by Tualla, Kris
His hand hovered over the paper. Then he wrote in strong, dark letters: Brander.
He blinked his gaze up to hers and spun the paper around to face her.
"That's your name?"
Yes.
"Brander Olsen? Or is it Jensen, like Niels?"
His mouth twisted and he shrugged an apology. He tapped the paper.
Regin drew a steadying breath. She knew she had no right to ask, and he had no reason to tell her more. "Brander is enough for now. Thank you... Brander."
You are most welcome, my lady.
October 12, 1720
Brander's head throbbed without mercy. He slumped in one corner of the coach, his hand over his eyes and feet propped on the opposite seat. They had dawdled in Tønsberg long enough and needed to continue on their way no matter how ill he was.
Niels drove the carriage southwest toward Larvik and the road was fairly easy thus far. Even so, every jolt of the carriage sent javelins through his temples and clawed gouges behind his eyes. In spite of the akevitt, he hadn't slept well enough to banish the demon headache.
Yester eve after he waved Lady Kildahl off to bed, he remained alone in the common room. Several minutes passed before the stubborn stiffness in his trousers gave up hope, but seeking the succor of sleep hadn't helped. Instead, the widow commandeered his dreams. She haunted the shadows of his room and draped across his bed. Her rich brown tresses tickled his skin. Her startlingly blue eyes pulled him close and her full lips opened to his.
Thor's thunder!
He wanted her in such a gut-twisting manner as he had never wanted any woman before. And it was made worse because he could have her. He was the one who paid Thorlak's creditors so he had the right to claim her estate, her title, and take her to wife. So why didn't he?
This game he played, for one.
Once they reached Arendal, the truth of him would be on rampant display at Hansen Hall. There was no way to avoid the complete revelation that was coming. He shouldn't have told her his name but he ached to be honest with her -- if only about the one thing -- before he was laid bare. The akevitt pulsed through him and pressed him to seize that intimate moment.
Every mile they covered made him a more deliberate liar. Every step took him deeper into deception. He didn't think it would matter to his brother, but he doubted that Lady Kildahl could ever forgive him. And he wasn't at all certain that she should.
Besides, his resolution to remain a bachelor remained, thus far, intact.
Brander decided after his first adolescent bedding that he would never marry. If he made noises when he climaxed with a whore, he was anonymous. He had the comfort of knowing he needn't ever see that particular girl again.
But a wife? She would be expected to share the marital bed with him for the rest of their lives. Or at least until she presented him with an heir or two. What if he unwittingly grunted or moaned or howled -- and she was appalled? What if she found him ridiculous? Or frightening?
What if he allowed himself to soften towards a woman enough to marry, and she subsequently turned him out of her bedchamber? The isolation caused by his deafness would be complete. The loss of her comfort would overwhelm and destroy him. Love was too much of a gamble and marriage too much of a risk for a damaged man such as he.
So why couldn't he keep himself from watching Lady Kildahl through his fingers?
All day long, her face was the only thing that lifted his concentration away from the migraine. He memorized the slope of her nose. The arch of her brows and the way her lashes curled up to meet them. Her habit of licking her lips then biting the lower one.
When they arrived in Larvik late that afternoon, Niels stopped the carriage at a likely inn. Brander stumbled up the stairs and climbed into his bed without undressing.
Chapter Twenty
Larvik
October 12, 1720
Big clumps of snow began to fall just past midday and now it made the streets of Larvik wet and slick. Regin picked her way through the slush on a precarious path from the carriage to the steps of the inn that Niels chose for the night. Lord Olsen -- Brander -- lumbered ahead, and by the time she and Marthe entered the common room he wasn't in sight. Heavy footfalls mounted the stairs and she assumed they were his. A door above them clunked closed.
The poor man hardly moved all day.
He leaned into the corner of the coach, his long legs bent, knees wide, and huge feet propped on the seat beside her. Regin made Marthe sit beside him, claiming propriety. In truth, she wanted to watch him.
