Grainne gave her sister-in-law a disapproving glare. ‘Athelwine is waiting to find a suitable match for his daughter.’
Rowena blushed. ‘I am in no hurry to wed,’ she said shyly.
She watched her mother work. It was obvious why Athelwine had fallen for the dark-haired Irish princess, and she wondered why she had not inherited any of her charms; a fact her father often remarked upon. He was sorely disappointed in his daughter in every way.
Grainne wielded her needle gracefully. ‘Athelwine has had a lot on his mind. I’m sure he will defer to the matter in time.’ She smiled up at Rowena. ‘Hurry and change out of your clothes, child, or you will surely catch your death.’
The green eyes so like her own dwelt on her kindly, and Rowena’s heart went out to her, she was so brave. She fluffed out her red-gold curls until they were like a halo around her head and shoulders, quite unaware of the lovely picture she made. ‘Let me sit here a while and feel the warmth of the fire.’ She was loath to admit that her limbs were still shaking; the experience in the forest had upset her more than she’d thought.
The ladies’ fingers worked industriously. It was cosy in the bower. She stretched and yawned, but the languor was not to last. The sound of horses brought them to their feet and the colour drained from Grainne’s face.
They rushed to the door, terrified of what awaited them on the outside. When it was flung open her father, Athelwine of Wessex, came riding towards them, his colours flying free, side by side with the banner of another.
As the other ladies squeezed into the small space behind Grainne and Rowena, their voices broke into an excited babble. There for all the world to see was the standard of the raven, the symbol of the Vikings!
All talking ceased as quickly as it had begun, the awesome sight stunned them. The men dismounted and made for the great hall before anyone moved. Rowena felt her mother go limp and put her arms out to cushion her fall. Gilda and Everild helped her inside and eased her to a seat.
Luckily the faint did not last long. Rowena was busy rubbing her hands when she came around. Grainne, though white of face, was appalled by her weakness, and after just a few moments in which to compose herself, rose and commanded they all repair to the hall. The Irish princess was made of sterner stuff than any of them had ever realised. With sinking hearts they retrieved their mantles and followed in her wake.
The gabled entrance hall was cluttered with weapons of all description, for they were banned from the hall itself. But when they followed Grainne in to the interior of the building some of the ladies gasped. ‘The northmen still have their weapons. We are doomed.’
Rowena bit her lip worriedly; the situation was indeed volatile.
The hall thronged with people, and everyone seemed to be talking at once. Athelwine held up his hand for silence. ‘Our guests are here to strike a bargain, not to war with us.’
‘How is that possible?’ Rowena whispered to her aunt, who was the closest to her. ‘How are we able to feel safe under the circumstances?’
Elfrida shook her head. ‘I know not, niece.’ Her hands were shaking; Rowena patted them gently.
Grainne rushed to her husband’s side, relieved that none of her family seemed to have sustained serious injury. Rowena turned curious eyes on the strangers in their midst. They were all huge, and the largest of all sat at Athelwine’s side, clad in mail and helmet like her father – his nose shield making him appear even more formidable. Scorning the many beads, rings and other decorations worn by his men, his only gilding was the brooch that held his mantle, and a single armband, the sign of a chieftain.
‘Sigurd Thorkelsson, great chieftain of the Norse, meet Grainne, my wife,’ Athelwine said with pride,’ patting the ornate arms of the Yppe, the chair in which he sat – the high seat of the lord. ‘And this is my daughter, Rowena, a rare jewel in any man’s language.’
Rowena was unable to hide her surprise; her dour father gushing about her looks! It was unheard of. Something was not right here.
The stranger removed his helmet and his blue eyes seemed to sear her like a flame.
She trembled uncontrollably beneath his regard. Her mantle had been blown aside in her haste to reach the hall, and her kirtle and tunic still being damp, clung to her body like a second skin. Her full breasts, tiny waist and curving hips brought a gleam of admiration to those eyes. Only then did she know why he was staring at her so intently.
