Lord of Fire and Ice

by Connie Mason

  “Feeling for your brother, are you? Don’t. A thrall is poor enough not to be able to afford pity for anyone.” Katla leaned toward him. “I assume my brothers already took whatever wealth you brought back from the South.”

  Brandr snorted. He’d worn a gold chain about his neck, and a small pouch of silver weighed down one side of his belt. But the big chest of coin still rested in safety on the longship. That was to be divided evenly among him and his traveling companions.

  Six were returning home to Jondal. Nine of them had started out for the great southern city, but one took a knife blade to the gut in a brawl the night after they set out. The wound went bad before they’d even cleared the wide mouth of Hardanger Fjord. Another was lost during a storm near Gibraltar. A third fell fighting the Saracens in the service of the Byzantine emperor. On an honorable field of battle, his flesh gave food to the eagles.

  But Brandr and the other returning men from Jondal accomplished what they’d set out to do. Brandr had found a sorcerer in the South who schooled him in how to use his ability to call up flame, though he still hid his gift from all but his closest friends.

  People feared those who were different, and inspiring fear wasn’t Brandr’s aim.

  He and his friends had lived a praiseworthy adventure and returned North with enough silver to set up each of them in comfort for several lifetimes. Brandr’s companions counted themselves lucky to come home without losing more of their number.

  But they weren’t home yet, and with Brandr enthralled, now they were only five. Even if his friends were able to track him from the mead house, they were too few to overpower the Tysnes islanders and free him without a bloody brawl. “Ja, your thieving brothers took everything of value,” Brandr said. They couldn’t take the wealth he carried in his head. If they had an inkling he bore the secret to Greek fire, they’d be trying to torture it out of him still. “You get only me in this bad bargain. What are your intentions?”

  ***

  Katla wished he wouldn’t keep turning those deep amber eyes on her. They made it hard for her to think.

  “I’m not sure what you’re fit for,” she said, willing herself not betray how the sight of his hard body affected her. The son of Ulf had the frame of a warrior, honed to lean fitness. His muscles stood out beneath smooth skin marred by only a few battle scars.

  Katla didn’t mind not having a husband countermand her decisions, but she sorely missed the feel of a man between her legs. Brandr Ulfson made her remember that longing in exquisite detail.

  She set her mouth in a tight line. It was a man’s world. A woman had to be strong when dealing with one, even one wearing an iron collar, lest he run roughshod over her. “Have you any skills besides wenching and drinking?”

  “I’m a fighter by trade.” His mouth turned up in a lazy, sensual smile. “Obviously, drinking isn’t one of my strengths. At least, not when someone taints the mead. But don’t discount wenching. I know how to please a woman. My bed skills are yours for the asking.”

  Her eyes flared with irritation that he’d divined the direction of her thoughts. Men took bed slaves all the time.

  Why shouldn’t a widow enjoy one, so long as she kept herself from bearing?

  It wouldn’t be a problem in her case. Katla suspected she was barren. Her husband Osvald’s bastards littered several hearths, but she never showed signs of quickening during their year together.

  She gave herself a slight shake. This new thrall was nothing but the son of her husband’s murderer. She had to keep thinking of him as such. She’d sworn to avenge Osvald, and this was her first chance to make good on her vow.

  “Keep your lewd suggestions to yourself.”

  Brandr Ulfson eyed her with boldness, so she felt obliged to return the favor. By shearing Brandr’s locks, her brothers had accentuated his strong, even features. A man had to be breathtakingly handsome to still be so appealing after he’d endured the shame of being shorn.

  She knelt beside him and ran her palm over his head, down his neck, and around his firm jawline.

  “Since Ulf is already dead, I can’t deliver justice to your father. Hiring someone to kill a leper might be considered an act of kindness, not retribution, so I’ve made no move against your brother,” she said, jerking her hand away from his smooth cheek. She needed to keep her distance. “That leaves only you.”

  She wouldn’t kill him. It wasn’t as if he’d had a choice in who his father was, but short of visiting physical harm on the son of Ulf, she could still have justice of a sort. She’d humble him so abjectly his name would become a byword throughout the North, a warning to all men who fell into the hands of a vengeful woman.

  But Brandr Ulfson wasn’t an easy man to feel hard toward. There was a feral quality to his maleness that made her insides go soft, vulnerable. When he turned his penetrating gaze on her, she felt weak as water.

  She straightened her spine.

  “Letting you demonstrate your bed skills doesn’t sound like revenge,” she said. “It sounds like you’re trying to trick me into pleasuring a thrall.”

  “If we shared a bed, it would be about your pleasure.” His amber eyes darkened to sable. “Not mine.”

  “So bedding me wouldn’t please you?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m sure it would please me. Very much. But my aim would be your delight.”

  Her breath caught, and she couldn’t move. He gave her a thorough look, starting with her mouth, lingering at her breasts, which tingled under his direct gaze, and traveling down her loins and limbs.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Katla. And you’ve missed a man’s touch.”

  “I haven’t missed yours. And you will address me as ‘mistress’ or ‘my lady.’ You may not use my name, thrall.”

