Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1)

by Norris, Màiri

  I have much regard for him, and when he is nigh, I feel as if I am hidden away in a strong bastion, a place of shelter where I may rest in safety. If only I knew his thoughts. I fear this flowering affection for him that unveils more fully each day, entwining sweet tendrils ever deeper into my heart. It might be too easily betrayed and then, what protection would I have? He may sense somewhat of my feelings, for I do not know how well I hide them, but he must not guess at their depth.

  Her thoughts wandered through the various futures, few of them comforting, rendered possible by his choice of actions. The one that frightened her most was that he would sell her to another. It was said víkingrs kept few of those they enslaved. Tales of the fates of those unfortunates were rimmed with horror, yet Brandr offered no assurances save his insistence he would keep her. He made no secret he wanted her body, but if a slaver offered an enticing price for her there was naught, least of all her wishes, to hold him from accepting it.

  Even could she convince him he needed her, she feared he would demand no more than that she become his concubine. He had said, with such conviction, he would never let her go, but what would become of her if he chose to take a wife, while keeping her beneath his hand? Could she bear to share him? Should that fate come to pass, all she might ever have of him would be remnants, gleaned from that part of himself he gave to his wife and children. It was not an existence she favored.

  If that time came, she supposed she could still leave, but envisioning a life lived without him, she saw naught but a disheartening span of empty, lonely days. Aye, if she made that choice, the best she could hope for would be to marry another man to gain a home, and children. That thought also held little appeal.

  She was strong enough to live without him, but if she stayed, could she bear to follow wherever he led, for sake of the caring she bore him? Perhaps she should trust his word. To follow the desire of her heart was a terrible chance, one that might well destroy her, but oh, it could also be well worth the risk.

  Made restless by the direction of her thoughts, she wriggled. It drew Brandr’s glance.

  She smiled.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  Amused at the banter between Turold and Oswulf, Brandr glanced at Lissa. She offered a soft, beautiful smile. He stilled, all the way to his marrow. She snapped into focus, sharp and clear. Fierce elation, startling but gladly received, rampaged inner places within him that had never before known such shimmering fire. The cottage, the relaxed chatter, the glorious feast—all fell away. Existence narrowed to Lissa, to the curve of her lips and what he glimpsed in her eye. He saw not the marks of the blow she had taken, but only the tender affection that glowed like sea mist in the golden depths.

  She gifts to me her heart! The knowledge stunned him. His lungs clamored for air, and he drew a ragged breath. Did she know what she revealed? If so, it was an act of staggering courage, for it exposed to his hand a dangerous vulnerability, one he would not fail to exploit and enjoy, but never be so foolish as to offer in return.

  If he had before determined never to release her, that intent was now as unbreakable as the law by which he lived. She was his until life fled, though she did not yet offer all he wanted. There was a reserve in her, a holding back. One day, that too would be released, and she would be fully his, in all ways. The conqueror in him shuddered with the need to simply take it all, but he held tight to the inner oar the raging sea of his desire would wrench from his hold. He would wait. There were some things a man could not seize by force.

  From the trencher he took the honey-drizzled cake, broke off a bite she could chew and offered it. Her gaze never left his as her lips gingerly closed around the sweet treat.

  She savored it. “Mmmmm…. I have always been partial to these.”

  A look of pure delight crossed her face. Her tongue flicked out to clear the sticky honey from her mouth.

  His body quickened. Words were beyond him. Need burst into blistering flame. His head bent.

  Ahhhh, how soft are her lips, how sweet her response. The taste of her intoxicates like the most potent bjórr.

  Passion flushed her battered little face. At first, he tried to keep the kiss gentle, not wanting to cause her pain. Taking such care should have been easy, considering his own mouth also remained none too impervious to discomfort after the beating Preed’s men had given. Instead, the effort sorely taxed his restraint. He wanted to devour her, and not stop until he reached those dainty little toes that even now curled as they peeked from beneath her cyrtel. The womanly scent of her tantalized his senses, lured him deeper into a whirlpool of pure sensation.

