“Now, there you could be wrong. With all due respect, I have been riding about the estate with her in your absence. Like a burr in my backside, she has been, with all her demands. But I have a nagging suspicion she may not be what we originally thought.”
Eirik waited for Wilfrid to explain himself, but his seneschal turned red-faced and stammered, “But ’tis not my place to reveal such things without proof. And you will think me wooly-headed if I say she is not that unattractive.”
“Hah! More like your vision is starting to dim. Like mine. Or Britta has turned your manroot to mush.”
Wilfrid ducked his head sheepishly.
Eirik picked up his wine goblet and searched the room for wine, then realized he had thrown it all against the wall and into the rushes. His lips curled with disgust at the mess surrounding him as rationality began to calm his emotions.
“Send me more wine,” he directed Wilfrid. “And set a guard to watching John and Larise at all times. Do not let them so much as visit the garderobe without an escort.”
“Yea,” Wilfrid responded with a nod, heading toward the door, then turned back. “Will you have me send out men to search for the Lady Eadyth tonight?”
Eirik’s eyes met Wilfrid’s in a steely gaze. “Nay, we will go on the morrow. And then, I swear afore God, she will pay dearly for her deceit.”
Despite his exhaustion, Eirik did not sleep at all the entire night. He drank goblet after goblet of fine Frankish wine but could not reach the blessed numbness of drunkenness. Instead, his mind worked continually, weighing all the evidence, seeking answers, coming to conclusions. He kept coming back to two proven facts: Eadyth had made a bloody fool of him, at the least, and mayhap even helped to plot his death, at the most.
By the time dawn light crept through the arrow slit openings in his bedchamber walls, Eirik was rigid with fury, but he controlled his rage under a calm, self-contained facade. He went down to the great hall and headed toward the kitchen where his servants already worked industriously.
Despite his anger, he saw evidence everywhere of Eadyth’s touch. The keep smelled fresh from its many scrubbings, and every wood surface sparkled with polish, or as much as it possibly could in its crumbling state. He noticed two new chimneys in the great hall, a project he had planned for years but had never stayed long enough to accomplish.
The crisp rushes sent up waves of sweet herbal scents as he crushed them in his walk through the hall. In the kitchen, Bertha worked before the hearth, wearing a clean tunic, having pulled her hair back under a white wimple and neat head-rail.
“My lord,” she bowed deferentially, “would ye care fer a bowl of porridge, or sum bread ’n cheese to break yer fast?”
“Nay,” he answered, open-mouthed with surprise at all the changes in the spotless kitchen. Long-stemmed, fragrant herbs and dried flowers hung upside down in clumps from the ceiling rafters. The rushes had been swept completely from the stone floor of the kitchen, which was being scrubbed with sand and soapy water by a thrall on hands and knees.
Godric, the orphan boy he had seen with John and Larise the night before, was snapping beans before the fire. He nodded shyly up at him.
And Britta came bustling in with an armful of bed linens, singing a bawdy song merrily. When she saw him, she slowed down and flushed with embarrassment at his perusal before rushing outside to give the items to the laundress.
Mumbling gruffly of work to be done, Eirik backtracked through the hall and out to the castle wall which neared completion under the direction of Jeremy, the stonemason Eadyth had brought as part of her dowry. Just how far did Eadyth’s treachery extend? he wondered. Jeremy could be putting inferior sand in the mortar so it would crumble at the first assault. He would have to examine it closely.
Just as he was about to enter the stables and organize the hunt for his errant wife, the sentry atop the palisade rang the large tower bell which warned of visitors on the horizon. Wilfrid joined him on the ramparts. They watched with growing consternation as the Lady Eadyth, brazen as you please, rode a snow white palfrey over the rise to the castle motte. Behind her followed a caravan of pony carts filled to overflowing with the most ungodly assortment of objects—dozens of huge, conical baskets, large wooden boxes with finely latticed sides, hundreds of pottery containers and metal molds.
