The Peacemaker

by Jianne Carlo

  “I have done as you ordered and thought long and hard. ’Twas grievously wrong of me to endanger Mama, Brock, Luca, and all at the keep. But ’twas particularly wrong to kill the barrows the morn after we wed. I dishonored you. You are Viking and I know well a Viking will gladly greet Valhalla to protect his own.”

  Njal crushed her to his chest. He sniffed her hair’s hazelnut essence, and buried his nose in the silk of her tresses. “Ah, Bettina, you please me so. I am fortunate indeed to have garnered such a formidable wife.”

  He burned with the need to be inside her, to bind her to him again and again. Scooping her off the floor, he took her to bed. ’Twas little effort to divest each other of their loose garb and when he had her lying on the bed in all her glory, blue-black hair fanned wide on the bed cushions and white linens, the vision clenched a curtain of tenderness, blurring his sight for a heartbeat.

  “I would have you give over to me this eve, wife, and every eve here in our bed.” He rolled them so she lay on top of him. “I would have you give me the respect due me in public, but here, in our chamber, and when we are privy, I want none other than my fiery warrior wife. The woman who bristles and spews fire because her husband, foolish warrior that he is, called her a simple country maid. The wife who when she wins at Fox and Geese offers to return two geese in exchange for her turn at kisses and much else.”

  By Odin, he loved the way all her thoughts showed on her face. The slight widening of her eyes and the sharp elevation of her brows when she heard the words “warrior wife.” The one-sided curl to her mouth when he described her bristling and spewing fire, the way she couldn’t restrain the broad smirk and the saucy peep at him when he spoke of Fox and Geese.

  She blinked, the dark fringe of her lashes casting shadows on her creamy skin. Cocking her head, she glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. “And you will burn my breeches, my bow and weapons?”

  He knew then he would win few arguments with his wife. The realization tugged his lips into a smile. Then ’twould be his strategy to win only those battles crucial to Bettina’s safety.

  “Nay, sweetling. Not if you give me your vow to hunt only in my presence.”

  Her grin fair dazzled his senses, his prick doubling in size though more than ready and engorged, and his balls twitching in anticipation of explosive relief.

  Chapter Six

  “Now, wife, I will finish all I left undone earlier.”

  Would she ever grow accustomed to having him thus, his jaw, lips, nose nigh brushing hers? His hot breath fanning her mouth and tingling her skin so all she wanted was his tongue plundering hers?

  “Bettina, you send me that siren’s hot look a moment longer and ’twill be beyond me but to take you hard and fast.” His nostrils flared and she heard the grate of his teeth. “’Twas a long loving I had planned.”

  She felt like tinder ready to combust and could scarce draw air into her lungs. “I would beg for both, Njal, for my womanly parts have burned and throbbed since you left me bereft earlier.”

  He threw his head back. His black waves swirled around the tendons of his great neck. His lips pulled back wide to bare a white lash of teeth. In her mind’s eye, she saw a wild, monstrous mountain cat crouched and tensed, awaiting.

  “I am undone, woman.” The fierce growl rumbled and rent the quiet of the chamber.

  His large, hot palms grasped her hips and his fat shaft probed her entrance. She had grown so damp and slick the slurping sound of their sexes meeting was loud to her ears. Digging her heels into the straw, she arched up and ground her nails into his shoulders at the first sweet moment of penetration, the delicious pressure when her walls both fought and welcomed the invasion she now recognized as sweet torture. “Njal.”

  “Give to me.”

  He drove into her and she shattered like a shooting star, surrendering to the convulsive clenching of her sex. His mouth closed over her breast and he suckled long and strong while he slammed into her, his strokes fierce and wild, his sac slapping her tender flesh. She bit the curve of his neck, her teeth clamping over his taut skin, her tongue lapping and licking the salt of his sweat.

  Again and again her walls fisted his thick hardness, the heat, the throbbing blending so she didn’t know where he began and she ended. Lifting her leg, he rested her heel on his back as he pummeled into her sheath, and the angle hit an internal spot that sent her contractions into a frenzy. She screamed his name and collapsed.