  She turned and rummaged through her clothes trunk for the oldest, most coarse tunic she could find. She hoped it would be big enough to fit him, but for now, she’d be satisfied with draping the undyed fabric across his groin.

  “Varangians are supposed to value honor above all,” she said. “Before I loose your bonds, will you swear upon your honor to obey me and not to run away?”

  “I won’t run. Your brothers took me by guile and womanish potions, but they took me. As long as your commands do not conflict with my honor, I so swear to obey you,” he said. “May Thor strike me blind if I do not.”

  “If the god doesn’t, I will,” she promised as she cut the bindings on his wrists.

  He worked the knot at his ankles as soon as his hands were free. Then he stood to pull the rough tunic over his head.

  Upright, Brandr was even bigger than he appeared when lying on the floor. She took a step back from him. The tunic was snug across his broad chest and struck him mid-thigh, leaving his well-muscled legs exposed. At least his disturbing maleness was covered.

  “Now what, princess?” He managed to make the title he gifted her with sound like a curse.

  She had to show this man his place and quickly. “I saved you from the gelding knife this night. You will show your appreciation by kissing my foot.”

  She lifted her night shift to ankle height and presented one to him, toes pointed.

  That should wipe the smug expression from his face.

  He shrugged, bent over, and grabbed her ankle. Then he yanked her upside down. Her bottom took a glancing blow on the floor before she found herself hanging precariously, her foot level with his mouth when he stood back upright.

  It happened so quickly, surprise forced all the air from Katla’s lungs. Her night shift billowed down to bunch at her armpits, exposing her to him. When she tried to kick free, he grasped her other ankle as well. Her fingertips splayed on the slate floor to steady herself.

  She clamped her lips shut to keep from crying out. There were a dozen strong men snoring on the other side of the door. The
y’d all rush to her aid, but she’d die before she let anyone catch her in this undignified position.

  He planted a wet kiss on her instep then lowered her to the floor. She managed not to land on her head, but her right shoulder took most of her weight before she rolled to lie flat on her back on the cold slate.

  He glared down at her and bared his teeth in a wolf’s smile. “Want me to kiss anything else, princess?”

  Chapter 2

  Brandr extended a hand to help her off the floor, but she pushed herself up and scrambled to her feet, keeping well out of his long reach. She gave him a scathing look. “That was not what I meant, and you know it.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Perhaps you’ll be more specific in your instructions next time, princess.”

  Irritation fizzed up her spine. “Stop calling me that.”

  “You don’t like ‘princess’? Not high enough rank, I suppose. Perhaps you’d rather I call you ‘empress.’” He gave her a mocking bow. “Thor be my witness, you don’t lack the self-importance of one.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I can have you whipped, you know.”

  He matched her glare for glare. “I’d like to see you try. If you wanted to do me harm, you should have done it when I was bound and helpless.”

  Katla snatched up the leather straps that had restrained him. “Then stand still while I tie your hands again.”

  “No.”

  “I gave you an order,” she hissed. “And you swore to obey. Are you an oath breaker?”

  Brandr shook his head. “I am not. I swore to obey so long as your commands don’t conflict with my honor. I wouldn’t suffer you to whip a dog. I won’t allow you, or your gaggle of brothers, to beat me without a fight.”

  “So you’re my thrall, but only when it suits you?” Katla wished for the thousandth time she’d been born a man. If she had a man’s strength to match her will, she’d knock this Brandr Ulfson into his place so fast his teeth would rattle.

  He yawned hugely. “If it’s all the same to you, princess, could we continue this argument tomorrow? I need to sleep.”

  He started toward her bed.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “You will not sleep in my bed.”

  Brandr turned to her wearily. “Then where do you want me, O Great One?”

  “Not there.” She opened another trunk and pulled out a wolf skin and woolen blanket for him. “I want you on a pallet by the door.”

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “I knew you’d admit it sooner or later.”

  “Admit what?”

  “You want me.”

  “Go to sleep, son of Ulf.” Katla threw the pelt and blanket at him.

  “Willingly.” He’d spread the wolf skin and was already lying prone across the threshold before she climbed into her bed. “I live to serve, O Northern Moon of Beauty.”

  “Moon of Beauty?” She wouldn’t have thought him much of a poet, but his words pleased her more than she wanted to admit. Her husband’s tongue hadn’t exactly dripped silver. “Why do you call me that?”

  His eyes drifted closed. “In the South, servants habitually praise their masters with exalted titles. Of course, usually it’s a backhanded swipe. A weakling will be named a ‘Tower of Strength.’ A portly matron will hear herself called ‘Delicate Flower of Delights,’ like as not. They don’t seem to be clever enough to realize their servants are insulting them with ill-fitting praise names.”

  “So when you name me a moon of beauty, you’re really saying—”

  “Good night, Katla.”

  The infuriating man was asleep between one breath and the next. Her lamp guttered and went dark, as though an unseen hand had snuffed it out.

  ***

  The cock crowed from the peak of the longhouse directly over her bed. His raucous screech cut through the overhead thatch and jerked Katla awake. Pearly light filtered through the open smoke hole, dust motes swirling in the unseen currents.