  Her hands caught at his tunic, pulled impatiently at the vee in the neck to slide beneath. Searching fingers pushed past the metallic links of his ring shirt to caress the bare skin of his shoulder, the line of his neck. The delicate little touch rocked him with the intensity of pleasure it gave. His arms slid around her to embrace the yielding fullness of her form. She uttered a hungry little moan, and a responsive growl rose from deep in his gut.

  He shuddered. Freyja’s charms, he wanted this woman! It mattered not he knew himself becoming ever more tangled in the nets of her feminine allure, as any captive of Rán. He had to have her, had to make her his. Now!

  “Brandr.”

  His name in that husky little whisper sent shocks of delight skittering through his veins.

  “Brandr!”

  More insistent this time, and edged with embarrassment. She pushed against his chest. He raised his head. A pained, apologetic little grin tugged at her lips, swollen more now than before. She gestured with her head to the room at large. He came to himself with a start.

  Beak of the raven!

  She had done it to him again, had shattered his control. He dragged his rasping breaths and his lust back in line with his will. A rapid glance around the cottage verified what he already knew.

  Everyone watched them. Expressions varied from Bryda’s blank face to the mirth in Oswulf’s eyes, to the frown that marked Alwin’s disapproval—of him, but protective of Lissa; perhaps the boy was not so unaware as she believed—and the quiet watchfulness of Turold. Sindre’s ice blue gaze mocked.

  He decided to brazen it out. “There is naught more here to see.”

  He got up, set aside the empty trencher and knelt on one knee beside his uncle. The two spoke briefly. Brandr rose and pulled on his cloak. “I will return shortly. If the meal is finished, the flyting will begin.”

  His departure stirred a general exodus among the men. Alwin followed Sindre, who frowned at the boy but made no demur.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  “The men drank much ale.” Amusement curled through Bryda’s voice.

  Lissa nodded and leaned against the cottage wall. The timbers vibrated against her back from rain lashed by rising wind. The men had managed to piece together a door of sorts, to cover the gaping entry. It kept out the worst of the storm. She wished she could slip past it to let the icy cascade cool her cheeks. Her composure lay in shards at her feet. Though none but Sindre offered censure, she was appalled at her own behavior. It was one thing to so forget herself in private, but how could she have lost all awareness when others, especially the youngling, looked on?

  “So, young Alwin had the right of it,” Bryda said.

  She stole a peek at the other woman from beneath her lashes. The forthright comment had her pulling at the collar of her cyrtel. She kept her silence.

  “It is no sin to love a man.”

  “Not even one who might be termed an enemy?”

  “It is said, ‘love’s choice is not ours to command’.”

  “He thinks himself my master.” She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her face against them. The fabric muffled her voice. “He refuses to speak of his intent when we reach his home. To care for such a one is to dwell within the realm of fools.”

  “I do not say there is no risk. Yet, it may also open a path to joy, such as few ever find. He greatly desires you, Lissa, but there is m
ore than lust in his eyes. His manner is that of one who holds affection for you, who feels protective—and possessive—of you. Alwin said when he heard you scream, he raced to your rescue with no hesitation. Such are not the actions of a man who cares naught for a woman.”

  “You did not see his wrath at the mound, only moments before I came upon you and Oswulf with the outlaws. I feared he would strike me. I still do not know why he was so angry. In his way, he is more dangerous than Sindre, who acts on instinct. Brandr thinks first.” She raised her head. “Perhaps that is the reason I bear bruises from the outlaws, but not from him.” She heaved a sigh. “I think he means to make of me his whore, if he does not sell me to another.”

  “Nay. If he intended that, he would already have taken you. His bearing is not that of a man who sees you as naught but a slave. He cares for you, though I believe he knows it not. Else, he fights it. That is the way of some men.”

  The improvised door opened, halting the uncomfortable confidences.

  She straightened her legs to a less unseemly position, watching as the men resettled themselves.

