“You can always leave your post.” She smiled pleasantly, though her eyes dared him to go. “I’m sure I would not mind.”
“Nay, m’lady, Lord Blackwell would have my head if he found out.”
“Then quit whining like a girl and help churn butter. Prove yourself a man and churn more than the women.” She stormed bitterly into the kitchen and the sullen soldier was quick behind her.
* * * * *
Brant raged throughout the dingy halls of Blackwell Manor in a rampage. After living in the luxury of Strathfeld, he realized how deteriorated his home was in comparison. Over the years, the neglect of his father and then of himself had taken its toll on the once proud keep. What remained was the shadow of a once majestic home.
The rushes along the floor were filled with rotted food. The stench of them, which had never really bothered him before, now stuffed his nose and made his gut twinge with their foul mix of human sweat and decay.
Mayhap the smell was not this bad last I was here, he reasoned. Yea, and mayhap I am too soft from Strathfeld’s comforts.
The tables in the main hall had been broken up into firewood. Tapestries rotted on the wooden walls where they hung neglected, their old designs hardly noticeable through the thick caking of dust that lay over every inch of the manor. Even the treated wood of the manor itself seemed to be infested with an unsightly green and black growth. Brant wrinkled his nose as he saw a nest of mice in the corner.
The servants had all but abandoned the care of the manor. Many of them slept on the cots meant for soldiers, their straw mattresses infested with lice. It was apparent they hadn’t thought Lord Blackwell would be coming back home after his marriage, but the neglect itself had been going on for much longer.
Brant missed the clean keep of his wife—the way her scented rushes kicked up a pleasing smell when walked across. It was the next best thing to the clean scent of the outdoors. He missed the way the servants attended every need of the castle, even before being asked.
At Blackwell, Brant had to command to even eat. The food he was served and the ale he drank was not of the quality that came from Isa’s pristine kitchen. He refused to look at Blackwell’s kitchen, not wanting to know what rodents ate the food on his plate before it came to him.
He’d spent too little time at Blackwell Manor in the past and he wanted to spend little more. The sooner the place was burned to the ground the better. He now had the resources to rebuild it.
“You,” Brant called to a servant leaning against a wall. “Clean something. Dispose of these rushes at once.”
“Yea, m’lord.” The servant yawned and pushed himself lazily from the wall. He kicked at the rushes in disinterest. To Brant he looked like a bored child.
Brant growled and stalked away from him. How did Della do it? He could command men to give their lives on the field of battle, yet he could not direct a lazy servant to clean a keep. He found a new respect for her spirit method and wondered if the cleaning spirit would consider traveling.
Brant had missed Della these past seventeen days. He missed the scent of her hair, the chilly scorn of her face, the warmth of her naked body against his. Every night he lay in bed he thought of her, every day he walked through the filth of his manor he longed for her. But was it better to be in her scornful presence, unable to touch her through her icy façade? Or mayhap, was it better to be without her presence completely? He found it tormenting to be near her, unable to touch her heart. And he found it even more torturous to be without her.
But her face had been so full of fear the last he’d seen her and her eyes had hinted near hysteria. As she’d stalked away from him, his chest had tightened and as she’d ridden off at Roldan’s side, she hadn’t bothered to turn back. Though he’d pretended not to watch her leave, he had from the corner of his eye. Della had effectively banished him from her. She was afraid of him and not for any action of his own, but for the actions of mercenaries.
Brant studied the leather satchel. It was not Viking made, but a badly done imitation. The leather pouch was that of an Anglo-Saxon peasant, the clay symbol easily dissolvable in water. Who would want to frame the Vikings? He was afraid he didn’t like the answer. Stuart of Grayson.
Stuart was the only one who had something to gain by his fall. It was clear the man wanted not only Strathfeld, but also Della. He’d seen well how the man looked at her.
Della had so readily accepted the satchel as an explanation. She had willingly thought the worst of him and his people. It wasn’t fair. And had she really said she loved him?
