by Jianne Carlo
“I am jealous of the paltry soup.”
He was staring at her, and she suddenly realized her position, sitting on his lap, the blanket and the tunic she wore her only shield from his unclothed flesh. “You are touching me and I am not vomiting.”
One eyebrow arched and his lips twisted to one side. “Aye. ’Tis wondrous how the mighty have fallen.”
“You make no sense, Viking. Thrimilici? The curse?” She held her breath awaiting his answer.
“Has come and gone and you still live. The curse is broken.” He tipped the bowl, and she swallowed a large mouthful. The fragrant potage heated her insides and settled her rioting belly.
“I remember a battle. Mús. The sword in his ribs.”
She wriggled in an attempt to stand, but he tightened his hold on her and brushed his lips across her temple. “Worry not. Your cat is well and roaring his impatience.”
“Mús is fully healed?”
“Aye.” He slipped a hand under the tunic and traced the raised welt along her ribs. “Mús explained that when you heal, the injury passes to you. How long afore his scars leave you?”
Shame lit her cheeks and neck, and she turned away from him. “Not all leave. Days. Once—a full season.”
He framed her face and made her look at him. “I owe you my life, Nyssa.”
Only after he had spoken the words did she realize the reverse stood true. “As I owe mine to you.”
Silence crackled between them. The very air seemed to vibrate as she stared at him. For four seasons, she had not dared touch another except to heal. How had she forgotten the simple joy of flesh-to-flesh contact? The comfort and poignant sweetness inherent in being held as if precious? ’Twas seductive temptation beyond bearing; the urge to snuggle against his skin, to sniff the base of his neck, overwhelmed her.
“Drink more.”
She wrenched her gaze away. “My stomach no longer lists.”
“’Tis good. Drink more.”
She tried to pry the bowl from his grasp. “I can well feed myself.”
“And deny me such a wee pleasure?”
His even, white teethed flashed in the dusky light and the charm of his smile washed heat from her brow to the soles of her feet. She misliked handsome men like her uncle, Ánáton. Though Ánáton was to midnight what Konáll was to sunshine, both men were of a beauty too blinding to look upon for long.
He nudged her lips, and she could not deny her belly-cramping hunger. Covering his hand with both of hers, she drank with a babe’s greed, and nigh pleaded to lick the bowl clean.
“I know you still hunger, but you have been too long without sustenance.” He tucked her short locks behind her ear.
She met his fierce scrutiny. “I am a healer. I know the dangers of too much food too soon.”
“What do you remember of the eve afore Thrimilici?” His thigh muscles tensed beneath her bottom and the hard ridge of his arousal thickened.
Until he asked the question, she had not recalled the all of it. Memories jammed her mind, and she blurted the words as the images flashed fast and furious. “Bagan One-Eye finding me. Your rescue. Mús’s injury. We swam. Fought.”
She pummeled his arms and ribs. “You bound me to staves!”
Chapter Four
Konáll captured her fisted hands. “I had no choice, mìlseachd. You have the strength of your jötunn mother and Mús warned me you would fight to the death.”
Nyssa fought to keep her turmoil from showing. She studied the sweep of Konáll’s collarbone while her thoughts bobbed and weaved like flotsam in storm-tossed waves. Why could she not recall the details of what had happened on Thrimilici save being staked? ’Twas terrible torture to have only faint impressions of his mouth at her core, his arm lying heavy on her belly, to remember the flutter of his tongue, the softness of his lips, and no more. Had he been inside of her? Spilled his seed?
She snapped her teeth together. Nay. She was too proud to ask him and realized the details were of no import, not when her people were suffering, Nyssa jutted her jaw and met his stare. “It matters not. The curse is broken. I care little about the how of it. ’Tis over and done with. I thank you for your service and I am in your debt. However, I must see to the retaking of my keep.”
When she tried to squirm from his hold, he wrapped one arm around her waist, tipped her chin, and growled, “I will see to the retaking of our keep.”
“My keep. We are not wed. The lands and castle are not yours.” He curled his thumb and forefinger around one wrist when she tried to jerk away from him.