  And unseen beneath her bedclothes, her night shift was rucked up to her waist. She still throbbed with unrelieved passion and more than a little embarrassment. If she slipped a hand between her legs, she knew she’d find herself damp.

  Katla had been dreaming of the son of Ulf and what might happen if she gave him a chance to prove his boast about his bed skills. Though her dream was rousing, it was far from satisfying. Given a little more time, her body might have reached a peak in her sleep, but she was frustrated that the act in her dream was so one-sided. It was as if Brandr were performing a menial task, not making love with her.

  All her life, Katla had wished for inn matki munr, the mighty passion. More intense than any other emotion, deeper than the North Sea, stronger even than death, it was said that those who find it were bound so tightly, they even share the same thoughts.

  Early in her marriage to Osvald, he’d shown her bed sport that made her skin riot in pleasure. But after the month of their honeymoon, Osvald hadn’t spent much time on love play. His main goal was an heir. In truth, there were times when Katla felt more like a sexual receptacle than his wife.

  Perhaps if Osvald had lived longer, or if she’d been able to conceive, they’d have discovered inn matki munr, but now she had little hope she’d experience the bonding that knit two souls together.

  Clearly, taking a bed slave was not the path to the mighty passion. It wasn’t even as good a choice as taking a lover, if her disappointing dream held any truth.

  Katla gave herself a mental shake. Plenty of people lived full, productive lives without knowing that deep blending of spirits. She had too much to do and too many depending upon her to waste time mourning over what she didn’t have.

  And probably would never have.

  She decided to ignore the hollow ache in her chest. It was a selfish wish anyway. Wanting to be loved would not feed her people. It wouldn’t see them warm come winter.

  Or fill the empty cradle in the corner.

  She swiped away the weak tears that trembled on her lids, sat up, and peered over the end of her bed. Brandr Ulfson was still asleep on his pallet. If she was quick and quiet, she could dress for her busy day before he woke. She stole out of bed and opened her cedar-lined trunk.

  ***

  Brandr had always been a light sleeper. During his service in Byzantium, he further honed his ability to be instantly awake at the first audible change in his surroundings. It was a matter of survival. The skill was the difference between avoiding an assassin’s blade or waking up in Hel.

  So when the trunk lid creaked, he was aware Katla was up, but he didn’t betray himself by opening his eyes. Instead he peered from under his lashes to take stock of his situation.

  She was laying out her dress and tunic for the day. She bent over and, in one smooth motion, pulled her night shift over her head, baring her body completely.

  The women of the South had come in a myriad of hues—dusky olive, warm cinnamon, black as jet, and milky white. The wellborn ones even used a concoction of alum to further lighten their skin and make it shine brightly. Regardless of color, they were all exotically lovely.

  But none could match the glowing alabaster of Katla’s skin for pure radiance. And without a single dollop of cosmetic enhancement.

  Last night, he’d caught a glimpse of her delectable curves when he held her upside down. That had been a fair treat. But right side up, she was magnificent. Her breasts were high and full. Her waist was pleasingly narrow compared to her hips. And her heart-shaped bottom was perfection.

  Since Katla’s hair was so dark, he guessed her mother must have been a Gaul. Northmen had been bringing dark-haired women back from the coasts of Europe for several generations. Brandr’s father always said the women should be glad to come, since the men in their lands obviously weren’t strong enough to protect them. />
  What a man has, he must hold. He must defend what’s his; else he deserves to lose it.

  Katla the Black. He wondered if anyone else had named her thus. It suited her. Surly and strong-minded, she was a veritable warrior and deserved a name fitting for one. She had no man to defend her, but the vixen didn’t seem to need one.

  Her breasts fell forward as she leaned down to pick up her linen underdress. Brandr ached to hold them, imagining those firm yet soft globes in his palms. He throbbed with need.

  She slipped her dress over her head and down to cover herself, ending his torment. When he saw the ornate silver brooches she used to fasten the tabs of her tunic, he revised his estimate of her status upward. She obviously controlled the bulk of the wealth in her family, since her brothers didn’t sport so much as a copper arm band between them. Her dead husband must have been a man of means.

  Once she sat at the end of her bed to pull on her stockings, Brandr felt it was safe for him to stir. So long as she didn’t realize he watched, this morning’s entertainment might become a regular occurrence.

  “Oh! You’re up.” She eyed the bulge at his groin with suspicion. “How long have you been awake?”

  Long enough. He yawned and stretched, then followed her gaze to where his cock tented the coarse tunic. He shrugged. “You’ve been a married woman. Surely you know men often wake in a happy mood.”

  “You’re a thrall. You’ve no cause to be happy.”

  So you think. He smothered a grin behind his hand.

  “You’re a free woman. You’ve no cause to be miserable.”

  She slipped the silver chain that bore the keys to all the locks in her household around her neck. “Who says I’m miserable?”

  “The frown line between your brows.”

  She put a hand to the spot and tried to smooth the furrow out.

  “That’ll work only for so long, and then that line will become permanent,” he predicted. “A person is as happy or unhappy as they decide to be.”

  “I’ll be happy when you give me a fair day’s work.”