  Njal continued to thrust into her and limp though she was, her walls continued to quiver and spasm around his girth and length until his back arched. He roared, and then buried his face in the crook of her neck.

  His shuddered pants sounded like low thunder in the silent chamber, and his heaviness pressed her thighs deep into the straw, the pungent scent of their joining, of his musky manliness filling her nose. Beneath her palms, his back muscles rippled, and tremors in his buttock nudged the heel resting on the taut mound to slip onto his thick thigh.

  She drifted in a haze, lazy half-thoughts forming and dissolving, not wanting words to intrude on the enchantment holding at bay all that must come to pass. When he tried to raise his head, she tangled her fingers in his locks and caressed his scalp.

  “Bettina.” His lips tickled and his deep voice vibrated little shivers on the up-swell of her nape.

  Heaving a long sigh, she loosened her hold and set her hands on the ridge of his broad shoulders, unable to resist smoothing the sweat sheen covering his skin.

  “Njal.”

  Resting his square chin on her breastbone, he looked up at her. “What have you, wife, against words?”

  “I mislike the way you read my thoughts.” She wrinkled her nose and traced a tiny circle on his corded neck, marveling at the strength of his tensed muscles.

  “Read you not mine?” He rolled over, taking her with him so she lay sprawled over his chest, her legs frogging his hips to keep him inside, to prolong their joining.

  “Nay.” She rested her cheek on the solidness of her peacemaker husband and twirled the end of a finger around a few strands of the hair dusting the brown circle that framed his nipples.

  “Yet you knew I value honor above all.” He trailed his hand up and down her spine. “You knew I would not take you by force.”

  Cupping one hand over the other, she balanced her jaw on her knuckles and met his stare. “’When you dragged the boar off me, that moment when I first looked into your eyes, I thought I had known you all my life. ’Tis your peacemaker magik?”

  Annoyed she had spilled her thoughts, Bettina jerked her gaze from his.

  His fingers framed her face. “Think you only one can feel so? Nay. ’Twas magik. ’Tis magik ’tween us. Do you believe? Can you believe?”

  Cert an unseen sprite squeezed her throat, she could only nod and blink away the threat of weak, womanly tears.

  “Now, wife, we needs work on the trust. Be you with me?”

  He started to slip out of her and she gripped his hips, fearing to lose the physical connection, to let the strife of discourse ruin the palpable truce between them.

  “Be at ease, sweetling.” His wicked grin spiked her settling belly flutters into flight. “’Tis but a moment’s respite, for my lusty fellow has many skirmishes planned.”

  She glanced to his wet member and her jaw dropped, for his manhood surged and twitched. He tipped her mouth closed and winked and she was lost. When Njal was like this, eyebrows arched in lecherous suggestion, the sapphire of his eyes sparkling, his dimples softening the harsh planes of his face, he could declare victory, mastery of her, and she would yield without a beat of hesitation.

  “Methinks you prefer losing to winning,” she accused many couplings later.

  Dawn’s light teased at the window shutters.

  Njal plucked a yellow goose from the playing board and rested his chin on the palm of one bent hand. “I challenge you to find one loss of mine this eve. ’Tis you who pleaded for mercy not moments afore.”

&nbs
p; She swatted his shoulder. “I but refer to Fox and Geese. You have lost every game.”

  “And won your pleasure many times over.” He tweaked her nose.

  ’Twas truly magik, for never would she have pictured them thus. They lay naked on the bed, the game board between them, conversing and teasing, and loving each other when a glance turned fiery. Shyness still reared at unexpected moments and her cheeks still flamed when he described in that husky deep rumble how he intended to taste or lick or suckle a body part so intimate she gasped.

  “We have not spoken of the consequences of my poaching.” She scrambled to sit and a chill cloaked her shoulders. Bettina reached for a bed fur.

  “Nay.” Njal rolled over and hauled her into his lap, the board and playing pieces clattering to the floor. “’Tis me you wear as covering in our bed, wife.”

  Snuggling into the crook of his neck, she kissed his jaw, unable to resist running her tongue over the slight grizzly stubble grown during the night. His hand clamped her shoulder, and he nudged her chin with his. “Look to me, wife.”

