“The standard is vaguely familiar. Who is it?” Della straightened her gown as the riders approached.
“It’s the banner of the king’s man.” Brant frowned.
“Were you expecting them?” She seemed annoyed that he hadn’t told her sooner.
“No.”
“They must be here because of my father,” Della concluded.
Brant wasn’t so sure. “Get you quick to Isa. Tell her of our guests.”
Brant didn’t look to see if she obeyed, but he listened for the sound of her footfall. He sighed in relief when she gave him no argument, knowing the truce between them was fragile at best.
“Argh!” Della strode inside the manor without a backward glance. She wanted to tell him where he could shove his commands, but refrained, not wishing to argue with him in front of the king or his men.
She tripped with the urge to run, but forced her feet to glide with confidence. In truth, she was glad for any excuse that would take her far from her aggravating and highly confusing husband. Crossing over the threshold of the hall, she chanced a look back. He was already greeting their guests, motioning at the stable lads to tend to the horses. She studied him for a moment, watching the enigmatic way he commanded all those around him.
“Command all but me,” Della vowed as she angrily went to inform Isa of their guests.
* * * * *
“Is it King Guthrum, m’lady?” Rab asked impatiently. He edged over to the open doorway leading to the hall from the kitchen. He tried to peek around the corner unnoticed.
“Nay.” Della pulled him back into the kitchen, secretly wanting to do the same. “It’s some of his men. They said they have a message from the king for Lord Blackwell.”
“Do you think Lord Blackwell will let me read it? None o’ the other pages know how to read. I could—”
“Nay, it’s private,” Della said, knowing he only wanted to brag about the skill to Brant. The nobleman’s attention had boosted the boy’s sense of self-worth and for that she was grateful. Rab had blossomed under her tutelage and now with the attention of her husband, he positively gleamed. She could easily guess how jealous the other boys would be of him once word of his new position spread.
Della finally gave into temptation and looked across the main hall to where her husband had entered with two very important-looking men. She was glad he wore the new tunic. Isa set out drinks at the high table, her large frame moving with a lumbering grace. No doubt the woman wanted to get first look at the newcomers for she rarely served the drinks.
Regretfully, the maids still scrubbed the hall floor. They were almost finished with their task, and had even started to place fresh rushes over parts of the stone. A maid passed with a bucket and Della reached out to stop her. The woman’s nose was red and she rubbed it on her sleeve as she looked expectantly at her mistress. “Mary, have the others finish the stairs and the hall as quickly as possible, but leave off the walls until the guests leave.”
The maid curtsied, but did not speak. Della turned her attention back to Rab.
“Get you to the stables. Help Boothe with the horses.” She gave Rab a gentle shove. “Mayhap some of the king’s knights will be out there and the other boys might want to meet the ealdorman’s new page.”
“Yea, m’lady.” His face brightened.
“I promise to tell you what happens tonight.”
Rab smiled and ran from the kitchen to do her bidding. Della watched him scurry off before turning to the men. She wondered if she should wait to be called, but curiosity got the better of her as she made her way across the hall to her husband.
“King Guthrum begs me to present you with this before we did so much as drink.” An older gentleman with a lazy eye handed over a rolled missive to Brant. “He bid you to read it immediately and make your mark.”
Della nodded in approval to several of the maids working industrially as she passed. Then, turning her full attention to her husband, she forced a pleasant smile on her face. Brant frowned as he slowly unrolled the missive. Knitting his brows in concentration, he narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the document for a long moment.
The men shifted uncomfortably as her husband stared at the parchment. Della made her way closer, noting the grim set of determination on her husband’s face. The man with the lazy eye looked at his dark friend in amusement.
He cannot read! Della realized with sudden insight. Though it was not unusual for Vikings to be illiterate, having no real written language of their own beyond a few scribbles, she found the revelation surprising. Brant had appeared educated and capable. He spoke like a gentleman, though his heathen accent thickened his words. And, although she had tried to find it otherwise, he appeared to be quite capable of making the decisions of his title.
