by Jianne Carlo
“Aye.” Gæierla clapped her hands. “Make it storm, god Thor.”
Catriona had never seen men retreat so fast.
One moment Njal and Ruard were there, the next gone. Gæierla had fair bamboozled both men with her demands for thunder. The sprite collapsed into sleep ere the men left, curling up on a pallet in Helene’s chamber.
“She is safe now, Catriona.” Helene tucked a plush bed fur around Gæierla’s shoulders and feet.
She kissed her sleeping sister’s cheek.
“Methinks she is unaffected by her imprisonment.”
“Aye. Gæierla’s spirit is undaunted. I warrant she had Ulfric’s men dancing to her every whim.” Helene squeezed Catriona’s shoulder. “And I give you any odds she will have Ruard and Njal wrapped around her tiny fingers within a senninght.”
“For cert.” Catriona shook her head. “My wee sprite can command warriors and lords with the mere flutter of her lashes. I fear she will pester the hair off Ruard’s head for she truly believes he is her Thor.”
“Aye, but methinks she is also smitten with Njal the Peacemaker. His name falls oft from her lips and she seems well on her way to composing a scald’s tale of the treaty he negotiated in the Norse lands.” Helene drew the wooden shutters closed.
“She should sleep in my chamber.” Catriona could not stop inpecting her little sister and checking for any sign of illness or weakness. “I am loathe to leave her.”
“For shame, Catriona. Your Ruard deserves your attentions this eve. For ’twas his command that rescued Gæierla, his sword that cleaved Ulfric.”
“Aye.” Her thoughts raced to other matters, Ruard combing her hair with his fingers, Ruard’s kisses, his magik tongue. “’Tis naught but pleasure to give my husband the attention due him this eve and for others to come. I will show him how much I appreciate his valor and honor. By Odin’s toes, this keep will shine this night, and the food will rival that of the king’s court.”
By the evening meal, the women were exhausted but pleased with their efforts.
“’Tis beginning to look like a worthy holding.” Catriona surveyed the gleaming walls, the fresh rushes.
“’Twould not surprise me if your lord confines you to your chamber again.”
“He did not forbid me deGrecy.” One sniff and Ruard would know Catriona had used the king’s man to set the castle workers to task. A hind of deer roasted on the kitchen spit and the fragrant venison perfumed the great hall.
Helene cocked an eyebrow.
Catriona slitted her eyes. “He forbade me to cook and I did not.”
“Nay, you scrubbed pots and floors. ’Tis clever you dress so finely this eve. He will never suspect that not a half-hour hence you wore the grime of a kitchen boy.”
Catriona hurried to her place at the dais before the men entered the hall and glanced up when an icy gust heralded the opening of the hall’s doors.
Ruard fair dominated the doorway, his head scraping the top of the frame, his golden hair glistening against a dark blue tunic, his shoulders so wide and muscled that he had to turn sideways to clear the one open door.
Gæierla will never believe him not the god Thor.
To her relief, Ruard greeted her with a grin.
His gaze swept the high table before he took his seat. “Where is Gæierla?”
“Asleep, my lord. She could not prop her eyes open.”
Groans of delight filled the hall when the kitchen boys carried platters of sliced deer to the tables. Catriona engaged Helene in conversation hardly daring to take a breath or eat a morsel, waiting for Ruard to voice his disapproval.
He ate gustily and spoke in low murmurs with Njal.
After Helene signaled the boys standing along the hall to bring the sweet, treacle for the hall, apple pie for Ruard, Catriona finally relaxed.
* * *
“The village look to you for direction since the firing of the smith’s hut.”
Belly full, well content, Ruard sipped his ale.
“Aye.”
“The blacksmith’s rage works to our favor.
Think you ’tis a sham?”
“Nay. The man lost his babe and wife in the raid. He seeks revenge. ’Tis plain he is mad with grief.” Ruard kept his voice as low as Njal’s. “’Twas my wife or her sister, I would slay all who partook in the raid. Double the guard on the females. They are not to leave the hall, not even to venture to the keep.”
“Ah, I see why you did not take Catriona to task for cooking.”