  His voice had reflected many men during the night—lover, husband, warrior, master, charming companion—but now his tone changed and he became the peacemaker.

  She swallowed and met his stare.

  It seemed an eternity passed before he spoke. With every crackle and snap of the fire, her heart beat louder and louder.

  “All is well. I have settled matters. We will leave this aft for Mordred’s keep—”

  “Mama?” Bettina clasped her chest, convinced if she did not her heart would escape the cage of her ribs. “Njal…”

  Disappointment flickered in the slight flare of his nostrils, the half-hooding of his gaze, but he said not a word, simply gazed at her.

  She gulped in air. “Nay. I know better. You are Viking and none that belong to you will see harm, not while you draw breath.”

  His lids flew up and his eyes fair glittered. “I would have none but you, warrior wife. I will take no other mate, tup no other, love no other save you.”

  Though she gritted her teeth and blinked fast, a tear escaped, then another and another raced down her cheek. She swiped at them. He chuckled and hugged her tight to him, squeezing so hard she winced.

  He drew back. “Now I must needs test the trust with which you just gifted me, Bettina. We go to Laufsblað Fjǫllóttr this aft. I need your true reactions when Mordred feasts the king, and I fear you have not learned to mask your feelings. Thus I ask you to be content with knowing you and all you love will come to no harm and ask me for no more.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “’Twill be so.”

  * * *

  “The Highlander will be a formidable ally.” Magnus sat on Njal’s left, Bettina at his right, Lady Gwen beside her, and Leofric next. “’Twas a wise choice.”

  “Aye.” Njal surveyed Laufsblað Fjǫllóttr’s hall, well pleased with his preparations.

  Nigh on three score of his men mingled with Mordred’s and King Máel Coluim’s. Two score more warriors sent by his brother, Ruard, had met them en route to Mordred’s holding.

  Laufsblað Fjǫllóttr boasted a plethora of gold and brass goblets and platters, and scores of intricate wall tapestries. The carved benches and tables spoke of wealth. Blazing fires, three or more, warmed the great hall, but the smoke holes were clogged and the stench of unwashed bodies overpowered the faint hint of pine from the rushes and permeated the perfume of roasting fowl. Njal’s lips twitched, for fowl and partridge were not the feast meats a liege lord served to impress his king.

  “Mordred’s men are his by coin, and the coin has not been paid since Samhain.” Jarvik leaned across Magnus to ensure his voice did not carry. “Brock and Fordor report many are ready to switch to a liege lord who will pay when promised.”

  “Samhain. When Mordred sent Darwent to Arbroath. ’Tis as I expected.” Njal spied King Máel Coluim stalking through the open oak doors of the keep. His gaze met the monarch’s and he inclined his head. The king spoke to the warrior at his side.

  The din in the hall quieted.

  Mordred awaited the king at the foot of the dais, his corpulent form garbed in a crimson bejeweled cloak that swept the rushes.

  A procession of noblemen accompanied by their wives followed in the king’s wake. Mordred’s wife rose, as did all the females at the high table. All the men stood and waited patiently as the women made their way down the steps.

  “You leave now?” Magnus’ hand went to his side and he cursed. ’Twas law only the king’s men bore weapons at feasts.

  “Aye. Keep Mordred distracted. Leave not my wife’s side.” Njal uttered the command behind a goblet, his gaze tracking Bettina’s progress. The ladies faced each other, dipped curtsies, and then the hall echoed with feminine greetings, squeals of recognition, and murmured introductions. Meanwhile Njal slid behind the dais, glided silently through empty hallways, and wound his way through an enormous kitchen where confusion reigned supreme.

  Njal cloaked himself with the veil of obscurity he’d spent years acquiring during his stays in hostile courts. None noticed him weaving through the shadowed corners and crevices, and after he edged past the kitchen’s open door, Njal stopped in the shadows, waiting for his vision to adjust to the stark darkness. Not a star shone in the sky. The scent of moisture held sway, and he inhaled the sweetness of the fresh icy air.

  Hordes crowded the grounds of the keep. Men, women, warriors, cooks, all the people required to house and travel the needs of a monarch. The man to whom the king had spoken moments afore stood, along with a score of other warriors, near a tent newly erected, one end still being hammered into the muddy ground amidst much cursing and bellowing.

