Unsettled by his quiet presence, Brenna edged toward the ladder that rose in the corner of the shadowed room. She ought to change out of her father’s old armor, put on a gown and kirtle to honor the occasion of her betrothal. Hesitating, she lifted the foot she’d already set on the bottom rung of the ladder back down to the floor and stole another glance at the knight attending to his horse.
Why bother wearing a gown? Why not start the way she meant to go on, without feminine trappings, without any pretense that she was entering their union with anything but reluctance? She’d dressed like a boy most of her life and didn’t plan to change her ways just because a husband was forced upon her—even if the husband might look like the golden prince of a fairy tale.
Bending forward at the waist, Brenna pulled off the helm that sat like an upturned bucket on her shoulders. She lowered it to the earth floor, straightened and wriggled out of the chain mail hauberk. Beneath the armor, she wore a pair of thick woolen hose and a doublet long enough to protect her modesty.
She brushed off a streak of mud from her bodice, then loosened her hair and arched her back, raking her fingers through the curls to untangle them. She possessed no mirror, but those who remembered her mother had told her she’d inherited her mother’s Norman looks—hair as black as midnight, brown eyes that could shine with merriment or glisten with tears, and a slender body that despite its air of fragility could outlast many men on a ride across the moors.
An inarticulate, rough sound startled her. Brenna whipped around. In the flickering firelight, she could see the knight staring at her. His gaze roamed her body, gliding up the length of her legs, past her waist, settling on the swell of her breasts.
An odd sensation curled in her belly, a bit like when she crept up to the bottomless gulley near the sea and looked down into its depths. Her nipples tightened, the way they sometimes did when the cloth of her chemise chafed against them.
The knight continued his scrutiny, now studying her face. Heat swamped her skin beneath the wool and linen. Her breathing grew shallow, her heartbeat rapid and uneven. Instinct seized her to flee, to seek solitude, so that she could regain her mental balance.
“Come,” Brenna said, turning away. “I’ll show you to the guest chamber upstairs.”
She climbed up the ladder, moving fast and not looking back at him.
Chapter Two
Olaf surveyed the small stone chamber that housed nothing but a pallet of straw, a large oak chest, and a bundle of blankets so worn that his horse would have complained. The narrow window let in the last glimmer of fading daylight.
“I’ll get you some candles.” Lady Brenna retreated through the door.
The pair of sacks containing his possessions weighed on Olaf’s shoulders, and he bent to lower them to the floor with a clunk. Before he had a chance to make a closer inspection of his surroundings, Lady Brenna returned with a burning candle. She was walking slowly, her hand protecting the flame. She set the candle in a wall sconce, then used the flame to light a second candle and placed it in another sconce farther along the rough stone wall.
“Could I have something to drink?” Olaf asked. “Ale or whisky?”
She thought a moment, her head tilted to one side. “I’ll get you mead.”
He nodded. “Mead will do.”
Olaf sank down on the pallet. His tired hands barely mastered the straps and buckles as he removed his plate armor and stacked the pieces beside the pallet. Then he waited. If he planned to stay the night, he ought to unpack and change. Sweat from the endless riding stained the linen shirt and braies he wore beneath his travel-worn hose and doublet. He doubted he could tolerate the soiled garments much longer, but quenching his thirst came before everything else.
Minutes later, the timber door creaked open on its iron hinges and Lady Brenna returned, carrying a pewter mug by its handle. A sense of wonder filled Olaf anew. Down in the stables, when he’d watched her shed the bulky helm and the chain mail tunic, her beauty had stunned him into an uneasy silence.
He’d seen her emerge, like a butterfly emerges from its drab cocoon, and an impulse had swelled inside him to stride across the room and tangle his hands in her ebony curls. He was one of three suitors, he reminded himself. The right to touch her might never be his.