Loved not love, Brant reminded himself. She’d said loved. He hadn’t hoped for so much. How had he not seen it? If she’d said something sooner, communication would have been so much better between them. Brant knew nothing of a woman’s love but that it kept them loyal and they would risk much for it.
He cared for her, but love? Nay, love was something best left to women. It was of their nature to care for others.
By the end of the seventeenth day, Brant had enough of his solitude. He decided if he couldn’t touch Della, he would at least be near her. He wanted to go home, and if his wife didn’t want him there, then so be it. She would just have to stay out of his way, for he would no longer stay out of hers.
* * * * *
Della shivered, a chill working over her as she walked into the bailey yard. The sky was bleak, almost as dark as her mood had been. But now hope evaded that dim place in which she’d dwelled. Brant was back at Strathfeld.
Rab ran ahead of her. The boy had been standing guard on the wall since she’d arrived without Lord Blackwell. He waited for the nobleman to come and now he had.
Della couldn’t speak as she moved toward the front gate, drawn to see Brant, desperate to look upon his face, to see he was well. At the same time, she was afraid.
Brant rode his horse through the gate, carrying himself as majestically as a king, even though weariness shone from his face like a pauper fighting the plague. He still wore the old tunic she’d last seen him in and she’d forgotten he didn’t have a change of clothing with him at Blackwell. Della ignored the urge to order a bath drawn. He undoubtedly wouldn’t appreciate the wifely gesture.
It had only been a fortnight and four days since she’d left him by the burned cottages, yet it felt as if she’d been without him for an eternity. Her first impulse was to run to him and be gathered into his arms, to press kisses against his mouth and demand he go abovestairs with her. Instead, she forced her heart back into her chest and she constrained the emotion from her eyes.
Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin, waiting to see his reaction before she gave hers. As she watched, he talked to some of the men who’d come forward to greet him. The moment his eyes found her, his smile faded and his face gave nothing away. When he acknowledged her with a slight nod, she tilted her head regally in return. Her heart fluttered as he took a step toward her. Della waited for him to come to her.
Brant looked wearier than she’d first thought. Dark circles marred the flesh beneath his eyes, his cheeks were sunken, and his beard was overgrown. He looked more beautiful than she remembered.
“M’lady.” Brant’s voice held no affection as he watched her through veiled eyes. Stopping before her, he vigorously scratched the back of his head. She felt like a stranger greeted her.
“M’lord,” Della answered, her voice was frozen.
He searched her eyes for a long moment. Then, seeming to find what he looked for, he started to turn away.
Wait! Della trembled, but her voice was calm. “Was all well at Blackwell Manor?”
Brant turned back around. His eyes once again probed her face. “Yea.”
“You were able to rest? They fed you well?” Della looked him over, resisting the urge to touch him. He looked starved.
“Yea.”
“And the manor?”
“It still stands.”
“Did you,” Della began, only to close her mouth. There was really nothing els
e she could ask. Did you miss me? Did you make use of a mistress? Did she please you?
Brant squinted and waited for her to continue.
Della lifted her chin and motioned weakly to the side. She hid her tortured soul from him, finding the comfort of her icy mask more bearable. What else could she say?
Brant snorted and brushed past her, going to the main hall.
Della’s body weakened and she swayed on her feet before catching herself. Aching deeply, she turned to watch him disappear inside.
Did you miss me, Brant? As I have missed you?
* * * * *
The freshness of Strathfeld was a blessing after the hell he’d lived in at Blackwell Manor. Swearing, he reached to scratch his head again. His scalp would not stop itching and he suspected Blackwell Manor had infested him with lice. With a morose laugh, he doubted his wife would appreciate him spreading the plague of little creatures into her cleanly home.
My wife.
