The Northman's Bride (A Sons of the North Romance Book 3)

by Sandra Lake

  He swept back into the room and found her sitting on the bed, crying silently, rocking back and forth and holding her knees to her chest. He stepped toward her, and the floor creaked softly. Her face jerked up with a look of horror, but she quickly dropped her gaze back to the floor. Were the tears an act to further manipulate him—or were they real? Seemingly having composed herself, she swept her tears away and quickly scrambled to her feet.

  She must be ill. He hadn’t thought her capable of honest crying.

  “I can’t stand the grime of my own skin. I would be grateful for a bath and a clean garment.” She raised her chin. Her tears drying on her cheeks and her arrogant beauty had returned in an instant.

  “Stay in here,” Hök said, less harshly. False tears or not, a weeping woman made him uncomfortable. A pang of guilt crept up in his gut. “Is it your ankles?” he asked.

  “I am weary from our hasty journey is all.”

  “Aye,” he said while scanning her up and down, wondering if he should insist on seeing her ankles, chastising himself for the hundredth time for not thinking to check on them sooner. They were at last securely behind Tronscar’s walls, and she was so far from her allies that he could drop the hostility and treat her simply like an untrusted guest . . . polite, yet closely guarded. “When the chambermaids have the time, I shall send you up a bath and clean clothing, but you will not ask them for anything and you will not speak to them. Do you understand me? I swore to God to keep you in good health but test me with one ounce of your treasonous tricks and I will not hesitate to house you in the barn with my horse.” His threats were empty of course, but he needed her to fear him—just enough to keep her in line.

  “Nobel is a fine horse, Hök. I would thank thee for the distinction of the company one of your well-kept beasts,” she said. He could not tell if she was toying with him or if she was genuinely grateful to be treated no better than his horse.

  He let out a roar of annoyance and stomped out, locking the chamber behind him.

  ***

  After dousing himself with a bucket of cold water, Hök climbed back up the benches, reclaiming his spot in the high corner, the hottest spot in the sauna. The cedar walls surrounded him, embracing him, welcoming him to lean back and sink his shoulders into the fragrant wood. With clean sweat dripping from every pore, he rested his head and closed his eyes, breathing deep and allowing the tension to melt out of his muscles.

  Ultimately, the need to redeem himself in his father’s eyes after his ill-fated meeting with Sovia had focused young Hök into becoming the commander he was today. His father had begrudgingly given his blessing for Hök to take up his command. Would all his years of hard work and sacrifice to make his family proud be for naught? What would his father say when he saw Hök had brought such a woman under their roof, and moreover, granted her the protection of their family name?

  Sweat dripped off Stål’s nose as his brother leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He spoke to the stone floor of the bathhouse. “You needn’t have gone so far.”

  Hök had relayed all the relevant facts of the last year to his brother within the first five minutes in the sauna. Stål had asked few questions, mainly sat silently sweating, absorbing the unpleasant information. He was a thinker that way—slow to voice his opinion. But when he did, it was always well thought out and organized.

  “What should I have done instead?” Hök asked. “Have Ludvik claim all her land?” “Leave Tronscar vulnerable to that dog?”

  “You could have stalled.”

  “There was no time for indecision.”

  Stål sent him a sideways glance. “You could have sent word to Father—we could have made inquires. Perhaps you could have wed her to Canute’s half brother in Lübeck, or maybe Katia’s half brother Urho would have taken her. Sverre is much in debt to Urho for the ships he built him last winter. Without those ships, he never would have won the battle of Fimreite.”

  “Pff. Urho?”

  “His seat as chieftain has grown in influence since you have last seen him. He’s become a trusted friend and I know he is in need of silver to expand his shipbuilding venture. Sovia’s dowry could have been useful to him.”

  “That would have taken months to resolve. And Sovia’s countrymen would never accept a member of the Norwegian royal family wedding a bastard shipbuilder from Finland.”

