Loving the Norseman: Book 1: Rydar & Grier (The Hansen Series - Rydar & Grier and Eryndal & Andrew)

by Kris Tualla

  “Have you a calendar?” Margoh repeated.

  “Oh! Aye. I’ll get it.” Grier left the dining room and ran up the stairs to her sleep chamber. She returned with a large sheet of parchment neatly lined and squared, with numbers in each box and elaborate figures decorating the borders.

  “You make this?” Rydar lifted the calendar and examined it closely. “Beautiful.”

  “Winter nights in Balnakeil Bay are long and dark,” she demurred. “It passes the time.”

  “As I was saying, this is today, the last day of May,” Margoh interjected. “Now, birthdays. Mine is in October on the fifteenth.” She pointed at the corresponding square. “When is yours?”

  Grier reached for the document. “I was born in—”

  “I addressed Rydar,” Margoh snapped.

  Rydar slid his gaze away from Margoh to Grier. “Born in?” he asked her pointedly.

  “March. On the tenth,” Grier murmured. She refused to look at the rude and irritating Margoh the Hen.

  He nodded. “My birth day…” He looked for the name of the month. “June. June twenty. The Sommer Solverv.”

  “The Summer Solstice?” Margoh cooed. “How very special you are!”

  “What year?” Grier asked. Margoh pulled back, drawing Grier’s glance. The older woman’s expression altered and she seemed alarmed. That was interesting.

  Rydar wrote ‘1324’ on a slip of parchment and looked up.

  “What year is now?” he asked Grier.

  Grier pulled the paper close to her and wrote ‘1354.’

  “No… No!” Rydar slumped back in his chair and turned stricken eyes to Grier. “Is not… I am… tretti?” Confusion sculpted his features. “How I am tretti?”

  “Thirty,” she whispered.

  Rydar ran both hands through his hair. Twice. “Thirty,” he mumbled, incredulity washing over his countenance.

  “Did you no’ know?” Grier asked.

  Rydar’s face grew ashen and he stared at nothing. He shook his head slowly.

  “Thirty. Is no’ right.” His eyes lifted to Grier’s. Huge pupils obliterated the green, leaving only golden rings around black holes. “Are you much right of year?”

  Grier nodded. Rydar covered his face with his broad hands.

  “Å min Gud! So much time gone,” he moaned. His palms rounded the tones giving his lament an eerie sound. “Å min Gud…”

  Margoh reached for the calendar. Her words were clipped. “Let’s move on.”

  Rydar’s hands fell loosely to the table and he faced Grier. “What year you are born?”

  In spite of the dread that speared through her, Grier wrote ‘1328.’ She lifted her chin. “I’m twenty-six.”

  He nodded. “Tjue seks. Twenty six.”

  Grier held her breath and watched for any sign that Rydar thought her too old. Mercifully, there was none. But then, he was older than her and obviously concerned at the moment about his own age.

  Margoh stood and set the calendar on the cabinet that held the fine dishes. Grier turned her head and considered the woman’s back.

  “And in what year were you born, Margoh?” she asked. The question was truly a bit wickit. But Grier wanted Rydar to know that the jillet was older than he, if he didn’t know that already.

  “I doubt that’s of any interest to anyone,” Margoh stated, her back still to the room.

  “What year you are born?” Rydar restated the question.

  Margoh didn’t answer at first and seemed to be weighing the consequences of refusing. She whirled and scribbled ‘1317,’ then hissed, and turned the seven into a nine.

  She straightened and said, “Now let’s move on to—”

  “You’ll turn thirty-seven this October?” Grier smiled her nicest smile, knowing Rydar could figure out Margoh’s years for himself. “I never would have weened it, Margoh. You’re so beautiful for a woman of your years.”

  Margoh flushed and her mouth gaped. She snapped it shut.

  Triumphant, Grier rose from her seat. “I must see to supper. Please excuse me.”

  ***

  Tumultuous red hair spread in flames across his bed; auburn, russet, orange, gold, ginger. Skin smooth as fresh cream. Eyes deep as a clear winter sky. Rose-tipped mounds filled his hands, his mouth. Her copper-forested cleft opened.

