The Warlord's Wife

by Sandra Lake

  “Nay. Never.” She turned to face him, pulling the blanket over her bare chest.

  “Your father then.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Your brothers—”

  She stopped his words. “Nay, my family loves me. They would never hurt me.”

  “Then who beat you? If your daughter—”

  “My daughter shall never be beaten.” She sat up and clenched her jaw. He liked seeing her temper sparked, the rekindling of her inner fire.

  “A child that has never been struck does not flinch to a raised hand. ’Tis learned. You flinch each time I come near you.”

  Her chin jerked up and she bit her lip, her eyes searching the ceiling for answers. “I . . . was beaten once, but not by my family—well, not by my natural family. ’Twas a long time ago, in Lylasku. I know not why it should matter—”

  His anger spiked, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. “You will not keep such information from me. Chief Rein will think me weak for allowing such a dishonor to my wife!”

  “I was not your wife then,” she said calmly. “As his daughter-in-law, he had the right to kill me if he suspected adultery. He granted me mercy in returning me to my father. Regardless, his slap was shaming, not painful. Helika, my mother-in-law, was the one who beat me. Rein put a stop to it.”

  How merciful indeed. His fingernails dug into the mattress.

  Magnus ought to assemble his men, sail to Lylasku and burn it to the ground. He could be there and back in less than two days.

  He pointed to the cold floor, where he had nearly taken her earlier. “I would never do knowing harm to your person.”

  “My flesh will heal.” She turned away from him, onto her side. “It heals more quickly than other parts,” she mumbled into her pillow.

  “Explain?” Magnus was not an admirer of backhanded remarks. “If you have something to say, say it.”

  “It has been a most taxing day. If you are going to take me, take me.” Her soothing tone contradicted her bold words. “Stop wasting our time with false displays of concern for my flesh. We both know it is beneath you.”

  Magnus extinguished the remaining candles. He was at a loss, confused by how she had reversed her manner so quickly from polite to insolent. He lay motionless for hours, staring into the dark, registering every small change in her breathing or movement.

  It was still dark when Lida awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep.

  She was bewildered for a moment by her surroundings. Her nose pressed against the side of the jarl’s massive upper arm. He smelled of thyme, hemlock and pine, his scent stirring her desire. She could list a dozen hurtful, cruel injuries he had inflicted upon her. But here in the dark, warm and feeling safe in his bed, she could only think of the good he had done for her, and wonder if she had reason to think it would continue.

  On her tiptoes, she crept to find the chamber pot. As she made her way back to bed in the moonlit chamber, something white on the fireplace caught her attention.

  Three of Katia’s drawings were on display, the ship drawing directly in the center of the mantel. The floor was cold as ice, but still, she warmed. The jarl liked balance and order even in the smallest of things. He had placed Katia’s drawing on the mantel. He was kind to her daughter—never cruel, but rather curious when he watched her.

  Lida scurried back to bed and buried herself under the furs, shivering. Her heart raced with a thrilling new thought. Could the jarl grow to care for her daughter as a true father? For the first time since setting foot on Norrland soil, a spark of optimism began to ignite. Not a burning flame yet, but a true spark of hope.

  ***

  Feeling truly refreshed, Lida stretched out in the soft, warm bed. She wiggled her toes happily.

  Snapping up to a sitting position, she took in the empty chamber. The jarl had not woken her. Light spilled through the windows—the sun had already risen!

  Lida rushed to dress and walked quickly down the long corridor to her daughter’s chamber. Empty! She hurried downstairs, but when she stepped off the final stair into the hall, she found it deserted.

  Where is everyone? Where is Katia?

  Chapter 14

  Tero broadened his smile as he hurried across the hall. “Friherrinna, how enchanting you look with your hair down.”

  “Tero, do you know where Katia is? I overslept.”

  “All is well, Friherrinna.” He placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Most of servants are in the lower bailey, watching the jarl in the training ring. Katia, I am certain, will be there too.”

