Edwyn stepped forward and closed the lifeless eyes. He kept his hand over the ealdorman’s face for a moment and said a brief prayer.
“The priest,” Della began as the man drew his hand away.
“Has come and gone,” Edwyn assured her.
Della cried harder, gripping her father’s overtunic as she hugged him close. She felt so alone and didn’t know what she was going to do.
“Della,” Brant whispered, unable to resist holding her. He pulled her forcibly off the dead body and into his chest. She was so small, so fragile, as she trembled in his arms. To his surprise, she didn’t pull away from his touch. Her words of contentment to the ealdorman had come so easily from her and the sleek feel of her hand as it covered his callused one had been so gentle and soft. He held on to that moment, when all her anger toward him was gone.
A soft lock of her herb-scented hair brushed his jaw and Brant ached with a craving he could not name. It was more than the passion of the flesh—though he did have that aplenty. She touched him willingly, her eyes worried and scared, and it was clear she didn’t know the effect she had on him. Her innocence only tortured him more.
As the brave woman, who had fought and aggravated him at every turn, was reduced to tears, he felt a large part of his anger toward her fade until all that remained was the sorrowful regret for the things he had done to her.
“All will be well, Della.” Brant didn’t know if she heard him. “I will take care of you. I will take care of everything.”
Chapter Six
A sennight had passed in a devastating blur since the death of Della’s father. Brant had left her alone to grieve, choosing to sleep in his own chamber and leaving her to hers. He reminded her a few times that he slept nearby, lest she needed anything. Della had to admit she appreciated her husband’s help. He made all the funeral arrangements, had taken care of the wedding guests turned funeral guests, and had given her the space she needed to recover from the shock.
Della hadn’t gone to the hall too often since the tragedy. She went to the funeral and to the solemn meal after, sitting frozen before the prying eyes of those gathered. Aside from the first night when Brant held her, she hadn’t cried again.
Della had actually been shocked to find that it had been Brant who held her and not Edwyn. She hadn’t heard his words, but for the soothing sound of his low murmuring voice. For a moment, when her sobs subsided, she looked up into his concerned blue gaze and she became aware of his body pressed tightly against hers.
Although his eyes were kind, his face was that of a pagan Viking and she recoiled from him in horror. He didn’t resist as she pushed him away. Only after running all the way back to her own bedchamber, and having left her husband a safe distance behind her, did she realize that she’d overreacted. But he didn’t mention it, so neither did she.
Brant had been kind enough to make excuses for her absence and even remembered to have food sent to her chamber. Della smiled wryly every time she thought of it. She hated to admit it, but his kindness did much in thawing her heart toward him. He wasn’t behaving as she imagined a barbarian should behave.
In light of the mortality of life, she looked at her marriage in a new way. She still didn’t like her Viking husband, or the fact that she had been forced to marry him. But she was an adult and it was time for her to let go of the childish dreams of how she wanted things to be. She was married and it was time to make the best of it.
The nightmare of her mother’s death would never leave her, nor would the hatred she felt for her husband’s people because of it. So she came up with what she felt was an ingenious plan. Della decided she would fund her husband in his travels. Perhaps he could even take a mistress with him and only come back if the manor was in trouble and he was needed. Many noblemen campaigned away from home and wife. Della smiled sadly at the idea. She’d never really wanted to be married, but with this new plan it might not be so bad. It might even be like it had been before, when her father was away on campaigns and she was in complete charge of the keep. Of course there was still the consummation to deal with and Brant’s help to stop the raiding would be nice.
It was early morning and Della doubted anyone would be stirring in the castle. She always awoke before the sun rose along the horizon. The remainder of their guests had thankfully left the eve before. She didn’t like so many visitors and hadn’t been introduced to half of them, not that she really cared. The endless line of nobles had blended together in her head until she could no longer pick them apart in her mind’s eye. She’d already determined she didn’t wish to meet Brant’s friends. To her thinking, the less their lives intermingled the better.