Her breasts tingled beneath his regard, and to her shame the small nub sited between her thighs pulsed with need. She adjusted her clothing, blushing furiously. She was wanton! How was it possible for her body to act in such a way? Had he met her in the woods he would have thought nothing of defiling her. As it was, he was guest of her father and as such must be treated with courtesy. She dropped her eyes as a maiden should and her father appeared to be pleased with her demeanour.
With a satisfied grin Sigurd Thorkelsson turned away, exposing the left side of his face, and it was her turn to stare, for there partially covered by his beard was a deep scar. But instead of marring his looks it seemed to add something to the lean, piratical face.
Athelwine introduced him to the other ladies, and although they were all shocked at having heathens in their midst, their inbred manners came to the fore. Grainne immediately ordered refreshments to be brought. Towels were swiftly supplied and warm water from the heavy cauldron that hung from the rafters over the fire. The men sat wearily at trestle tables that had been set up and greedily fell upon the food and drink before them.
Elfrida shook her head in disbelief. ‘I never thought to see such a thing, Norse and Saxon warriors breaking bread together.’
Grainne swallowed nervously, trying to still her trembling hands. ‘I am grateful we have ample supplies. The rest of the heathen army is camped outside the burh and Athelwine has ordered that food and ale be taken out to them.’
Elfrida made a moue with her mouth. ‘I wonder what is in the wind, sister. Nothing good, I’ll be bound.’
Athelwine ordered Rowena to sit on the raised dais at the end of the hall, between Sigurd Thorkelsson and himself, which both worried and surprised her. It was not like her father to show her so much favour.
All through the meal she felt the Norse pirate’s icy-blue eyes assess her unblinkingly. Her ire began to rise. He is looking at me as though he is about to purchase me, she thought angrily, and abruptly turned away from him. But the cold eyes did not leave her and her own gaze returned unerringly to the man. It was as though she had no will of her own where the stranger was concerned.
‘You are not happy with our presence in your hall, Rowena, daughter of Athelwine,’ he remarked dryly.
His English was good, but she wondered why the words ‘daughter of Athelwine’ seemed to be laced with irony. She forced herself to view him calmly, blatantly matching his steady gaze. ‘You are my father’s guest; my opinion is of no consequence.’
‘I am curious.’
She was annoyed at having been put in this position, and something deep inside her rebelled. ‘Then your observation is correct,’ she snapped rudely.
Sigurd laughed long and loud, causing curious glances around the hall. Rowena bristled; she’d said nothing amusing. How dare he laugh at her?
‘You are not afraid of me, Rowena?’ he asked, when his mirth had died down.
‘Should I be?’ She tried to appear unconcerned. She would not waver before him.
‘It would be prudent.’ For a moment the blue chips of ice brought chills to her spine, but then he laughed. ‘You have pleased me. I like a woman with spirit.’
Rowena pursed her lips. She did not want to please him! He was a ruthless fiend, yet she was unable to shake off the attraction that festered inside her like a fever. Her throat was dry; she raised her goblet to her mouth and drank deeply of the mead, and as she did so her sleeve fell back to reveal the sinuous birthmark o
n her wrist.
Sigurd grasped her arm firmly. ‘What mark is this?’
Startled by his action she paled, and Grainne, who had just joined them on the raised dais, shook visibly. ‘‘Tis a birthmark,’ she explained, trying to shake off his strong grip. He released her thoughtfully. Was she wrong or was there a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes?
‘What is your age?’ he asked boldly.
She wanted to slap his inquisitive face, tell him it was none of his business, but she knew she could not besmirch her father’s hospitality in such a way. ‘Eighteen summers,’ she snapped angrily.
‘Your information is grudging, lady. Am I right in thinking you are disappointed that my Nordic blood is not replenishing the earth of Wessex this day?’
It was her turn to smile. If he were trying to shock her he would be disappointed. ‘I cannot deny it,’ she said sweetly.
Athelwine, who had been busy placating her mother, overheard Rowena’s remark, gasped and angrily swept his hand across her mouth in a stinging slap. ‘You are here to honour our guests. Apologise immediately.’
