“Into bed with you,” Gunther yelled, drunkenly wielding his goblet like a sword as he forced Brant to the bed with the tip of his empty cup. Turning to Della, he winked audaciously.
To her horror, she realized her inebriated husband swayed on his feet, appearing very close to passing out. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. The action only made him laugh as he suggestively wagged his brows.
“Do you fret, Della?” Brant slurred. He stumbled to the right only to be caught by a toothless peasant and pushed back to standing. His hands strayed to the waistband of his braccas and he slid his finger along it, drawing her eyes over his rippled stomach. “It will be fine. I will not be too drunk to tend you proper.”
The men cheered their approval. Her eyes rounded. She watched his inept fingers fumble with his lacings. Much to her relief, he gave up his task and swayed once more to the right.
“Nay,” was all she managed to get out. She felt the blood draining from her face as she lifted her hand to keep him back.
“It will be fine,” Brant said, his slurred tone trying to soothe her. He blinked slowly, frowning at her deathlike grip on the coverlet. “It’s only a few drinks I had.”
“Nay, more like a few dozen!” one of the men offered with a bawdy chuckle.
“A groom could little refuse a toast.” Brant stumbled toward the bed. “Come give us a kiss, lady wife. I have a fire in my belly for you to tame.”
“Nay. Methinks it is more like a fire in your addled brain,” Della spat.
“You’d better tame the wench, m’lord, lest she eats you alive!” Gunther chortled uncontrollably as he fell against the frame of the door.
“Nay, Gunther, it’s what I want. To be eaten alive.” His smile softened. “It will be an agonizing death, but worth it if done by those pink lips. What says you, lady wife? Would you like to dine on my naked flesh?”
Her mouth fell open at his words, knowing there was a hidden meaning in them. She just wasn’t sure what that meaning might be. Brant leapt onto the bed, straddling her with his massive legs. The weight of him pressed her down into the mattress. The intoxicated men fell all over themselves in fits of laughter. She tried to glare at them, but she couldn’t force her eyes away from Brant as he swayed above her. It became clear the drunken crowd had no intention of leaving and missing the show.
Brant grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and pulled her mouth to his. Whiskers scratched her face and she wanted to push him away, but her hands were trapped against his chest. A startled moan escaped her as his lips moved sloppily against hers. She clamped her mouth shut and a trail of his spit trickled down her chin, dripping onto her cleavage. She tried to jerk her head to the side to loosen the hold he had on her. The movement only encouraged Brant to rub his slobbery mouth more insistently. Only when he was ready to let her go was she able to slip her mouth from his.
Brant drew away to the cheers of the onlookers. Della wiped her wet mouth on her sleeve. Her husband looked quite pleased with himself, as she shuddered in what could only be defined as revulsion.
“Methinks she likes it!” Brant hollered. The men cheered louder.
“Mayhap, you should let me try, m’lord. Methinks she would like it better!”
Della grimaced at the possibility, for the man who said it was a fat, balding creature with only one tooth in his mouth and that one was close to rotting. Unconsciously, she leaned closer to Brant’s chest. His muscles tightened in surprise before he wrapped a protective arm about her shoulder. As she trembled next to the warmth of him, she saw a slight smile curl his lips before he pushed her to his side, twisting his body to keep her from view of the others.
“Methinks not,” Gunther said at her reaction.
“Begone!” Brant shouted in drunken ardor. He waved his free hand toward the door, not letting go of Della. His shoulder pressed her cheek. ”Enough show fer you this eve.”
The men grumbled as Gunther ushered them out, shutting the door, but it was clear by the uproar that they still stood on the other side. Della fiercely pushed at Brant’s arm. He chuckled as he turned his attention to her. Gazing down at her, his eyes intent, he let her go.
“Take off yer gown, lady wife,” Brant demanded loudly. “Let me see yer—”
“Get off me, you lewd oaf,” Della screamed, interrupting his vulgar words. She swatted at his wandering hands. “Begone!”
The men pounded their amusement on the door.