  Brandr seated himself, hands on his knees, on the side of the sleeping platform. Sindre sprawled, lazily content, seeming almost asleep until one noticed the glitter of challenge in his half-closed eyes.

  Brandr spoke first. “Shall we begin? I offer the opening stanza to you, Uncle.”

  In his corner, Turold took up his hylsung and began a low, rhythmic accompaniment.

  The big víkingr grinned, and spoke without sitting up.

  —In our ale-sitting, we feast

  and celebrate.

  From this day forward

  the darkness grows.

  It is you, músa,

  who draws it forth.

  Brandr’s chin dropped ever so slightly as his eyes narrowed.

  —Shall I journey, then

  to Ægir’s halls,

  there to draw forth

  the nets of Rán?

  I shall cast them upon

  you, O cowardly one!

  —Hush you, lover of sloth!

  Lest the counsel of

  Huginn and Muninn

  bring madness from Odinn

  to afflict you. You shall wander

  Hel’s mist forever.

  —My blood-letting Thorr

  approves! Mighty foes look

  upon the fierceness of

  my countenance and flee.

  Já, while you wallow

  in the darkness of Hodr!

  —Skálds ignore kings to

  offer verse to

  my victories in battle!

  Women feed you pap

  from their breasts.

  Children defeat you.

  Lissa, accustomed to the more uninhibited verse of the warriors of Yriclea, drew a silent breath in relief. Brandr had gained agreement from Sindre. There was naught in their words to offend young ears.

  Brandr continued.

  —Even my verse proves

  you witless!

  The strength of my

  arm strikes no less a

  blow against you,

  Skewered by Frækn.

  —Son of a fat troll! Hear

  well my admonition.

  You slay those you value.

  You lie beneath shame-poles!

  Odinn honors Frithr.

  Loki fears it!

  —My deeds of blood

  eclipse all.

  Set before me now

  mead worthy of drink.

  You bleat in slumber,

  blind, as a geit!

  At this slur, Turold guffawed. “In the language of the víkingrs,” he said to the Saxon listeners, “a geit is a nanny-goat.”

  Alwin’s eyes flew wide and he snickered, then slapped a hand over his mouth when Sindre glowered at him. Oswulf laughed outright and Byrda giggled.

  Lissa pressed her lips together, her shoulders quaking. To her thought, Brandr was winning the match, and from the expressions of the others, they agreed.

  The merriment slipped when Sindre sat straight and growled. He did not like being bested. Though the flyte had been joined in fun, a look, at once cunning and disturbing, crossed his face. He held Brandr’s gaze.

  Tension spiked.

  Turold’s fingers faltered on the hylsung, then ceased drumming.

  Beside her, Brandr stiffened as Sindre again took up the lines.

  —A war of words you

  unleash! Greater shall

  I give.

  Lissa’s good humor evaporated. She went cold as his bright gaze locked upon her.

  Sorceress! Whore! Bed-magic she

  works to enspell a son of Thorr!

  As a wolf-bitch, seeking to bind you,

  her mate, for life!

  Brandr howled a curse, unsheathed Frækn and surged to his feet. “You sit in peril as one ale-addled, Uncle! This flyte was to be jest only. You gave your word. Does your honor mean naught?”

  In a single, fluid motion, Sindre rose, Frithr in hand, to tower over them all. “You impugn in error, Músa! All saw the act of which I speak. All know the truth. You are ensorcelled.”

  Lissa shrank against the wall as dark blood flushed across Brandr’s face. He stared at Sindre across the firepit, shaking with the force of his rage, but stood his ground. “Insult me then, but name not my thrall with your scurrilous tongue! It is I who presume upon her innocence.”

  “Nei! Even now, your words show mine as truth. She is thrall, yet you would defend her against your own blood!”

  “My thrall. Mine! Only I have right to malign her, if that be my desire. You will keep your thoughts behind your face!”

  “She would make of you a tik, to lie beneath her as beneath….”

