As the sun dropped down lower into the sky, they met up with the man Rurik always sent ahead to secure their nighttime camp. Word spread through the column of riders that they would sleep indoors this night. Margriet smiled at the very thought of a bed beneath her. Even a thin pallet would be a gluttony of comfort after so many nights on the hard ground with only a blanket or two between them.
Leaning over, she whispered words of warning to Elspeth about their behavior in this village. They’d become lax in their pretenses and they needed to have a care lest they be exposed for their lies. After years of living in the convent, they would simply need to imitate the nuns’ prayerful ways a bit more while being watched.
The men seemed just as excited as she was to approach a village, but they gathered closer to her and Elspeth as though danger was near. Finally, just before the sun set, they arrived at the village.
Built up in the place where the river they’d been following north met up with another that headed west and deeper into Caithness and then onto Scotland, it was a rambling gathering of wooden houses and a few shops and an inn that could not be confused with the bustling Kirkvaw or even the smaller Thurso or Wick. She spied no church and no convent as they rode up to a squat, two-story inn on the outer edge of the rest of the village.
The innkeeper, a man nearly as wide as he was tall and who must have smelled the coin to be had from a group of travelers such as theirs, rolled out of the doorway and approached them. A few other men and two young women peeked out of windows to watch the goings-on. The women loosened their bodices in a display that was as vulgar as it was unnecessary, for after days on a journey with only two nuns and the limitations that their calling meant, the men in the group did not miss those of the fairer sex. Even whorish ones, who nearly tumbled out the windows while offering their wares without shame.
At Rurik’s signal, no one dismounted. Donald and Leathen even took hold of the reins of her horse and Elspeth’s as though readying themselves for flight. The tension had grown steadily, filling the air around them as Rurik negotiated their accommodations, food and other items they needed for their journey.
Only when he nodded and grasped the innkeeper’s arm in agreement did the men climb from their horses and release their hold of their weapons. When the two women sauntered out into the yard, both barefoot with their hair hanging uncovered and loose down their backs and their bosoms falling out of their bodices with the same abandon, Margriet found herself forgotten atop her horse. Watching the lustful expressions on the men and seeing them jostle to get a better view of what was being offered for sale, she knew that coin was not the only thing that would be spread this night in the village.
A noise caught her attention and she turned to find Sven helping Elspeth from her mount and waiting for her to steady on her feet before letting go of his hold around her waist. Just when she was about to speak, Rurik approached and reached for her. Sven stepped away from Elspeth, but not before sharing some meaningful look with the girl.
She slid down from the horse, guided to her feet by Rurik, as the innkeeper came closer. He bowed his head and nodded several times, never meeting her gaze, as Rurik explained that they would spend the night here. Rurik called out several orders and she found herself escorted inside by Harald, as he was called. The women disappeared and she dared not ask where they went.
Margriet ducked her head to pass through the doorway and found the inn was divided into two sections, a large room to the right where a hearth almost filled one wall and a smaller chamber that aromas told her was a kitchen. The larger room had a collection of mismatched tables and benches spread around it and she and Elspeth were led there to sit.
Worried about her reaction to the young women, Margriet was pleased when an older woman carried out a tray of sizzling meats that were surrounded by some cooked turnips and a pool of juices. Her mouth watered at the sight and especially at the smells, since they’d eaten only stews and soups on the journey. The second trip brought steaming loaves of bread, coarse and brown, like that served in the convent, and a clay pot of butter. The other women only appeared when the innkeeper called for ale to be served.
On closer inspection—and Margriet admitted to herself that she was curious—the two were older than they appeared from a distance. Although they enticed and teased with their copious amounts of naked flesh, they had apparently never heard anyone like Mother Ingrid and her lecture on cleanliness. It mattered not to any of the men, for every time they poured ale or leaned over nearer the table, the men’s tongues almost touched the floor.
The only one not falling under their spell was Rurik.
He sat in a chair, at the table next to hers, and watched everything without saying a word. A nod at one or another brought their behavior under control, or it did until the laces of the brown-haired one’s blouse finally gave way under the weight of her heavy breasts and one of those breasts fell out of its covering. Margriet blinked and then blinked again, trying to ignore the men’s feverish noises and never dreaming that someone would be so bold in the presence of two nuns, real or not.
Rurik gathered himself as though to rise when Harald yelled at the woman in a loud voice. A mutinous and pouting lower lip quivered for a moment before the woman, Ragna as she was called, lifted the breast and slid it back inside her clothing, tying the laces slowly as every male in the room watched. The knot did not catch the first time and Ragna slid her hand over the nipple this time, gasping as though surprised that it hardened beneath her touch. Margriet was certain every man’s rod did the same as they watched the display.
Margriet looked away, now embarrassed beyond measure, as did Elspeth. Rurik waved the innkeeper over to stop this and Harald ran up to Ragna, grabbed her and flung her across the room, toward the door. She stumbled out the door and they could hear the angry words followed by a hard slap and then silence. Furious whispering continued for several minutes and then the door opened. Now fully covered and with her laces secured, Ragna walked back into the room, lifted the pitcher she’d left on the table and began serving ale once more.