  “Indeed? Would you show me?” she asked, taking in a deep, calming breath.

  “It would be my honor to escort you,” Tero said and clapped his hands. “Ragna! If you will, the friherrinna’s cloak.” He turned back to Lida. “Last evening, we received our first snow. There will be a great feast tonight. The jarl ordered several roasted boars and a large fire in the center of the yard for all to feast. The villagers will be served the jarl’s ale. Musicians from throughout Norrland will come, and the women from Mak’s will dance. Ah, it will be a fine day.”

  All at once, Lida felt rather shy. This well-organized tradition was larger than her problem of a rude husband. Tronscar was undeniably important, and intoxicatingly powerful, and she had been selected to be the lady of the keep. Was she worthy of such a distinction?

  Her white fur cloak was placed on her shoulders, snapping her attention back to Tero.

  “The smiths have doubled the smelt production from last season. Have you ever seen a blasting furnace, Mistress Lida?” Tero asked, a boyish twinkle of excitement in his eyes. She shook her head. “Mayhap another day and in a different cloak. The first time I saw the jarl’s mines and what they were able to produce, I thought it magic,” he said as they walked together. “Your husband traveled the world in search of methods for crafting the very best steel. A Norrland blade can slice Saxon iron as easily as a sapling. He’s built the largest refinery of liquid iron in the world. He will melt a mountain of ore and turn it into the strongest stock of steel weaponry by spring.”

  From the size and scale of the men that lived in Tronscar, Lida had no doubt of Tero’s words. The harsh terrain forged people with more brawn and stamina than any she had met before. They had an intense spirit—they worked hard, trained hard, and played hard, loud and proud at all turns.

  They stepped outside, where a powdery white blanket covered the black stone and oiled steel fixtures, transforming the lower yards overnight. It almost made this unbending mountain fortress appear beautiful. Almost.

  She gazed at a fire pit stand, an ordinary object found in every keep. It was designed to produce light and warmth in the bailey, although in Tronscar the fire stands were curved, bent, and shaped to be works of art as well as have practical function. “I had no idea such fine and important steel crafts were produced here.”

  “The jarl desires it so. He wishes kings and southern jarls to think the north is a wasteland, savage and frozen in darkness. He does not wish it known that he holds such wealth and power. Your husband is very shrewd. Once other kingdoms look differently on the north, they may challenge the jarl for it. He would prefer his men live good long lives of production and prosperity rather than fight wars.” As Tero spoke, they turned the corner into the training yards of the lower bailey. The noise of the spectators cheering became deafening.

  “Are you trying to impress me, Tero?” Lida nearly shouted to be heard over the raised voices. “Seems a moot point. You already have me trapped here.”

  “In body perhaps. I labor to persuade the rest of you to follow.” Tero did not smile, his serious look a challenge to her.

  “My body, or more specifically my belly, is all that your jarl requires of his wife. I assure you, I am complying with my role the best I can.” She found it hard to mask her insecurities from her new friend.r />
  Inclining his head low to her, Tero said, “I know you are. Give him time. I know my master well. He is not stubborn in all his ways. Given the opportunity, I do believe him capable of change.”

  The shouting grew even louder. Tero guided her around the large crowd. Janetta and Katia sat on the side rails, leaning into the large sparring arena, Janetta whistling with all her heart for the battling men. The jarl and a much younger warrior swung and slashed thick broadswords at one another in the center of the ring. Lida cringed at the sight. He seemed larger, though she had not thought it possible. His back and shoulders expanded, muscles hardening and contracting. She could almost feel the heat coming from him.

  “Mama, do not be scared. Jarl Magnus never loses. He always wins. Janetta says he is the best, the biggest, and the bravest warrior who ever lived. Janetta says no one can beat him.” Katia wiggled her legs with excitement as she clutched a post to keep her balance.