Della took her time dressing, stopping to scrub her face in the basin of cool water Ebba had left out. She’d decided to forgive the girl for her part in the checking. It was hard for Della to stay mad at her. Besides, if she didn’t forgive the maid, Ebba would have spent the next century on her knees pleading with her. Della laughed aloud at the memory. Ebba had actually laid down in front of her chamber door, refusing to leave until Della spoke to her.
Fully dressed, Della moved to her bed and picked up her sewing. The black linen was the finest in the manor. She’d spent her time in seclusion sewing clothes for her husband, as a thank you for his help. She doubted she could have managed the keep half as well in her sorrowful condition.
With a few deft strokes, she finished the stitching and bit the thread with her teeth, completing the final touches on the braccas and undertunics. In total, there were six pairs ranging in colors from brown to black to one white undertunic. Della had taken much more care to decide his overtunic colors. She wanted what would look best on him as Lord of the manor and new Ealdorman of Strathfeld. Black was for his dark heathen nature. Brown because it was a serviceable color that matched everything. Dark blue for it would complement the light blue of his summer eyes. Brownish-red was for his ‘fiery’ disposition. And two white because every nobleman needed a good white tunic.
The only thing she had left was to appliqué the embroidered silk onto the edges of the overtunics. Once finished, he would truly look like a nobleman worthy of the title her father had left him. Della gave a sad smile as she examined the large shirts. She used to sew such things for her father. Being awake twenty hours of the day left a person with a lot of extra time.
Knowing she didn’t have the materials needed to finish them, she decided to search out Quinn. He was the only one she trusted when it came to overseeing the sewing. The man wielded a needle and weaving loom like a knight wielded a sword and shield. This wouldn’t be the first time she had awoken one of the servants before dawn to help her.
Della honed many skills within the night hours. She’d designed the castle, learned to play hnefa-tafl, had perfected her reading and penmanship, and had even taught herself to dance. Any lesson was better than staring through the darkness at the fireplace waiting for the dawn, although she had done her share of that as well.
Sighing, she gathered the overtunics into her arms and carried them to the door. Before stepping into the hall, she hesitated. Her eyes strayed to Brant’s closed door. She wondered if he slept there and if he was alone. Then shaking her head, she frowned.
“I hope that he finds someone to fill his nights.” Hugging the material closer, she didn’t look at his door again as she hurried by it. Her feet soundlessly moved over the stone in search of Quinn. She didn’t want to admit she was excited to see her lord husband well-dressed. Muttering in irritation as she walked, she said, “I am only sewing for him so as not to be embarrassed by his appearance. I care not what he looks like. I care not if he likes the gifts.”
Even as she said the words, she heard her own laughter mocking her from the back of her mind.
* * * * *
“Oh, yea! This is truly marvelous!”
Brant stopped, not sure whether he could believe his ears. He tilted his head and listened again. Silence. Scratching his freshly trimmed beard, he shook his head
with a short, weary laugh. He’d been on his way to the exercise field when he swore he heard his wife’s excited voice coming from one of the empty chambers. Looking back down the hall to where her chamber door was shut, he studied the hard wood for a moment. Then, not hearing anything else, he moved again toward the stairs. His wife was no doubt still in bed.
He’d scarcely seen Della since the evening of her father’s death, but he soon came to realize the affection she showed him had been only an act to please a dying man. For a moment, her act had been convincing.
Brant could still feel her slender body in his arms, clinging to him, as she cried into his chest. He’d stroked the soft length of her hair, his fingers tangling in the tresses. And, when finally he pulled back to look at her face, she’d stared up at him in stunned surprise.
Pausing near the stairwell, he closed his eyes. He could still see her beautiful lips as they trembled in question and the dark sweep of her moist lashes as she looked at him. And he knew well the exact instant she recognized who held her. Her eyes had been swollen red with the heat of her grief, but their amber depth shot their ice accusingly at him. She ripped herself from his embrace and visibly shuddered in repulsion at his touch. The look she gave him burned eternally in his mind.