  Rydar awoke with a gasp.

  Gud forbanner det all til helvete!

  He rolled from his cot and reached for the mantle, two hops away. It only required a few quick strokes before his seed hissed and dissipated in a musky cloud over the banked coals.

  He stared at the fire.

  She’s a virgin. Leave her alone.

  “But it’s not only swiving,” he whispered, arguing with himself. “There’s something special about her.” She was intelligent. Headstrong. Fearless. Independent. But those qualities did not make compliant wives.

  Who was seeking a compliant wife?

  “I’m not in any position to marry!” he muttered. Scowling, he turned his back on the hearth’s subdued inferno. “I’m already thirty. I haven’t a penny to my name. The clothes on my back are borrowed. I eat and sleep under a roof provided by Christian charity. I cannot even do for myself!”

  Sitting on the edge of his cot, he stared at the coals and considered the matching inferno that simmered inside of him. Years had passed since he last laid with a woman. The women in Grønnland were worn down, joyless, and they married young to the least objectionable prospects.

  Rydar knew he was far from objectionable, and rampant opportunities were thrust upon him. Though he deflected marriage, he did sample the choices as often as he could. However none tempted him enough to stay.

  He smiled.

  Grier was decidedly not ‘objectionable’ either. She was beautiful. Rounded and firm and vibrant. Rydar closed his eyes and retrieved the dream image of his feisty feminine savior. He held it, examined it, pondered it, enjoyed it. His yard, long deprived, stiffened again.

  He opened his eyes and stretched out on the narrow bed, staring toward the ceiling. He steered his consideration to Margoh; tall, blond, and beautiful in a worldly way. During their lessons she all but swived him on the table.

  But the widow paled alongside Grier.

  As engaging as Grier was, she mustn’t be allowed to hold him here. He must return to Arendal and determine if he had an inheritance. Property was the key. Without it, he would merely be a laborer, a tradesman. Not much to offer any woman, especially at this age.

  Rydar rubbed his face with his palms and combed his fingers through his new beard. He felt the healed cut on his cheek and sighed. Blue eyes and red hair floated pleasingly through his mind.

  Grier.

  Chapter Eleven

  June 3, 1354

  Rydar rode Salle alongside Logan into Durness. The mile-long road crested over a narrow spit of rocky Scottish stubbornness that protruded straight north into the Sea and sheltered Balnakeil Bay. Behind him, overlooking the Bay, were the castle and its two-and-a-half story keep and three-story round tower. In front of him, a cluster of stone and timber buildings lined up along a narrow street like silent soldiers. A few low residences flowed outward, forming the skirts of their tunics.

  Logan was taking him to Malise McKay’s house where Margoh Henriksen and her sister, Hanne Larson, currently abided. Once Rydar knew the way, he might come alone for his lessons and not be a burden on Logan’s time.

  The main thoroughfare of Durness was cobbled with native stones, rounded by the surf. Most of the buildings had stone-and-mortar first stories. If there was an upper floor, that was made of timber and white-washed plaster. Roofs were moss-coated slate.

  Rydar frowned, puzzled.

  At least half the buildings were vacant. Some doors stood open. Shutters were broken. He asked Logan about it.

  “It’s the Death, ye ken? Too many died. Others moved away, though I doubt they escaped.”

  Rydar considered his words. “Men here. They are work, aye?”
r />   “Aye. Though the merchant guild has not met in far more than a year.”

  “Merk-ant guild?”

  “The group of men who control commerce in the town.”

  “Oh.” Rydar determined he needed to ask Margoh to explain that.

  He did.

  “Every town has a guild. They have standard measures for products, set standard prices, things such as that,” she explained in Norse, handing him a cup of spiced wine. He sat in the McKay’s kitchen with her, their house being much smaller than the castle keep. “Why do you ask?”

  “It seems that there are men at the castle who have skills, but they lack work. And they complain about the dearth of goods. Is it the same for the town people?”