Worst of all, she and the young men who drove her carts were covered head to toe in the diaphanous veils she favored. Eirik’s eyes narrowed intently. Holy St. Sebastian! Mayhap he would strangle her with one of the infernal wisps of fabric, cut her body into pieces to fit neatly into one of the large baskets, and send it to her lover at Gravely.
He grinned at the thought.
Eadyth was surprised, and oddly delighted, to see her new husband standing in the bailey with Wilfrid and some of his retainers when she pulled her carts into the courtyard. She had not expected him until the next day, but it was just as well. He could help her unload and place her beekeeping equipment beyond the orchard.
But then she noticed the challenging stance of his widespread legs. He was wearing skin-tight braies, covered with a black wool shert. He must have just awakened because the leather ties at the neck slit exposed an enticing expanse of sun-tanned skin and curly black chest hair. But Eadyth had no time to dwell on that as her attention riveted on his fists, which kept clenching and unclenching where they were braced on his hips.
Oh, Lord. She had known he would not like her leaving Ravenshire against his command, but she had not expected he would be this angry.
A squire stepped forward and helped her from her horse. The six carts halted behind her, the drivers waiting for her signal to alight.
Eirik did not move even a tiny bit from his spot at the top of the steps leading into the hall. Apparently, he expected her to walk to him in greeting. She grimaced but decided it was the least she could do after disobeying his orders.
When she climbed halfway up the stone stairway, she noticed the stone-cold fury in his blue eyes and paused momentarily. She saw his gaze sweep contemptuously over her beekeeping veils. Sweet Mary! Did he expect her to transport bees unprotected?
When she moved closer, he grabbed her by the upper arms and pulled her close enough to hear his snarling words. “My Lady Bitch, where in bloody hell have you been?”
Eadyth recoiled at his harsh words and tried to pull out of his grasp, to no avail.
“I have been to Hawks’ Lair,” she stammered out, confused by his blazing hostility.
“And who was there with you? Your lover?”
“My what?” she sputtered. “Are you daft? A lover is the last thing I want. Not you, nor any man, you bloody beast.”
“Yea, your lover referred to me as the Beast of Ravenshire in his letter, as I recall. Is it a pet name you two concocted for me?”
Alarm swept over Eadyth like brushfire. What was he talking about? What lover? What letter?
“Eirik, let us go inside and speak on this. There is a misunderstanding here that I can surely—”
“Nay, the only misunderstanding here is yours. I warned you afore the wedding that I would not tolerate falseness in a wife.”
Wilfrid stepped up then and put a hand on Eirik’s arm. “My lord, ’tis unseemly to carry on this conversation in front of all your servants and retainers.”
Eirik looked around him and shook his head as if just coming to his senses. Still holding onto Eadyth’s arm, he began to pull her into the keep.
“Wait,” Eadyth said, digging in her heels. “I have to help unload the carts first.”
“Why?” Eirik asked suspiciously. “Are there gifts from Steven you wish to hide from me? Or mayhap a special poison you plan to put in my mead?”
“Steven?” Eadyth asked, stunned to realize that it was the Earl of Gravely he accused her of consorting with. In those few moments that she hesitated in amazement, Eirik had stormed down the steps and proceeded to throw the specially woven, conical beehives to the ground, cursing roundly as he searched for some hidden item to pr
ove her guilt.
He was about to open one of the boxes when Eadyth screamed, “No!” But his eyes locked with hers contemptuously, and Eadyth realized that her protest only prodded him to do the opposite.
Then it was too late.
Eadyth moaned and rushed forward as he opened the first box and hundreds of angry bees burst free, swarming all over his face and neck, under his loose tunic, over his tight leggings.
“Oh, my God! Stand still, Eirik. For the love of heaven, I cannot help you when you jump around like this.”
Eirik cursed loudly and fluently in several languages, using words that turned her face bright red, as he tried to slap the stinging insects off his body. But there were too many of them, and his actions only agitated them more.
She called to Edgar and Oslac, two of the drivers of the carts, who were protected with beekeeping veils and leather gloves, to help her. Eadyth picked off several of the valuable queen bees, easily recognizable by their color and shape, and put them back in the bee cases. Then her two beekeeping assistants used smoking torches to chase the remaining bees off her husband’s body and back into the box.
