Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Stuart mulled the information over. He didn’t look too surprised by the news. “Are you well, Della? I know you were close to him.”

  “Yea, I’m fine.” Tears tried to come at the still painful memory, but she fought them, blinking hard. She took a step toward him, not wanting the servants to overhear her anguish. “It has been hard, but I am surviving.”

  “Yea, sweet Della.” Stuart spoke as if they were the only two in the bailey. He touched her lightly on the chin. “You have always done that well. Survive, I mean. But fear no longer. I’m here to help you. We will get through the formalities of the inheritance together. You have had too large a burden these many years.”

  Della smiled at his kind offer. In her heart she knew he meant well, but didn’t think her husband would feel the same. Glancing over Stuart’s shoulder at Brant, it was as she suspected. Her husband’s hands were on his hips and he glared at them. Even in anger he captivated her, leaving her breathless.

  In light of what had transpired the night before, she saw Stuart differently. He wasn’t the fine figure of a man she’d once believed him to be. She used to think him the bravest, most handsome man alive, but now he just looked like a man—handsome, yea, but handsome in the way that was so common. He was nothing compared to the rolling fire of her virile husband who burned her with his presence every time he was near.

  Brant cleared his throat in irritation and Della realized she’d failed to introduce him. Stuart frowned at the rude interruption. There was no way her cousin could know of her marriage.

  Stuart put his hands on his hips as he studied Brant. “I am Sir Stuart, Della’s cousin. I trust you are here on behalf of King Guthrum to attend the funeral and to see to the inheritance? You can deal with me as freely as you do Della. She will tell you, I am Lord Strathfeld’s closest male heir.”

  Della glanced helplessly back and forth between the two men. A slow, triumphant smile curled Brant’s mouth as he answered, “I am Lord Blackwell, Ealdorman of Strathfeld.”

  “Yea, Stuart,” Della interjected, trying to shelter her cousin from the sting of Brant’s words. She didn’t want to see them fight. Stuart’s back was to her and she couldn’t see his face, but she saw the stiffening of his body. “I don’t believe you have heard of my marriage to Lord Blackwell. It happened right before my father’s death. We didn’t know where to reach you else we would’ve told you of it also. Like you said, so much has happened.”

  Slowly, Stuart turned. When he looked at her, he was smiling. “Congratulations, Della.” He kissed her cheek.

  Della felt like she was between two snarling wolves in search of a meal and she was the hapless rabbit who crossed their paths.

  “Thank you, Stuart.” Della took a step away from both men. “With your permission, Lord Blackwell, I will tell Isa of our guests.”

  Brant stiffly nodded, but didn’t take his gaze off Stuart.

  * * * * *

  Strathfeld’s kitchen was quiet as Isa cleaned the cutting table with a brush and bucket of hot water. The servant had sent the maids to other chores, as was her custom, preferring to be alone right before the hassle of the eve meal. Going to the spit that hung over the blazing fire, she turned the last of the roasted chickens. Then, wiping her hands on her apron, she checked the baking bread.

  “Isa, we have more guests.” Della’s heart pounded wildly as she looked at the servant.

  Isa’s round face turned red. The cook poked her finger at Della. “I daresay that is thrice this last fortnight I have been called upon to cook fer guests. Before yer husband got here, we ne’er had guests more than once a year. It was fine by me like that. Now, I’m expected to cook fer the king’s whole army.”

  “It is my cousin, Sir Stuart, Isa,” Della knew what the cook meant. They’d been plagued with many guests. “Please see that the best mead is brought to the tables.”

  Isa shook her head in warning. “Yer brewing trouble, m’lady, and I well know when things are brewing.”

  “What do you mean?” Della asked in surprise. Isa was one of the oldest fixtures in the castle and had grown to believe that gave her the right to freely voice her opinion to anyone. Usually Della found she didn’t mind, but today the woman’s words grated against her nerves.