Lady Brenna moved forward and came to a halt a few paces from him, leaning down to hold the tankard out to him. Glossy dark curls tumbled past her shoulders, glinting in the candlelight. As she bent toward him, her breasts strained against the thick wool of her doublet. Olaf shifted on the pallet, pretending to settle more comfortably against the wall, when in truth the discomfort throbbed beneath his leather codpiece.
“I’ve heated the mead and put some spices in it,” she told him. “It will help you rest.”
In silence, Olaf watched her. Her features held not only beauty but strength. Bold, straight nose, dark arch of eyebrows, high crest of cheekbones. The full mouth and the sweep of long lashes added a hint of softness, making her appearance an alluring mix of a female warrior dressed in a man’s clothing and a woman with her feminine curves on display. He doubted Lady Brenna was aware of the subtle invitation her figure-hugging attire sent to any man old enough to lust after a woman and young enough to do something about it.
As he continued his survey of her, a trace of color rose to her cheeks, and she spoke in a nervous prattle. “We had the chimney in the center of the tower built five years ago. Before then, we had to suffer the smoke rising from the fire pit in the middle of the floor downstairs.”
Fire pit? Olaf shook his head in disbelief. It might be 1541, but it appeared that in this remote corner of Scotland time had stood still for centuries.
“It’s too early for bed,” he pointed out. “And I don’t plan to sleep here.”
A flash of rebellion skimmed across Lady Brenna’s features. Olaf knew that she’d caught his meaning, understood he was reminding her of his threat to ride out if she hadn’t made her choice of husband by nightfall.
She held the tankard out to him. “Drink and sleep now,” she told him. Her mouth puckered, as if she disliked the flavor of the words on her tongue. “You might not have the chance later,” she added, and Olaf couldn’t decide if she was warning him that he might have to depart soon or hinting at the wedding night to come.
“Drink,” she said again. “It’ll do you good.”
He caught it then—a flicker of cunning that drifted across her features as she proffered the tankard at him. She lowered her eyes, refusing to meet his searching gaze. A frown of guilty conscience pleated her brow, alerting him to danger as clearly as a painted warning sign might have done.
He expelled a tired sigh. It didn’t matter. Death by poisoning, death on a battlefield. If Lady Brenna chose him, at least he wouldn’t have to ride back through those godforsaken moors and, in any case, he didn’t need to start worrying about every mouthful he ate until they were husband and wife, united by law. It wouldn’t make sense for her to kill him unless she could become his widow.
Olaf took the pewter vessel from her and lifted it to his lips. As he downed the first mouthful of the sweet mead, a wave of exhaustion swept over him. He tilted his head back and swallowed, time and again, the liquid burning a hot path down his throat.
When he was finished, he passed the empty tankard back to Lady Brenna. She didn’t leave the room, merely moved a few paces away from him and remained standing there, swaying gently, shifting from foot to foot. One slender hand rose, tangling in her hair, the nervous fingers toying with the ebony curls as she waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Olaf ceased fighting the fatigue that washed over him. His limbs grew heavy, his thoughts hazy. Drowsy warmth enveloped him, pulling him into its peaceful embrace. Just before the darkness of sleep claimed him, his thoughts sprang loose, his control crumbl
ing away.
“I want you to be mine...mine to kiss, mine to wed, mine to bed...” He heard his slurred words but couldn’t stop their flow. “Lands...I want lands...forget lands...I want to taste you...put my hands on you...uncover your naked beauty...”
With the last grain of his awareness, Olaf registered Lady Brenna’s shocked gasp. She took a hasty backward step, retreating deeper into the shadows, but not before he saw a crimson flush surge up to her face.
“I want to be inside you and feel you tighten around me...until my seed spurts out and fills you with my babe....” His voice fell to a raspy whisper. “I want to curl asleep beside you...night after night after night....”
Overcoming her initial reaction, Lady Brenna moved closer, hovering in front of him, straining to hear his words. Olaf tried to reach out for her. An urge soared inside him to haul her against him and press his mouth against her rosy lips, and yet his body refused to move. With a groan of frustration, he slumped down on the straw pallet. Then a black void claimed him, and with it the images of his hopes and dreams.
