Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Della shivered, staring at the strong lines of his naked back. “I would never have sent him after you, only there was no time. I could not look for you myself and I was not sure who you were with.”

  Brant stiffened. Della bit her lip and suppressed a moan. Her fingers shook and she grabbed a fistful of gown at her waist to hide it. She hadn’t meant to reveal so much. Watching him apprehensively, she waited for his reply.

  “Would you have really cared, Della?” His tone matter-of-fact, he didn’t turn to look at her. He pushed his breeches off. They too landed on the floor in the pile. With his hands on his naked hips, he stretched his back, standing frozen in glorious perfection as if not caring that she watched. Her blood stirred and her breathing deepened. She wanted to touch him, to explore the long lost folds of his tight muscles.

  Della’s body filled with an intense fire only he could tame. Longing and desire swam in her head until she thought she might faint from the torture of his nearness. She wanted to hold him, but didn’t dare try.

  Brant moved to the tub. Stepping into the water, he sank into the bath, resting his head on the hard metal edge. Only then did he look at her, his eyes searching hers, but she didn’t know for what. Insecure, she looked away, naturally making her expression icily calm.

  She picked up his discarded clothing, careful to keep her eyes from straying to his perfect form. His unanswered question still hung in the air, but she could not find the right words. Would she care if he were with other women? How could she not? The thought burned her with the jealousy it caused. She could not answer him for the truth was too painful and she would not lie.

  Della held the material to her chest and finally managed to meet his piercing gaze. “I will see that these get to the wash. There are fresh clothes in your trunk. If you like, I will set them out for you when I get back.” She started to go, only to stop. “Oh, and there is some soap on the far side of the tub, on top of the linens.”

  Della didn’t want to leave him and stood for a long moment, thinking of something she could say. She was tired of fighting. The unbearable nearness of his naked body wreaked havoc on her already swirling emotions. Lust burned a trail through her soul, leaving hot, tingling sensations all over her flesh. She wanted him to look at her as he once had, with a roguish smile curling his firm masculine lips. But that was before her anger had taken her too far—before her heart had realized how harsh its hatred of him was and how misguided.

  “About Rab, I asked him to tell you that I humbly requested you bathe and change. Did he not say that?” Della kept her face blank. “I did not wish to anger you.”

  “It’s fine, Della. Fret no more about it.”

  The boy had been telling the truth. Brant closed his eyes, not moving in the warm water. She’d avoided responding to his question, just as she avoided touching his hand when he entered the room. A well of hopeless despair deepened within him, swallowing his heart. What did he care? His heart was dead anyway.

  Brant heard his wife moving about the chamber behind him. He rotated his head against the rim of the tub to stare aimlessly into the fire, knowing when she left with his dirty clothes and the moment she returned. She was quiet and he didn’t know what to say to her. Finally making himself move, he washed with the strong soap that had been laid out. He tried to pretend she wasn’t there, but he was always aware of her.

  He heard his trunk open and guessed she laid out his clothing. He splashed unintentionally and her breath caught. Brant glanced at her to see her bent over her own trunk, pulling out some of her jars. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders, slightly disheveled. He quickly turned away before she saw him looking.

  “Let me help you with your hair,” she said.

  The fleeting touch of her fingers glanced over his shoulder as she kneeled beside him. In her hand was a pair of shears. Hesitant, she lifted her hand to his bearded face. Her eyes stayed steadily on his. Brant didn’t move as her fingers glided near his lip. The caress was small and unintentional, but it caused his gut to tighten as lust centered between his thighs. He wondered if she detected the reaction because she hurriedly turned his jaw to the side and his eyes away from her. Lifting the shears to his face, she began to trim his beard. Brant tensed, waiting for the blades to slice through him, not sure if he’d be surprised if she stabbed him in the chest.

  He felt the subtle shift of her fingers, as she angled his head to trim the other side. Her beautifully pale face was set in concentration and her scent lingered in the air, embracing him in wildflowers. Her lips parted, forcing him to suppress a groan of agony. The slightest movement would meet her mouth with his, but he held fast, refusing to kiss her. She leaned closer and her breath whispered over his skin, tickling his shoulder. Brant closed his eyes and forced himself to relax.