  “Do not think Lord Blackwell doesn’t know of yer desire to marry yer cousin instead of him. The whole castle knows of how you two have been fighting since the day you met.” Isa turned back to the fire. Lifting her apron, she grabbed a hot loaf and tossed it on the newly cleaned table. Continuing this way until all the loaves were out, she spoke, “It’s not well done of you to treat yer cousin so royally in front of yer husband. M’lord is not likely to approve.”

  “I’m not treating Stuart like royalty. All I said is to put the best mead out.” Taken aback, she ran her fingers over one of the loaves. Was the whole manor really talking about them?

  “Yea, first it’s the best mead. Next you will be saying to put out the best meat and to use the best herbs from the garden.” Isa shook her head. “Then you will find yerself catering more to Stuart than you do yer own husband. You are brewing trouble is all I am saying.”

  Della bit her lip. She’d been about to request the best herbs for the chicken Isa was preparing. Removing her hand from where it hovered over the hot bread, she studied her fingernails thoughtfully. “Nay. Just the mead, Isa.”

  Della quickly left the intuitive old cook. Brant and she had been prone to their fights, but mostly they kept them private. Then, touching her cheek, she fingered the slight scrape that was still there.

  Well, perchance, we have not been as discreet as we should’ve been, Della admitted to herself. Did the manor really know about her first deception? Did they know that she had been checked for that deception? She shivered in embarrassment. Foolishly, she’d convinced herself no one would find out.

  As she walked into the hall, a maid passed by her with the mead she’d ordered. Her husband and cousin had already found their way to the high table, accompanied by Roldan and Gunther. Roldan had sat at the high table with her father only to be moved down when her husband arrived. She was glad to see him back at his old place of honor.

  Recoiling inwardly at the sight of their strained faces, she stopped. Even Roldan frowned disapprovingly at Stuart and she’d thought the knight liked her cousin. The maid stepped up to the table, setting goblets before the men. Brant’s face was stiff as he watched Stuart in unveiled mistrust. Deciding she didn’t want to face them in an empty hall, she turned to go back into the kitchen. She ignored Isa’s knowing chuckle as she scurried through the side door into the garden.

  Taking a deep breath once outside, her chest heaving with apprehension, she smelled the potent herbs of the garden. She hurried around the castle, ducking into a secluded corner along the outside wall. No one would be able to tell she was there unless they specifically looked.

  Della needed time to sort her thoughts. She saw how well Stuart had taken the news of her marriage. Had he not told her often when they were children that he didn’t want the title of ealdorman? He’d only been willing to marry her because she hadn’t wanted to marry at all and neither had he. In fact, Della was sure it had been she who had first mentioned the idea to Stuart.

  Della looked at the ring Brant had given her. The brass gleamed in the evening sunlight, as did the polished amber. It was not so bad being married to Brant, not like she’d first imagined. Sure, he was stubborn and hardheaded and he made her angry more often than not. But he could be so sweet to her, too. Like when he held her in his arms and made her body tremble. He was kind. In fact, he had done nothing to prove he deserved her condemnation.

  Aside from the misunderstanding with Lord Lester when he’d flung her to the floor, he didn’t beat her when she was insolent, which was often encouraged of a husband. Della shuddered as she thought of the insane notions of the Anglo-Saxon priests. They thought you had to beat a wife to keep her in line. Did they not realize that you could do so more effectivel
y with kindness and a gentle touch? Did they not realize that most women only wanted to be listened to, respected, and protected?

  Della held up her hand and studied the polished amber more closely. She remembered how odd a choice the ring was for a wedding band. Slipping the thin metal off her finger for the first time, she held it up to the light and smiled as the sun glinted through the perfect oval of brownish amber. The jewel was held into place with delicate brass tongs. The fine craftsmanship was quite old if the smoothed brass was any indication.

  Seeing a smudge of black dirt on the inner band, she took her thumbnail and absently scraped at it. Her nail snagged against the metal and she lifted the ring closer to study the dirt. It wasn’t dirt at all but a tiny engraving. Della had never seen such tiny carvings before. She examined it closer, turning it in the sunlight.