* * *
Lady Brenna fled the guest solar, her trembling legs barely carrying her. The room opened to a corridor outside the laird’s chamber, and as soon as she’d crossed the threshold, she halted and barred the door. Then she turned around and propped her back against the smooth timber surface, her chest rising and falling with urgent breaths.
Her third suitor had a warm, rich voice, and now echoes of it filled her ears. She tried to forget his lustful ramblings, but her body throbbed and tingled with the sensations his daring comments had stirred inside her. Images of the arrogant, masculine beauty of the golden knight filled her mind, refusing to fade.
What would it be like, to be in love?
What would it be like, to dream of a man’s touch?
What would it be like, to eagerly wait for the night to fall?
A shiver of warning ran through Brenna, shaking her like a winter chill. Romantic love ruined lives. She’d enjoyed the best of it, the safe and undemanding love of her family, and she wouldn’t tempt the Fates by opening her heart to a stranger. Painful memories whispered through her mind. Her mother’s tears when the isolation at Kilgarren got too much for her and she chose to return to France. Her father’s grief, how he’d stormed out to the moors, roaring out his longing for her into the winds after she was gone and his loneliness grew too deep to bear, eventually fracturing his sanity.
Such a fate would not ruin her future.
She refused to let herself fall in love and then have her heart shrivel and die, the way her father’s heart had died when her mother found it impossible to stay. She would do her duty, seal the marriage and then count the months until her husband grew tired of the primitive existence in the north and left.
* * *
Dull, steady thuds pounded like drumbeats against his temples. Olaf cracked his eyes open, coming awake in stages, trying to figure out where he was. Darkness surrounded him, but vertical streaks of golden light broke through the veil of black. When he reached out, his fumbling hands met a heavy layer of fabric, a flimsy wall that swayed as he groped. Rolling over, he pushed the rustling velvet aside and found himself looking into a large room.
Privacy curtains.
He was stretched out on a canopied bed. On a small table a few feet away, a pair of tallow candles burned with a steady flame. A fire roared in a massive stone chimney. As his senses sharpened, he felt the texture of his woolen hose and quilted doublet against his skin—whoever had hauled him from the straw pallet into his room had left his clothing undisturbed.
Softly spoken words drifted at him from the shadows. “I asked Ian and Alistair to carry you into the laird’s chamber.”
His parched throat only managed a rasp in reply.
“You need to drink,” the voice told him.
He fought the ache in his head and focused his gaze in the direction of the sound. Out of the darkness, a woman stepped forward. She was slender, clad in pair of tight-fitting hose and a green velvet doublet that covered her hips. Glossy black curls cascaded down to her waist. When she offered him a taut smile, a pair of dimples decorated her cheeks.
Fragments, recollections fell into place—the ride through the Highlands, his arrival at Kilgarren, clashing swords with a woman. “Lady Brenna?” he croaked.
“Drink.” She knelt beside him and lifted a stone cup to his lips.
Still dazed from the deep, dreamless sleep, Olaf tipped his head back and took greedy gulps, the cool water easing his thirst. His eyes roamed over her—the subtle curve of her breasts, the fine arch of dark brows, the rosy mouth pursed in concentration as she held the drinking vessel steady for him. On her temple, a blue vein throbbed beneath the pale skin.
He swallowed the last drops. “Thank you.”
Lady Brenna moved away from him. She set the cup down on the table and bent to deal with some other objects that Olaf couldn’t see from the distance. He heard a clunk and a scraping sound. A moment later, Lady Brenna dragged a low pine stool to the bedside. She went to the table again and returned with a wooden board, a roll of parchment and a quill.
She held up the document. “The marriage contract.”
She’d chosen him over the competition.