“If cooking keeps her busy within the castle, I yield.”
The blacksmith’s loss had struck terror to Ruard’s core.
Since the cook and the monk disappeared, his men had been harried by arrows while hunting and patrolling. Cattle had gone missing, and then there was the deadly raid on the blacksmith’s cottage.
“She knows not the dangers out there.” Ruard stared at his wife’s profile. He hated her being out of his sight. His skin prickled if any man, even Njal, touched her. He wanted to pummel deGrecy senseless every time he caught the man speaking with Catriona. “I will not take chances with her life.” “Think you the smith leads us to Dunsmuir’s lost riches this eve?”
“Aye. ’Tis plain all in the village know where it lies. The smith has nothing left to lose.” Njal drained his ale. “Catriona will not wake when you leave?”
Ruard grinned. “My wife sleeps like a bear in winter.”
Though the slightest caress puckered her nipples even in slumber. This eve he planned to cover her mound with honey and lick her flesh clean. His happy cock leaked a wet trail on his belly.
The more he had Catriona, the more he craved her, the more time he spent in her company, the more empty he felt when she was not at his side.
He liked not the churning emotions she inspired, and could no longer deny his petty jealousy. Ruard wanted his wife for himself.
* * *
Njal and Ruard met the blacksmith at the forest’s edge when night was fullest under a sky so heavy with cloud not a single star twinkled.
“Well smith, what have you to say?” Ruard eyed the newly-wrought sword the man sharpened.
“I will lead you to Dunsmuir’s riches.”
’Tis what Ruard had expected.
“Follow me.” The smiths’ horse took off.
Ruard dug his heels into his mount and it sprang into a canter. The three men circled the forest and raced up a narrow trail through a hilly range strewn with massive boulders. Snow fell in soft, wet clumps, the ice melting on contact with the ground. The path grew muddy and slick and they slowed to a trot.
“None have traveled here this eve,” Njal muttered.
“Aye, no hoof prints.”
The blacksmith had good hearing. “They plan to remove all on the morrow.”
“Who?” Ruard spurred his horse into a faster pace until he drew alongside the smith.
“The monk and the cook.”
Ruard raised his brows and let his mouth hang open. “The monk and the cook?”
“Twas no Pict raid that killed my wife and babe. ’Twas them.” The blacksmith’s voice coarsened in agony. “I want revenge. They are mine. I would have your word now, my lord.”
“Done.” Ruard cared not a grass blade for either man.
“The monk is a nobleman,” the blacksmith stated.
“You will hang,” Njal warned.
“So be it. I have naught left to live for.” Soon they came to a limestone outcropping with a gaping mouth. The smith had come prepared; he lit two torches after they dismounted and led them into the bowels of the cave. Coin, brass goblets, tapestries, jeweled plates, rings, and richly carved furniture, tables, chairs with embroidered cushions met Ruard’s gaze.
Next to him, Njal chuckled. “Your luck holds, brother. ’Tis a fortune.”
“How did they move all this without any knowing?”
The smith snorted. “All knew. Ulfric chased every castle worker off Dunsmuir. Those that didn’t leave w
ere killed. The steward lost his son when he tried to stop him. The tavern keeper’s wife was raped.”
“We will avenge every death, every rape,” Ruard vowed.
“The monk and the cook are mine.” Grief and rage had sharpened the black in the smith’s green eyes to needle points and Ruard knew the man would not rest until he avenged his family’s deaths. “When will you kill them?”
“As soon as I return to the village. They are hanging from the stocks.”
“How did you capture them?”
“The tavern keeper came across a pit with burned bodies this morn. The Picts attacked Lord Ulfric and his men. Many died. I knew the monk and cook would flee to the cave and waited on the trail.”
They parted ways with the smith in the wee hours of the morning.
“Think you any in the village will believe we knew naught of Ulfric’s schemes?” Njal kneed his steed into a trot.
“Nay.” Ruard’s mount pranced to one side and he sank lower in the saddle. “The smith will not hang for killing the monk and the cook. We will add their bodies to Ulfric’s pit and fire it again.”
