Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice

by Michelle M. Pillow

  “I’m sorry. It’s a stupid request.” Her hands shook violently and she clutched them together. “You have to get back to your guests. I will not interrupt again.”

  Della stood, trying to retain as much dignity as she could. She swallowed over a lump in her throat, but it only moved to settle in her stomach. It was hard to breathe, and still she knew she must put on a brave face. She started to move away when she felt Brant’s hand on her elbow, stopping her. It didn’t take much to keep her from going.

  She heard him stand, the near silent whisper of his clothes as he moved. He forced her to turn, but she couldn’t meet his gaze as she stared at the floor, twisting the toe of her shoe into the fur. Her heart ached painfully in her chest. She was so confused. The past waged a horrible war with the present and she was weary from a lifetime of fighting it.

  “I have to see to the preparation of the eve’s meal. I did promise roasted mutton,” she said by way of an excuse. Della tugged halfheartedly at the pull on her elbow, willing him to let her go. “I have to inform Isa.”

  “Look at me.” He tried to lift her chin. A wet tear slid over his finger before she could stop it. She’d kept her voice calm. If he wouldn’t have touched her, he wouldn’t have known she was crying. “Della?”

  “Must be my woman’s time that’s making me weepy.” Della dashed the tears, knowing it was yet too early. She waited, but when he didn’t answer, she pulled her elbow from his grasp. Turning from him she went to the door, not making a sound.

  Chapter Eight

  “Ask me again,” Brant commanded before she could leave him.

  “Why? Would you like to refuse me again? I told you it was a stupid request.” Della gingerly fingered the door latch, before turning to glare at him. The expression failed and she looked to the floor, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t really want you to kiss me.”

  “Ask me again.”

  “Why? I already know that I must be lacking, otherwise you would have. So please, stop trying to humiliate me and go attend to your guests.” Even as she spoke, she moved closer to him. “You have made your point. I will not bother you again.”

  “Ask,” he persisted.

  “Fine!” She took a deep, quivering breath, but her irritated tone quickly turned into an insecure whisper. “Will you teach me how to kiss you?”

  “With much pleasure.” Brant drew closer.

  Della took a deep breath, her throat working violently. Not backing away as his hand cupped her jaw, she let him lift her chin. She closed her eyes, waiting.

  “Nay, I want you to look at me and know who you are kissing,” Brant murmured, an inch away from her mouth. “I will not have you pretending I’m someone else.”

  Della doubted that was even possible, but did as he commanded. Every fiber in her being pulled toward him, and she felt both vulnerable and afraid—emotions that were as unfamiliar as their cause. However, she had to admit she was also oddly intrigued by the request. She licked her lips, pursing them as she leaned forward once more.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Put your hands on my neck.”

  Della again did as he commanded. Her shaking hands encircled his broad shoulders. Firm muscles flexed beneath her, solid and warm. Tiny shivers of pleasure radiated from her fingertips, moving along her arms, making her aware of how close his body was to hers. Soft hair brushed over the backs of her hands. The increasingly familiar scent of him, the sweet smell of earth and mint, wove through her senses, enrapturing her, keeping her completely under his spell. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her so close that only a hairsbreadth of space separated them.

  “Now, I will show you the first kind of kiss.” His words were soft as he moved his lips to brush up against hers.

  Her knees weakened as his closed mouth rubbed along hers. She held him tighter for support, breathing deeply through her nose. His lips were warm and dry, and she could feel the texture of them massaging her sensitive mouth in a soft but insistent press. Della bit back a moan of surprise.

  Brant watched her carefully, not taking his eyes off her, even as her own vision grew cloudy. He pulled away after a moment and she felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Her heart beat hard and fast. Heat gathered in her stomach, almost as if radiating from outside herself from him.

  His accent grew thicker, as he instructed, “Now for the second, open your mouth to me.”

