Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice

by Michelle M. Pillow

  “Wait,” Della interrupted with a serious look. She studied the boy for a moment. The smile faded from Rab’s lips as he awaited her words. The stick sword fell to his side unattended. “Would you be a good knight or a bad, black-hearted knight?”

  “I would be a black knight,” Rab said with little deliberation. “In the stories, the good knight always has to kiss the lady he saved. I would be the bad knight and scare all the ladies and make them tremble with terror, so none of ‘em would e’er want to kiss me.”

  It took all of Della’s willpower not to laugh. She rounded her eyes with pretend terror as she clutched her hands to her heart. “But would you storm my keep, black-hearted knight?”

  “Yea!” Rab lifted his play sword high into the air. With a little show of thrusts, he hollered at Della, “Surrender yer castle, m’lady!”

  “Oh, nay, it is the dreaded barbarian knight. Come to slay me and mine.” Della put her hand to her cheek before reaching down to grab a small stick. “Hold, m’lord, lest you have me sword embedded in yer belly. I will not relinquish what is mine!”

  Rab thrust his stick toward her. “I will not call back me men, m’lady, ‘til yer keep be mine. No one can save you now.”

  “Nay, you will ne’er have my keep.” Della screamed and ran several yards toward the exercise yard. Rab charged after her. With a swish of her skirts, she whirled back to him and moved to a fighting stance. She gave him a daring display of swordplay before yelling, “Help! Help! If no one will save me, I will fight to the death.”

  Rab brandished his stick sword above his head and let out a heathen scream. He charged at her, drawing the further attention of the servants milling about the yard.

  Della planted her shoes firmly in the dirt and gritted her teeth. Snarling, she hunched her shoulders and got ready to fight off his advance. The attack never came. Suddenly, Rab skidded to a stop, his eyes wide. Her face fell in confusion and she started for the lad, intent on shielding him from whatever terrible thing frightened him. Before she had taken a step a strong arm wrapped around her waist from behind. Her captor jerked her off the ground keeping her from ever reaching the boy.

  Brant wielded his broadsword valiantly against Gunther in exercise. Several of the men stopped to see the mock battle between the two large men. Both combatants grunted as they defended the other one’s blow. Their heavy swords thrust and clanged together in noisy affirmation of their strength. Gunther swept his sword forward, missing Brant’s naked shoulder. Brant smiled and returned a thrust in kind. Sweat dripped freely down their naked chests as their muscles strained under the motions.

  Several of the onlookers roared in masculine approval of the battle. A wager was called by a short, square-shouldered soldier and quickly took up by another. The delighted jeers could be heard over the bailey yard. By their expressions, each of the observing knights were glad the talented Vikings would be on their side in battle.

  “Hold!” called Gunther suddenly, wiping the sweat from his eyes with his bare arm.

  “What?” Brant automatically dropped his weapon to his side. “Have you got a difficulty?”

  “Nay,” Gunther smiled in delight as he nodded over Brant’s shoulder. His eyes gleamed with mischief. “But methinks I might need to save a damsel in distress.”

  Brant turned. His heart skipped a beat as he recognized Della running toward the exercise yard. She looked scared. His urge to go to her subsided as he felt Gunther’s hand on his arm, stopping him. Gunther jutted his chin boldly in the air in Della’s direction. Brant watched. His wayward wife turned and she wielded a stick at a young boy. Her burgundy skirts whirled around her ankles in a wave of crimson splendor and the gold cord at her waist snapped through the air. She picked up a fistful of her gown and held it so she would not trip.

  His first surge of concern soon faded as he heard her yell, “Nay, you will ne’er have my keep.”

  Brant could not help the smile that came to his face. He began to laugh, joined by the watching men whose attentions had been diverted from one battle to the other. The same square-shouldered knight called out a mock wager and the men guffawed in response. Brant ignored all of them, his attention held by the playful scene. His proper wife was making a spectacle of herself in front of everyone. Several servants had also stopped in their chores to watch the mock battle. He laughed at her technique as she swung her stick. It reminded him of their wedding day. She really didn’t know how to use the weapon.