Oh, nay. They are mocking him! Della frowned, instantly becoming protective as a jeering expression alighted on the little man’s face.
Della rushed forward, mindless of her uninvited interruption, desperate to save Brant from the inevitable humiliation. Again, she forgot her displeasure over her marriage as she went to his aid. Her heart beat with a familiar ache as she tapped his arm gently.
“M’lord husband.” Della smiled prettily as she looked at the two men. Threading her arm over Brant’s to draw his concentration away from the missive, she squeezed it insistently.
“Yea?” he said, clearly baffled by her attention. For a moment, the entirety of the hall faded into the clearness of his gaze. She found the slight curve of his smile and she couldn’t keep the blush from heating her features as her lashes swept over her eyes.
“I don’t believe I have been introduced.” Della glanced expectantly at the two men. She gave them all a sweet smile.
Brant didn’t answer at first and she worried that he wouldn’t indulge her request. A man like him would probably think it was curiosity in their guests which caused her to ask. Della had to admit, that was part of her motivation, but mostly she wanted to save her husband from humiliation. As if finally deciding there was no harm in her meeting the king’s ambassadors, he cleared his throat. Presenting her hand to the first man, he said, “M’lady, may I present Lord Aurick of Lester.”
Lord Lester was the condescending man with the lazy eye. She gave him a simple smile, all the time cursing him in her mind. He might have looked like a noble in his new, padded green tunic with the gold stitching, but he smelled like rotted cream. Della suddenly appreciated all the bizarre morning rituals she’d witnessed from the Vikings. They cleaned themselves daily and changed their clothing often.
How could I have thought they were the smelly ones? She tried not to gag as the nobleman’s breath hit her face. She would wager that Lord Lester hadn’t bathed in well over a fortnight.
“M’lady,” Lord Lester squeaked in a high, nasally voice, as his cold fingers firmly grasped her hand. He rubbed his thumb inappropriately on her palm and she hid her revulsion as he kissed her hand. Opening his mouth, he pressed his greasy lips to her flesh. She shivered in disgust and Lester smiled at her reaction. Brant didn’t notice as he looked over the missive.
Della waited for Lester to drop her hand. As he righted himself, the nobleman watched her through veiled eyes, but didn’t let go. Jerking back from his lecherous grasp, she offered her hand to the second man. Lester frowned. Brant smiled in approval. Della ignored them both.
“And Sir Vladamir of Kessen.” This time Brant rolled the missive and placed it under his arm. He watched carefully for her reaction to the younger, handsomer visitor. Della paid the man little heed.
“M’lady,” Sir Vladamir acknowledged in a strange foreign accent. His low, soft voice was much more pleasant than his friend’s had been. A shock of short black hair fell over his dark brooding eyes, as he quickly kissed her hand and released it.
“Gentlemen, this is my wife, the Countess of Strathfeld.”
“My pleasure, gentlemen,” Della said graciously as they bowed in acknowledgment of her title. To her it sounded strange. Sh
e always thought of the countess as her deceased mother. “M’lords, please forgive a foolish woman’s interruption, but I must beg your forgiveness as I steal away my lord husband. It is a most urgent matter for which I need his assistance with, I assure you.”
“M’lady.” Sir Vladamir seemed bored as he glanced expectantly at his companion. When Lester didn’t readily speak, he said, “Let me know if I can be of service.”
“Thank you, but that will not be necessary. It’s most urgent, though inane in nature.” Della allowed a blush to creep over her cheeks. The redness wasn’t completely fake. She could imagine what they thought she wanted with Brant.
“I must insist that you read the missive now, Lord Blackwell,” interrupted Lord Lester rudely, shooting Della a look that said he didn’t so easily forget her display of displeasure. “It’s from King Guthrum, himself.”
“M’lord.” Della tried to be charming. “I don’t think that even King Guthrum would mind me talking most urgently to my lord husband while you partake of the best ale in all of Northumbria. We have perfected the recipe in our brewery. Mayhap, you will have an opinion on it, being as you are so obviously well-traveled.”