  Confused, she could not deny his persuasive tone. Licking her lips again, she parted them slightly. Brant moved his head forward and gently took her bottom lip in between his own. He bit down lightly with his teeth and she clutched at his neck. Her breasts pressed fully to his chest for support, her nipples rubbing against the hardness of his muscular form. His heat overtook her completely.

  Della moved to do the same to his bottom lip, eliciting a moan from him. The sound was tortured and she started to pull back, but Brant held her fast, urging her with his mouth to try it again. She did and once more he moaned in tortured delight. All the time, she kept her eyes steadily on him, although her vision grew hazy and her eyes threatened to roll back in her head with the unexpected pleasure of his touch.

  “And now,” Brant continued his instruction. His words came out on ragged pants of air. The span of his widespread fingers explored her back in slow, agonizing circles. “Now for the final lesson on the mouth. Keep your lips parted.”

  Della obeyed. She wouldn’t have been able to close her lips due to the rush of her breath as his mouth came once more to her. Gently, he crushed her mouth with his tender passion, drawing his tongue over the edge of her lips, testing her resolve. Then, finding she didn’t resist, he moved his hand to her hair and forced her more fully against him. With each pass, he pushed harder, exploring deeper with his tongue. The beginning tenderness soon turned to fervent desire as he moaned, trapping her tightly to his length.

  Della lost all feeling in her legs and leaned against him for support. Her eyes fluttered closed. She was unable to keep the lids open against the wave of pleasure that flooded her weakened limbs. Brant was an excellent teacher and soon she matched his rhythm with her own. A timid sound escaped her and she dropped her hands to his shoulders to help support her weight.

  “The torture,” he whispered, coming up for a deep breath, only to crush his lips to hers once more.

  His heart thumped against her, matching the hurried beat inside her chest. She tried not to, but soft, little moans sounded in the back of her throat. His fingers managed to find flesh, their texture rough against her softer skin as they caressed her face and neck, delved into her hair, traced her ears. Then, moving to her bodice, he struggled with the ties that held her dress together. His kiss became harder, demanding, and his moans became louder. Teeth bit into her lips, stinging the tender flesh in an increasingly savage passion.

  It was too much. Too hard. Too fast. Too violent. Unbidden, images of her mother’s death came to mind, flooding her with their horror.

  “Nay,” Della gasped, prying away in fright. Her wide eyes watched him in panic. His fierce ardor scared her.

  “What?” Brant moved blindly to pull her back into his arms.

  “Nay, take it off,” Della demanded, nervously holding up her hand to form a shield between them. Her lips burned with his taste and inside her stomach the confusing sensations swirled, becoming almost painful at her withdrawal.

  “As m’lady wishes.” Brant smiled. Without the slightest hesitation, he started to lift his own tunic over his head.

  “Nay!” Della felt the blood draining from her face. “Not your tunic.”

  “Then?” Reason slowly took control of his desire and his eyes began to clear.

  “Take off your pagan curse. Take it off me. I don’t wish to have these feelings. Take them away now. I don’t want this. I cannot want this,” Della said in shame. She couldn’t believe what she had asked him to teach her. Almost stunned by her own actions, she added softly, “I hate you.”

  A cruel laugh answered and she s
tumbled back, tears blurring her gaze. He loomed toward her, his eyes hot with anger. “Yea, I will take the curse off of us, but not the way you might mean.”

  “It will be by force.” It was her only line of defense. She continued to back away. Her wet eyes darted frantically to the door and she wondered if she could push past him.

  Brant glared at her for so long she thought he would incinerate her with the heat of his gaze. When he didn’t answer, she was afraid the words wouldn’t be enough. Finally, he turned and picked up the missive. Keeping his back to her, he said, “The next time you start something, you best be prepared to finish it. For this is the last time I will control myself. Next time, be assured I will have you—willing or nay.”