  “Do you know that young boy, Gunther?” Brant studied the familiar lad carefully.

  “Yea, it’s only Rab. He’s a foundling to whom Lady Blackwell has taken a liking. She lets him help about the manor,” Gunther said. Della thrust the small stick sword in the air. “Methinks the lad wants to be a knight. I’ve seen him watching us from yonder tree.”

  “Yea, he’s the boy from the other morn who told us about the raid.” Brant nodded, the memory coming to him.

  “The same.” Gunther laughed louder. “Does yer wife know the scene she makes? Methinks Lady Blackwell is going to lose to the child. Look at how she holds her arm. If that was a real sword it would break her wrist. Mayhap you should teach her some technique, so that if the keep was e’er really in trouble she could defend herself.”

  Brant didn’t answer. He wondered if teaching her to hold a weapon would be a mistake. It was possible his wife would turn the sword on him.

  “This is not an extraordinary scene.” Roldan, one of the late Lord Strathfeld’s soldiers, stepped forward. He rested his practice sword lazily on the ground, pushing his weight onto it to bow the thin blade. Snorting loudly, he spat onto the ground before continuing, “M’lady oft plays with the children of the keep. It’s the only time her ice melts a bit and she seems human. She has some fondness fer children. Once she started a mud fight with them, took the servants damned near a fortnight to clean the muck from the castle walls. In the end, a heavy rain finally finished the task.”

  That surprised Brant. By her nature, he had assumed she was one of those women who didn’t like children about them.

  “Help! Help! If no one will save me, I will fight to the death,” Della yelled. Her battle brought her closer to the exercise field.

  “Shall I go?” Gunther asked, a mischievous smile lining his face. Brant stared possessively at his wife. The whole castle knew the couple didn’t share chambers, and many speculated as to whether or not the lord and lady of the manor had even consummated the marriage. Since Della had been checked, there was no proof of a maidenhead to collect from the bridal sheets. Only Gunther knew the truth for sure. He read it well in his lordship’s eyes and he wasn’t saying a word. “M’lord?”

  Brant scowled at Gunther before lifting his own sword as he stepped forward to be Della’s champion. Gunther laughed harder. Brant ignored him. Within several strides, he was upon her. Ducking out of the way when she drew her arm back to thrust the stick, Brant shot forward and wrapped his arm around her waist. Lifting her slightly off the ground, he swung her to his side. Her feet dangled in the air. Not letting go of her, he said for her ears alone, “Death will not be necessary, m’lady. I will always save you.”

  Della gasped as she felt a shiver work its way up her spine. Her hand opened and she dropped the stick from her trembling fingers. The unexpected touch took her by surprise. The soft whisper of his words fanned against her ear and tickled her flesh. She hadn’t been expecting him. Brant’s heat flooded her veins and instantly she was overcome by the same unfamiliar emotions that awoke in her every time he was near.

  Oh, my.

  In her play with the child, she had forgotten that she was supposed to hate him. Della looked at his naked arm, clamped about her waist like an iron brace. He lifted her as if she was no more than a feather and she placed her hands tentatively on his arm. The reminder of his strength overtook her senses.

  Rab stopped his charge and stared at them in worry.

  Brant lifted his sword and pointed it at the boy. “Do you dare to
lay siege to what is mine, boy?”

  Della shivered at his openly possessive claim to her. Brant lowered her feet to the ground, but kept her close. The words didn’t irritate her as much as they should have. Rab’s mouth dropped open. He looked at Della for confirmation and she nodded.

  Adjusting herself so she could partially see her husband, she whispered, “He is playacting like he is a barbarian. He means no harm. It’s just a child’s game.”

  “It would appear that there are many of us barbarians here,” Brant murmured against her throat.

  Della shivered. “I—”

  “Well, barbarian, it is a serious crime you have committed against me.” Brant lowered his sword and looked sternly at the boy before winking at him. “Do you yield?”

  “Never!” Rab visibly relaxed and again held up his wooden sword.