Rowena’s fingers lifted to her painful mouth. She had gone too far this time. Grainne had always said her impetuous tongue would be the death of them all. ‘Forgive me, sire,’ she said, hiding her face, blushing with embarrassment.
Sigurd studied her closely for a few moments that seemed like an eternity. She wriggled nervously beneath his all-encompassing stare, and she noticed that Athelwine’s face had turned deathly pale. She waited for an explosion of anger that did not come. Instead Sigurd turned to her father.
‘I will have no trouble in accepting your terms, Athelwine of Wessex. The wench has appeal. I look forward to taming her. A few strokes of the whip will soon show her who is master.’
Grainne gave a small cry and looked as though she were about to faint again. Athelwine expelled his breath loudly and his mouth broke into a broad grin. ‘That is good, my friend.’ He clapped Sigurd on the back. ‘The bargain is struck.’
Rowena looked to her mother to see huge tears coursing down her face. She was too stunned to feel anything but confusion, but that soon passed to leave a deep, cold fear. All the while her body was betraying her he was looking her over like a piece of meat.
She was not cowardly, and she was well used to being punished. Even Father Edwin had been given cause to chastise her more than once for her bad behaviour. Her bottom still stung when she recalled the times he’d found her dreaming in the church, when she should have been attending to her devotions.
She knew she’d deserved being put over his knee. But she did hate it when he lifted her skirts and slapped her hard on her bare cheeks. And even when he finished he wouldn’t let her up. He made her lie there, half-naked with her skirts in the air, while she contemplated her sins.
The men rose to toast one another and her stupefied mind studied the man to whom she had been betrothed. Although they were heathens the Norse were not filthy, unkempt beings as she had surmised. Apart from the obvious soiling on his clothes from the fray, this particular individual was neat and clean.
He stood tall and proud in his red mantle that hung almost to the floor front and back, a gold brooch pinning it on his right shoulder. His hair, which was cut off at the neck, not long like that of the Saxons, was as golden as the summer sun. His neat beard and moustache were of the same colour. She had to admit he was striking, taller and broader by far than any other man in the hall, and beneath the handsome façade was a devil who had promised to master her!
Grainne tried to talk with her husband, but was waved away. Athelwine had made his bargain and was not to be thwarted. ‘What think you of the mead, my friend?’ he enquired cordially, when the fine speeches were at an end.
Sigurd nodded contentedly. ‘Very pleasant.’
Athelwine smirked slyly. ‘Rowena gathers the honey with her own fair hands and helps in the making of the mead.’
Sigurd accredited her with a smile that did not fool her for a moment. He was every bit as formidable as the golden eagle that decorated the back of his mantle.
‘You have many talents. That is good.’
Rowena bit back an oath she’d heard her brothers mutter many times. She hated the heathen with his glib tongue that spoke her language like a native.
‘Do you not fear being stung, lady?”
His face was far too close for comfort as he lifted his piercing eyes to hers again, his breath disturbingly fresh despite the mead. He was testing her and she bristled with anger. His lips lifted a little and she flashed her eyes. If he were sneering at her he would sorely regret his actions. ‘I fear nothing that flies, northman,’ she spat. ‘‘Tis the beast that crawls in the slime that makes me shudder.’
As soon as the words were out she knew she’d made a mistake. She was grateful her father had not heard her. Sigurd’s face was like granite and a pulse beat at the side of his mouth. ‘Can’t you wait for your punishment, lady? If that is the case I can accommodate you. It would not disturb me to leave my mark on your tender skin. In fact, the thought appeals to me.’
His eyes flashed a warning and she knew he would show her little mercy. She had momentarily amused him, but that was over and he was showing his true colours. She said nothing lest she was exposed in front of the whole hall and beaten half-naked for all to see.
Sigurd turned his head away, dismissing her far more efficiently than words ever could. She was annoyed but she smouldered silently. He spent a goodly time talking to Father Edwin. Rowena caught snatches of conversation and was surprised at the knowledge the warrior had of their faith. Soon Father Edwin was smiling and conversing with him easily.