He shook his head, a grim smile crossing his humorless lips. Upon seeing her lovely face, he’d hoped she came to greet him because she missed him as he did her. Brant hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hold her until he saw her in the background. He’d actually walked away while Gunther was in mid-sentence.
But Della hadn’t missed him. She only greeted him out of duty and to ask all the proper questions expected of a wife, leaving off in mid-inquiry. She didn’t even care enough to continue the charade. It reminded him of the day he’d first met her—the way she looked icily down her nose at him with practiced perfection, her scorn barely concealed behind her beautiful amber eyes.
My beautiful Ice Princess, I should have heeded the warning and kept my flame far away from you. But, fool that I am, I kept trying to warm a heart that cannot be warmed. I am like a burning twig against one of the giant ice blocks floating in the northern-most waters. One might be able to melt off a few drops, but soon the cold will put out the flame and the droplets will quickly freeze again.
He wondered if he would have been better off staying away, but as he scratched his scalp again, he knew he would rather burn down Blackwell Manor than to spend another night inside the lice-infested walls.
Deciding it best he take care of the problem before it got much worse, he went to search out Serilda. She would have a healing draught for the itching on his head.
Yea, it’s too bad she does not have a healing draught to melt my wife’s icy heart or to mercifully kill the painful beating in mine.
Brant stepped into the scarcely lit chamber of the midwife. The fireplace burned low as a caldron bubbled within. It gave off an unpleasant, spicy odor. Like the rest of the servants’ quarters, the chamber was humble, only Serilda stayed by herself, whereas many of the others shared theirs with at least one person. He guessed it was because none of the others would sleep with such a smell in the room.
“M’lord, what may I do fer you?” Serilda eyed him in mild surprise, but didn’t stand to greet him.
Brant glanced at the long table where she sat. It had been fashioned in the middle of the room. Atop the wood were several piles of dried herbs and ground powders. When he again looked at her, Serilda smiled sweetly at him from the other side. Her dark hair hung loose about her shoulders in the fashion of a virgin, but the way her eyes glinted in playful invitation he guessed she was hardly innocent. Bringing her long nails to her lips, she licked them slowly.
Brant ignored her advances as he moved thoughtfully along the table, picking up a vial filled with a yellowish liquid. He frowned, recognizing the substance. It had been an old war practice to dip the end of arrows in poisonous venom, but it was found to be a deadly one to the careless soldier who pricked his finger fumbling for arrows in the heat of battle. “Venom?”
“Yea,” Serilda answered. “I don’t like it myself, but Lord Strathfeld ordered it kept. He thought he may have use of it someday.”
Brant didn’t like having poisons in the manor. They could easily fall into the wrong hands. “Get rid of it at once and any others like it.”
“Yea, m’lord.” Serilda smiled and batted her eyelashes. “A wise decision.”
Brant studied the rest of the items. “What is this you are grinding? This powder?”
“Oh, this?” The midwife reached out her hand to stop him from touching it, quickly pulling the pile toward her into a bowl. “It’s fer a man.”
Brant raised an eyebrow.
“What I mean, it is fer a man’s member, fer when he cannot raise his own sword in battle.”
Brant grunted as he got her meaning. “You know of many cures?”
“Yea. Are you ailing, m’lord?”
“Nay.” Brant scratched his beard and then his hair. “Blackwell Manor is infested with lice. I seek to rid myself of them before I infest Strathfeld.”
Serilda licked her lips as she shot him a mournful glance. “It’s a sad circumstance we still have lice. It’s easy enough to cure.”
“Good, give me the draught.” Brant held out his hand. “I wish to be rid of them immediately.”
“Nay.” Serilda shook her head. A small grin curled on her lips. “It’s easy to cure, but one who knows the potency must apply the draught. I will apply it fer you if you wish—unless you trust someone who is skilled not to burn you with it?”
Brant thought of Della. Nay, she would burn me on purpose.
“Fine, get it done with.” He sat in one of her chairs.
“Not here, m’lord. It is necessary to do it while you bathe.”