  His brother arched his brow and rolled one eye. It was a talent of his. “Urho was made chieftain years ago and has strong connections with Norrland and Lübeck, and if Katia ever heard you call her half brother a bastard, you would be parting with your front teeth.”

  “Fine. Hapless fellow was born on the wrong side of the blanket,” Hök said and his brother snapped a towel at his thigh. Hök often forgot about his mother and older sister’s Finnish start in life. It was hard to picture Katia as the daughter of a chieftain’s son and not of the bloodline of their father Magnus. It was also strange to think of Katia having loyalty to anyone more than her Magnusson brothers. His sister had the ethereal looks of their mother, with long, gold braids and a slight frame, but she wielded a blade that would give any man a challenge. Hök often pitied his brother-in-law, Lothair. Having a wife like Katia to control couldn’t be easy.

  Stål continued to scrutinize him.

  “What?” Hök flopped his arms down.

  “You wanted to wed her. Just say it,” his brother said.

  “Fak! I wed her for Tronscar, for Norrland, for the sake of Sweden! I wed her for you and for a more secure seat for your future sons. Peace with our neighbors is the only way. I would not risk war so close to home.”

  “Stop pretending that you did this for Tronscar and just say why you really wed her.”

  “Bloody oath! I did this for you!” Hök wrapped a towel around his waist and stomped down the bench steps, coming face-to-face with his challenger.

  “She flashed her big green eyes at you and you lost your head, just like you did before.” Stål stood toe to toe with him. “That whore will ruin you. Ruin us! I won’t allow it.”

  Hök’s fist connected with his brother’s jaw. His brother launched forward, arms circling around Hök’s waist like a vise, and they crashed down to the stone floor, pounding their fists into each other.

  After they’d each landed a fair amount of blows, Hök flopped onto his back. His brother lay panting beside him.

  “Fak! So this is the way of it,” Stål said, still catching his breath. “You can treat her no better than a whore, but no one else is allowed to.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “You will never be able trust her.”

  “No more than the length of my ship.”

  “Devil take her, Hök, she’s not worthy of you. Punishing yourself with years of war was not enough for you?”

  Years ago, with Stål’s eager blessing, Count Flanders had arranged the betrothal of Stål to the daughter of a powerful duke from the Scottish Isles. Lady Margaret would be coming of age next year, and on her visit to Tronscar last summer, she had easily won Stål’s heart with her sweet, shy smiles and meek temperament. Their wives would be unalike in every way. Lady Margaret was adored and respected, while Sovia was despised and distrusted.

  Hök pushed up off the floor and winced at a fresh bruise to his ribs. He reached down and hauled his twin back to his feet.

  “I was never fated to have a loyal wife and a house full of sons. That is your destiny, brother. You have the jarl’s seat to pass on. I will do my part to serve your future sons from over the mountains in the west.”

  His brother grabbed him by the back of the neck and jerked him forward, pressing their temples together as they used to when they were boys.

  “You’d give your life to serve Tronscar. I would give mine to free you of this burden. Speak to me with truth and reveal your heart to me. Do you wish to be free of her? There is always a
way.”

  Hök breathed in the scent of his brother and allowed his heart and head to fill with the comfort and peace that he brought. “I will never break my vow. She is mine. All I ask is your help to keep her from committing any further treachery to our family.” Or to my own heart, he failed to say out loud.

  ***

  Sovia soaked in a large copper tub, scrubbing her flesh until it was bright pink. It was shocking just how much time she saved when she didn’t have to wash yards of hair. Positive thinking—that was the true path to contentment, she thought.

  The young chambermaids who attended her giggled and smiled, whispering to one another in the corners of the room as they tried to appear busy, while watching her with fascination. Only one of her twelve travel chests had been delivered to the room. It sat open in the corner and the maids had carefully unpacked a few of her items.

  All three maids seemed well trained in their duties and appeared to be in good health. How hearty and healthy the youngest and lowest ranking of the servants appeared revealed a lot about a household. Her father had always noted which castles had the best and worst servants. He said it was a quick indicator to the purse size of a holding; only excessively wealthy men kept well-fed, well-dressed serfs.