  “Go under.”

  Was he mistaken or did her voice seem a bit husky? He did as she commanded, too weary not to comply. Resurfacing, he wiped the water from his face.

  “Would you like me to trim your hair as well?” she asked.

  “Nay, it’s fine as is.”

  Della began to stand. Brant grabbed her arm, wetting her sleeve as he kept her next to him. Her eyes rounded and she settled once more beside him.

  “If you would not mind, I would like it if you washed my hair for me.” Brant almost hadn’t made the request. He eyed her thoughtfully.

  Della nodded, reaching to the side to pick up a jar. She dipped a finger inside and rubbed her palms together, lathering the soap before moving to massage his scalp. Scrubbing his hair and beard clean, she ordered him to rinse the suds from his head. When he surfaced, she applied another cream to him. Brant instantly recognized the smell. It was the same concoction she’d used the first night they made love. Did she remember it also?

  “Della,” Brant turned to her and grabbed her wrist lightly. He massaged the wet, sudsy pulse he found there. “Della?”

  “Please.” A tear slipped over her cheek. His caress became bolder, working in slow circles to glide farther up her arm beneath her dress, testing to see her reaction. “Please, may we call a truce? Just for now. I’m too tired to fight with you.”

  “Yea, Della.” Brant wondered at her sadness as he gently wiped at the tear. The moisture slid across her cheek under his thumb. “Are you still ill?”

  “Nay, yea,” she mumbled with a dainty shrug. Suddenly, she leaned forward and her lips pressed firmly against his. His hand trembled as it was forced into the warmth of her hair. His palm cupped her cheek and he felt her hand glide onto his shoulder, her fingers wrapped around his neck keeping him to her. Della moaned as she traced her tongue between his lips.

  Brant gasped in surprise at the bold move and she took advantage by kissing him more fiercely. A low groan escaped him. Her mouth slanted eagerly against his, delving her tongue into the warm depths. His body lurched to full attention, his muscles tightening, his arousal hard and full. She kissed him like a woman starved of his affections. Mayhap she felt as desperate as he did.

  Brant moaned, finding her arms to pull her back. Della’s eyes widened, as if panicking at his withdrawal. But he only broke the kiss to quickly rinse the soap from his hair. Before she could move, he hurriedly rose from the tub. Water trailed his flesh, tiny caresses against his sensitive body. Della stood to join him. Without words, he scooped her into his arms and carried her with a gentle urgency to the bed. The moisture from his body soaked into her gown, but she didn’t seem to care as she clung to him. Afraid she’d change her mind and push him away, his movements became frantic.

  He set her down on the bed, gentle despite his passion, and went to her. He touched her hair, the golden cord at her waist, the ties of her gown. She returned the kisses as fervently as she received them. She touched his wet back, her hands gliding easily over him.

  Brant groaned as the familiar sensations of her caress overwhelmed him. This is where he wanted to be. Here, with her, touching her, kissing her. Nothing else mattered.

  Della
moaned, unable to stop herself as Brant touched her. She wanted him so badly, had waited for him to make the first move as she washed his hair, but in the end, she couldn’t hold herself back. She needed him like she needed to breathe.

  His beard tickled as their mouths moved in a steady, powerful rhythm. She hadn’t realized how much she missed him and in the instant their lips met, none of the other things mattered—not the rumors of other women, not the fighting, not his heritage. She could not refuse him. She could not refuse herself.

  Brant’s mouth took over the tempo of their kiss, slowing her mouth so he could explore inside. Restless and needy, her legs moved against him. Her skirt slowly edged up to expose the long line of her calves. The first rub of his naked, warm skin along her legs made her groan. He maneuvered himself between her thighs, his stiff erection pressing hard into the folds of her gown as it blocked him from her hips. She thrust against him, rubbing through her clothing.