  Della wondered at the look of intense pain on his face as he stalked from the chamber. The door slammed only to swing open behind him. She watched to make sure he would not return to finish what had been started. Part of her ached to stop him, but she could not force herself to call out.

  By All the Saints! Della sunk to her knees and cried. Her body was not her own, she didn’t understand what it felt. What have I begun?

  * * * * *

  Brant walked away from the high table, not bothering to look back. He wasn’t sure where he was going, only that he didn’t feel like entertaining. King Guthrum’s ambassadors were in his hall, drinking his mead and eating his food. The missive they carried was merely a formality sent by the king, securing Brant’s pledge of loyalty before his majesty’s arrival in two fortnights. The ambassadors were going to all of the manors in the kingdom.

  Brant wasn’t sure why the king would have use of such a document, but left his mark on it nonetheless. With his recent addition of a title, and because he was a well-respected knight known for his levelheaded resolve, Brant had been their first stop.

  Brant also informed the men of Lord Strathfeld’s death. They promised to get word to the king, if his majesty hadn’t received the message that had already been sent.

  If he’d been a gracious host, he’d have stayed with the men to entertain them. Brant wasn’t feeling very gracious. There was only so much of Lord Lester’s excessive self-serving gossip a man could stomach. Besides, the king already knew where his loyalty stood and he didn’t need to prove it to his majesty’s lackeys.

  Brant ordered Ebba to prepare chambers for the ambassadors, insisting she draw baths so their every comfort could be met, with extra strong soap sent to the odious Lord Lester’s chamber. He really hoped the nobleman took advantage of the generosity.

  Making his way to the outer bailey, he turned toward the steady thumps of the workers. Brant had ordered Edwyn to improve the surrounding walls, and from what he’d seen, the man was doing a fine job of overseeing it. The castle’s stonemason was replacing the wood with stone to prevent any attackers from setting fire to the walls. Already the project was nearing quick completion. Strathfeld was quite self-sufficient in that regard.

  Quite like its mistress, Brant thought with a scornful curse.

  When Della asked for a kiss, he’d seen her uncertainty and had felt like a fool for not giving in to her right away. Only, he’d been basking in the pleasure of her request. It was the closest she’d ever come to admitting her attraction to him. He’d seen her insecurity and knew she’d never asked such a personal thing from anyone before. His little ice maiden was so self-reliant. He doubted she ever asked anyone for anything.

  When he’d kissed her, it was sweet torture. Even now his body raged with wanton hunger. Still in a foul mood, his blood boiled as he thought of his wife’s teasing kisses and standoffish desires. With a grim expression of discontent, he glared along the wall, hands on hips as he stood. He didn’t see the new stone in his anger.

  “Lord Blackwell.” Edwyn nodded at Brant as he approached. It was clear by his look that he still hadn’t sized up his new overlord. Though, in light of Lord Strathfeld’s death, the man should’ve been grateful that Brant let him stay on at all. It was no secret that Lord Blackwell had his own seneschal to attend to the matter of repairing the manor. Many thought Gunther an odd choice for the job, being that he was a fighting man. Brant didn’t care. He wanted his friend close.

  “Edwyn,” Brant returned with a distracted nod. The servant turned back to the laborers.

  “This section should be done about two days hence,” Edwyn said.

  Brant stared blankly along the stone. Behind him, a woman laughed. It was undoubtedly a servant, but the gaiety of the sound sent chills over his spine. It was sweet and light, as a woman’s laugh should be. His body jolted with unfulfilled desire and he considered taking his wife up on her offer. Mayhap it was time he took a mistress. If his wife was not going to fulfill her duties, there were many lovely maids in the keep who would. More than one had shyly shown their interest in him. Before Brant could seek out his new companion, Edwyn stopped him.

  “Have you seen m’lady’s plans fer the fortifications?” Edwyn inquired tentatively. “I wondered if you were to be continuing with ‘em.”

  “What?” A dark storm rumbled in his words. “What would a woman know of such things?”

