Ice Maiden

by Debra Lee Brown

  Expected.

  Sweet Jesus, the Sinclairs!

  Even now, they must wonder what had become of him and his party. His wedding to Anne Sinclair, youngest daughter of their chieftain, was to take place—he mentally counted off the days—two days hence!

  He’d never get back by then. He cursed, and a dozen sets of eyes turned in his direction. Not at this rate, he wouldn’t.

  The door to the brew house banged opened, wrenching him from his thoughts. Needles of sleet blew across the threshold instantly chilling the room. On its heels drifted another frosty presence.

  Rika.

  She did not see him, half-hidden as he was in the shadowed corner, as she made her way to an empty table well within his own view. The youth, Ottar, who’d made it clear to George the previous day he styled himself Rika’s protector, settled beside her on a bench.

  The woman needed no protector. She was half man herself. Just as he decided she was, indeed, some freak of nature, Rika threw off her heavy cloak and absently brushed the snow from her hair.

  ’Twas a decidedly feminine gesture, and George found himself fascinated by the dichotomy. In fact, he could not take his eyes from her. ’Twas his first opportunity to observe her undetected, and there was something about it he enjoyed.

  She called for horns of mead and, once delivered, she chatted easily with the youth. Ottar looked on her with a kind of boyish awe. God knows why. The youth had actually warned him off her. What nonsense. He had no intention of touching her, though he didn’t like anyone—man or boy—telling him what he could or could not do.

  No matter. The youth was harmless enough. Yesterday on the cliff, George could have snapped his neck with one hand, if he’d had a mind to. At the time, he’d been more concerned with throttling the woman. Even now, as he looked at her, he could feel his hands close over her throat. The scar she bore told him he was not the only man who would see her dead.

  The brew house door swung wide again, and Lawmaker came in from the cold. He spied George immediately and nodded. Rika followed the elder’s gaze and, when her eyes found George’s, her fair brows knit in displeasure.

  He read something else behind that perpetual mask of irritation she reserved for him, but what it was, he could not say—only that he felt strangely warmed by her cold scrutiny.

  Lawmaker settled beside her. He was an unusual man—patient and clever, with an air of intellect about him that was refreshing in what was otherwise a barbaric wasteland of humanity.

  Rika pulled her gaze from his and cocked her head to better hear Lawmaker’s conversation. She looked up to him, relied on him. George could see it in the way she seemed to consider the old man’s words before replying—as a daughter would reflect on a father’s advice.

  Lawmaker was clearly not her father, though he figured all important in her scheme. The elder was, in fact, the man in charge at the moment. Their laird, or jarl, was away. Gone a-Viking, the children had told him.

  What surprised George most was that Lawmaker apparently condoned this marriage scheme. Mayhap the man had not the sense he’d charged him with.

  Regardless, ’twas time George learned more of this plan, exactly what would be expected of him. At the moment, he had no other option for quitting this godforsaken place. He rose and moved slowly toward their table.

  Rika froze in midsentence, then drew herself up to acknowledge him. Christ, the woman was irritating. “Have you something you wish to discuss?”

  “Aye,” he said.

  She nodded for him to sit. Why he waited for her consent in the first place, he knew not. He took a place on the empty bench opposite her.

  “I have questions about this proposed…marriage,” he said.

  Her face brightened. ’Twas the first spark of cheer he’d seen from her, and it made him feel all the more strange.

  Ottar snorted, and drained the cup before him. “I’ve work to do,” he said, and pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on George. “I’ll see you later, at table?” The question was for Rika.

  “Of course,” she said.

  Ottar quit the brew house like a young bull elk gone to sharpen his sheds against the nearest tree. The lad itched for battle, and George had the distinct impression he was the enemy.

  “Now,” Rika said. “What would you know?”

  “This…marriage,” he began.

  She raised a hand to silence him. “’Twill be a marriage in name only, of course. And short-lived at that. You do take my meaning, Grant.”