“You owe me a life debt. My price is our wedding this eve.” His eyes glittered and became so blue as to appear black when he squinted.
Honor demanded she acquiesce. A life debt price could not be refused, not without loss of her good name and status. Her heart hammered. How to delay the ceremony? She chose her words with care. “I agree to the vow saying. After we regain my keep.”
“Nay.” Though his lips parted, showing even teeth made whiter by his bronzed skin. The slight flaring of his nostrils told her of his growing irritation. “We say the vows, consummate the marriage, and then, we will see to the retaking of Castle Caerleah.”
Her belly tightened and hollowed as it did after Ánáton had “corrected” her behavior. The Viking had no need to say more. Either she wed him or lose the keep and doom her people to a lifetime of torture, hunger, and cruelty. His words rang in her ears, we will see to the retaking of Castle Caerleah. Hope blossomed against the band compressing her chest. Did he mean to allow her to fight?
“Your men and mine await us.”
“My men?” She clutched his forearm and a flutter of victory sprouted beneath her ribs. “Has Rán’s stone armor healed Castle Caerleah’s warriors?”
He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and shook his head. “Nay. Though the boulders vanished when I broke the curse, neither Mús nor I could find any signs your father’s legions still live. We found a score elderly men from your holding wandering the forests on our journey here.”
Nyssa fought to stem the tears prickling her eyes. Would naught go in their favor? So many lives lost, so many women left widows, so many children now fatherless. And it all fell on her shoulders.
Konáll chucked her chin. “We have much to do. In the trunk behind you is a cyrtel for the ceremony. ’Twas one of my bride gifts for you.”
She worked her jaw. “You believed me dainty and petite. Your cyrtel will not fit.”
“You will find the gown will fit as will the slippers. I have ordered a hot bath for you. Do not test me with this, Nyssa. I will not have you defy me in front of my brother and Thōrfin the Skullsplitter.” He set her to one side, rose, and snatched his hose and tunic from the ground.
Thōrfin, King of Orkney, was to oversee their vow saying? Had she been rescued from burning at the stake only to face a slow death under a husband’s thumb?
“Why did you disrobe if you intended us wed this eve?” Nyssa averted her gaze and stared at the iron trunk in the corner of one tent. The chest she had retrieved from the beach.
“I had thought to accustom you to my touch. The consummation of our vows is to be witnessed by Thōrfin, King Harald’s Lovsigemann, the priest, and my brother.” He had finished dressing and now stood magnificent in a tunic bordered with an intricate pattern of tiny axes. She recognized the weapon as his from the red thread depicting the three rubies in the handle.
“How did you take my maidenhead?” Nay. She had vowed not to ask. The heat of trampled pride stamped across her throat and face. Focusing on the rushes, she gritted her teeth and waited for his answer.
Silence sank dank and heavy on her shoulders.
Konáll squatted beside her, his familiar male musk scent somehow comforting, and cupped her chin. He tangled his fingers in her hair and kneaded her neck. She met his stare. The sadness in his blue eyes startled a shiver across her nape. Why did he not want to speak of it?
“’Tis not the time,
mìlseachd. We will speak of this later. Make haste in your ablutions and dress. Thōrfin promised the priest he could leave on the morning tide.”
“I do not understand. You know as well as I there will be no virgin’s blood. The witnesses…” She studied the grass stains on the back of her hand.
He lurched to his feet. “My brother and Thōrfin will affirm the proof I will provide. Worry not of this, Nyssa.”
Craning her neck to meet his gaze, she asked, “And what of the Lovsigemann and the priest? I know well the penalty for—”
“Woman. We have not the time for this. Make haste. Dráddør, my brother, will bring you to me. You have less than an hourglass to make ready.” He strode to the tent’s entrance, raised the flap, and glanced at her. “Bagan One-Eye’s brother, Luther the Luckless, is to marry your cousin, Monette, on the morrow. He has offered a price of ten gold pieces to any who brings him your head.”
