The Warlord's Wife

by Sandra Lake

  Dropping nearly all his weight on her, he kissed her. She owed him his due and his rightful respect.

  Magnus groaned out his dissatisfaction as she twisted her head to the side, refusing his kiss.

  “You are my wife! I will have you whenever I please.”

  She covered her face with her arms. The sight angered and disgusted him further. He pulled her arms, away, revealing her flawless cheeks wet with tears, instantly draining away his lust.

  Pushing up off the floor, he shouted, “The sight of your tears sickens me.”

  He left her balled up on the floor, slammed the chamber door behind him, and stood motionless in the corridor, his heart hammering behind his breastbone.

  He hated her. That one fact was certain. He hated her for being the root of his own self-loathing. She provoked him and in his weakness, she conquered his self-restraint, turned him wild with savage lust. He had never hated a woman before. But she was his greatest enemy, and his moral center would not allowed himself to kill her, or even beat her. He envisioned tossing her from his chamber window and . . . and then he would have to go collect her from the lower bailey and bring her back inside. He could not live in this chamber without her.

  She had conquered him. Oh, how he despised her for it.

  Chapter 12

  Magnus marched down to the end of the corridor to the child’s chamber, relieved to find it empty. He went to the hearth and opened the decorative silver box that rested on top of the mantel and removed the contemptible leather band. He stared at the worthless leather that was at fault for creating this unrest with his wife.. His father had been correct. Women, alluring women, were the world’s greatest threat. His father’s voice echoed in his ears, retelling of the account of evil Eve and her destruction of Adam. “Women are agents of Satan, sent to test a man’s inner strength.”

  Bloody hell, women are unbearable to live with.

  He was ashamed that he could not send her away, nor remove her from his bed. His hunger for her consumed him; his thirst for her taste, her sounds, her sweet breath that escaped her at the moment of her climax, was unquenched.

  Curse her to Hades.

  She tormented him all the way down to his soul. Ensnaring him with a fleeting glimpse of her sensuality, she had enslaved him for life and now punished him by locking it away.

  He returned to his chamber and found a half-naked woman huddled on the floor. Her clothing was torn to the waist, her hair in disarray, and she held her knees to her chest. Concealing her face, she said nothing, did not even acknowledge his presence.

  He cursed under his breath. Bright red marks marred the delicate skin of her back, and she had a long scratch down her spine. A part of him raged to kill the man who had injured her, his mind rejecting the knowledge that it had been him. He had lost control and treated her roughly, and in so doing had injured the flesh of her back. Bile rose up from his stomach.

  Crouching down next to her, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She flinched. He had created that reaction. She had proven him a liar—he had harmed a weaker vessel.

  At a loss as to what to do next, he tossed the leather band to the ground. “Conceal the worship of your dead man from my eyes. Do not let me see it again.”

  ***

  Lida spent the remainder of the day alone, abstaining from the midday meal. She bathed and dressed in the plainest gown she could find, soft yellow linen fringed with a sky blue trim. The delicate, loose fabric felt soothing against her sore back.

  Sitting on the silk cushion that lined the window seat, she braided her hair slowly. The mindless grooming calmed her spirits.

  Truly, what had she expected? It had been unexpected when the jarl had been gentle and more rousing than boorish. She did not care for his good opinion of her, did she? She needed to stop wasting time wishing for a deeper, more affectionate experience with the jarl. It was never going to happen.

  She considered him a respectable leader, but that did not change the fact that she had knowingly wed a haughty, proud, and contemptible man.

  Her mother certainly would not have approved of her mocking display to the jarl earlier. Most men, especially powerful men, would have beaten a wife soundly for such an insult. The jarl had shown considerable restraint, now that she thought on it.

  Staring at Urho’s leather wristband, she tried to make sense of it all. What did the bracelet mean to Magnus—why had he kept it, and why had he returned it?

  Conceal the worship of your dead man from my eyes. He must believe the bracelet was a symbol of her enduring love for Urho.

  Heaven help her. Magnus was jealous.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and felt Magnus holding her head in his mighty hands, controlling their kiss, then relaxing his hold to massage the back of her head and neck as his tongue caressed the inside of her mouth. The memory of his powerful growl sent a flood of moisture between her legs.

  How could she want him?

  He hated her. The way he looked at her could leave no doubt. He hated her, and she hated him. Hated him with a passion—and she had never hated anyone before.

  Her mother’s voice softly sang out in her head. “So near are love and hate, the two most powerful and devastating emotions that control men, nations, life.” Her mother had spent countless hours poring over ancient philosophy texts. Useless scraps of paper, in Lida’s opinion.

  “If you wish to be loved, Lida, you must first love,” whispered the wind outside her window. Oh, rot it! She tossed the leather band across the chamber.

  Why are men so hard to figure out?

  A dulcet knock on the door startled her from her inner debate.

  Klara entered. “Am I disturbing you? The jarl said you are unwell. Shall I send Mikko up with a tray for you?”

  “Foolish me. I have lost track of the hour. Where is Katia?”

  “Eating her meal.”

  “My thanks for alerting me.” Lida brushed the wrinkles from her gown and straightened her shoulders.