“Take it off or I’ll spank yer bony arse!” Brant moved to pull at her gown again. “Would you like that, lady wife? To be spanked?”
The men cheered and Della heard Gunther urging them away. Brant leaned forward and gently nuzzled her throat. His whiskered mouth tickled her skin in light caresses. This time his lips were dry as they kissed her, gentle and light. Della let out a yelp of alarm and pushed, to no avail, against his fixed shoulders. His caressing mouth was oddly enticing against her, much like his hands had been. Her eyes rolled back in her head in a near swoon.
Nay, more, she groaned inwardly.
“Pagan!” This time she didn’t push as hard against him. Her arms weakened to his touch and her head swayed to the side in submission. Lashes fluttered low over her eyes, almost flitting completely shut, until he suddenly stopped. Della blinked in momentary confusion.
Sighing, he leaned back to study her face. A devilish smirk lined his lips. “So tell me, lady wife, would you like to be spanked?”
“What?” she whispered. His blue eyes studied her attentively. He wasn’t drunk at all. “How dare—”
“Nay, Della.” Brant laughed, holding his hands up in defense as she swatted at him. Chuckling, he tapped her gently under the chin and climbed off her. “Enough of your sharp insults. They are disagreeable and make my head swim.”
“Why would you try to humiliate me like that?” She pulled the linens once more to her chin. Tears came to her eyes and she tried not to feel the disappointment that surged forth. “You use me for the merriment of your friends.”
“Oh, my darling little Ice Princess.” He looked at her as if the answer should have been obvious. “So the bedding would be believable. So your reactions would be real. Do you think you could have gotten over your aversion of me long enough to pretend to be a loving wife?”
“You could have told me,” Della fumed, not liking his nickname for her. “I understand what is at stake. I’m not a fool. Not like you, Brant the Thorn in my Arse!”
“Methinks not, lady wife.” He smiled. “Though if it is me in your arse you are interested in, I should be most willing to comply.”
“Nay, you disgusting pig. It is a sin to even think such thoughts.” She slapped at his hand as he reached toward her and gave him her most withering look. “And quit calling me lady wife, it is annoying. I’m done playing your sick, heathenish games. I would see my father now.”
“Have you forgotten about the bedding? The others will notice if we leave too quickly.” Brant was unruffled by her protests as he leaned to nuzzle her neck. “As long as we have to wait, would you like to beg me now for my touch? Mayhap another kiss? I promise I can melt your ice with my fire.”
“I will never beg for your touch and, as to my ice, there in naught your fire can do to it. My ice could easily put out your flame. If you don’t believe me, try putting a torch in cold water sometime. See which comes back the victor.” She again swatted at his playful hand and moved away from him to stand beside the bed. “You will have to ravish me.”
“That could be arranged, since you seem to be so fascinated with the prospect.” His tone was low and exact. The smile faded from his eyes, replaced by irritation. “Shall I use a knife to keep you to my will? A sword? Battle-axe? Large stick?”
“You would not dare.” She took a hasty step back. The room was suddenly too small.
“Mayhap I will just use my heathen, brute force. Do you think you could fight me off?” Brant shifted to his knees, presenting her with his broad, naked chest. Muscles rippled under his tanned
skin and she gulped at his leering expression. “You are the one who said I was naught but a barbarian. Shall we see all that I am capable of?”
She stumbled back, her mouth gaping open. It would be impossible to fight him off. He would crush her if she were to try.
He held his arms wide. “Come, sweet Della, soothe the fire in my belly with your pleasantness. I long for the honeyed melodies of love that fall so freely from your wifely mouth and the tender passions of your touches—”
“You are a lewd man to discuss such things at length.” She covered her ears. “Can you think of naught else?”
Throwing his head back, he laughed dryly and dropped his arms. When he finished, he gracefully slid from the bed. Della shivered as he loomed toward her. If he attacked her with his ‘brute force’ there was nothing she could do to stop him. She came up against the door, pulled her hands from her ears and blindly searched for the latch.