“Yea,” Lord Lester assented unwillingly. It was clear he thought he faced an uphill battle with the simple woman. “But I must insist on quickness.”
Self important pig! The man acts as if he is royalty.
“To be sure.” She took Brant around the wrist that held the missive so he wouldn’t be able to give it back. “The maids have set cups on the high table for you and I insist that you stay here to dine tonight. It will be roasted mutton.”
“Self important pig!” Della muttered, dropping her hand from where it had been on Brant’s arm. He didn’t want to let her go, but she rushed ahead, viciously rubbing the back of her hand on her gown. Brant wondered whom she referred to with the comment. He rather thought Lord Lester was deserving of her scorn, but with the circumstances of their relationship, Brant was afraid the contempt was directed at him.
He had watched the whole interplay with amusement. If he didn’t know his pretty little wife, he would have believed her act of innocence. His eyes strayed to where her hips moved, seductively swaying under the burgundy linen of her dress, and he wondered what urgent matter she spoke of.
The gold cord at her waist gave him a truly wicked idea as he wondered how it would look tied around her wrists in love play. He licked his lips. Involuntary lust pumped in his veins and he ached to grab her skirt and toss it over her backside so that he may have his way with her in the stairwell.
I doubt that is your urgent matter, Ice Princess. Brant sighed in disappointment. Pity.
“What was that, Lord Blackwell?” Della inquired as she reached the top. The mask of ice had once more frozen her features and her gaze revealed nothing as she directed it toward him.
“It’s naught to be concerned with.” He hated the way she insisted on using his formal title. The way she said it was so cold and distant.
When she turned, he realized his tone had been dejected. Seeing his eyes on her butt, she gasped and blushed. Brant smiled sheepishly at being caught, but didn’t try to hide his brazen response.
“Lord Blackwell, please!” She was shaken and he saw her falter in her purpose.
Brant gave one last longing glance to the cord.
“Oh.” Della grabbed her skirt in irritation, marching toward his bedchamber. Pushing open the door, she then turned and held out her hand, a heavy sigh escaping her lips.
A slow, amazed gleam sparked within him, surging from the depths of his tempered desire. Longing flooded him, coursing in his veins at the smallest hope she would offer herself to him. He stepped closer, his eyes straying toward the massive bed behind her and then to her hand. Could this be? He reached to take her fingers in his, hesitant yet eager for her touch.
“Nay.” Della shooed his hand away like an annoying insect. “The missive. Give it to me and I will read it.”
Brant wasn’t surprised and still he waited for the words to take themselves back. At her insistence, he turned his attention to the rolled parchment. An acute pain assaulted him at her rejection. Frowning, he strode into the chamber, not handing it over.
“Give it to me. I will read it to you.” Della followed him inside and quietly shut the door.
Was this a game? Could she truly not know what he would think her intent was, bringing him to his chamber in such a way? Did the woman mean to turn him around until he couldn’t see straight, running him through with the dagger of her withheld affections?
Brant shot her a hard stare. “What do you mean to imply?”
“I saw that you were having trouble. Methought to save you the discomfort of admitting you don’t understand what the missive says. It is naught to be ashamed of. Many nobles have not been taught. And, well, you are a Viking.”
His frown darkened into a scowl. She took a step back as his body visibly stiffened. Brant didn’t move and her attention seemed caught by the soft fur rug he’d ordered placed on the floor upon his arrival. Then, as if steeling herself, she swallowed any emotion she must have felt and looked up. Again, she held out her hand.
“If you like, I will teach you, and to write also,” she said. “That way when you are about your travels, you will be able to read what I write to you and send direction. But, for now, hand me the missive and I will read it to you.”
She hadn’t given up on her idea of sending him away. Part of him wanted to laugh, but it was a small part. Then an idea formed in his head. His wife was trying to come to his rescue. He wasn’t sure if he should be insulted by her presumption or flattered by her unsuspected loyalty.