Chastened, her cheek reddened from Harald’s blow, the woman was not blatant in her invitations, but Margriet saw the looks she gave to a few of the men and knew several accepted the unspoken message. When she served Margriet and Elspeth, the ale splashed over the cup and Ragna backed up to clean it up, placing her also-ample bottom right in front of Rurik’s face. The other one, with wild red hair and a bosom that matched Ragna’s, must have been worried that he would choose her rival, for she rushed to his side, bending down to make certain he could see all the way down to her waist, too.
Whores were a fact of life, but to be confronted in this manner, when she could not respond as a noblewoman should, made Margriet angry. Thinking back on Rurik’s words, she wondered if this was the reason for their stay in the village. She turned to find Rurik staring at her. Looking at the women and then back at her, he motioned for them to lean closer.
The pig! How could he pay attention to them and all they offered right before her? Did he not know that his behavior gave his men the same right to do so in front of them? Before she could explode in outrage, the two women faced her and murmured words of apology to her and Elspeth.
Choking on the words that were fighting their way out, Margriet tore off a piece of bread, dipped it into the venison juice on her plate and stuffed it in her mouth. She chewed and chewed, trying to soften the bread so it could be swallowed, but it would not move off her tongue. The cup appeared in her hands just as she could feel a cough build in her chest and throat. The mouthful of ale finally helped her clear the dry bread.
When she looked over at Elspeth, she was so red, Margriet thought her fevered. Sliding her arm under the girl’s, she stood, taking Elspeth with her. No one stopped them, but once outside in the cool air of the evening, she discovered Sven a few paces behind them.
“We needed some air, Sven. Do not think to stop us,” Margriet began. Other words, bad ones, formed in he
r thoughts, but she stopped them before she could say them. None were suitable for a nun to be thinking, let alone saying aloud.
Not pausing to look back or forward, she dragged Elspeth with her away from the inn. She could hear Sven’s heavy steps behind them, most likely following to protect them, although in her mind, the bigger danger lay within the room they’d left. Margriet continued at her fast pace until she felt Elspeth lag at her side. Releasing her and knowing that Sven would stop with her, Margriet looked up and decided to walk to the stream they’d followed into this godforsaken village.
Mayhap she would even walk back to the convent and stay there!
She had no idea of how much time had passed or how much distance she covered, but now the sun was gone and the birds of night were calling out their warning. There was enough moonlight to see around her and she found a large rock to sit on while her temper cooled.
This was exactly what she feared when she donned the nun’s habit for protection. Men who lost control when faced with the least bit of provocation. Men who behaved like pigs, rooting for their pleasure. Margriet kicked a few smaller stones into the stream as her anger pulsed through her. She was so wrapped within it, she almost did not hear him approach.
Almost.
He stood a few paces behind her and said nothing. Probably for want of words, for what could be said? She leaned down and picked up another handful of pebbles, tossing each one as far as she could into the water and hearing them plop on the surface.
“I worried that you might have fallen in the water,” he said softly.
Margriet would credit him on his approach, for he avoided all the sticky subjects and chose a more humorous one. Of course ’twas only humorous if she admitted to lying about that event.
“I tripped,” she said, not yet willing to admit anything to this man whose face had lately been looking down a whore’s gown.
Tossing another of her pebbles into the stream, she slid off the rock, dusted the dirt from the habit and walked to the edge of the rushing stream. Though she could be mistaken, it appeared to be shallow, but the light of the moon was not enough to tell truly and accurately. Footsteps behind her warned that he was coming nearer.
“Do you feel the need to trip now? Again?” he asked, his voice coming over her left shoulder. She’d thought him farther away.
Margriet released the rest of the stones from her hand and sighed. “’Tis colder than that night.”
“Ah, so you only trip when the air is hot then?”
His words were like a caress to her, drifting softly and slowly around her, lulling her into letting down her guard. The night birds sang in the trees behind them, although she recognized none of the songs. The land and its creatures were different the farther north they traveled, away from all that was familiar and safe to her.
“Aye, ’tis then that the danger of falling is greater,” she said, playing along with the lie. Then, it was over and she needed to say some of the words bubbling inside. She needed to ask the questions that plagued her the most. “Do they not know that it is a sin?”
“Do you mean the men or the women?” he asked with no levity in his voice. “Is temptation the sin or is it only when we give in to it and commit the trespass?”
Margriet turned now to look at him, not trusting her judgment that he did not jest in his question. His face, outlined by moonbeams, appeared stern and serious, but she had the deep sensation that this was a different side of him than he showed to most. Recalling the lessons of the convent, ones she’d failed in the last few months, she repeated Mother Ingrid’s words to him.
“If temptation is offered apurpose to draw someone in to sin, then the tempter sins as well as the one who falls.”
He leaned in closer and whispered, “And if the tempter knows not what they do?”
Memories assailed her, images of Finn and his soft words and touches that drew her along a path to her own sin. Now thinking on it, she behaved with him the same way the men behaved with the harlots at the inn. He enticed her, making her want more, making her want things she did not know possible between a man and woman, things best kept from innocents with no defenses. Then he taught her to respond to his call, whether it was his touch or his voice or the love he offered her.