  “I suppose. But what concern is it of yours?” Margoh ran her middle finger along the inside of the deeply scooped neckline on her red wool gown. The color went quite well with her blond hair and brought color to her pale cheeks. “What are you considering?”

  Rydar raised his gaze and his palms. “I have nothing at all to call my own. All that I had was left behind in Grønnland or lost at sea. But I do intend to continue my journey.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t yet know.”

  She leaned closer. “When?”

  Rydar shrugged and sipped his wine.

  Margoh’s overt trifling made him think of swiving. And swiving made him think of Grier. And bedding Grier wasn’t a possibility, so the entire thread of thought—and the widow’s actions—irritated him.

  Margoh contemplated him in silence for a pace. Then, “Will you journey alone?”

  He had not expected that. “I planned to.”

  “But you might consider a passenger?”

  Rydar tilted his head and tried to dissuade her. “It’s a very dangerous and unsure passage. The risk would be yours. Entirely yours. Do you understand that?”

  She watched him pensively and didn’t respond. In the face of her silence, his position must be made clear.

  “I will make you no promises. Of any kind,” he stated.

  Margoh leaned back in her chair, apparently deciding. “I’ve had promises. I’ll take the risk.”

  She lifted her cup of wine and drained it.

  ***

  When Rydar returned to the castle, he went looking for Grier. In spite of the plague-devastated population, the lack of industry in the small town puzzled him. He had questions about her tenants and their trade with the inhabitants of Durness. She wasn’t to be found in the lower rooms, so he called up the stairs.

  Moira’s head poked out one of the doors. “She’s no’ up here.”

  “You ken where?” Rydar asked.

  Moira shrugged. “She was called to a tenant who was hurtit. I dinna ken and she’s back.” She retreated, offering no additional information.

  Rydar sighed, blowing a long breath through loose lips. She went alone? Again?

  Irritated, he crutched his way into the kitchen for a mug of ale. He stood in the room, quenching his thirst with the pale brew, and caught sight of Grier through the diamond-paned window. She stood beyond the castle wall on the windy bluff facing the sea.

  Rydar left his empty mug on the table and hobbled outside to talk to her. But once he crossed the moat bridge, something in her stance slowed him.

  She stood with her head lowered, her arms folded in front of her. As Rydar drew nearer he could see her profile. Her expression was somber, and she gripped her crucifix in one hand. The apron she wore was stained with an alarming amount of blood.

  The crash of endlessly tumbling waves, agitated by a North Sea wind blowing into Balnakeil Bay, covered the sound of his approach. Unwilling to disturb her thoughts, he stopped and waited. For what, he had no idea.

  Grier let go of her necklace and reached for her hair. She unplaited it slowly, loosing abundant red waves to the wind. She shook her head. Her curls streamed out behind her, an undulating copper standard. The hem of her gown snapped and fluttered beneath it. Grier closed her eyes. Unfurling her arms, she straightened her back and lifted her chin to the afternoon sun.

  The wind molded her gown against her thighs, her belly, the curve of her breasts. She looked as though she might take flight. She was a wild creature, at one with the wind and the sky. Beautiful. Gloriously strong. Unfettered. No man could tame her.

  No man should ever try, Rydar realized. To do so would quench the very qualities that made her so worthy a companion at the start.

  He lost track of time watching her. Grier’s arms lowered finally, and her eyes opened. He stepped closer then and she turned toward him. The serene expression on her face seemed to say that she knew he was there all along.

  In spite of his broken leg, he quickly closed the distance between them, his eyes never shifting from hers. He was compelled to kiss her and didn’t think to resist. He tilted her chin upward with a knuckle and took her mouth with his before he thought better of it.

  It was a solid kiss. Firm moist lips met his, pressing, probing, accepting. Sweet breath. Humming sigh. No resistance.

  He held her lips possibly longer than he should have, but the contours of her mouth fit against his so perfectly that he didn’t wish to let them go.

  Though compliant at first, Grier jerked back with a small cry and gasp. Blue eyes widened over the fist that now sealed her mouth. Her brow twitched, displaying surprise, shock. She blinked rapidly.

  Rydar knew his amorous ambush had frightened her, and he raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I sorry.”