  The youngest of the maids appeared no older than twelve summers. Her limbs were slender and too long for her body, her chest flat, and her hips narrow as a lad’s. Sovia instantly felt a kindred connection with her. Her own shape had formed much the same way, and she remembered with fondness the years spent happily locked away in Toraslotte. Her father had called her his duckling for years and thought she might grow up to be quite unattractive, and would have her hidden from court so he could arrange a marriage sight unseen. If only life had continued to be so kind and her body hadn’t ripened into that of a full-figured woman. Perhaps if she had remained gangly, she would have been wed off to some second son of a baron by now, with three or four sons and daughters filling her nursery.

  But no. Life was cruel and never turned out as a maiden dreamed. She had been cursed to resemble her mother, whom all deemed a rare beauty, and her father had used her attractiveness like a renewable resource, taking advantage of it over and over.

  The young maid spread out a yellow silk hair ribbon, letting the end twist around her finger. Sovia wrapped herself in a towel and joined the girl by the window.

  “Does the air always smell so sweetly of pine needles here? It’s a wonder the scent can travel so high in the air, all the way up to this tower,” she said to the girl, who quickly released the ribbon.

  “Aye, my lady. You can smell it even more in midsummer, when we have had no rain for days and the forest is crisp and dry.” She spoke to her own feet, too shy to look Sovia in the eye.

  “What is your name?”

  “Lanna.”

  “What a pretty name. A delight to make your acquaintance, Lanna. And this color of yellow would look so nice in your dark hair.” Sovia threaded the ribbon under the girl’s long locks and tied a neat bow. “There. Lovely. You have beautiful hair, Lanna. I think this ribbon suits you best.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Please, call me Sovia. Your master Hök will not approve of you addressing me as lady.”

  The oldest of the three women, who was no more than twenty, stepped forward. “I beg your pardon, but Lanna has forgotten her instructions. We are not to speak to you, only attend to you and see after your needs.” The woman looked down.

  “Aye. I would not care to get you in trouble with your master. Please keep the ribbon as a gift nonetheless. As you all can see, my hair will have no use for ribbons anytime soon.”

  She smiled at the women and they smiled in return, then tucked their heads back down and hurried about tidying the chamber. After the bath was emptied and removed, the maids left and she suddenly felt lonely and a little more than edgy. For so long her days had been filled with such peril that simply surviving the day kept her mind occupied, but now, securely locked in a high tower with a husband who vowed to keep her healthy but prisoner still—her thoughts turned dark and shifting.

  Sovia dressed, and looked around for something, anything, to occupy her mind. She found a needle and thread and set to work mending a few small tears she’d noticed in Hök’s tunics.

  “What are you doing?” Hök’s heavy steps hammered across the chamber. Sovia kept her eyes on her work. He came to stop in front of her, by the open window.

  “Mending.” One of the things that Sovia had learned while living with her father was that not reacting to unreasonable bouts of anger gave the opportunity for him to save face and reconsider his tone. If she argued back, she risked a slap to the face and worse, solidifying his resolve that he was correct in his irrational anger.

  Hök snatched his tunic away and tossed it onto the bed. “I did not give you permission to touch my belongings.”

  She folded her hands on her lap and corrected her posture. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I was only endeavoring to stave off my death by boredom.” Damn. The sarcasm was a slip of the tongue.

  He took a step back and looked her up and down. “I did not give you permission to wear this gown. Take it off.”

  She stood up and fingered the side laces of her silk gown. A few little tugs here and there and the beautiful fabric pooled at her feet. She raised her fingers to untie the delicate white laces of her under-tunic.

  “What are you doing?” Hök’s voice was deep and raw, his eyes burning hot and eager. He was more comfortably dressed than she had seen him before, garbed in soft leather trousers, with no armor and a soft wool tunic that was open at the collar, giving a peek at the well-muscled chest that it concealed. The scent of cedar from the sauna still clung to him. Her desire to go to him began to grow.