  My love was etched in Latin. Della gasped in surprise as she read the words. Had Brant engraved the ring especially for her? Her heart beat erratically at the thought and her lungs filled with pants of air. Had he loved her from the first moment? Tears came to her eyes and she closed them to the unsure pleasure that welled in her chest. She hadn’t really thought of there being actual love between them. She’d never dreamed she would want such a thing to happen. Could he truly love her? She knew they would be compatible if she tried harder, and she was growing very fond of him.

  But love? Did she love him? Could what she felt when he’d held her be considered anything but?

  The answer rushed over her in a sweep of emotion. Yea, I do love him. I love my husband. I love Brant. Oh, how did it happen? I don’t care. I love him and he loves me and the past no longer matters.

  Della opened her tear-stung eyes, awed at the sweet emotion pouring from her. She’d never thought she was meant for love, never dared to dream she would find it. None of the rest mattered. Not that he was a Viking. Not that her mother’s death had been at a Viking’s hand. It wasn’t of Brant’s doing. She wanted to tell him how wrong she’d been. She lifted the ring to make sure the words were real, that she’d really seen them.

  My love she read again, overflowing with joy. Then, as she turned the ring in the sunlight, she saw there was more. Leaning closer, love surging from her heart, she read the rest. My love, My Lynnea.

  Della gasped and dropped the ring to the ground as if it suddenly caught fire. She stared in disbelief at the metal, as if it were a poisonous serpent. The ring hadn’t been meant for her at all. Her husband insulted her by putting the ring meant for another woman on her hand. A woman named Lynnea. Bitter anger and betrayal overtook her and she gasped for breath through the pain in her chest. The anguish of the moment choked her and she knew if she didn’t die in the pain of this moment, she surely never would.

  * * * * *

  “Sir Stuart is a slimy character.” Gunther glared to where the man had disappeared out of the main hall door. “I wouldn’t trust him about the manor unescorted.”

  “Lord Strathfeld thought as much,” Roldan interjected. “E’en as a child, that one gave me chills. He used to drown small animals in the moat fer pleasure when he thought no one watched. We ne’er told Lady Blackwell of it though. It would’ve crushed her.”

  “Yea.” Brant thoughtfully scratched his whiskers. He didn’t see what his wife found so appealing about the man. It was obvious Stuart spoke with a forked tongue. “Have some of the men watch him, but be subtle. I don’t want him alone with my wife. We don’t know what he is about, but it cannot be good.”

  “I’ll warrant it’s this keep he’s after.” Gunther frowned.

  Brant stood. Gunther and Roldan moved with him, following him to the bailey yard. When they reached the door, Stuart had already disappeared.

  “Find him,” Brant ordered quietly.

  The knights nodded and left to do as they were told.

  Brant took a lungful of evening air. He hadn’t seen Della since she’d disappeared earlier, but it was just as well. The less time she spent near Stuart, the better he’d feel about it.

  Was the nagging suspicion mostly due to his jealousy? Brant shook his head at the thought. Nay, there was more to it than that. Brant was jealous, but that didn’t affect his gut instinct. Lord Strathfeld had sensed it too and had warned against letting Stuart into the manor and near Della. Sadly, his wife had no clue as to her cousin’s true nature. He saw the way Della looked at the man, the way she didn’t cringe from Stuart’s touch. But he also saw how Stuart looked at her.

  Brant wasn’t fooled by Stuart’s easy smile. The man had been well aware of Lord Strathfeld’s death. Could it be he had also known of the marriage? Did he already seek to outdo Brant in his wife’s eyes? Was this his game? The man thought to take what was rightfully his?

  Brant scowled, moving toward Edwyn’s chamber, intent on finding his wife. He would keep her by his side until he could persuade Stuart there was nothing for him at Strathfeld—nothing but the end of a sword if the man tried to take what didn’t belong to him.

  Chapter Twelve

  “There you are, cousin. I was worried when you didn’t join us at the high table.”