“Nay, I don’t think I would have to ravish you.” He moved his fingers to her rapid pulse, stroking her chin with his thumb. “If you would but give me a moment, I could show you all of what your body is capable. I could show you how mistaken you are about my touch.”
“I don’t understand you.” Della shivered at the sensual caress and forgot what they had been arguing about. Her mouth suddenly feeling dry, she licked her lips. She hadn’t enjoyed his sloppy kiss, yet she found herself oddly drawn to try it again.
Had his lips been so inept on my body? Why had I not noticed?
“It would appear I’m not such the barbarian.” He growled, dropping his hand and putting space between them. “For I have never brought an unwilling maiden to my bed and you, lady wife, are the most unwilling I have yet to behold.”
Confused by his words and by the disappointment that unfurled in her at his withdrawal, she shook herself back to reality. She should have been happy that he was showing self-control. But she wasn’t.
Brant smiled when she didn’t speak, but the expression was bitter. He picked his tunic up from the floor. “They think I’m drunk so it’s been long enough. Let us attend your father before my barbarian instincts come back to me and I’m forced to grant your wish.”
He didn’t look at her again. He nudged her aside and grabbed the latch, forcibly swinging the door open. Della stumbled out of the way at his abrupt departure. He stormed down the hall. Grabbing a plain overtunic from her trunk, she slipped it over her head.
“Stupid barbarian.”
Brant stalked barefoot from the bedchamber, not bothering to see if his wife followed. His entire body shook with the force of his rage and with the power of his unfulfilled appetites. As far as everyone was concerned, the wedding was completed. No one would question their union.
Though he was tempted to find a maid to relieve his desires, he knew he couldn’t. He would have to take care of the matter himself, quickly, before he went to see the ealdorman. Still aggravated, he went to his bedchamber. This was not how a wedding night should be.
* * * * *
The ealdorman’s bedchamber smelled of pungent herbs, animal fat, and the smoke that curled from pots of burning incense. Della stood just inside the door, trying not to choke on the overbearing odor. She waited as Serilda gathered her healing draughts. The woman blocked her view of her father and Della shifted, trying to get a glimpse of him under the soft glow of candlelight. The room was quiet, save for the movements of the midwife. After what she had gone through at the woman’s hand, Della found it difficult to look at her. Serilda strolled past and she heard the woman giggle, but the moment was so brief she wasn’t sure it actually happened.
Della became aware of Brant’s presence close to her back. She hadn’t seen him in the passageway as she went to her father’s chamber and had been surprised when he wasn’t already there. It was odd, but she drew some comfort from his presence, like a newfound strength within herself.
She hesitated before stepping into the darkened room, only turning to glance at Brant when she could no longer feel his heat. He’d changed his tunic and put on a pair of shoes. As Serilda closed the door, Della continued to move toward her father. There was much she wanted to say to the dying man, but it was impossible with Brant in the chamber. Her father’s eyes were closed. She shivered. The ealdorman had somehow been reduced to a fraction of the healthy man she’d spent most of her life idolizing. Why hadn’t she suspected the truth? How could she have not seen it?
The lights were dim to help her father sleep. Edwyn stood in the shadows. The old seneschal’s intense grief added a grim finality to the moment.
“Sire?” Della leaned to take her father’s hand and tenderly rubbed her thumb over the thinned, almost translucent skin. Her eyes drank in the pallor of his graying flesh and the blue of his lips. His chest rose in shallow breaths. She closed her eyes briefly to the pain rolling through her.
Lord Strathfeld grumbled and opened his eyes. “Yea, daughter.”
“Father, why didn’t you tell me?” She was unable to help the quivering of her lips as she spoke. Resting her forehead on the bed, her voice was muffled by the mattress as she continued, “I could’ve taken care of you. I would’ve gotten you all the help you needed.”
Lord Strathfeld’s soft laugh turned instantly to a cough. When he could speak again, he answered, “It’s because you would carry on so, my stubborn child, that I did not tell you.”
Unshed tears lined her eyes when she looked up. “I am so sorry for—”
“Nay, daughter, hush.” His movements feeble, he stroked her cheek. “I already know all that. Have you not been my daughter all your life?”