Her words of contentment had been a lie, yet part of him held on to her tender display. His heart physically ached when he thought of it, remembering the gentle caress of her hand, the innocent way her head nuzzled on his chest. Just as soon as the manor started to settle, he was going to find out just what he had done, or hadn’t done, to bring on her aversion to him and his people.
He had overheard her talking with Edwyn at the wedding feast about there being a pain in her heart and that being her reason for not wanting to marry a Norseman. Brant perceived he hadn’t done anything at all, that in fact it was some deep hurt from long ago that kept his wife from him. Though he discreetly asked, no one said a word about her past. He was no fool to hope for love in an arranged marriage, but he knew they would be sexually compatible if she would just let her damned self-control go. And she was just the kind of stubborn woman a man would want next to him during the hard times.
Though he wanted it, Brant wasn’t sure he even knew what love was, or if it existed for a man—for a woman, of course. Women were always going on about love. It was something that came to them naturally. Women nurtured, suckled. Men were a harder lot, bent on wars and fighting. Brant couldn’t see how a warrior, such as himself, could fight and kill, yet love and nurture at the same time. The traits were too conflicting in nature.
“Oh, yea. Oh, yea, that’s it!”
Brant’s eyebrows furrowed in ire as he came to a stop at the top of the stairwell. That time he definitely heard his wife’s voice. Spinning around, he strode back along the passageway. A slow rage consumed him at the sound of her pleasure.
Here I have been trying to find ways to please the wench and it sounds as if she is getting pleasure elsewhere!
Brant narrowed his gaze as he heard a deep male voice reply to his wife’s exclamation. “Oh, yea, m’lady, this is truly the most marvelous...”
He couldn’t listen to anymore. Focusing in on the chamber door from whence the sound came, he charged the thick wood. A low growl flew from his lips as he slammed open the door without drawing the latch. He didn’t hear it crash through the blood rushing in his ears.
The chamber was lit by a single torch, set up with a weaving loom and several cutting tables. A half-woven tapestry of red and blue had been started on the loom. In the corner, behind it and sitting in a chair, was a slender man with a wide smile of satisfaction curling his thick lips. And leaning over the offending man’s lap was his wife.
The man jolted at the sound of the wood smashing on stone, the reaction slightly delayed. Brant cleared his throat and the young man leapt to his feet, clutching black material to his stomach.
“Quinn, hold still. And whoever is making that noise, cease. You are going to wake the manor.” Della stood up and turned, no doubt expecting to scold a servant. “My lord husband will not take kindly to your disquiet. It’s likely he is still in bed—”
Brant raised an eyebrow.
“M’lord!” Della gasped in surprise. Her round amber eyes sought his and she quickly hid her hands behind her back. “What are you doing? Coming in here like that?”
“You, out!” His voice was hard as he directed his deadliest gaze at the young Quinn. He couldn’t believe that his wife, who was supposed to be in her bedchamber grieving and denying him his marital rights, was giving adulteress pleasure to someone else. And a servant no less!
Brant’s chest heaved as Quinn hurried from the sewing chamber. He didn’t take his eyes from Della. She paled, not daring to move.
“Really, Lord Blackwell, that was not necessary,” Della said. “Quinn will undoubtedly keep running until he arrives at the coast and there he is likely to get on a boat and sail away.”
Brant took a step toward her. “Nay, lady wife, I find it was quite necessary. I will slaughter that little piglet later, but first I will attend to you, adulteress.”
“Adulteress? What have I done?” Her long, dark lashes fluttered over her eyes. Brant wasn’t swayed by her confused, innocent expression. A sewing needle and spool of thread dropped from her hands. Glancing around the chamber, she gradually made her way from behind the loom. Her gaze darted to the door, as if calculating her chance for escape.