  Brant pulled at her gown, freeing a breast. Instantly, his warm hand was on the flesh, massaging it as he moved his hips in slow, agonizingly perfect circles. Her sex was wet and tingling and she needed more.

  “Look at me, Della,” Brant commanded, staring down at her. Her eyes remained closed as she rubbed sensually along his frame. In a gentler tone, he urged, “Look.”

  “Brant,” she moaned as she opened her eyes. His gaze shone brightly with an emotion she could not understand. He was so beautiful it made her heart ache with bittersweet joy. So many questions floated between them. None of them were answered as they silently drank in the comfort of the other’s presence.

  “I want you to be sure this is what you want,” he said.

  Della didn’t know what she would do if he were to try to deny her. She wasn’t sure her body would let her stop. She ached for him too badly.

  Brant’s hips pulled back. Della breathed hard, panting as she reached for her skirt. Grabbing it, she urged the material up to expose her upper thighs. He looked down between their bodies and made a weak noise. Her dress rode even higher, showing him how ready she was, how wet and willing. Unable to say the words in her heart, she said the only thing she could, “Make love to me, Brant. I want you to.”

  Brant’s eyes shone passionately at her. His lips curled with the familiar sultry smile. He touched her shoulder, slowly drawing his fingers over the tender flesh there. Della moaned and arched a breast toward his lips. He grinned, kissing her collarbone instead.

  “Ah, sit up.” Brant pulled her arms, quickly undressing her. Once naked, she lay back down and his hands instantly found the length of her body. She was just as eager to explore him, touching him in every way she could—legs to legs, hands to arms and chest, lips to lips. He moved his hand down and parted the slick folds between her thighs. He stroked her, encircling her clit, sinking a finger into her depths. “You are so soft.”

  Della’s legs parted wide, silently begging him for more. Brant grinned, though the look was pained. With a controlled thrust, he gradually entered her. Della moaned as the muscles of her sex accepted him, stretching and hugging him tight. In awe over his gentle strokes, she ran her fingers over his chest. Brant rose up on his arms, his hot eyes watching her as he moved. Della shivered. Her body craved completion and he brought it to her with deliberate caresses. She stiffened, letting the pleasure wash over her as she finally met with perfect release. His groan soon joined hers as he jerked violently. And, as they came down, trembling and spent, there was no room for words.

  Chapter Twenty

  Brant left before dawn with the king, without saying a word to her, not even to tell her he was going. They’d made love twice with agonizing tenderness and had slept in each other’s arms. Or so she’d thought. She’d been sleeping when he left, waking alone as the sun peeked over the horizon. Somehow, she knew he was gone before even opening her eyes. Hitting her pillow in frustration, the softness stifled the sound of her heartache.

  Then, finding strength, she dressed and made her way belowstairs. Doing so only confirmed her fear and Della spent the morning hours strolling gloomily about the castle grounds.

  The sun shone bright over her head as she kicked her feet in the drying morning dew. Looking to the sky, she stood motionless in the bailey yard. Puffy clouds lined the blue heavens. She felt sorry for herself, was so confused by what had happened, but the clouds held none of the answers she sought.

  “M’lady.”

  Della jolted at the sound of Edwyn’s voice. Shaking her thoughts back to reality, she watched the old seneschal jog across the bailey, waiting patiently for him to join her.

  “Gunther approaches,” he said.

  The cold winds of fall were beginning to blow across the land, turning everything a golden brown. Della made herself halfheartedly smile at her old friend, shivering in the cool breeze. But inside a gentle sadness swam within her and not even she could hide the emotion with her icy demeanor. Edwyn looked at her, his expression holding pity. She didn’t want to see it, not from the man who’d raised her.

  “Did you let him in?” Della asked. “He comes from Blackwell.”

  “Nay, m’lady. Lord Blackwell bid me not to make the decision.” Edwyn didn’t try to hide his amusement. “It’s yers to order whether or not we let Gunther inside.”

  “Oh, yea,” Della rolled her eyes. “Let him in, then!”

  “Yea, m’lady,” Edwyn bowed gallantly. “It will be as you wish it.”