  “Cease!” Brandr’s roar was taken up by a crack of thunder and flung through the room. The whole cottage shook, but he might have died on his feet, so still had he become. In the confined space, the rage that rolled from his motionless form was terrifying.

  The moment stretched, became fragile. When next he spoke, his dark voice was so quiet it was nigh drowned beneath the pounding rain. “One more word, Sindre Melrakki, and I will renounce you as family. Blood vengeance will be cried.”

  The big víkingr opened his mouth.

  “Sindre, no!” Lissa gasped the words.

  At the last moment, he hesitated, seemed to think better of it. He threw her a baleful glance, snarled a word in his own tongue, and with angry strides, left the cottage, slamming the makeshift door so hard it shattered. Rain blew in to puddle on the floor. Little rills trickled down the boards to the hearth, there to sizzle against the hot stone. No one moved.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Brandr worked his jaw until it hurt in a deliberate effort to release the anger. He did not look at Lissa before he stepped to gather the pieces of the door. Aided by a silent Turold, he bound them together again and fastened the thing to the frame.

  He looked at the skáld, and jerked his head toward the room behind him. “Music would be of benefit, I think.”

  Turold nodded.

  He gathered his cloak and left the cottage. The calming notes of the lyre followed him into the wet darkness as he pushed his way deeper into the forest. The further he walked, the easier came the beat of his heart.

  Mischief of Loki!

  He had nigh challenged his uncle to a death-duel. One day Sindre would push him too far. He would kill him, and then his own life would be worthless, for his father would never forgive him, would banish him from the ætt.

  Rain blew into his face beneath the hood of the cloak. He tripped over a branch he could not see in the darkness and slammed into a tree trunk. It brought him to a muttering halt. The feel of the bark beneath his hand identified his support as a beech. He crouched at its base and let his mind play over the events at the cottage.

  How had things gotten so rapidly out of hand? Sindre was by nature belligerent, and it was naught new for his uncle to bait him, or his brothers
, in such a way. The wrestling matches and fistfights between uncle and nephews were nigh legend at home. His father tolerated the squabbles because Sindre was a matchless warrior, and he desired his sons to learn from the best. Sindre always fought to win. He did not pull punches simply because his opponents were younger, less experienced or family.

  But to draw a weapon on his uncle! Never before had either of them yielded to that dangerous impulse. What made this time different?

  His jaw tightened. Lissa, of course.

  For a while, it had seemed his uncle’s resentment of her had subsided. That unfortunate and very public kiss had stirred it back to life, though why, he could not fathom. He had but succumbed to Sindre’s frequent admonitions to make love to her.

  His mind replayed the final words of Sindre’s last verse.

  “Mate, for life!”

  Surely, his uncle did not fear he would so forget himself in Lissa’s arms as to seek wedlock with her? He was the second son of a jarl. She was thrall. To bed her, was acceptable. Marriage was not. If his father did not kill him, his mother might. His brothers would understand, but not approve, and their regard mattered a great deal. Close they were, he and his brothers. He would not willingly jeopardize those bonds.

  To be fair, Sindre’s accusations were at least partially true. With each day that passed, he was becoming more charmed by his thrall, and his desire for her grew apace. He faced with honesty his response to Lissa’s capture by the outlaws, for he would have killed a hundred men to protect her. No other slave—no other woman, including several lovely females he knew—stirred so strong a response in him. Why this should disturb his uncle was puzzling. Many men harbored great affection for a beautiful slave in their household, kept them as concubine, made children with them.

  Lissa cared for him. He had seen it in her eyes this very evening. Perhaps, that affection would grow into love. The thought pleased him. Lissa’s love would be a thing to treasure. He could not—would not—offer the same in return, but he would protect and provide for her for the rest of her life. She would lack naught he could give. If his earlier actions had not opened Sindre’s eyes to that fact, his sacrifice to Thorr should have. He accepted her increasing importance to him. His uncle must be convinced to do the same. Lissa was his, and he meant to keep her.