A small corner of Olaf’s damaged pride repaired itself, but the rest of his thoughts whirled around in a confusing mix, almost like an army attacking from all directions on a battlefield. His brain felt dull. She must have drugged him. He should have realized he needed to be more cautious with the drink she’d offered him when he settled down to sleep.
He’d just drunk some more.
His stomach lurched. Perhaps he should purge its contents. Dismissing the idea, he gritted his teeth to fight the nausea. So far, she’d only given him a sleeping draft. It made no sense for her to poison him now. Better to wait until they were married and she could become his widow. Still, he would need to be on his guard.
Olaf pushed up to a sitting position on the bed and swung his legs over the edge. The icy floor chilled his feet through the woolen socks. He couldn’t recall if he’d removed his boots, or if someone else might have done it while he lay in a stupor. Despite the situation, the thought of his bride undressing him, even if it were just his heavy boots, made the knot of tension in his belly tighten another notch.
Lady Brenna settled on the low stool beside the bed. She balanced the board over her knees and poised the quill above the parchment. “Your name?”
Startled, Olaf searched her solemn expression. “You don’t know my name?”
“I forgot to ask when you arrived.”
“The king didn’t inform you of who your suitors would be?”
“Not the third.” Lady Brenna looked away. Her voice fell to a mutter. “The other two were known to me.”
“What happened to them?” Olaf pressed.
“I sent them away while you slept.” She returned her attention to the parchment on her knees, her brisk manner indicating that she preferred not to dwell on the topic of the dismissed suitors. “Your name?” she asked again.
“Olaf Stenholm.” He watched as she wrote it on the contract.
Her soft mouth puckered in concentration as she carefully drew each letter. The long lashes made dark crescents against the creamy skin. She turned the parchment around on the board and held the quill out to him. “Sign your name.”
His mind reeled back to the long ride across the frozen moors, the frostbite in his fingers, the discomfort and fatigue of the endless journey wearing plate armor because he had no other means of transporting it. During the journey, he’d thought that he’d lost everything but his honor. Now it dawned on him that he also had his life, and he valued his remaining days much more than he’d believed up to now.
He lifted one hand in a stalling gesture, not accepting t
he quill she was offering to him. Despite the lingering effects of the drug, his voice rang sharp. “You’ve had your chance to consider me as a suitor. In return, I want a chance to consider you and your lands. The king sent you three suitors to choose from. I want three days to decide.”
The quill snapped in two in Lady Brenna’s fingers. “Decide?”
“Yes,” he said. “To decide if I want to marry you.”
Her dark brows drew together. For a moment, she scowled at him, uncertainty and dismay flickering across her features. “One day,” she said finally. “You gave me one day to make up my mind. You shall have the same. I want your decision by tomorrow night.”
Olaf nodded. “Tomorrow night it shall be. During the day, we’ll take a tour to survey your lands. When the darkness falls, I’ll sign the marriage contract or be off on my way.”
After he’d spoken, he shoved to his feet. Taking ginger steps to fight the lingering effects of the drug, he walked over to the table. On it stood two small iron cauldrons on tripod legs. A stubby candle burned beneath each cauldron, keeping the stew warm. He inhaled the aroma of meat and spices. His stomach growled with hunger. Perhaps it would be safe to eat, if he made her select one of the dishes first and then switched the portions around.
Before he’d finished evaluating the risk, Lady Brenna edged up to his side. She bent to blow out the candles. “I’ll take these away,” she informed him. “I’ll fetch you some bread and cheese instead.” Using a piece of quilted cloth to protect her hands, she packed the untouched meal into a wicker basket and hurried out of the room.
Olaf’s appetite vanished. A hollow feeling settled in his belly. He’d never been a glutton, but in that instant a worry took root in his mind that he might never enjoy another meal again. He strode after Lady Brenna, his woolen socks soundless on the stone floor. She was disappearing down the ladder, the top of her glossy curls still in sight.
Tatiana March Page 2