  “He awaits you,” the man murmured when Njal halted at the tent’s flap.

  Njal ducked under the heavy canvas.

  “Peacemaker.” King Máel Coluim, son of Cináed mac Máel Coluim, the man known as King Kenneth II of Scotland, stood rubbing his hands above a steaming brass brazier heated by a peat pot. “We meet again.”

  “Your Majesty.” Njal sank on one knee and kissed the purple-stoned gold ring on the king’s middle finger. He waited until the king touched his shoulder before rising.

  “Be quick, peacemaker.”

  “Majesty, King Cnut the Great bids me deliver this message.” Njal pulled the scroll from the pocket in his cloak’s lining, bowed his head, and offered the velum to the monarch.

  Unlike many Scottish kings, Máel Coluim read and wrote and had no need of scribes to translate. The king sent him a searching glance, but Njal kept his lids lowered, and studied the man’s feet. Early in his negotiating days, he had discovered the trick of looking when not appearing to, and he studied the shadows on the tent as the monarch read Cnut’s message.

  Though Magnus had said Cnut agreed to Njal’s suggestions, he had well learned not to trust the translation from spoken to written words. He held his breath, knowing misinterpretation had oft shattered good intentions to smithereens in the beat of a pulse.

  The shadow of the king’s profile tilted in Njal’s direction; he kept his face blank, and moved not a finger, not a muscle. “I see your hand in this missive, peacemaker.”

  “Mordred has twice journeyed to Moray ’twixt the first spring warmth and the festival of Samhain. His coffers, much replenished by the depletion of Arbroath’s wealth, went empty at that time. His men have not seen a single coin since then.” Njal kept his eyes deferent, never rising above the monarch’s chest. He knew the moment Máel Coluim accepted his subtle suggestion of an alliance between Mordred and Gillie Coemgáin, the ruler of the kingdom of Moray, Máel Coluim’s most dangerous rival for the throne.

  “To me, peacemaker.”

  ’Twas only then Njal met the monarch’s gaze.

  “We agree to the alliance with one provision. Discontinuance of the line that now holds Laufsblað Fjǫllóttr. When the deed is done, we will consider your advice as to the disposal of Mordred’s keep.”

  The k
ing wanted Mordred and his kin dead. Njal repressed a relieved sigh; ’twas the precise outcome he desired. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  Njal made it back to the great hall before the women resumed their seats at the high table. Bettina and Lady Gwen and a gaggle of noble wives and daughters, guarded by Leofric, Magnus, Jarvik, and several of his men, stood conversing in the east corner of the chamber.

  Magnus met his gaze and quirked one brow.

  Njal inclined his head.

  Bettina gifted him with a dazzling smile when he helped her up the steps to the dais. The high-necked cyrtel she wore swirled around her slippers. ’Twas a repeat of their wedding feast. He savored every surreptitious touch, resting his hand on her thigh, teasing her lips with succulent morsels of meat, and whispering of his plans for their return on the morrow.

  When the repast ended, roses danced across her cheeks and so distracted was he by the saucy tilt of her mouth, the commotion when the priest appeared at the foot of the table eluded him for a full heartbeat.

  “Is aught amiss?” Bettina touched his shoulder.

  “Nay, lady mine.” Beneath the table he clasped her hand in his.

  Mordred half-rose, one hand on the table, his glance fixed on the monarch.

  King Máel Coluim stood.

  Silence swept across the great hall till the only sounds came from the blazing fireplaces where logs hissed, sparks burst, and the ebb and roar of the flames mimicked the rhythm of waves crashing on sand.

  “This eve two great kings are allied and two great lines are joined. We give the hand of Lady Gwen of Arbroath to Leofric the Lion, Earl of Bern Umbria.”

  Njal smiled at Bettina’s gasp.

  Frenetic whispers and murmurs near drowned Mordred’s gurgled choking.

  Lady Gwen cupped her daughter’s shoulder and whispered in her ear.

  Leofric the Lion lurched to his feet and offered Lady Gwen his arm.