When they were finally back in the case or lying dead on the ground, Eadyth looked back at Eirik. Tears rolled down his face from the smoke, and tiny white marks covered his face and arms and undoubtedly all his skin under the tunic and hose.
Eadyth gave quick instructions to the men who had come with her about where to place the hives and bees, telling Girta, who had just come outside to investigate the commotion, to show them the way. She told Bertha to send up to Eirik’s bedchamber a tub of hot water, several crocks of salt and a handful of raw onions.
“Eirik, hurry! I must remove the stingers as soon as possible afore the bites swell and perchance fester.”
Eirik just stared at her, in shock. Then he said with dead seriousness, “Eadyth, I am going to kill you.”
Chapter Eight
“Kiss me, dearling, Awk.”
“Kiss my arse.”
“Would ye like to see…awk…me arse?”
“Would ye like to have your feathers plucked and stuffed down your bloody throat?”
“Show me yer legs. Awk.”
“Go bugger yourself.”
“Kiss me, dearling. Kiss me, dearling. Kiss me, dearling.”
Snorting with disgust, Eirik threw a wool cloak over the bird’s cage, muttering something very foul. The squawking stopped immediately.
Eadyth stood stunned in Eirik’s bedchamber doorway. She could not decide whether she was more amazed by the sound of her husband arguing in a vulgar fashion with a witless bird, or by the sight of Eirik standing in the middle of the room with his back to her—totally nude. The latter won out.
Truth be told, this devastatingly handsome man, her husband, stole her breath away.
Her eyes skimmed the sun-baked bronze of his skin from the wide shoulders, to the supple back muscles, to his tapering waist and deliciously narrow hips. She licked her suddenly dry lips. Even his powerful thighs and sinewy calves were sun-darkened, she noted. Apparently, he must wear only a loincloth when exercising with his men or when on shipboard. The skin of his firm buttocks was the only part of his body that remained light.
Well, not quite, Eadyth amended quickly as Eirik turned. He had hidden another part of his body, as well. And, oh, Sweet Mother! It was a very nice part, indeed.
Eadyth put her hands to her hot cheeks and forced her eyes upward to meet Eirik’s knowing, wintry smile. His cool regard chilled her to the bone, bringing her jarringly back to the present dilemma—Eirik’s bee stings.
“Get out, Eadyth,” he said with deliberate care. “I will deal with you and your treachery later. Leave me now to my misery.”
“Eirik, I am truly sorry for what happened in the bailey. But ’tis not my fault. Bees sting when threatened, and—”
“Threatened? Best you have a caution, wife, and leave my presence afore I show you a real threat.”
“Why are you so angry with me? ’Twas you who riled the bees. But that is the way of men, is it not? Always blaming women for their mistakes.”
“Your biggest mistake, my lady, was in thinking you could play me false and escape the consequences.” Nostrils flaring, Eirik moved toward her menacingly.
Baffled by his fierce fury, she backed up a few steps and protested, “You deliberately misunderstand me. Be reasonable. Leastwise, I need to tend to your…Oh, Sweet Mother of God…”
Eadyth’s words trailed off as she noticed the dozens of white bites, already turning red, on his face, neck, chest, back, stomach, legs—in truth, every part of his body. And worst of all, Eirik was vigorously clawing at his flesh with his fingernails wherever he could reach.
“Nay, you must stop scratching,” she ordered, slapping his hands away from his body. “You lackbrain, do you not know better than to rub a bee bite? You must remove the stinger first.”
Ignoring her words, Eirik moved closer to the window alcove so he could better see as he peered over his shoulder and tried to claw at the bites on his back.
Again, she shoved his hand aside and pulled out the small ivory-handled knife from the scabbard at her belt. “Here, let me help.”
Eirik eyed the sharp blade in her hand and laughed mirthlessly. “Your solicitude comes too late, my lady wife. I am not half-witted enough to let you near my body with a weapon.” With lightning swiftness, he grabbed the knife from her hand and laid it behind him on a table.