  “You are brave, knight, but it is a mistake not to surrender. Now you will taste steel.” Brant made a fake sweep toward Rab. Della jolted at the motion, but Brant held her safely within his embrace.

  “You have conquered me, m’lord.” The boy grabbed his gut and groaned viciously as he fell to the ground. Rolling about in the dirt, he clutched at his fake wound, dramatically dying. Then, making a quick recovery, he yelled up from where he’d fallen on his backside, “I yield!”

  “Pledge your loyalty to me and my lady wife,” Brant commanded, “and I shall make you my page.”

  Rab’s eyes rounded in hope and he eagerly nodded. Della sighed as the boy kneeled before them. Holding his stick like it was a sword, he swore his allegiance. She couldn’t hear the entirety of what the boy said, but knew it to be as noble of a knight’s pledge as ever spoken.

  Brant tilted his jaw in satisfaction and loosened his hold on her, still not letting her go. “A wise decision, Rab. As my page, you will start training on the morrow. Perchance, someday, you will be knighted. Methinks you show much bravery and promise, but you must work hard. It will not be easy for you.”

  Rab looked at Lord Blackwell in wonder as the older man said his name. Della saw the hero worship in the boy’s eyes and knew he was lost to the giant beside her. The loss didn’t upset her as she thought it might. Feeling an overwhelming sense of appreciation and hope, Della turned to face her captor.

  “My hero.” Della sighed, caught up in the moment of the game. She didn’t fight his embrace as she moved her hands to settle about his thick neck. She leaned her head against his muscular chest and felt the press of his naked skin against her. His arm flexed on her waist, his hand tightening on her hip. Hastily, she pulled back to look up at him.

  It’s only so Rab will see there is naught to fear in him. Della knew she was lying. Her eyes softened, as she breathed in the scent of his body. The hard, hot length of him molded into her, not leaving any space between them.

  “Thank you.” Her eyes held his.

  “A kiss,” Rab demanded, his voice cracking. Della jolted at the noise. Brant froze. “A kiss fer the victor. The good knight always gets a kiss from the lady.”

  Della looked about in confusion as the onlookers cheered their encouragement. Their curious faces watched the noble couple with avid interest. Della blushed, but met Brant’s eyes resolutely.

  Brant whispered, “How about it, m’lady? A kiss for the victor?”

  Della didn’t know what was coming over her. The longing he stirred within her was turning into a familiar occurrence. The strong arm about her waist made her blood flow in a chaos of emotion. She looked to his parted lips and slowly moved her tongue to the corner of her mouth. Taking a deep, shattering breath, she nodded.

  Brant lifted her up by his one arm and pressed his lips quickly to hers. Her hands tightened about his neck, but he released her. Della dropped to the ground in shock, confused by his swift kiss. It was as if he could not wait to be rid of her touch. Rab appeared at her side, distracting her.

  “The riders, m’lady.” The boy pulled on her sleeve. “Don’t forget.”

  “Oh, yea.” She cleared her throat. “M’lord, riders approach. We were just on our way to inform you.”

  Brant pointed to where he had been exercising and said to Rab, “Quick, page, get my tunic by the field.”

  Della walked numbly beside her husband to the main gate. Her lips still stung where he touched them. She wondered why he hadn’t kissed her like last time. At the memory, Della wrinkled her nose, remembering how sloppy it had been. “Thank you for what you did for the boy. It has always been his dream to become a page. Methinks he hoped one of my father’s men would choose him, but they had no reason to. When a child is branded bastard, many do not find the time for him.”

  Brant made a weak noise. Was Della actually thanking him? As he watched her, he waited for the moment her gentle amber eyes would turn cold. Part of him was afraid that if he looked away, he would realize her smile was not for him. But she was looking at him and he had never seen her eyes glint with such obvious tenderness.

  He slowed his step, listening as the guards opened the front gate. Rab delivered the tunic. It was the dark blue one she had made for him. Waving the child away, he said, “Yea, it is of no matter. I needed a page. I have no kin with sons to lend to the task.”