Rowena slanted her eyes at Sigurd; he had wrought a miracle! She had underestimated him; his charm was far more potent than she’d realised. He would bear watching. Bored and upset, she slid from her seat wishing the hall were not so noisy. Even the warriors, who just a short while ago had been opposed in battle, were now amiable. She supposed she should be pleased, but it irked her.
She felt as though invisible chains already joined her to the Viking. But she should not think this way. It was a ruse. Her father may have treated her coldly in the past, but she knew he would not see her carted off to a foreign land by such scum. She tried to read his face, but Athelwine was playing his part well. She sighed; she would speak to him later and they would laugh at the game he’d dared play with their enemy. No doubt he had lured them into the burh and sent for reinforcements. The thought cheered her. It was the only answer.
Looking more relaxed, she found the new pups in the corner of the hall. They were silky smooth; mewing softly, their teeth needle sharp. Their mother, Ede, guarded them anxiously, although she knew Rowena would not harm them. She held a wriggling pup in her gentle hands, laughing as it licked her face. It was the smallest of the lot and Rowena had a soft spot for the tiny scrap.
‘The runt of the litter,’ a deep voice remarked behind her.
She glared at Sigurd indignantly. ‘He’s adorable.’
His thick eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘You should always choose the strongest, the ones more likely to survive. A large cock is not only more likely to satisfy,’ he smirked, ‘but it also gives forth the best seed. Isn’t that why your loins heat when you gaze upon your betrothed?’
Her face flamed. ‘You flatter yourself! Besides, I dislike violence and all those who perpetrate it.’
His answer was to drag her head back by her hair so that she had no choice but to look up at him, her scalp raw with pain. He searched her face with his cold eyes. ‘You test me sorely, bitch. I think it’s time you tasted my sting.’
So saying, he dropped his head and took her mouth with his own. There was no gentleness in the kiss; he was branding her with his own special mark. She tried to break free but it inflamed him all the more. He reacted by tugging her hair harder and pressing his lips more fierce
ly to hers. She tried to cry out but was unable to do anything but suffer his cruel advances.
When he released her she fell back to the dirt floor. He smirked down at her. ‘So, my great lady, how do you fare now? Shall I take you away with me to the forest while all are feasting and divest you of your maidenhead? Or will I wait and have you as a bride first?’
Rowena jerked herself into a sitting position, brushing dust and straw from her clothes, touching her bruised lips with shaking fingers. The force of the man had left her breathless, weak. He was like a shaft of lightning, a thunderbolt striking in her uneventful life, rendering it spoilt and changing her forever.
‘You will do as you wish whatever I say,’ she breathed, trying to rub his repulsive kiss from her sore mouth. ‘But remember, I will not come to you willingly. I despise you and all you stand for.’
His grin did nothing to lighten the lean features. ‘No man could resist such a challenge.’ He made a step towards her and she shrunk away from him. With an amused glint in his eye he hauled her to her feet, dragging her to him. ‘Make no mistake, madam, when I take you you’ll beg for more. There’s not been a woman born who did not faint with ecstasy after I’ve bedded them. And as you have decided to do it the hard way, it will be all the more enjoyable for me also.’
Rowena tried not to cower in the face of her enemy. She was daughter of Athelwine, child of an Irish princess. She held her proud head higher. ‘Do what you wish. But you will never take my heart or destroy my spirit.’
His reply was to whip out a huge hand and catch her by one slender wrist. ‘You have a lot to learn, Saxon bitch. But this night I will leave you to mull over your fate. I have the urge to make merry, to slake my thirst and drive away the dust of battle from my throat. As for my other needs, I have seen interest aplenty in the maidens that adorn your hall; maidens who have warm blood in their veins as apposed to the ice that runs through yours. Your time will come soon enough, Rowena.’ He tossed her aside once more and strode away.
a Wicked Conquest Page 2