Della nodded and tears spilled over. She swiped the moisture from her eyes. Her lips curled into a brave smile.
“Now, give me peace. Tell me that the wedding is done. Tell me you are truly man and wife.” Lord Strathfeld coughed again. When she didn’t answer, he groaned and tried to push himself up on his arms.
“Yea, it is done,” Brant answered for her, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder, “and it will remain so.”
Lord Strathfeld sighed, an expression of peace coming over him as he took his new son at his word. Nodding in satisfaction at his daughter, he hushed, “Good. Good.”
The warmth of her husband’s palm soaked through her gown and she let his hand rest on her, not daring to show distaste in front of her father. She had given him enough grief over the marriage.
“And you, daughter?” Lord Strathfeld narrowed his eyes, as if trying to focus on her in the dim light. “Are you still angry at my choice?”
“Nay, father,” Della reassured him. Edwyn’s gaze caught hers in the dimness and he nodded in understanding. Her friend knew what she was about to do and approved of it. She closed her eyes, begging forgiveness for the lie she was about to tell to put her father at ease. “I’m truly happy in your choice. I did not mean to act ungrateful. I was only nervous about this night and it made me waspish and quick to anger.”
“Nay, Della. You have always been quick to anger.” The ealdorman touched her face. Then, finding the effort too fatiguing, he let it drop once more to the bed. Della made a weak noise, her heart heavy. “But you have naught to fear any longer. Lord Blackwell will make you a fine husband. He will protect you and our people.”
How can you be so sure? Della thought, but she said nothing. Hesitant, she moved her hand to cover Brant’s, stiffly patting it. Lord Strathfeld smiled weakly in approval.
Her flesh was chilled against his fiery touch. He ran his thumb over the side of her finger and she stiffened in response. Knowing her father watched, she pulled on his arm, her gaze imploring him to kneel beside her. Brant looked surprised by the request, but he joined her on the floor.
Dropping his hand, she wrapped her arm around his waist. She stroked the strong muscle of his back through the thin tunic. He returned the embrace, his arm gently winding around her waist, as he brushed his lips across her temple. Della didn’t move, didn’t look at him again. The tender gesture too
k her by surprise and she drank in his comfort. The ealdorman smiled contentedly, happier than she ever remembered seeing him. Their affection was having a heartening effect on the dying man. He was finally completely at peace over his decision.
I am doing this for my father. I feel naught for him. I feel naught for him. I feel naught…
Della exhaled, soft and long, not wanting to admit she was lying to herself as she leaned helplessly against her husband. She was so confused, so lost. She was losing her father and the one man she was supposed to hate was the one man she found herself drawing comfort from. Brant’s heat warmed her and a strange sensation coursed through her blood at the embrace. It was a sensation that hadn’t anything to do with the one his kiss inspired. It was different, gentler.
Della shuddered as her father closed his eyes. She withdrew her arm from Brant and laid it on Lord Strathfeld’s chest. The declaration of all she wanted to say welled inside her, but she couldn’t speak. Her eyes trained on the rise and fall of his shallow breaths.
The chamber was quiet and even the low fire refused to crackle. Della didn’t know how long she kneeled at her father’s side. After some time passed, Lord Strathfeld covered her hand with his own callused one. She could feel his weakened heart under her palm. He opened his eyes to gaze at her.
“Don’t be sad for me, sweet daughter,” he whispered. “I have lived a good and honest life, and I have lived to see you happily wed. Soon I will see my sweet Evelyn and my son. You remind me a lot of your mother. You have her strength. I love you, Della.”
“I love you,” Della mouthed. After all the years since her mother’s death, his thoughts were of her still. A small smile alighted on her father’s face. She felt the strength of Brant’s arm around her as Lord Strathfeld’s heart stopped beating under her hand. For a stunned moment she waited, willing his chest to rise, willing the thump against her hand, but the ealdorman’s heart did not beat again.
“Nay!” She threw herself onto her father’s chest with a painful sob. “Father, don’t leave me. I cannot bear for you to leave me, too.”
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 8