  Della shook her head and could not help but chuckle. Some of her husband’s policies were getting a little out of hand. A few of the maids had asked her permission before cleaning the dreaded garderobes and Isa, in her usual taunting manner, asked if she should cook the chicken before she served it, or if she should just set it out raw and still clucking.

  Actually, the more she thought of Brant, the more hurt she felt, and with the hurt came her irritation. He hadn’t bothered to tell her the night before that he was leaving with the king. If he had, she wouldn’t have succumbed to him so readily. She would have demanded the conversation she’d thought they would have that morning. The partial truce they’d made had to mean something. Was he lonely? Did he think he could have her whenever he wanted?

  With each thought, her irritation grew into anger.

  I will not stand to be treated like this. I will show Brant the Flame who is in charge of Strathfeld. It’s time I stop playing the meek and mild housemaiden and live up to my name, Della the Cold!

  She let the irritation overtake her as she strode over the yard to tend her garden. Gunther rode his horse over the lowered bridge, spotting her as she stormed past. The man-at-arms looked at her in surprise. Della ignored him and, as she found the sanctuary of her herb garden, she turned her rage to the hapless weeds.

  * * * * *

  “I know well why my mood is black, but why do you stare at yer plate as though it were about to attack you.” Gunther leaned toward Della to whisper in her ear. He was still mad at having missed the king and the action the traveling party would undoubtedly see.

  “I am not!” Della denied, but she still didn’t raise her hand to eat. The smell of meat made her stomach curl. She pushed the trencher aside and leaned back into her chair. The hall was moderately quiet. After the stint of drinking, the men just wanted to sit in silence. Already many of them had gone off to find their beds.

  “You are still at odds with him, then?” Gunther sighed in obvious disappointment. “Methought as soon as he stopped his mock celebration and you came down from yer prison tower, the two of you would reconcile.”

  “Methinks you should mind to your own, Gunther.” Della sank into her chair in dejection, trying to edge away from him.

  “Yea, m’lady, you and Brant are my own. Yer the only family I have and you look as if you could use a friend to talk to.” Gunther shook his head. “So, little sister, I will see yer wars waged no longer. Tell me what goes on that you cannot find peace in yer marriage.”

  “Gunther,” Della began harshly, sitting up to
face him. She softened her tone when she saw the caring in his expression. “I cannot. It’s too humiliating. Besides, you have sworn your loyalty to Brant.”

  “Yea, that I have,” he admitted. “But I would also swear it to you. Tell me, should I kneel before you with my oath?”

  When Della didn’t readily answer, Gunther shot her a mischievous smile. Standing, he moved as if to go before her. She shot her hand out to stop him.

  “Nay, Sir Gunther.” She could not stop the grin that threatened her features. Giggling despite her sorrowful mood, she said, “Sit down. I have no wish to see you kneel before me. I will take your silent oath.”

  Gunther sat back down at her side, absently waving the attention of a few of the men away. “So, what is it then?”

  “I already told you it’s too humiliating.” A blush stained her cheeks. She refused to look at him and instead trained her eyes forward. When he didn’t speak, she peeked at him.

  “Yea, that is it? He is no good between the linens?” Gunther tried to look concerned and failed.

  “Nay!” Her blush deepened and Gunther winked at her. “Do not make your pleasantries with me.”

  “I’m glad to hear the ealdorman’s performance is not in question, fer there is naught I can do about that.”

  “Nay, it is that it is in too much question,” she answered, disheartened.

  “What is this?” Gunther was apparently shocked. His smile faded as his eyes rounded in surprise.

  “Gunther, he is too virile and not in my bedchamber,” Della stressed her words carefully. She didn’t know what made her confess such a private thing to Gunther, but she needed a friend and he was the closest one she had. He wasn’t like the gossiping servants. He would be loyal to her, he’d sworn to be.

  “Yea?” Gunther took a thoughtful sip of mead. “Who?”

  “I know not—Serilda, one of the maids, several of the maids.” She shook her head as she pushed the tray further from her. The smell was still getting to her. Nausea waved up in her chest to war with the lonely despair.