  ’Twas not a question but an order, and George took orders from no one, least of all heathen women. Her confidence irked him. Yet a hint of color tinged her cheeks, and he could swear she was unnerved by the topic.

  “I understand ye well.” Good luck to the poor sod who dared breach that icy exterior. George was happy to have none of it.

  “In name only,” she repeated, louder this time.

  “Name only?” A silver-haired man at the next table rose abruptly at Rika’s words. “Name only?” To George’s astonishment—and Rika’s, too, from the look on her face—in a voice both commanding and strangely melodic, the elder recited a snippet of verse:

  “‘When a man is wed

  Ere the moon is high

  He shall bed his bride

  Heed Frigga’s cry”’

  Hmm. What the devil did that mea—?

  “He shall not!” Rika slammed her fist on the table, and her drinking horn clattered to the floor.

  Now here was something unexpected. George’s interest in the matter grew tenfold with her response. He watched as the silver-haired man exchanged a pregnant look with Lawmaker.

  “Who is Frigga?” George asked, intrigued.

  The silver-haired man smiled. “Goddess of love—and matrimony.”

  Rika swore under her breath.

  “And who are ye, if I may ask?” George said.

  “Hannes,” the man said. “The skald.”

  “Skald?” George frowned, trying to recall where he’d heard the word before.

  “He’s a poet,” Lawmaker said.

  Rika shot Hannes a nasty look. “Not much of one, in my opinion. There shall be no—” she crossed her arms in front of her, and George saw the heat rise in her face “—bedding.” She spat the word.

  “Oh, but there must be,” Hannes said. “It’s the law.” He arched a snowy brow at Lawmaker, who sat, seemingly unmoved by both the skald’s declaration and Rika’s outrage.

  “Hannes is right,” Lawmaker said finally. “It is the law. Without consummation, there is no marriage—and no dowry.”

  Rika shot to her feet. “You said naught of this to me before.”

  Lawmaker shrugged and affected an expression innocent as a babe’s. “I thought you knew.”

  Until this moment, George had not seen her truly angry, and it fair amused him. The self-possessed vixen had finally lost control. Her cheeks blazed with color, setting off the cool blue of her eyes. Those lips he favored twisted into a scowl.

  Somehow he must use this opportunity.

  “If the coin is all ye want,” he said to her, even as the idea formed in his mind, “ye need not a marriage to get it.”

  Her scowl deepened. “Explain.”

  “I told ye,” George said. “I shall pay ye well for my transport home.”

  “How much?” Her eyes narrowed.

  He hesitated, wondering how little he could get away with offering. His clan was comfortable, but not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination. He had his own bride-price to pay for Anne Sinclair’s hand. That silver had gone down with their ship and would have to be raised anew.

  Lawmaker cleared his throat. “It makes no difference, Rika, what the Scot offers. If your dowry remains intact, with your father…”

  George watched as her mind worked.

  “Ah, you’re right, of course,” she said. “It solves not my other problem.”

  George had no idea of what they spoke, yet the matter intrigued him more than i
t should.

  “So marriage it is,” Lawmaker said.

  Hannes made for the bar. “And consummation,” he called back over his shoulder.

  “I refuse to submit to such a thing! He’ll not touch me.” Rika fisted her hands at her sides and seized George’s gaze. He was certain, if she held it long enough, those crystalline eyes would burn holes right through him.

  Her breathing grew labored, and George was all too aware of her breasts straining at her gown. ’Twas cold in the room, and before his very eyes her nipples hardened against the thick fabric. All at once, he felt something that startled and disturbed him.

  Arousal.

  He shifted on the bench and adjusted his tunic. The thought of bedding such an offensive woman—and one so tall at that—was repugnant. She was everything an alluring maiden should not be: domineering, opinionated, and with a roughness about her that was appalling in one of her sex.

  Aye, should they do the deed, the hellion would likely wish to mount him.

  His mouth went dry at the thought, and for the barest instant he recalled how her braids had grazed his chest the first moment he laid eyes on her.