She stared openmouthed at the stained canvas of the tent long after Konáll had disappeared from sight. Men came and went, leaving a wooden tub filled with water. A fist-sized ball of soap floated in the sloshing liquid. Curls of steam spiraled from the tub’s surface and drifted to the apex of the tent. She followed the lazy whorls mesmerized by their twisting ascent, praying for some sign of deliverance, but found none.
She bathed and dressed, her movements slow and thick, her mind a pace behind her actions. ’Twas wrong to marry Konáll. But what choice did she have? Confess? Tell him the rest of the curse? Doom her people to Ánáton’s vicious rule forever?
The cyrtel did fit as did the slippers. ’Twas of a fine velvet with a smooth nap, a buttery feel, and of a hue the exact color of her eyes. How had such come about? More magik? Though her fingers trembled, she molded the twin pleats in front of the gown so they draped evenly.
“Nyssa?”
The deep male voice startled her. She tripped over her own feet and had to grab the pole in the center of the tent for support.
“’Tis Dráddør, Konáll’s brother. I have come to take you to him. May I enter?”
Hardly able to swallow around the rocks clogging her throat, she muttered, “Aye.”
Were all Vikings giants? For Dráddør stood at least a half a head taller than Konáll and his arms were so massive they reminded her of stout tree trunks. He wore a sleeveless tunic and a brooch of worked copper knotted a purple cloak at his throat. But whereas Konáll wore a grim and dour expression, his brother filled the tent with sunshine brightness and his smile proved dazzling and infectious.
“Would that the gods favor me the way they have Konáll. He is the most fortunate of men. Ne’er have I envied him more than I do at this moment. Your beauty fair takes my breath away.” He held his arm up. “I bid you welcome, new sister.”
It had been so long since she had been given even the smallest of courtesies. Absurd though it seemed, Nyssa curtsied and placed her hand on Dráddør’s.
He squeezed her fingertips. “Your fingers tremble and your face is pale. Is there aught I can do to assuage your concerns?”
“Have you the power to break curses?” She ducked when he raised the tent flap and motioned for her to precede him.
“Nay. But I can slay dragons.” His grin revealed one dimple in his right cheek. He winked. “Have you dragons that need slaying?”
“Nary a one. How fare you with sea gods?”
“No god or man has e’er bested me in battle.”
“How come you to be here?” She studied the encampment. ’Twas a formidable force gathered on the northeastern tip of the isle. She scanned the scores of warriors milling about and guessed at least five score men were assembled ’tween the river and the steep cliffs rising on the left.
“We are nay cert what happened. One moment we sailed on smooth seas, the next our ships were tossed and thrown about in a vicious storm. When the winds and rain abated, we were here in this cove, save for Konáll.” Dráddør shook his head. “For three days we scoured the coast looking for him. Then this eve he strolls in with you in his arms.”
Nyssa bit her lips. Should she ask about Mús?
The night held the promise of summer. Warmth tempered by a chill ocean breeze bustled around the bay. Nyssa focused on the grassy meadow bordering the wide mouth of the river known as Taigh-Grùide, for the burn-teine, or fiery spirit, brewed from its clear waters. She ignored the silence that fell when they passed groups of warriors milling around a haunch of venison roasting over an open pit. The delicious scent of charred meat made her stomach rumble. Her mouth watered.
Dráddør halted in front of a blazing fire. Wood stacked as high as Nyssa’s belly snapped and crackled and glowed orange-yellow in the darkness. Sparks spewed in tiny explosions, eddying and flowing in whorls twined ’tween the fireflies.
He turned to face her and their gazes met. “I offer you my protection, new sister, against gods and men and any who seek to harm you.”
“And what if your brother seeks me harm?” Zealous though he appeared to be, Nyssa knew she had but one ally in the camp, Mús.
Flicking his finger across the dimple in her chin, he said, “Konáll would ne’er harm his wife. He is a just and honorable man.”
Who knew not the vile secret she kept. Nyssa removed her hand from Dráddør’s forearm and pasted a smile on her face. “I thank you, my lord, for your generous offer.”
“What have you offered my betrothed?”
Nyssa flinched. Though the urge to whirl around and face Konáll burned through her, she gritted her teeth, moved to the side, and shifted closer to Dráddør before glancing at her husband-to-be.