  “Obeying your command to undress, husband.” She looked him in the eye and the intensity she saw there sent her heart into a wild gallop. Now that the dirt from her month-long ordeal was washed away, would he take her, as she had been expecting him to each night over the last week?

  He picked up her gown off the floor, and marched to the doorway and shouted out into the corridor. “Helga!”

  “Yes, my lord.” The maid came running.

  “Please go across the hall and change out of your frock and put this on. Then bring me back your garments.”

  A sharp pang of disappointment stabbed her. Their marriage would be left unconsummated still, leaving her feeling more vulnerable and insecure. If Hök did not make their union official, he could chuck her aside the first chance he got—what would happen to Toraslotte then? The variables were too many.

  Hök clearly hated her, but at the same time, was a simple a man. Above all else, he desired peace, and therefore it was logical to assume he would be a just master over her people in Toraslotte, and direct his wrath only toward her. But if she was to be given to another man, her home could fall into the hands of any number of lowlifes—leaving Leif vulnerable to him—Voinovich . . . She shivered and mentally shook the thought from her mind. She wouldn’t think of him today.

  Hök paced back and forth in front of her. She could tell he was trying very hard to appear cross and uninterested in her body, but he faltered several times. His eyes continued to drift back toward her. He wanted her, at least in the basic way that any man may want a woman. Yet Hök remained a mystery to her. Why did he continue to resist what he clearly had interest in taking? The only answer she could think of was that he did indeed plot to set her aside. She had to convince him to act before she lost the chance to protect both her homeland and her son.

  She laced her fingers behind her back, so that her bosom would naturally push up and out in front of her. Her husband stepped toward her, his eyes locked on the swell of her chest, and his hand reached out to settle upon her hip. He stepped closer still, but had not yet allowed his hand to touch her when Helga appeared at the open door, flick
ing her eyes back and forth between Sovia and Hök, and he took a sudden step back. Sovia felt like pitching a tantrum. His spark of lust had been doused yet again. The maid laid her brown serving gown on the back of the chair, then bobbed her head and hurried out of the chamber.

  “You’ve made us late. It’s long past the hour we were to meet with my parents,” he said and crossed his chamber to retrieve something. He did not look back in her direction as he rooted around his dressing table, which was littered with weaponry.

  Disappointment and concern once again began to consume her. Men hated sullen women, and would most likely hate more a sullen bride, so she must somehow shake off this latest defeat. A moment later, Sovia was knotting the leather ties to the housemaid’s soft wool gown. It was of very good quality and smelled of the kitchen fires, and was clean and warm. Sovia told herself she was lucky to have it. Most chambermaids and kitchen servants wore little more than threadbare rags.

  Thinking about the good side of things saved her again. She was already feeling much better, and mostly recovered from the disappointment that her husband had not wished to consummate their marriage.

  Hök crossed his arms and walked slowly around her, inspecting, continuing to glare down his nose at her. “You will sit beside me and say nothing unless you are spoken to. Do not look at my brothers, do not speak to my brothers, and if I catch you smiling and making eyes at any of them, I will punish you. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, husband.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  She rolled her eyes, lifted the hem to the overlong skirt, and stepped toward the door. “Would you prefer I address you as sir or master?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

  He grunted out a curse under his breath and tugged her down the corridor. They rapidly made their way to the long stone staircase that spiraled down to the main level. During their harried arrival the night before, she had seen little of her new prison, but from what she had spied, Tronscar was as grand as any palace she had visited. The current craze of all nobles was to tear down their perfectly good timber-framed longhouses, built in the cozy tradition of the north, and replace them with monstrous, unburnable, cold stone fortresses. Sovia was not convinced that the adopted designs from warmer climates were all that sensible for a land that spent more time buried in snow than sun. Yet she had to admit, the well-crafted stone gave the ominous impression that this house would stand the test of time.