Ever since yester eve when he told her his name, she felt connected to the man. He trusted her enough to give her that private piece of himself. And she determined to guard it; she would address him as Lord Olsen whenever others were present. Even Niels.
When she and Marthe were safely settled in their own rooms, she asked her maid if anything could be done for Brander. "Do you know of anything stronger than willow bark?"
Marthe shook her head. "The only drug that is strong enough for the sort of headache he suffers from is opium," she said. "And I don't believe that Lord Olsen would risk that, considering his investigation."
Regin slumped on the edge of her bed. "No, I don't imagine he would."
"I have heard of absinthe of wormwood being used, but it's a dangerous drug if one takes too much. I have never tried using it," Marthe added.
"What about a hot water bladder? Or perhaps ice? Or a lavender salve?" Regin proposed.
The maid nodded. "Any of those might give the man some ease, even if they don't make the pain stop."
"Have you any of that in your satchel?"
Marthe opened her bag and began to poke about inside. She sat a clay pot on the bedside table, and lifted a rolled sheep bladder. Regin uncorked the pot and lavender suffused the small room.
"Come with me," she instructed, palming the pot. "And bring the bladder."
Niels let them into Brander's dark room once he determined that the man was still decently clothed. Regin approached, tiptoeing before she realized the futility of trying to be quiet. She touched his shoulder and he rolled to face her. His eyes were half closed and his skin an unhealthy shade of gray in the dim light.
She held up the bladder and patted her own head. "Do you want cold or hot?"
He blinked slowly. His hand moved in a gesture she didn't know.
"Hot," Niels said.
Regin handed the bladder to Marthe who left to fill it. Then she uncorked the lavender salve. "Rub this on your chest," she said.
Brander closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. With one large hand he pushed the sheets to his waist, and with the other he lifted the hem of his linen shirt to his throat. He opened his eyes a slit and lifted one finger in her direction.
"Do - do you want me to - to do it?" she stammered.
He blinked again, but didn't move to take the jar from her. Regin glanced at Niels. "Stay with me while I do this. I don't want my future husband to think I behaved less than properly."
Niels tipped his head. "Of course, my lady."
Regin settled on the edge of Brander's bed. She swiped her fingers into the pot and set it aside. She paused, then gingerly began to rub the salve over Brander's chest.
He flopped one hand over hers and pressed her palm against his skin. He moved it against his chest with more pressure. Regin clenched her jaw. She closed her eyes and focused on where her fingers traveled.
Brander's chest had a reasonable amount of curly hair that didn't reach as high as his collarbone nor as wide as his shoulders. It buried his nipples enough that she couldn't feel them at first. But when they puckered and grew hard her cheeks flamed and she avoided them.
Regin lost herself in the task. She massaged the ointment into the man's skin with a firm circular motion. Brander's chest was broad, well-muscled and hard. His skin warmed beneath her touch. She reached as wide as his upper arms and the sides of his ribs and as high as his neck. He huffed breaths of pleasure and his skin raised in goosefl
esh.
Touching this man was nothing like touching Thorlak had been. This man was big and firm and strong. Her palms slid over him and her mind imagined what she couldn't see with her eyes shut. Her pulse thrummed and she breathed deeply to slow it down. The juncture of her thighs tingled. Her hands slowed.
When she moved her fingers over his belly he tensed. She opened her eyes to the narrow downward trail of hair that darkened decidedly. For a moment she froze. Then their eyes met.
He gripped her hands and pushed them away. He pulled the sheets to his chest, his dark gaze still locked on hers. Her gut tingled and she couldn't move. She couldn't even breathe.
Marthe strode into the room. She came to the bedside releasing Regin from the spell of Brander's explicit masculinity. Regin grabbed the bladder of hot water and offered it to the man without a word.
He reached one hand up and accepted the offering. He snuggled it over his eyes. With a huge chest-expanding sigh, she was dismissed.