  Lida stood behind her child, mesmerized by the exhibition. She knew her husband’s body very well. He paraded as proudly naked as clothed in his bedchamber. Now that he was dressed in his battle leather and armor, Lida had to swallow down her immodest thoughts. She had never noticed how beautiful the dance of a warrior could be. His body in constant motion, fluid and seamless from one swing, slash, turn, and spin to the next. The sound of his grunts from the effort and groans of satisfaction when he connected a good blow triggered memories from their bed. Her body surged with moist anticipation. She could no longer deceive herself. Her lust mounted for the jarl—nay . . . for her husband.

  Magnus moved down in tempo, floating his blows for the young recruit, granting the lad the opportunity to study his counter maneuvers and learn how to transition from defensive to offensive. He spun and crouched, slowing his swing so the lad could jump his blade.

  Her white fur stood out among a sea of brown and black. Swinging with forward momentum, he struggled to concentrate on the task at hand.

  Her gold hair spilled down around her shoulders, past her waist. He needed to end this round. The recruit raised his shield, blocking the blow and stepping backward. Magnus used his opponent’s retreating momentum against him, kicking him square in his chest armor, laying him out flat on his back. Ignoring the cheers from his people, he offered a hand to the lad, helping him to his feet.

  “Well done, Arne. You have come a long way in a short time. Keep your weight on your forward leg, even while stepping back. I imagine our next encounter in the ring will not go so well for me.” Magnus’s eyes were distracted, shifting over the lad’s shoulder to his wife in the crowd.

  “Aye, my jarl.” The lad nodded.

  The girl child sat high on the fence rail in front of her mother. She seemed to have enjoyed herself, cheering eagerly along with her nurse. As he approached, the child released the post, sending her off balance and falling toward the stone path.

  Magnus lunged, catching the little one in his outstretched hands.

  “Praise God! Oh, my love!” His wife slid under the rails. “Oh—my gratitude, Magnus,” she said, and then quickly corrected, “Jarl Magnus.” Wide-eyed and flushed, she spoke his name without his title for only the second time. He liked seeing her this way. She always controlled her manners, acting cold, indifferent, serene, or defiant. This new version of her was refreshing.

  “Here, Janetta, take her,” he said, attempting to pass the girl away.

  “Nay, I will.” His wife reached for the child. Magnus did not release the girl.

  “Nay,” he said. His wife was not going to be seen having to carry a half-grown child around his keep.

  “Is she injured?” he asked his wife.

  Her brows peaked. “Darling, are you injured?” She stroked the child’s cheek.

  “Nay, Mama. You won again, Jarl Magnus. Have you ever lost, even just once? Thank you for saving me. My nose is cold, Mama. Can we go see the kittens? I am hungry. He fought three other big men before that one, Mama. He never fell down once. Tero says I can name the kittens if I wish. I think I will name the brown one Alistair and the one with the white socks Mittens. The black one does not like me so I will name him Grouchy. Mama, can I have warm milk and another sweet roll?” Katia blathered away without pausing to draw breath.

  Still holding Katia and realizing she was not going to stop rambling on about cats, Magnus began to make his way toward the entrance to the hall, reassured that she was unharmed. He placed the child in his chair in front of the fire.

  “Klara, the girl wants warmed milk and a roll. Send wine and elk stew to my chamber.” Magnus turned to his wife. “I require you above stairs. Is there something you need to arrange for the child before you accompany me?” He seized her hand and locked his eyes on hers.

  Over her shoulder, his wife said, “Katia, I want you to eat some stew before your sweet roll. Be a good girl for Janetta.”

  Midway up the stairs, Magnus swept his wife up in his arms. He stared into her eyes and she stared back boldly. With every step his hunger for her grew—he was certain that returning his look was evidence of her desire for him. He kicked his chamber door closed and began to undress her. She did not stiffen as she normally did, but began assisting him, releasing his leather straps, causing pieces of his armor to fall to the floor.

  Magnus regarded her with mounting curiosity. At a leisurely pace, she peeled the layers of garments from her provocative form, never turning her gaze way from him for very long. Proudly, she stood naked before him.