He sat and put the missive next to him on the bed, beckoning her to join him with a tilt of his head. She came to him, her steps slow as if she didn’t trust him. He remembered how good she felt against him and knew it was wise of her to be wary of his intensions. Though he tried, he couldn’t keep the wicked smile from curving on his face.
Sitting, she stretched behind his body to pick up the message. Brant grabbed her arm, gently drawing it from behind his back to face him. She looked at him in surprise. “But—”
“I can read, Della.” Brant took a deep breath, letting her scent settle around him. She carried the light aroma of wildflowers in her hair. The honeyed tresses were bound back to the nape of her neck, but fell freely from there. He could also smell the trace of soap from where she helped the servants to clean the hall.
“But I saw you struggling,” she said, confused. “It’s naught to be ashamed of, m’lord.”
Brant heard the quiver in her words. Stroking his hand up her arm, he moved to touch her under her chin. He saw her eyes widen uncomfortably at his handling. He tilted her jaw back so he could look fully at her face. “It sometimes takes me awhile since this is not my natural language, but I can read it. My father insisted.”
“So you were struggling? You did need my help?”
Why did I not see it earlier? You, my little Ice Princess, like to take care of everyone. Whether an illegitimate child, a manor full of servants, or an illiterate husband. It seems this little trait even surpasses your unrelenting repulsion of my heritage.
Brant smiled suddenly. His wife was protecting a very soft heart underneath her glacial exterior.
“What was it?” she asked, once again trying to peek past him to the sheepskin parchment.
“It is but a formality from the king. It is not important.” His smile broadened and he grew bolder when she didn’t move away from him.
“You’re finding amusement at my expense. I don’t know why I even bother trying to do aught nice for you. You are an overbearing, dimwitted oaf. I should have expected such ingratitude from a Viking.”
“Nay, enough, my Ice Princess.” Brant liked the heat he saw curling in her gaze. It was a pleasant change from their icy coolness. It seemed her words were the only defense she had against him, so he ignored them. Brant had dealt with frightened people b
efore.
“Quit calling me that,” Della flustered. “I am not an Ice Princess, you barbarian!”
Brant shook his head and answered in a logical, even tone. “Then quit calling me a barbarian.”
“I—” Della’s words ground to a stop as she glared at him.
She didn’t know how else to respond. He represented everything that she hated in the world, everything that had ruined her childhood and had taken her mother so violently away from her. But she still found herself oddly attracted to him. Unable to resist, she looked at his hands. They were strong, even in relaxation. Every time they were together in private, he found a reason to back her against the wall, and each time it became harder for her to fight his pagan spell.
He was so close. The heat of his body wove its magic around her. She detected the strong sinew of his muscular neck and the steady pulse that beat in a mesmerizing rhythm at the base of his throat. Tears stung her eyes as she looked at him. He pierced her with an uncontrollable fire and a longing that had more to do with her heart and less to do with physical aching. Turmoil invaded her entire being, but she could not draw away. Her voice soft, she said, “I want…”
“What Della? What do you want, princess?”
Della decided she liked the new version of his nickname much better. She was tired of being treated like she had no emotions, like she didn’t feel anything. She was tired of living in the past, tired of the nightmares she was constantly fighting. But, most of all, she was tired of fighting him—of resisting him. “I want you to…”
His breath caught. He didn’t move.
“Kiss me,” she whispered. She studied her hands, refusing to look at him. Her lips quivered and she knew she might cry soon. He would never understand how hard it was for her to make the request.
“Do not be embarrassed,” he said, like a rider trying to soothe a wild horse. “There is naught wrong with wanting when you are married.”
Della still didn’t look him in the eye. She felt exposed, defenseless. It had taken all of her energy to utter the words and she wondered why he hadn’t honored the request. Did he not like how she kissed him? Did she not do it right? It wasn’t surprising. What did she know of such things? A bitter, lonely pain unraveled in her chest and she knew she was unworthy of having asked it of him. Some people were not made for these things and she was one of them. Why did she let her guard down? Why did he have to look at her? She yelled at him to push him away, to keep herself safe from the pain being with a man caused. Why didn’t he go when she told him to leave?
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 12