Regin stood and walked from the room, stiff with all the dignity of her title. Outside her window the snow had turned to rain.
October 13, 1720
Brander came to break his fast looking reborn. Excepting swollen eyelids and a slight pallor, the man was restored to his previous robust condition. He ate with the appetite of a laborer and Regin realized he had not eaten at all the previous day. She passed him a bowl of boiled eggs and giggled at his boyish exuberance.
He had his wallet out and he wrote: Today we go north to Nystrand, then south to Brevik. There we will take a ferry across a river to Bramble.
"I've never taken a ferry with such a large carriage," Regin said.
Brander shrugged and waved his hand as if it was nothing to be concerned over. Then he grinned, rolled a piece of ham in a slice of bread and bit off half of it.
"Will the rain slow us down?" ...Do you think? she asked, mixing words and motions.
A little. Not as much as snow.
Thankfully the weather had warmed enough that yesterday's slush piles were not today's frozen ruts. But she was growing so tired of being damp. And tired of foggy gray days that stole her ability to enjoy any pleasant scenery they might be passing through. She just wanted this journey to be over. She wanted her ordeal of wondering to be over.
Brander opted to drive the carriage today rather than sit inside. There was nothing for her to do but settle into her seat in the coach, open her book of ballads, and read the day away.
Brevik
October 13, 1720
Brander didn't say anything to the women, but Niels commented that so much rain and heavy wet snow could easily make the roads more treacherous. It certainly stirred up the river. Though their carriage was tied down, the conveyance still strained the ropes as the flat barge rocked across two hundred yards of muddy water rushing out to meet the North Sea inlet.
The barge wouldn't capsize, constructed as it was on enormous whole-tree logs and wide as a house. But its cargo could be convinced to spill off if the ride was rough enough. Today's conditions certainly seemed to tempt.
Regin and Marthe waited for the barge to return for them. Niels rode the ferry back to retrieve them. They tied ropes around their waists and stood in the middle of the flat boat as it bucked across to the opposite side. Regin had never been so happy to stand on solid ground as when the voyage was safely accomplished.
Niels was wet from his two crossings, so he joined them inside the coach for the ride to the inn. He shivered with the damp cold, but made no complaint.
"Have you ever been to Arendal?" Regin asked him, the sudden consideration born of a day spent pondering her future.
He startled. "Arendal?" he repeated vacantly. "Well, yes. I was a boy there... Before Lord Olsen, I mean."
Regin sat up stiffly. "Did you know my new husband? Jarl Hansen?"
Niels' glance moved to Marthe and he shrugged a little. "Everyone in Arendal knows the Hansens of Hansen Hall, my lady."
"Is that so?" She leaned back, thoughtful. It hadn't occurred to her that her future husband might be a powerful man. "When was the family established?"
"Hansen Hall has been the seat of the family since Eric the Red--"
"You mean well before William the Conqueror?" Regin interrupted.
Niels nodded. "A century before. All the men in the family have claimed Hansen as their patronymic to keep the name from disappearing. And to continue the reputation, I would guess."
"So, you do know him? Jarl Hansen?" Regin pressed. "What does he look like?"
"We were but small boys..." Niels demurred.
"Tell me, Niels, please. I have nothing to hang my wifely dreams upon."
The valet squirmed a little.
"Well... The manor has two sections: the original ancient keep and the medieval part that was added later. The Hansen family was almost wiped off the earth in the mid-thirteen-hundreds by the Black Death. A man named Rydar Hansen managed to bring it back." Niels recited the tale like a history lesson. That wasn't what she wanted to know.
Regin shook her head. "There's time enough for that later, Niels. Tell me of Jarl."
"Jarl?" he stalled.
"Yes!" she barked.
"He was blond as a boy. With green eyes. A strong and sturdy lad." Niels squinted. "He was tall, but not as tall as his brothers I don't believe..."
"He has brothers?" Regin prodded. "How many?"