  “You will not come before my men with your hair unbound again,” he commanded. The sight of her this way could be the ruin of any man.

  She nodded and placed her hands on his chest. Unhurried, she began to caress him. Her arms slid up to his neck, and he allowed her to guide his head down toward hers as she rose higher on her toes.

  Smiling softly, she cupped his cheek, gliding her hand upward into his hair.

  He kissed her, wrapping his arms around her, locking her naked form to his own. She responded with her own hunger, seeking out his tongue and licking hers against his. Her small, simple moan hardened every surface of his body.

  Magnus bent, preparing to lift her into his arms, but she stepped back. She wanted him. Why would she pull away?

  Her eyes smoldering, she reached out and touched his chest, seductively moving her hands down his torso. She lowered to her knees, gliding her hands across his hip bones, firmly stroking across his abdomen, never once turning her eyes away. She took him in her hands and leaned forward and kissed, worshipping him with her mouth.

  Magnus never thought this possible from his wife. Moaning with a genuine sound of pleasure, she took him in deeper. He planted his feet wider apart as the powerful sensation of her mouth on him threatened to bring him to his knees.

  He thread his fingers into her hair, tilting her face to look up at him. “Look at me.” She did.

  Magnus was ruined.

  He never wanted her to look away from him again. He needed to see her lustful eyes as much as he needed air.

  Pulling her up into his arms, he kissed her savagely, unable to hold back. He lowered her to the bed, hovering over her warm, pliable body. He stroked between her legs.

  She softly pled. “I long for you, Magnus.”

  He entered her slowly, and they became one flesh.

  She held is gaze, their connection stabbing straight through to his soul, this moment more powerful than the need to control her. He cupped her cheek and kissed her long eyelashes, inhaling her sweet scent.

  He now belonged to her.

  Besotted men spoke of the power with which a woman could trap a man. He never thought it possible nor true. No woman was capable of possessing him—no woman before this one.

  She raised her hips, moving in small circles. Magnus caressed her breast, a slow burn building, then cresting, inside him. He paid homage to her mouth, capturing her lips, suck
ing, tasting, knowing that he would never find the end of this reverence.

  Tears of ecstasy spilled from her eyes as she cried out, “Magnus!”

  As his senses slowly returned, he questioned what had transpired between them. He hated her for creating this sense of possession in him. He would have to chain her in their chamber. If she were to ever use her power over him in front of his people, he did not know how he would repair the damage.

  “Never leave this chamber with your hair unbound,” he said. He must be half-witted if he believed that could be a solution.

  He stroked her face, kissing her swollen lips before returning to the prison of her eyes. He had no will to remove himself from her warm body.

  She raised her hand and caressed his cheek. “As you wish, husband,” she said tranquilly. Finally, she admitted his role as husband. It pleased him greatly. Was this more of her plot to control him, to lock him under her spell and possess his very soul?

  Reluctantly withdrawing from her, he watched for signs of deception. Her breathing had recovered, yet her eyes still smoldered, simmering with a quiet heat.

  Needing distance and time to think, he crossed his chamber to the bath and sank down into the lukewarm water, then returned to staring at his wife. She lay naked on her side upon his most prized furs, one leg crossing over in front of her, her arm cradling her head. She was the single most beautiful creature that he had ever seen. She returned his contemplative gaze. There was a palpable attraction, as if they were seeing each other for the first time.

  A brisk knocking at his door broke him from her spell.

  Lida wrapped herself in a robe, gliding across his chamber.

  “My thanks, Klara. I will take the jarl his tray.”

  His housekeeper’s squinting eyes swept over to Magnus, reclined in his bath. She quickly closed the door.

  His wife placed the tray on a small table then ambled toward him, leaned over, and kissed his mouth.

  Hateful woman.

  She sought to entirely destroy him in a single day. She sighed, molding her lips to him, surrendering control.