“’Tis a move cert to win the villagers’ loyalty.”
“Njal the Peacemaker approves?” Ruard shot a glance over his shoulder. His brother nodded.
“Aye. ’Tis time you learned the value of peace, Dragon Slayer.”
Dunsmuir Castle’s towers tipped the horizon.
The pride that assailed Ruard when he glimpsed his holding made him slow his horse. An orange glow on the horizon signaled dawn’s breaking.
Njal sniffed the air. “Fresh bread.” Ruard took a deep inhale and his stomach growled. “Aye. My wife is busy.” And not in their chamber awaiting his morning swiving.
“The village will be safe once the monk and the cook are dead.”
“You nag like a Moor horse trader. If my wife agrees to dismiss deGrecy, I will escort her to the village.”
Njal snorted. “’Tis sad to see my warrior brother sunk so low into jealousy as to fear a court captain alone with his wife.”
“I yearn for the day you take a bride. I will enjoy watching you wriggle like a worm caught in a blackbird’s beak.”
For he, the Dragon Slayer, had been felled by soft lips, sweet honey, and his wife’s dimpled smile.
He felt like a worm this morn caught ’twixt and
’tween, unable to decide how to impart to Catriona how much he valued her. A notion sprang into his mind. “Send to the cave as soon as the men are dead. I will surprise my wife with the treasure this eve in the hall.”
Njal rolled his eyes. “And to answer your query, any can thread a needle in the blink of an eye.” Ruard froze, his thighs tightened around the stallion’s flanks, the horse lifted his broad head and neighed in protest. He whirled his mount around to face his brother. “What say you?” Nay, none could know what his wife had said.
“It takes but the blink of an eye to thread a needle.”
A red haze of anger blurred Ruard’s vision. He lunged, dragged Njal off his horse, and both warriors fell onto the muddy ground.
“Stop that at once.” Catriona’s roar broke through Ruard’s need to pummel Njal senseless.
Halting, his thighs astride Njal’s, his fist drawn back, Ruard glanced up, and saw every single inhabitant of the castle standing in a circle, watching the brothers’ maniacal tussle.
Catriona scorched him with a glare not unlike those he’d earned as a knee-high boy from his mother. “By the time you have washed the mud and leaves off your skin and no longer smell like rooster droppings, all the fresh bread will be done.” And thus the day dawned.
Not once did she let him near her. Ruard’s prick jumped and twitched all day long. He hoped the treasure would sweeten her mood.
She wore the siren’s cyrtel of the first night for the evening meal, the rich emerald color setting the flames in her hair dancing. The veil she wore barely covered her curls.
When apple pie appeared at the end of the meal and she gifted him with a small smile, his heart drummed against his ribs. He had fallen in love with his wife. So shocked was he at the notion, that though the pie tasted of soiled sawdust, he didn’t want to offend Catriona, and so he consumed every crumb.
He covered her hand with his. “I have much news to impart when we retire to our chamber,” he whispered.
“As do I my lord.”
Her hair smelled of spring and herbs, but then he noticed the fresh rushes on the floor. Her gaze followed his.
“I thank you for allowing me to decide when to dismiss deGrecy. He has been of much help today.” The man’s name soured his stomach. DeGrecy.
A sharp pain hit his belly and he grunted.
Bile rushed up his gullet. He stood, his knees buckled, he fell. His head cracked on the table’s edge and darkness descended.
Chapter Seven
“He is so pale.” Catriona wrung her hands as she watched Helene dabbing foam off the corners of Ruard’s mouth.
“More salt,” Helene ordered.
“I sent Njal to the village for all. Are you cert
’tis right for him to vomit so?”
“Aye he must empty all the poison from his stomach. And his bile has no trace of blood. ’Tis a good sign.”
“How could I forget to throw the poison into the garderobe?”
“Catriona, ’twas unfortunate. Cease blaming yourself.”
The doors flung open and Njal rushed into the room, dumping a burlap sack on the ground. “All the salt in the village. How is he?”
“No more bleeding.” Helene rolled Ruard’s eyelids up. “His eyes are almost normal. He will be fine on the morrow.”