Brant gave her a disbelieving grumble. He swung around in his chair to face her. She smiled innocently. “I have not heard such a thing.”
“It is so you may rinse the draught instantly. Mayhap, we could go to yer chamber. No one would think aught was amiss if you ordered a bath there.”
“Yea.” Brant sighed as he scratched his head again. Standing up, he gruffly motioned her to follow him. “Bring what you need. Just be quick about it.”
* * * * *
Della felt awful. Brant had left with little effort to speak to her. She hated the fact she’d walked the grounds in search of him, desperate to see him again, to know he’d really come home. He was nowhere to be found and that could only mean he was purposefully avoiding her. It was just as well. She didn’t know what she’d say to him if she saw him.
With her husband’s arrival, she’d hoped Cedric would be ordered to stop following her. The knight complained more than any man she’d ever met, until she was finally forced to order him to stay at least five paces from her at all times lest she be tempted to scream. Stopping in her progress across the hall, she suddenly turned to make her way abovestairs to her chamber. She glanced over her shoulder as she climbed and grimaced—there was her dutiful guard exactly five paces behind her.
“M’lady?” Cedric asked as she scowled at him. His voice held the natural whine she’d come to despise. “Are you to be sick again?”
“Nay.” Della scowled, remembering that morning when she’d vomited in her chamber pot and the eve before when she’d almost vomited on Cedric’s boot. In truth, her stomach did feel a little queasy. Nonetheless, she didn’t want her guard knowing. His over-attentiveness was just as annoying as his complaining. “I’m going to lie down awhile.”
“You appear a bit gaunt. Would you like me to fetch the midwife?” Cedric continued to follow her abovestairs.
“And leave me unattended?” Della gasped in mock alarm. “I might run off.”
“I meant after you were locked in yer chamber,” he gritted through clenched teeth.
“Oh.” Della bristled at the reminder. “Nay, I don’t wish for Serilda’s attentions this day or any other.”
Cedric chuckled under his breath and his insolent face gave away the fact he knew of her checking.
Della narrowed her eyes at the sound. “Do you have aught you would like to say to me?” She kept her glare merciless, as she placed her hands on her hips.
“Nay, m’lady.” Cedric’s express
ion became blank and he turned his gaze sheepishly away. “Naught.”
Della cursed under her breath and pivoted around to continue angrily up the stairwell. When she reached the top, her abdomen tightened. Rushing toward her bedchamber, her stomach churned violently. She lifted a hand to her mouth and pushed her way inside. Running to the pot, she vomited the sparse contents of her morning meal into it. After a few heaves, she was left taking deep, gut-wrenching breaths until the sickness began to subside. The strange nausea left as briskly as it came. Suddenly, the sound of splashing penetrated her thoughts. Della froze, bent over on her knees above the chamber pot.
“Della?” She heard her husband’s voice.
“M’lady?”
Serilda? What is the midwife doing here? Alone with my husband, no less?
Della was sure her heart stopped as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. With as much dignity as she could muster, she stood and turned to the tub.
She swallowed hard against the awful taste in her mouth. Her beautifully naked husband stood in the bath next to the guilty countenance of the midwife. Serilda’s hands dripped with soap, matching the suds that adorned her husband’s body. They ran down from his hair, over his rippling muscles in little streams.
Cedric made a loud noise of surprise, gaping openly at the scene from the doorway. Della stared for a stunned moment before taking a fierce breath. Her vision swam red.
Before God, I swear I will kill him for this insult!
Nausea again rose in her throat. She shivered and it took all her energy to remain standing.
Chapter Seventeen
Brant took in his wife’s pale expression as she looked from him to the midwife and then back again. He saw the awful conclusion she came to. Her hurt amber eyes closed and her body swayed uneasily on her wobbling feet. She started to speak, her mouth trembling in anger, but before the words left her mouth she was turned and puking once more into the basin.
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 26