  “The jarl would have a maid assigned to you, to see after all your private matters. No one knows how to take care of the lady of this keep better than I.”

  “So he has sent you to spy on the development of my monthly courses as well?” Lida let out a defeated sigh.

  The housekeeper placed her hands on her hips. “’Tis my place to help.”

  “I will not hesitate to ask for what I need when the time comes. My thanks.”

  “Men, always underestimating us women,” Klara said, shaking out Lida’s torn gown, which she had hung over the back of her chair.

  “I fear I will never understand the jarl,” Lida said.

  “Shall I enlighten you? Suppose you are an idiot, then suppose you are a man. But I repeat myself.” Klara tossed her hands in the air and settled them back to her hips.

  Lida blurted out a giggle.

  “At last, the jarl found a hardy wife. ’Tis necessary to survive the black winters of Tronscar,” Klara said. The housekeeper’s company and humorous wit were much appreciated—they might be all Lida had to survive the winter.

  “Is that what I am, ‘hardy’? I have never felt more useless in my life. I worked every day on my family’s farm, and, I will admit, I liked it. This wastefulness of one’s time has left me melancholy.”

  “Right, and this slaving the day away leaves me so cheerful,” the hardworking housekeeper said. Lida deserved that small barb for her thoughtless complaining. Her friend did not hold it against her, and placed her hand kindly on Lida’s shoulder as they strolled down the long corridor. Klara ran her hand down her spine, and Lida jumped a little when the hand skimmed over her sore back. She turned her face to hide her pain.

  Klara’s smile widened, knowing the stupid woman would miss the pleasure that now spread across her face. She had the proof of what she’d suspected: the jarl had beaten his fancy wife. Serve
d the worthless cow right.

  Descending the stairs, Klara triumphed internally over how quickly her plan was falling into place. The jarl was displeased with his new foreign wife. Her goal to cleanse Tronscar of this unworthy whore and put into place its rightful mistress—her blood, her daughter—was well within hand.

  Klara had arrived in this realm with the intent of becoming the Mistress of Tronscar, yet the weak-willed Knut had only taken her to his bed for a few months. He took her maidenhood, her youth, and set her aside for a fancy, highborn Danish whore. “A proper wife,” he called her. Well, Klara may not be able to become the friherrinna of Norrland, but one of her daughters would. The legacy of her family was the only thing worth working for.

  Aye, there was still time. She would continue to make sure the jarl was well fed and well bed. She would make ready a new warm body to comfort him when this latest one was swept away with the inevitable winter squall.

  Alongside her enemy, the Finnish trash, Klara made her final steps into the hall. There were a number of ways to cleanse this stain from the jarl’s bed. The only question that remained was, what would be the swiftest method?

  Chapter 13

  Weighed down with uncertainty, Lida descended into the great hall. Her husband was not a cruel man, she realized, but a man who had been stripped of his patience. If she aspired to win the jarl’s respect, she must stop behaving so stubbornly and become the wife the leader of Tronscar deserved. The woman her mother had reared.

  Start afresh.

  Loud, lively conversation greeted her at the entrance to the hall. Flirtatious serving wenches teased the men with their bodice laces undone at the top. They swayed their hips, most carrying large jugs of ale in both hands, plying the men with laughter, songs, and cheekiness.

  The seat of Katia’s nursemaid was vacant, and she could see that her daughter was not minding her manners. Instead, she stood on Lida’s chair, both hands on the table, bending her head in front of the jarl, trying to gain his attention. Lida needed to create a diversion to distract from her child, fast.

  “Katia! We do not stand on our dining chairs.” Lida tugged at her daughter but froze upon seeing what held her daughter’s attention.

  “Jarl Magnus is good, Mama. He drew me these.” Katia held up several sketches of animals, ranging from hawks to fish to bears.

  “That is very nice of him. Now, please take your seat and finish your meal. The hour has grown late, my love, and it is time for you to be in bed.” The sooner Lida got her daughter above stairs the better.

  Lida forced her breathing to calm before she claimed her seat. A servant swooped in with wine. She took a sip. She had no appetite, but she needed to keep up her strength, calm her nerves, and regain her wits.

  ***

  His wife’s honeyed scent tormented him like a forbidden fruit. Magnus had expected her to remain in his chamber, nursing a rightly wrathful temper. Mayhaps he should make some form of restitution? The woman would expect restitution. Gold and jewels . . . they did not seemed to impress her before . . . what was left? Leather wrist ties. “Urgh.” His stomach wrenched, and he tossed down his silver fork.

  He had never given females more than the occasional fleeting, lustful thought, yet this female, his wife, she provoked him. She had laid siege to all his senses. He knew better than to allow his opponent to gain the upper hand, but this woman erased all previous experiences. In her presence, surrounded by her sweet scent, his mind fogged and a blinding lust for her took over.

  He drank deeply from his cup, the question of why he was wasting a moment of thought on her plaguing him.

  “Thank you for the colored ash and powders for Katia, my jarl. It was a most thoughtful gift.” Flipping her personality from sullen to gracious in an instant was a masterful war strategy. By jove, she knows not mercy.