  Della glanced up from her hiding place and slipped the ring back onto her finger. The sun had almost disappeared along the edge of the earth, yet there was enough light for her to see Stuart clearly. “Yea, here I am.”

  Stuart smiled as he joined her in hiding. “I had a feeling this is where I would find you. See how well we still know each other?”

  Della chuckled, but the laugh was halfhearted. “It is a wonder you remember after so long. But I’m always here when avoiding something, so it’s not too hard to figure out.”

  “Has your husband figured it out yet?” His eyes probed her for her answer.

  Della shook her head. Nay, Brant could not know.

  Stuart sat beside her and leaned his back against the wall. “I hope it’s not me you wish to avoid. I will leave immediately, if you so command it.”

  “Oh, nay, not you. It’s the battle between you and my husband I seek to avoid. As far as I am concerned, you will always be welcome here.” Della laid her hand gently on his forearm. She’d been trying to compose herself and was glad she’d stopped crying long before Stuart found her. She wasn’t sure what her cousin would do if he discovered she was unhappy.

  “Ah, sweet Della.” Stuart held her hand to his arm. “Then it’s your husband causing you discomfort. There is no battle on my side, lest you commanded it of me or if I had reason to believe you were in danger.”

  “Why are you here? Why now after so long?” Della wondered, though not upset by his visit. She missed their friendship and, even though she now understood it was only friendship, she still felt the familiar connection she’d always had with him. They knew each other and had shared so much. Time could not diminish her affection for him.

  “You will laugh at me if I tell you.” He refused to let go of her hand, choosing instead to rub gently at her fingers.

  “Nay, I have never laughed at you.”

  “All right, I will tell you, but remember what you just said.” Finally letting go, he turned to face her, his head leaning against the stone wall. “I had a feeling you needed me. I was in southern Mercia, fulfilling my political obligations to King Guthrum, when one night, right out of a deep sleep, I shot up in bed and saw your face. I swear I saw you crying, calling to me as if in a dream that was real. ‘Nay!’ you screamed to me. The next morn I completed my obligations early. It took me a fortnight to get here.”

  “That is when my father died,” Della said in awe. Stuart had always claimed to have a strange connection to her. In childhood he often sensed things about her that she’d told no one else. He would even know things about her mother’s death. Just one look at her and somehow he knew some little detail she’d never told anyone. He’d been a child when he came to her home, only ten years to her tender age of five. It was amazing he still felt so connected to her after all the time that had passed.

  “Was it not also the day of
your wedding?” Stuart prodded. His lashes dipped low to hide the expression in his eyes as he lifted her hand to finger her wedding band. He twisted it thoughtfully around on her finger. “It would’ve been your wedding night, I believe.”

  “Yea, it was,” Della acknowledged. His attention to the band only reminded her of its message. Her heart beat dully and she pulled it from his grasp. “But that’s not what you felt.”

  “Then you enjoyed the marriage bed that night.” Stuart’s face turned dark as he gritted the words. His hands tightened into fists.

  “Nay,” Della allowed. Stuart had twisted the band on her finger so it faced the wrong direction. Unconscious of the action, she righted it. Not thinking to say anything but the truth, she explained, “We didn’t share the marriage bed that night. Lord Blackwell let me out of the duty for grieving.”

  “Ah, so you have not yet gone through that misfortune.” Stuart brightened once more as he reached an arm to nudge her in childish play. “I was afraid it might have been too late for you. That barbarian no doubt will try to tell you lies about what must be done during that time.”

  Della blushed and avoided looking at him directly. “Last night.”

  Stuart stiffened and his eye began to twitch. “Last…?” He didn’t finish.

  Della wondered at his reaction and then realized he probably felt sorry for her.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” she said, needing to explain herself better. “Truly.”

  “But he is a Viking.” Stuart swore under his breath. “Do you so easily forget what his kind did? How could your father have forced you to marry such a detestable man? How could he, after what you had been through at their hands, do that to you?”