The fire’s light haloed his golden hair and painted his tanned flesh with dancing shadows. Brows gathered, lips thinned, hands akimbo, he glared first at Dráddør and then fixed his attention on her.
“I offered my new sister my hammer in regaining her castle.”
She frowned and risked a quick peek at Dráddør. His hammer? He had mentioned naught to her.
“My betrothed has no need for your Hefnd Hamarr. We will speak later, brother.” Konáll’s expression grew grimmer when he turned to her. “Thōrfin’s wife, Lady Grelod, would speak with you.”
He stood so close she smelled wine on the warm breath that tickled the tip of her nose. Her whole body overheated. Beads of sweat coated her nape. Images of the two of them on the beach peppered her mind. He had suckled her womanhood, thrust his fingers into her sheath.
“Nyssa?” Konáll sandwiched her hand between both of his.
She could not look at him, not with all the carnal images playing in her head.
He tilted her chin with one finger so she had to meet his fierce stare. “Will you speak with her?”
What had he said? She recalled his words. “To what purpose does the Lady Grelod wish to speak to me?”
His mouth tightened. “’Tis custom, I believe, for the married women to prepare the maiden for the consummation.”
Holding her head high, she glared at him and hissed, her tone low, the declaration meant for his ears only. “Then I have no need for her advice. Nay. I will not speak with her.”
“You offer Lady Grelod a grievous offense in declining her generous offer.” He narrowed his eyes and his nostrils flared. Spirals of misty grey smoke eddied and for, a moment, he appeared to have breathed a dragon’s fire. She stepped back and bumped into someone.
“I take no offense, Konáll. Be easy. Well pleased I am to meet you, Lady Nyssa, and to offer you my support.” The Viking had confused her so she had not noticed the others who had joined them at the fire.
Nyssa disliked Lady Grelod on sight.
Petite, with full breasts, a crimped waist, and generous hips made to bear a brood of children, she stood with an easy regal grace and flashed all assembled a dazzling smile. Burnished, ebony hair fell in glorious waves to Grelod’s knees.
“I echo my wife’s sentiments, Lady Nyssa. We are both content with Konáll’s choice of bride and verra satisfied we are to be both nei
ghbors and allies.”
So this was Thōrfin the Skullsplitter, the famed warrior who had brought peace and prosperity to his inherited lands, but who ne’er hesitated to slay any and all who thwarted his rule. His head barely met the top of Konáll’s shoulder. He had a swarthy complexion, a stout torso, and thick, heavily muscled legs. Battle scars ravaged his face and one eyebrow drooped lower than the other. His dark eyes twinkled when he grinned, displaying a row of even, unchipped teeth.
Nyssa sank into a deep curtsey and bowed her head. “I am honored to meet you, Earl Thōrfin. My Da spoke often of your father and their fostering years.”
“Rise, Lady Nyssa. We are not at court and have no need of formalities. Let us see to the vow saying and the consummation this eve. On the morrow, we plan the battle for Castle Caerleah.”
She jerked up to meet his gaze. “You assist in the retaking of my keep?”
With Thōrfin’s mighty army fighting alongside Konáll and Dráddør, the battle would be short and swift, and victory assured. Da would be avenged, and her people saved. Elation bubbled through her veins.
“Aye. Konáll and I are sworn allies. We both serve King Harald. As does this man, Olaf Longface. He is the Lovesingman assigned to this region.” Thōrfin gestured to the man standing at his side, whose three chins jiggled when he nodded to her.
Exultation had her impatient for the dawn. Nyssa curtsied again. “I bid you welcome, Lord Olaf.”
“Here comes the priest.” Konáll angled his head at a round man of short stature waddling in their direction.
Nyssa eyed the priest. He had a belly a sea otter would envy and wore a muddy burlap robe. The priest bowed to Lady Grelod who gifted the holy man with a wide smile.
Nyssa stifled an oath. Her hopes for a strong ally in the holy man faded for ’twould seem he served both God and the Lady Grelod.
* * *