  Taken aback, the man didn’t hide his surprise. “Did they not tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” Brant took a menacing step forward. He was very tired of all the secrets floating about the keep. Cleaning spirits, dead mothers, a woman who loved children but loathed the idea of having any of her own, pains in hearts caused by Vikings. And all of them centered around his darling wife.

  “Lady Della laid the plans fer the castle herself.” The man’s face beamed with pride. It was the look of a father talking of his favorite child. Though Della was not Edwyn’s kin, Brant saw the two were close and ignored his use of her old title. Not many referred to her as Countess or Lady Blackwell anyway. The seneschal had no children of his own. According to Lord Strathfeld, Della and Edwyn had spent many years together while her father was off fighting wars. Continuing, the man said, “These walls were her design. She had ‘em constructed first of wood to make sure they would work properly and she has been slowly replacing ‘em with stone. She took many of her ideas from the south, writing to nobles under her father’s seal to secure the plans to the old Roman fortresses and then combining the best parts together. She can be quite persuasive when she puts quill to parchment. The result of her efforts is what you see here, Strathfeld Castle.” Edwyn waved the broad sweep of his hand over the home with pride. “She is responsible fer almost everything.”

  Brant forgot his desire. “But she is so young. It is not possible.”

  “She started when she was eight. Though, at first, the servants had a hard time listening to her. That is why she has become so distant in nature. She had to be if she wanted to be taken seriously.” Edwyn shook his head, looking uncomfortable. “Methought you knew.”

  “Come, let me see these plans.” Brant assumed the older man gave too much credit to his lady wife.

  Edwyn nodded, motioning him into one of the chambers built into the wall. A single torch lit the area, glowing over a small bed in one corner next to a wooden table with a few personal belongings. By the bed were rolls of old parchment.

  “What is this place?” Brant asked.

  “My chamber,” Edwyn answered. “M’lady was kind enough to build it fer me, so that I may work in private.”

  Edwyn grabbed a torch off the wall and opened a small door that Brant hadn’t noticed in his first inspection of the place. It led to a hidden chamber. Inside there were several long wooden tables with papers thrown haphazardly on top. On the floor there were a few writing quills, wax seals, and blank parchments neatly stacked.

  Edwyn moved to light several torches, throwing the room into light. The smoke from them drifted up and out of a small crack in the top of the domed ceiling. Bricks were laid in a circular pattern on the floor, spiraling from the middle. It was an odd room, but impressive.

  “It’s m’lady’s design. It has to do with the flow of the air. It took several
years fer her to perfect the system. That is why the seam in the rafters isn’t centered.” Edwyn pointed at the dome. “It will take me but a moment to find the plans. We’ve had ‘em memorized fer so long that we ne’er use ‘em.”

  Brant slowly walked around the peculiar room. On one table several parchments looked like the practice sentences of a beginner writer. Brant’s own writing wasn’t so neat. Next to them was a master copy of the same sentences written perfectly. Continuing along the table, he found his wife’s name girlishly carved into the wood next to a flower. He ran the tip of his finger over it.

  Edwyn saw him and chuckled. “M’lady did that one night. She was thinking of carving images in all the wood of the manor, like giant, permanent tapestries. She must have been about fifteen then.”

  Brant stared in wonderment.

  The seneschal turned back to the pile he’d been digging in. Still chuckling, he admitted, “It was glad we were when she decided it would be too much unnecessary labor.”

  Brant shook his head. He got the impression that his wife had spent many hours in the hidden sanctuary. In some serene way, the place felt of her. He ran his hand lightly over the table as he made his way along it. Spotting a pile of old children toys by the wall, he kneeled to pick up a tattered doll. “What is this?”

  Edwyn walked over and took the doll fondly in his wrinkled hands. “I had forgotten about these. M’lady made ‘em one year fer the cotter’s children. These were left over. Methought she’d gotten rid of ‘em.”