  Rika stiffened, as if she read his thoughts. Unconsciously she bit her lip, and George’s eyes were drawn to her mouth yet again.

  An unsettling thought possessed him.

  Mayhap heeding Frigga’s cry would be not so disagreeable after all.

  Chapter Three

  The woman disgusted him.

  And intrigued him.

  ’Twas late and the fire in the longhouse waned, smoldering embers casting a reddish glow about the smoky room. George sat on the bench near his bed box and watched discreetly as Rika bested Ottar at some kind of board game.

  She shot him an occasional glance, her eyes frosting as they met his, then warming again in the firelight as she laughed at one of Ottar’s jokes.

  Lawmaker sat with Hannes in whispered conversation, seemingly oblivious to everything around them. But George knew better. The old man didn’t miss a trick.

  Rika had avoided all of them, save Ottar, since the incident in the brew house the afternoon before. At table she’d been silent, and when George caught her staring at him, he’d read something new in her eyes.

  Apprehension.

  It should have pleased him. After all, decent women should fear him. Respect him. But all he felt was surprise, and a mild disappointment he was at a loss to explain.

  ’Twas the talk of consummation that had changed her. Of that George was certain. Her entire demeanor seemed altered since the skald’s matter-of-fact proclamation.

  George ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. It wasn’t his idea, this bloody marriage. ’Twas hers. He wanted no part of it. He was daft to even consider such a proposal. Nay, he wouldn’t do it. There must be another way.

  He scanned the faces of the men still at table, and those seated around the fire on crudely hewn benches. Blowing snow whistled across the moors outside and flapped at the sealskin coverings draping the windows.

  A young woman rose from the central table and caught his eye. She was small and blond, exuding a delicate beauty and an air of sensuality that George found rather appealing.

  She held his gaze while she poured a draught of mead into a horn, then moved toward him with a feline grace. “Are you thirsty?” she asked, and offered him the drink.

  “Aye,” he said, and took it. Were he on his own shores, he’d consider flirting with this one. “My thanks.” He drained the horn and grimaced at the sweetness of the libation.

  “You don’t like it?” The woman pouted prettily.

  “I prefer a stout ale.”

  “My name is Lina,” she said. “Perhaps I can find you some.”

  His gaze slid unchecked over her body, and she giggled. A chill snaked its way up his spine.

  Rika.

  George glanced toward the gaming table and, sure enough, found Rika’s icy stare. Her hand closed over one of the carved stone pieces and squeezed. The message was not lost on Lina, who slipped quietly back to her place at table. Rika released the game piece.

  George marveled at the subtlety of this power play. Aye, all had been told not to speak with him, but the islanders had grown lax on that account these past two days, and Rika had seemed not to care. Until now.

  The uneasiness he’d read in her eyes just moments before had vanished. The old Rika was back. Frigid. Authoritative. Mercenary.

  All a man could want in a bride.

  George snorted and looked away. What in God’s name had he gotten himself into? He had to find a way off the island. Lina had been friendly enough. Mayhap there were others who would help him.

  He studied the small groups of men and women lounging by the fire and settled on the benches hugging the walls of the longhouse. Some smiled at him cautiously. Others scowled. He was an oddity to them. ’Twas clear the folk of Fair Isle didn’t get much company.

  George had lived among them nearly a sennight now, and one fact rang clear from the snippets of conversation he’d been privy to. Some sort of dissention was at work. Not all of the islanders spoke highly of their absent jarl.

  Brodir was his name.

  Even now, in the dim firelight, George saw two camps taking shape—those who were loyal to Brodir, and those who were not. Two of the loyalists sat watching him from their bench by the fire.

  The rougher of the two, Ingolf they called him, honed his knife on a whetstone, turning the blade slowly so that it caught the reddish light.

  The other man smiled wide, revealing a nearly toothless mouth, though by the look of him he could not have been much older than George. Thirty at most. Nay, not even.

  “Whatcha lookin’ at, Scotsman?” the toothless one said.

  George shrugged.