“I catch her and she still asks me what she has done,” Brant said in disbelief.
Della again looked around. “Who are—?”
“What do you think you were doing in that man’s lap, Della?”
“You think that I? And Quinn? You think that I would…with Quinn? A servant?”
“Yea, I saw you. Do not deny it!” Brant finally got enough control over his anger that he trusted himself to move closer. “I warned you that if you ever played me false I would beat you within an inch of your life. Do you remember?”
“Yea, you said repeatedly. How could one forget such a threat?” Though she tried to look brave, she trembled violently. Her hand sought the support of the wooden loom and she leaned into it. Then, as an angry heat rose over his features, she stumbled back, nearly tripping on Quinn’s abandoned chair. She nudged the chair out of the way. “I have never played you false. I swear to it, m’lord, on my own life.”
“I will have no more of your lies.” His hands fisted. There was no place for her to go.
“I swore to be honest to you and I have been. Except for my earlier deceit, which I have paid fully for I might add, I have never lied to you. I have never made you the fool.” Her back hit the stone wall and she began inching along it as if to get farther from him. Her eyes pleaded with him to believe her. “I don’t wish to be with any man, ever. Methinks copulation is a distasteful, disgusting act of which I wish never to be a part.”
Bewildered by her words, he kept moving toward her. Against his better judgment, he glanced over her slender frame. Even in anger, he found her the most beautiful of women. “Methinks there is much wrong with your statement, lady wife. Have you forgotten your Sir Stuart?”
Della rolled her eyes heavenward. “My father married me to an imbecile. You do not have a brain in your head if you still think I want Stuart. I only wanted what he promised me five years ago before my father encouraged him to leave Strathfeld to seek his own way.”
“And what was that, pray tell?” He stopped to study her, torn by the fire coursing in his blood. The warrior in him wanted to take. The man in him wanted to seduce. The lord in him wanted to demand. For the moment, he did none of those things.
“To only have to lie with him in the marriage bed once, to both consummate the union and to get me pregnant so that we may have an heir. He said he could give me a draught so I would not feel it. Indeed, so I could sleep through it. And I told Stuart he could have a mistress after it was done, so long as he was discreet with her.” She lifted her chin in victory, her ex
pression proud. He knew she was being honest, for who would say such a foolish thing unless they believed it? “And so long as he kept her from becoming with child. It would not do to have bastards about the manor. It would not be fair to the mistress or the children.”
Brant made his expression blank. In truth, he was fascinated, if not slightly dispirited, by her claims. She looked down at his chest, gulping visibly as she tried to press harder into the stone. Her breathing deepened and her fingers worked against her skirt, clutching the material tight. He took it all in, reading that which she would not say.
“I…” She swallowed, turning her attention over his shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze. When she continued, the hope in her voice was palpable. “I’m willing to offer you the same, m’lord, though instead of mistresses here, mayhap you would like to travel with them. It is a very noble pursuit to travel and Strathfeld is rich enough to send you about the world thrice in the utmost comfort. I could continue to manage the keep as I always have, and if there was a war or if you were needed, then I would call you home. I swear to take no man to my bed, if that worries you, though it’s of no concern to me. After the one time we, ah, consummate, I will be pregnant and I promise to be a good mother to the child, like you decreed. I do not hate children. In truth, I would love the child and be an extremely good mother.”
“And what if I wanted to see the child?” he ventured carefully, amazed at how much thought she’d given the insane plan.
“I would write you with the news of the birth. I would write you every sennight with news if you so wished it, though to me that would be excessive. There is no need for you to be around while I brought the child up. My father was not around when I grew, except to stop in and check on the manor. It could be the same for you.”
Della smiled and hope shined from her eyes. He stood motionless under the amazing strength of her expression. If her happiness were not stemmed from a desire to be rid of him, he would have basked in the beauty of it. Raising his hands to rest on his hips, he waited patiently.
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 9