Catriona sat by her husband’s side that night until the sun’s rays filtered through the slats in the shutters. The pallor hadn’t left his skin and the dark splotches under his eyes had her stomach roiling.
In all her years, she had trusted in only two on this earth—Papa and Gæierla. Yet this Viking dragon slayer had won not only her trust, but her heart.
She loved him and had been too craven to say the words.
Afraid to sleep, she paced the room on bare feet, not wanting to wake Ruard by donning her half-boots. Her thoughts were more tumbled than the circus of jesters at King Máel Coluim’s court. What if Gæierla had emptied the whole pouch into the pie? She couldn’t bear the thought of life without Ruard.
Poor Gæierla. None could persuade her she hadn’t felled her god Thor. Not even Njal whom she clung to, weeping the loss of her hero. Ruard wouldn’t punish her sister, would he? ’Twas an innocent mistake on Gæierla’s part.
I am to blame. I should be punished.
She fell asleep watching Ruard’s bare chest rising and falling and remembering their nights of bedsport.
“Catriona?”
A palm covered her hand and squeezed. “Wife mine. Awake.”
Jerking up from her slouched position in the chair, she flew to sit on the mattress. “Are you well? Does your belly hurt?” Her fingers savored the softness of his beard stubble. “The color is back to your face. I will say mass twice daily for the rest of my life.” She peppered kisses from one steel-cut shoulder blade to the other. “I was so terrified.”
“Worry not Catriona. I have eaten spoilt meat before and survived. But we may have to forgo our morning tupping for I fear my limbs will not support my weight.”
He cupped her cheeks and Catriona mourned the loss of the warmth of his flesh after she confessed all. She sat up straight, held her spine rigid, and folded her hands in her lap.
“’Twas not spoiled meat my lord. ’Twas poison.
I…I neglected to tell you part of Ulfric’s plan. I was to poison your food, then Ulfric would petition King Cnut for my hand, we would wed, and then Dunsmuir would be his.”
Though his face had lost all color again, no anger showed in his expression. “You did not poison me, Catriona.”
She swallowed but met his gaze, her chin high.
“Nay. I
am to blame—none else. ’Tis all my fault. I beg you not to punish Gæierla.”
Catriona loved only two left on this earth and never could she choose one over the other. “I decided to empty the pouch into the garderobe, but I forgot. Before she fell asleep, Gæierla assisted Helene and I with the evening meal. I needed more salt for the pastry and bid her fetch it from our chamber.”
“Salt in our chamber?” Brows furrowed he scanned the room.
Briefly she explained about the empty spice jars, the sand mixed with salt, and when she began to babble, he touched his lips to hers silencing the words spewing from her mouth.
“She mixed the sacks?”
“’Twas my fault my lord. I did not word my request clearly. I simply told her to bring a handful of the white grains in the sack.” Catriona bowed her head. “She is bereft and none can convince her she didn’t kill her god Thor. Her eyes are swollen near shut from crying—”
“Hush, Catriona. Your sister is but a child of seven summers. ’Tis an unfortunate accident.”
“I will do penance for the rest of my life for this sin. I beg your pardon a thousand times my lord.” She dropped her head to stare at the bed unable to bear accusation in his perfect blue eyes.
“When?”
She risked a quick peek at him, and held her breath when he smiled at her. “Beg pardon? What?”
“When?”
“When what?”
He rolled his eyes. “When did you decide to throw the poison into the garderobe?” She knew her face and throat had reddened.
“After you joined our bodies.”
“Why?”
“You had been inside of me, Ruard. ’Tis possible I carry your babe even now.”
“To me, wife.” He rubbed his thumb across her lower lip and her puss clenched, well trained to his hand like a falcon to her handler. “Do you?”
“’Tis too soon to tell, I believe.” She shivered when both his large palms covered her belly.
The bed sheets tented, Catriona stared at his rigid arousal. He reached over to haul her on top of him. “You are too weak, Ruard. I would have you well again before we tup.”
“I am well enough to be ridden, wife.” Ridden? She shook her head. “Nay. I have something I needs tell you first.”