  “She gave me these by way of her thanks.” He held up a piece of parchment.

  A soft, genuine smile crossed her lips. “Cats, ribbon, and charcoal are the fastest way to Katia’s heart.”

  His wife returned her attention to her meal. What new game of manipulation had she begun?

  Husbandry was a confounding business.

  “What of dogs?” he asked Lida, his voice low, leaning toward her chair.

  She turned her head quickly, catching him off guard, staring directly into his eyes. “What of dogs?”

  “Cats have little purpose. Dogs are useful. I often keep dogs above stairs, if they are well trained. Would she care for a dog?”

  “’Tis not necessary, my jarl. She can visit them in the kennels—”

  “If she would agree to learn from the kennel master, I would select a dog for her. They provide additional warmth in winter and added protection in the yards. It would take time to find the right hound. I will speak to my man tomorrow.”

  “Please, do not trouble yourself,” she replied, staring into her cup.

  “If I offer her a dog, I desire to give her a dog. If it were trouble, I would not have offered it.” Here he was trying to do something for her daughter, and all she did was question his reasoning.

  Magnus was surrounded by the din of the hall, but all he heard was the silence between him and his wife. She had eaten little, finished her wine, and asked to be excused with the child. Feigning indifference, he flicked his wrist and waved her away. Without her distracting presence, he could actually digest his meat and taste his ale.

  “Aleksi has requested your presence at the training ground tomorrow.” Tero sat in his usual seat to Magnus’s left. “He is having a challenging time with a few new recruits. Jon’s shoulder is not yet healed. He has a few men to test—”

  “Aye, I will see to it,” Magnus said.

  “Excellent.” Tero continued, “Would you like to inspect—”

  Magnus interrupted, “She betrays me with a dead man. How do you war with a man who has been dead for eight years?”

  “With a shovel?” Tero cleared his throat, stifling his next words. “I beg your pardon, master, but the answer will take time to unravel. Highly intelligent women are the hardest to understand.”

  “Why did we not place that on the list of qualities to avoid?” Magnus hid his words of complaint behind his raised tankard of ale.

  “Troublesome family relations, bad skin, foul breath, poor teeth, and intelligence. The list is getting rather long,” Tero said. “If she were to comply more . . . agreeably, I would have to say her addition to your household could be viewed as a great success. After she has borne you a child, I believe she will be forever tied to you, master. Her loyalty will stay with the child, and to you by way of it.”

  This revelation jolted Magnus deep inside.

  He considered his ring. More than a piece of gold, a jarl’s ring symbolized his struggle, sacrifice, and rightful rulership. The ring could not be buried with him. It needed to be held by his son, an offspring of his blood. The quest to produce that son was losing focus. His wife was to blame. She plagued his rational mind.

  When she bore his son, that child could carry her image, her will, and her reasoning. A mountainous problem, especially if her loyalty to the dead man continued.

  Tero leaned in. “Her maids say she has not bled. A good sign, master. I questioned her sisters-in-law before we departed. They assured me that she is of sound health and bleeds on the same moon cycle as they do. Give her time. She will breed well—”

  Magnus rose abruptly from his seat, ignoring most of what Tero had to say. His hall, which had brought him years of entertainment, felt dull and lifeless. The two most interesting creatures in Tronscar had already withdrawn.

  “My jarl.” Ylva slid up next to him. “May I attend you in the sauna this fine eve? I would be happy to rub the tension from your shoulders.”

  Magnus ignored her offer. “Has Janetta gone above stairs to the child’s chamber?”

  “Aye
, my jarl.”

  He headed for the stairs, but midway up his climb, he remembered Katia’s drawings on the table. Reentering the hall, he saw Klara clearing away the more valuable chalices, a gold goblet in one hand and the stack of drawings fisted in the other.

  “Klara!” Magnus worked to control his anger. Klara was his most trusted servant after Tero. Servants make mistakes.

  “Another tankard of ale, my jarl? The cook prepared an excellent apple bread . . .”

  Magnus snatched the crumpled papers from her hand. “Nay, this will be all.”

  By the time he had reached the last step to his private floor, he had been able to smooth out most of the creases. He was angered to see that his favored drawing, the one of his ship on the poplar bark, had torn to the center. Katia had given drawings to every servant before him, yet he was convinced that the ship was the best one, regardless of the fact that he was the last to receive a gift from her.

  Magnus observed the trace outline of Lida’s curved form under his bed fur and decided he would not disturb his sleeping wife.

  He sighed in frustration. He’d placed acquiring a wife and getting her with child at the top of his list of priorities. Then, while awaiting the birth of his child, he could get a little work done. Hunting needed to be done before winter; there were a few tribal rebels to track down and the new mine to reorganize; and he had to start communicating with his cousin again . . . eventually.

  Magnus disrobed and washed. He raised the bed coverings and caught a glimpse of dark marks across Lida’s once flawless back. His stomach soured.

  He retrieved a jar of healing salve, and, while he was smoothing the mint-scented cream down her spine, she awoke and flinched.

  He continued to attend to her bruises. “Did he beat you often?”

  “Who?” she asked, but he knew she knew whom he meant.

  “Your dead man. Did he beat you?”