  “Don’t,” she sputtered.

  He shook his head and his hands fell to his side. “I do no’,” he said.

  “No! That’s no’ what I’m saying!” Grier cried. She bit her lower lip. She turned away, as if to leave, but didn’t. She rubbed her palms hard against the sides of her skirt and drew a deep breath. With a small gasp of a sob, she faced him again.

  Grier reached up and tangled her fingers in his wind-blown hair. Balancing on her toes, she pulled his face down to hers. She kissed him, open-eyed at first, and then he closed his.

  Soft full lips. Warm breath against his cheek. Her tongue pushed past his teeth and tangled with his, sending fierce waves pulsating down to his boots. He reached for her shoulders and steadied her so she wouldn’t stop.

  The taste of her, the feel of her, the little moans that escaped her, turned him to iron. He held himself away from her so she wouldn’t notice. Thank the Lord this tunic was long enough to cover the urgent bulge tucked inside his braies.

  The kiss suspended the wind and even the raucous sound of the waves disappeared.

  Then Grier pulled away from him and he forced his eyes open. He still held her shoulders. Her lips were smudged and reddened, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes out-blued the sky.

  “Oh, no!” she wailed.

  “What?” Rydar croaked.

  She twisted from his grasp, turned and stumbled on the hem of her dress. Grabbing bunches of fabric in both hands, Grier hiked her skirt and bloodied apron above her ankles and ran toward the keep. Rydar felt his soul rip from his body and trail along the ground behind her.

  Strength abandoned him and he sank to the ground. He laid back, limbs splayed wide in the course sea grass. Wind rushed over his face, and lifted the edge of his tunic to cool his thighs and parts between. His arousal calmed slowly. His thudding heart took longer.

  Why on earth did he do that? Why did he need to kiss her? Was it because she looked so beautiful with her hair streaming in the wind and her gown outlining every curve of her body?

  If his recurring dreams were any indication, it was because he desired to make energetic love to her. Repeatedly. To hold her close along his body, feel her supple warmth wrap around him, taste every inch of her skin. Tangle himself in all parts of her glorious red hair. Fall asleep wrapped in her arms.

  He saw the image again in his mind: glorious Grier standing on the windy bluff. But this time she was waving goodbye. He was sailing away from her. Forever
. And that’s when the realization punched him in the gut.

  He didn’t want to leave her.

  “NO!” he bellowed and slammed his fists against the ground, smashing the dry, rasping grass. No. No, no, no! He could not fall in love with her. He must not fall in love with her. He would never stay here. Never.

  “Tomorrow I will find a way to leave,” he resolved, denying the lure of his desirable healer. “Tomorrow I will make a plan and begin it. This I will absolutely do.”

  Rydar reached for his crutch and clambered to his feet. He began a slow path back to the keep. His resolution was steel. Inflexible. Cold. Severing.

  ***

  Grier stomped around her chamber. She could not recall being angrier with herself. How could she have behaved so wantonly? She wasn’t a jillet! What on God’s good earth had come over her?

  She didn’t know Rydar was near her on the bluff, but neither was she surprised to see him there. When he came toward her, she kent his intention; every inch of his tall body pulsated with it. She reacted without thinking, kissing him back. Shocked at herself, she pulled away. That should have been the end of it.

  But then she returned to him. She kissed him deeply, passionately. She kissed him! What in God’s good name did she think she was about?

  Grier touched her mouth. She still felt Rydar’s lips against hers; felt the scratch of his beard on her chin; felt the grip of his hands on her shoulders. Felt his strength. Felt his desire.

  Felt her desire.

  Grier crumpled to the floor.

  I do desire him. Was it merely loneliness? Was it because he was her only visible prospect?

  Or was it because the Viking was so quick to learn, eager to communicate with her? Or his willingness to be of help. Or his sense of humor and the way his eyes glowed when he laughed. Perchance it was because he was becoming the most beautiful man she had ever known.

  He was so exotic to her with his startling height and his angelic Norse coloring. His unfamiliar language flowed through her, warming her like fine wine. His hands spoke to her of both rough skills and tender care.