  Della bit her lip and he felt her eyes stay on him as he pulled the tunic over his head. Instantly, her attention turned to the garment she’d sewn. It was long enough to hit just above the knees. She tugged the material at his side. “It’s not quite right. I was unsure about the size. Mayhap I should have made it longer.”

  Concentrating, she grabbed his arm and began to lift it. Brant chuckled and instead moved his arm to settle over her shoulders, pulling her next to him. She didn’t notice the familiar way he handled her or the stares their unofficial truce elicited from the yard. “It’s fine, Della.”

  “Nay, I just want to see if you can lift your arm. Methinks I might need to take out the shoulder some and take in the waist, just a bit. I had thought your waist was bigger, what with the muscles.” She bit her lip and tried to pull away to study it again. “I should just start over. This one is not right at all. Mayhap that is why you did not exercise in it? It doesn’t fit properly?”

  “Nay, Della.” Brant stopped and stuck his knuckle under her chin, lifting her face to gain her full attention. “It’s perfect. I thank you for it.”

  Della frowned, still concentrating on her craftsmanship. “It really would look better with the braccas I made for you and the new undertunics.”

  Brant stared at her in disbelief. He wondered how she spared enough time to make his six tunics in one sennight, let alone underclothing. Surely she’d had help from the servants.

  He was still awed by her gift. Though he would never admit it to her, he had spent much of the morning trying all of them on in front of the mirror of polished silver in his chamber. “Della, it’s fine and the fit could not be more perfect.”

  Della nodded, still examining the tunic for imperfections in the seam lines more than listening to him. Again she tried to lift his arm and again he resisted by placing it over her shoulders. The smell of her, the dancing innocence of her touch drove him mad with lust. He’d wanted to deepen the earlier victory kiss, but he’d been many months without a woman. If he would’ve held her too much longer, he would’ve lost control. His wife would not take kindly to him acting the barbarian. But her new compliance to his touch was overwhelming. It had been much easier to hold his passions at bay when she fought him. Even now, he wanted to throw her over his shoulder and drag her away to his bed.

  “When did you have time to direct the servants to do them?” Brant tried to take his mind off her lips, as he glanced down at his tunic.

  Della’s head snapped up and she took a step away from him. “Servants?”

  “Yea, to sew the clothing.” He smiled, trying to bring the gentleness back to her eyes. It was too late. The look had faded.

  “I didn’t have the servants help. They had too much to do as it was with all the guests. I only had Quinn help
with the embroidery, since he does it so much better than I.” She gave a guilty laugh. “Methinks that mayhap it is because he is like a woman.”

  Amazed, Brant lifted a finger to briefly touch a wayward blonde curl. Then, dropping his hand, he asked, “How many did you sew?”

  “Six complete outfits. Since you seem to change your clothes oft, methought it a good number. Why? Are you in need of more? It might take a few days, but I guess it would be my duty to sew more if you were in need. Methinks there is some fabric left in the storage chamber. The linen may be a bit coarse, but it would do for now.”

  “Nay, it’s only that you must have gone without sleep to do it. Why?” He hoped to trap her into a confession of some kind. The fact that she’d paid close attention to his habits pleased him—not to mention her assessment of his muscled waist.

  Even though she didn’t move away from him, she withdrew herself quite effectively. Her face turned cold. “Nay, no more than usual. I don’t sleep well at night. Not since I was a child. I needed something to keep my hands busy.”

  Brant watched with regret as her expression hardened. He had little time to wonder at it as the gate stopped creaking.

  “It was embarrassing to see you looking like a pauper,” she said. “It reflected badly on the manor.”

  Ah, there is the Ice Princess I know. Brant refused to be baited by her insult. He began to understand that she used it as a defense to keep him at bay. Mayhap she was that way to anyone who tried to get close to her. Instead he turned to the front gate. “Why would they open the castle without permission?”

  “I have a standing order that Edwyn can make the decision in my absence. It must be a friend.”

  “It is no longer your decision to make when I am here,” Brant decreed without thought. “Or do you forget who is in charge now?”

  Any retort was lost as the sound of thundering hooves reverberated over the yard. A flag flew over their ranks, bearing a black dragon on red cloth. He instantly recognized the symbol.