Niels' mouth opened then slapped shut. He shrugged.
Her voice displayed her disbelief. "You don't know?"
"There were three boys when I left Arendal, my lady."
"And Jarl is the oldest?"
"Yes. He was... he is the oldest son at Hansen Hall. Yes."
"Has he any sisters?" A close female relative could be a blessing -- or a curse.
The valet shook his head. "None that I know of."
"Are the other brothers married?"
"I don't know."
"How long have you been gone?"
Niels paused and looked directly into her eyes and spoke slowly. "A very long time."
Their conversation was at an end.
Bamble
October 14, 1720
Another town. Another inn. Another night closer to delivering Lady Kildahl into his brother's bed.
Two hours past midday Brander drove the motley team of horses with one hand and wondered whether he wished their journey would end immediately, or last eternally. Both extremes appealed to him but for very different reasons.
While the widow had her hand on him, only his debilitating headache kept him from pulling her under his sheets. And then under him, his headache be damned. Her hot palm soothed at first and the calming scent of the lavender infused his senses. But the longer she touched his skin, stroking his chest, his shoulders and his sides, the more she aroused him.
When her fingers moved to his belly, he stopped her. He hoped he didn't grip her hand too hard, nor push her away too violently, but -- by Odin's remaining eye -- she had him at the edge of his control and very nearly beyond. He ached to bed the widow and hadn't a care what his brother might think.
The cold gray day spat on him as if to chide him for coveting his brother's wife.
Almost wife, he spat back.
The carriage rolled resolutely forward along the road. The coastal landscape of southern Norway presented ridges and gouges formed by ice and water that carved the land long before man dared to wander over it. The dirt road hugged the edges of hills, curving along their sides and leaning precariously over narrow slits of shallow valleys. Brander looked skyward and pondered the clouds. He was thankful that all he rode under was a drizzle and not snow. The sun disappeared a mere five hours after noon and he was glad enough to keep moving.
What was that?
Brander reined the horses to a stop. He lifted his chin and sniffed the air. His gaze swept the road. He held his breath. Every muscle, every nerve, was alert to movement. He felt it again; a deep vibration. The ground beneath the carriage trembled. Th
e horses sidestepped and shook their heads.
Niels emerged from the coach. "What's amiss?"
Get the women out of the carriage.
His cousin obeyed, handing the ladies out. The trio of adults stood beside the conveyance, awkward and puzzled. Brander waited. Still. Searching.
Then it began.
Twenty-five yards ahead, the hill fell away. Mud, rocks and trees tumbled as if being chewed and took huge mouthfuls of the road with them. And the bites were moving toward them.
Brander began to saw at the reins, urging the team to back up. Niels bolted to their heads and tried to pull the horses backwards. The panicking animals reared in the harness and kicked at each other, terrified by the shaking -- and surely the sound. But their efforts didn't budge the horses nor the carriage. The ground beneath the lead pair began to sag. Niels leaned his entire weight into trying to move the geldings.
Yanking the axe from under the driver's bench, Brander scrambled down the tongue of the carriage. He began to hack away at the wood behind the lead horses, desperate to save the rear pair and the coach. Lunging horseflesh shuddered his perch and iron-shod hooves churned the mud beneath him.
The first horse went down, thrashing. Its partner tossed its head back, mouth open and frothing. Brander hit the wood brace harder and harder, again and again. He almost had it. A flash of color to his right pulled his attention.
If he could have screamed, he would have.
Lady Kildahl had a hunting dagger in her hand and she was trying to cut through the leather straps that held the horses to the carriage. He waved the axe over his head -- she looked up at him -- gave a violent shake of her head -- and continued. One strap gave. She started another. It gave. She moved on to a third.
Her foolishness infuriated him, but he had no chance to stop her before the second lead horse fell. The weight of that animal snapped the nearly-severed tongue. Brander grabbed the mare on his left by the mane, and with the axe in his right hand chopped away the remaining leather tack.
