flame out, consuming them both with its heat.

  “If you keep touching me, I shall be forced to reciprocate,” Nicolas mumbled as she pressed her chilled thighs behind his.

  “Even after last night?” Sydney kissed his shoulder.

  Nicolas’s answer was to pull her hand around to his groin. “What do you think, wife?”

  A quick knock on the door and the entrance of Tomas and Haldis halted their play. The breakfast tray smelled wonderful and Sydney’s stomach growled, rumbling against his back.

  Nicolas chuckled. “If it’s not one appetite, it’s another, eh?”

  She stayed under the warm covers to put on her cold dressing gown, then pulled back the bed curtains. The clock chimed nine.

  “We slept late today.” She slid her feet into the slippers by the bed.

  “The whole castle has. It must be the weather.” Haldis picked the cloak off the floor and hung it in the wardrobe without comment.

  Nicolas and Sydney sat down to breakfast while Haldis straightened the bed and the room, and Tomas prepared to shave Nicolas.

  “What is on the agenda for today?” Nicolas asked.

  “Only dinner tonight at eight, sir.” Tomas stropped the razor. A hesitant knock drew their attention. Haldis answered the door.

  Agnes bobbed her head in apology. “I beg your pardon, Miss. No one answered the front door.”

  “Lady?” Haldis turned to Sydney.

  “Yes, I shall dress and be right there.”

  “Very good.” Agnes backed away.

  Hal
dis closed the bedroom door. “The gray wool, as usual?” She moved to the wardrobe.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Nicolas watched her, his expression carefully blank. His pressed lips made a colorless crease in his face; his eyes were dark under a lowered brow.

  Sydney followed Agnes through the snow-muffled streets of Christiania, their sabots silent in the flurry. Flakes stung her cheeks. She held the fur-lined cloak closed with one hand, her leather bag against her body with the other.

  “How far?” she called to Agnes.

  “About half a mile.” The words floated back between gray stone buildings.

  Sydney pulled her toque over her ears. The cold here was different than Missouri; it seeped into everything, relentless and grasping. The sun stayed so low on the horizon, that her appearance was wispy and hazy. Sydney could not remember the last truly blue sky she had seen.

  Agnes turned down an alley and knocked on a door. A young boy cracked the door open.

  “Yes?”

  “We are here for your mother.” Agnes pushed on the door.

  The boy stepped back. He looked Sydney up and down, slammed the door behind them and dropped the crossbar. “She’s upstairs.”

  Sydney left her sabots by the door and climbed the wooden staircase to a small landing. One of the two doors was closed, through the other she saw an assortment of children huddled on a bed. She knocked on the closed door.

  Ingrid answered. “Oh, good! I was afraid the weather might hinder you.”

  Sydney stepped in and shrugged off her cloak. “Is she close?”

  “I believe so. Go on and check her, and tell me what you think.”

  Sydney rinsed her hands and approached the woman groaning on the narrow bed. “Good day, Madam. My name is Sydney. I will check your baby.” She ran her fingers over the woman’s legs. “Is that acceptable, Ma’am?”

  The woman grunted.

  Sydney held her breath against the scent of unwashed cunnus as she pushed the woman’s knees apart. In the castle, few bathed in the winter; in a household like this one it was even less likely. She slid her fingers inside and felt the baby’s head, it should enter the birth canal with her next pain.