“How absurd! I just want to remove the stingers with the edge of the blade. When a bee bites, it leaves its stinger under the skin, then goes off to die, but—”
“Hah! Just as I thought! You are more concerned about your precious pests than my injuries.”
“Oh, ’tis unfair of you to speak thus. And bees are not pests. I merely wanted to explain that the stinger must be removed with care, as soon as possible, or its poison will be pumped into the wound causing swelling or even fever.”
“That would make you happy, would it not—you and your scheming lover?”
Eadyth stiffened at the barely bridled rage in his voice. “Lover? What lover?” Her brows drew together in confusion. But now was not the time for anger or explanations. Meeting his accusing eyes without flinching, she asked coolly, “Do you want my help or not?”
He glared at her for several long moments, then looked down at the angry welts already starting to form where he had rubbed. “No knife. Use your fingernails,” he demanded finally.
Eadyth glanced skeptically at her blunt nails, but moved toward him, shaking her head in exasperation. Did he truly think she would kill him? She was not that angry about the rude kiss on his leavetaking. But then her sensitivity to his obvious pain won out over her growing chagrin.
“Sit down,” she ordered, pointing to a low stool near the window. In order to see better, she removed her full-length beekeeping veil. She had neglected to put the usual ashes on her face this morn, thinking Eirik would not return to Ravenshire until the morrow. She hoped Eirik, with his watering eyes, was in too much misery right now to notice her appearance. In any case, it was a chance she had to take.
“Does it hurt?”
“Does a horse piss?”
“Tsk!” Eadyth clucked at his vulgarity and muttered, “You make it sore hard for a person to sympathize—”
“Save your sympathies for someone who cares. Mayhap your lover.”
Eadyth bristled, angry herself now. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
Eirik just scowled.
“Do you want my help or not?”
In response, Eirik hunched over on the stool, resting his arms on his widespread thighs. The ingrate! She reminded herself to bear with him. Like many fighting men, he could, no doubt, bear great battle wounds stoically but would whine like a child over the smaller ills of life, such as an aching tooth, or a small fever, or a bee sting.
First, Eadyth worked methodically on his back. One by one, she painstakingly scraped
the edge of her index fingernail against the center of the bites until the stingers came out. It was not an easy task. Eadyth’s fingers trembled at the first touch of her husband’s pale gold skin as the smell of him enveloped her sensuously in a pleasant aura of soap and fresh sunlight and his own distinctive man scent.
She bit her bottom lip to stifle a soft groan of pleasure.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Keep your head down.”
Eadyth moved lower to his waist and hips, pressing her fingertips in a testing fashion on his hot flesh. Sweet Mother, his body threw off heat like an oven. Was it fever, or just hot blood? And were all parts of his body so deliciously hot?
Scandalized by her wayward thoughts, Eadyth chastised herself silently. She had never had such lewd fantasies before, not even with Steven. In fact, her yearnings for Steven had always been pure of spirit. Until the one painful, joyless coupling, that is.
It must be her advancing age, she decided. She had heard that some women got these odd urgings as they grew older and their bodies matured. What other explanation could there be for this not unpleasant aching in her limbs? She studied Eirik’s well-proportioned back for a long moment, refusing to believe that these new feelings stemmed from proximity to this man, and this one alone.
“God’s Bones! What takes you so long? Do you deliberately malinger to prolong my agony?”
“Oh, hush,” Eadyth said.
When she finished with his back and arms, she asked him to stand so she could work on his legs, both back and front. She studiously avoided that part of him, and instead found her senses teased by the inadvertent brush of his crisp leg hairs across her cheek as she moved about her work.
It seemed to take forever.
“Are you enjoying yourself, my lady wife?” Eirik said in a voice thick with sarcasm.
“Nay, are you?” she responded carelessly, and without thinking looked up to see his manhood standing out from his body, hard as polished marble. Immediately, she looked away, hating the blush which she felt sweep her face.
Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] Page 13