  Ingolf continued to eye him silently, then rose and moved toward him, pocketing the stone but not the knife. The toothless one dogged his steps.

  “Methinks we should join him,” Ingolf said to his friend. “What say you, Scotsman? Might Rasmus and I have a few words?” They did not wait for his reply, and sat one on each side of him on the bench.

  Rasmus, the toothless one, stank of seal oil and mead. George could see immediately that he was Ingolf’s puppet, and would do whatever the man bid him.

  Ingolf wiped his knife on his leather tunic, then held it up to the light. “Think you to wed the tall one?” he said, examining the blade.

  The question caught George off guard. No one had yet spoken to him of this ill-conceived match between Rika and him, but they all knew. ’Twas the talk of the island.

  Mayhap these two, unsavory though they seemed, might help him find an alternative to this sham of a wedding. George searched for the right words.

  “Well?” Rasmus said, sliding closer. “Think you to wed her?”

  Under any other circumstance, George would have wasted no time in teaching these two heathens a few Scottish manners. He could disarm them both in an instant and have them whimpering for mercy at his feet—and he would have done so had he not been outnumbered nearly twenty to one by their kinsmen.

  “Mayhap,” he said, controlling his instincts. “What of it?”

  Ingolf eyed him, and his half smile turned to something more dangerous. “I wouldn’t even dream it, Scotsman, were I in your shoes.”

  Rasmus fidgeted beside him, and let out a depraved little chuckle.

  “But ye’re no in my shoes, now are ye?” George said, and straightened his spine.

  “We ain’t,” Rasmus said. “’Cause if we was, we’d be dead men, just like you.”

  George studied his fingernails for a moment, then shot them each a steely glance. “Are ye threatening me, lads?”

  Neither replied.

  The room felt suddenly over warm, the air close and rank with the stink of them. George was aware of other eyes on him.

  Lawmaker’s.

  Was this another test then? Like that morning on the beach with young Ottar? The old man watche
d George closely, as he had that day, waiting to see what he would do.

  Lawmaker’s was not the only gaze trained to him. Two others—young men he’d overheard speaking ill of their jarl—watched him, as well.

  Hang the lot of them. No one threatened him.

  No one.

  “The tall one belongs to Brodir,” Ingolf said finally.

  George narrowed his eyes at the man. “What d’ye mean?” He couldn’t fathom Rika belonging to anyone.

  “If you touch her…” Ingolf slid a dirty finger along the blade of his knife, leaving a crimson smear of blood on the hammered metal. “Be warned,” he said, and stood.

  Rasmus grinned over his shoulder as the two of them snaked their way to the door of the longhouse and disappeared into the night.

  Lawmaker resumed his conversation with Hannes. The two young dissidents returned their attention to their mead horns, and the mood lightened.

  George glanced at Rika and saw that her game with Ottar was finished. She sat rigid, her expression cool, her eyes unreadable.

  What in bloody hell was going on here?

  Rika poured a thin stream of seal oil onto a rag and worked it into the chain mail of her brother’s hauberk. The armory had been quiet since Brodir went a-Viking last summer. Rika enjoyed the solitude, the smells of leather and burnt metal, the icy kiss of the mail where it rested against her knee.

  Ottar worked beside her, carving an ancient design into a shield he had fashioned from a timber hatch that had washed ashore after a shipwreck last year.

  The day was clear and cold, and Ottar had built a small fire in the smith’s brazier in the corner of the small hut. Rika set the hauberk aside and warmed her hands.

  “Why do you marry the Scot?” Ottar said abruptly.

  She turned to him, prepared with an answer, knowing he’d ask her sooner or later. “There are things I must—”

  “If you’ve need of a husband, why not me?” He paused and met her eyes, which widened before she could disguise her shock.

  “Ottar, you don’t understand.”

  “I do. You need protection—from Brodir.” He gouged a knot in the wood, abandoning the delicate skill required for such art. “I will safeguard you. You think of me as a child, I know. But I’m not.”