Oh, aye, she’d fallen hard and fast into the sins of lust and fornication. Calling it love, calling it temptation, did not change its true nature…or her own. It was a sin and she’d trespassed greatly.
Tears gathered in her eyes and she blinked to hide them from him. This realization, how much alike she was to the men inside clamoring for what the women offered, and how much like the women, clamoring to give their virtue away, hurt deeply. She would be called “whore” when her condition was known, proving her sin to one and all.
“Sin is sin,” she answered back, without the true conviction that a daughter of the church should have.
Did she know the temptation she offered, just by standing and speaking? With every movement of her hands or every step she took, she called to something inside him, something that should know better than to answer. But answer it did, and the desire for her grew with each day.
His plan to befriend her failed only moments after he’d decided upon it. His years of appreciating women, and all they offered, had taken his control and crushed it cruelly, making him consider that it was an apparition and never truly there at all. Rurik did not know which was worse, which more a threat to him and to her—the enticement of her flashing eyes, soft bow mouth and womanly curves, or the pain that lashed through her now.
When she lifted her head and he caught sight of the tears that filled her eyes, he searched them for the truth—what could Gunnar’s daughter know of sin? Her life, at least the part of her life when her conduct was her own, had been in a convent, sheltered from the worst life had to offer. Yet, pain seeped into her voice as she spoke and into every part of her that he could behold.
Rurik felt his own pain well up inside him. The rejection by his father and the insult to his mother’s honor brought about by his birth and their life stung and made him recognize something in her gaze. Something he wanted to ease and to soothe and to warn away. He forgot himself in that moment. He forgot what she was and all the reasons why he should not touch her.
He leaned down to touch his lips to hers, just as he’d been craving to do since the first time he’d glimpsed her beauty and felt the desire rise within him. Rurik slid his finger under her chin and tilted hers higher so that he could taste the mouth that drew him in.
“Temptation is temptation, Rurik,” she whispered.
He heard the words and felt them, too, since his lips were nearly touching hers now. Then her hand slid up and pressed against his chest, stopping him from moving that last fraction of distance between them. He ached to taste her now, especially now that he could feel her breath on his face and smell the scent that was hers alone. His manhood swelled and he shifted closer to her as his whole body throbbed in readiness.
And then he did taste her lips and he felt her surprise as he touched his lips to those that bedeviled him in his sleep and all his waking hours, too. If she had pulled back, Rurik would have stopped himself, but when she pressed against him, he slid his tongue along her lips until she opened to him. He released his hold on her chin and slid his hands down to grasp her shoulders—steadying him or her he knew not. He only knew that she was as delectable and enticing as he suspected she would be.
Rurik tilted his head and covered her mouth completely with his, dipping his tongue now in the heat of it, hearing and feeling her gasp as he continued his invasion. Not willing to retreat or relent, he played now with her tongue, drawing it forward and sucking on it gently. Margriet softened against him, and he took it for permission to deepen the kiss.
Using every bit of persuasion he’d ever learned in loving women, Rurik teased her mouth while he pulled her closer. Lifting his mouth only long enough to draw in a ragged breath and to allow her one, he possessed her once more�
�and then again…and again. He reached up slowly, not willing to disturb the growing passion, and slipped his hand under her veil. Tangling in her hair, he began to unravel the braids he found, when she suddenly stepped from his embrace.
Rurik met her desire-filled gaze and smiled at her, reeling from the very taste and scent of her. Margriet shook her head and looked away.
“I cannot.”
The words, spoken almost too low to be heard, were like a battle cry to his ears. Her words had vibrated against his lips before, but this time he heard them and they were words he could not ignore. As if to confirm that this was unseemly at the least and sacrilege at the worst, Sven’s voice called out through the silence. Her hand remained on his chest until that moment, when she reached up and touched her lips.
Sven broke through the trees and whether ’twas Rurik’s action or hers, Rurik stepped away from Margriet so quickly that she stumbled. When he reached out to steady her, his hand slipped, knocking her away. Putting some distance between them was a good thing, but what was not was that Margriet stood on the edge of the stream. His slight push was enough to send her stumbling off balance and off the uneven ground and into the water.
Sven yelled.
Rurik yelled louder.
And Margriet screamed as the icy water sucked her down under its surface.
Chapter Ten
When he grabbed for her, all he could reach was the end of her habit, which tore as he held it fast. A glimpse of naked legs was more than the situation needed at this moment and Rurik cursed under his breath as Margriet flailed about in the water.
Sven arrived at his side and Rurik unbuckled his scabbard and jumped into the water after her. The stream’s current was much stronger than it appeared from the edge and he found that it moved both of them rapidly away from where Sven stood, his mouth agape, watching them as they floated downstream.
It took some effort, but Rurik was finally able to take ahold of Margriet and plant his feet in a shallow enough place to stop them from moving farther away. The darkness made it more difficult to judge how and where to move. And so did Margriet’s struggles against the water, her heavy clothing and his hold.
Surrender to the Highlander Page 9
