Each moment spun with promise, making it impossible to close her eyes. But it was so easy to relax against him. She could hear the steady beat of his heart and feel the hard planes and ridges of his muscled chest. Succumbing would be so sweet. Her eyelids did seem heavy and the rocking of the birlinn was soothing. Even the wind lulled her, its gusting roar somehow softer now, gently keening and oddly melodic.
Almost like a song….
She sighed and snuggled closer to his warmth. He was stroking her hair now, his touch feather light as if he were lifting single strands and letting them glide through his fingers. Astonishingly pleasurable shivers prickled her scalp and the sensitive skin of her nape. Beautiful sensations that made her want to purr but the effort was too great.
Her eyes did drift shut then, her long and sooty eyelashes giving her an innocence that both pierced Darroc’s heart and jabbed him with a pang of guilt.
Arabella of Kintail was innocent.
And the twitches he still couldn’t stop from stirring at his loins made him the most despicable sort of beast he’d e’er condemned for their callousness.
A state he only worsened when he dipped his head and kissed her hair. She made a soft little mewling sound in response and seemed to melt even more sweetly against him, her reaction making his pulse jump and that part of him tighten and pull with even more insistence.
Scowling fiercely, he slid a discreet hand down between them and squeezed hard until the throbbing abated. Then, because he was a greater fool than he would have ever believed, he lowered his lips to the crown of her head again and kissed her softly. Her hair felt silky and cool and smelled faintly of gillyflowers, entirely beguiling.
The subtle contact made him ache for more. He knew from caring for her that her skin felt even silkier. Smooth, unmarred, and whiter than the creamiest milk, her limbs would glow so sinuously in the moonlight were she naked in his arms. Her breasts…
He groaned and closed his eyes. But that, too, only brought torment when he rubbed his cheek against her hair and her delicate scent flooded his senses. Unable to resist, he dropped another soft kiss to her temple, then along her brow, her cheekbones, and even those lovely eyelashes.
Blessedly she didn’t stir. At least she didn’t until she splayed her fingers across his chest and slid her hands up to his shoulders, gripping tight.
“Darroc…” Her voice was husky.
He tightened his arms around her, no longer caring if he was callous or not. She was so soft, rounded, and warm against him. His need for her consumed him and he wanted her now, without shame and regret. Somewhere he imagined a buzz of activity, his men’s laughter and the clanging of the gong, the sounds breaking rudely into his dreams of sinking into Arabella’s silken, womanly heat.
He frowned, trying to ignore them.
“Darroc.” The voice came even deeper. Grasping fingers dug into his shoulders, shaking him much harder than Arabella had the strength to do. “Wake up, you oaf. You slept soundly and warm I see!”
“Damnation!” Darroc’s eyes snapped open.
Conall’s hairy legs came into frightening focus. The bastard loomed above him, grinning like a fool. Behind him, Hugh, one of the oarsmen, beat the gong, and it took Darroc all of a blink to note that they were flying across the waves. And that the weak, watery sun had made its appearance more than a few hours before.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes, amazed that Arabella still slumbered deeply. “Why didn’t you wake me?” He glared at Conall, grudgingly accepting the oatcakes and cup of morning ale his cousin offered him.
“What?” Conall laughed. “Wake you and ruin what looks to have been a most warm night?”
“We’ll have words later, whatever.” Darroc took a deliberate munch out of his oatcake. “Dinna think I’ll forget.”
Conall grinned again and sketched a mocking bow.
“Darroc…” This time it was Arabella. She tugged on his arm, looking so delectable in her disarray that his heart twisted despite his cousin’s gawking presence. “Look! There is land,” she said, pointing.
“Sakes!” Darroc leapt to his feet, pulling her up with him. “That’s Olaf Big Nose’s isle.”
“Indeed.” Conall punched him in the arm, beaming. “Now you see why I wakened you. We’ve made good time while you’ve entertained us with your snores.”
Scarce believing his eyes, Darroc stared at his friend’s isle. They were so close he could make out its jagged cliffs, cut into so many small headlands and sweet narrow bays. Already small fishermen’s huts could be seen dotting one of the larger sea lochs. Cook smoke rose in blue threads above the huts’ thatched roofs and several beached longships were pulled up on the golden sand. A thickly wooded defile stretched behind the settlement and thin morning mist still wreathed the tops of the trees.
Somewhere a dog barked, the sound carrying on the wind. But what caught everyone’s eye and brought a cheer from the men on the rowing benches was the single-sailed, low-slung galley that swept around the loch-head and raced toward them. Moving at speed, the galley’s double banks of flashing long oars sent up great clouds of spume as the craft flew across the water.
“Ho, MacConacher—welcome!” A huge bear of a man bellowed the greeting as the galley swept up with a grand flourish, the oarsmen only backwatering the sweeps when they were well within shouting distance. “You come timely!” Olaf Big Nose grinned even more broadly than Darroc’s men. “I have great tidings! News we have waited long to hear!”
“And I have news for you,” Darroc called to his friend, signaling his men to lower their oars as the galley drew near. “Grim tidings, Olaf, but a stroke of fate we can turn to our advantage.”
Jumping down from the stern platform, he ran forward, leaping onto the bow platform even as the two prows bumped together.
“I’ve brought a maid.” He flung out an arm to indicate Arabella, still standing beside her sail screen. “She survived a Black Viking attack. The dastards rammed the merchant cog she was traveling on and—”
Olaf Big Nose threw back his head and laughed. “Can I ne’er outdo you?” He sprang across the narrow space separating them, grabbing Darroc’s arms when he landed on the bow platform. “You’ve stolen my news.”
Darroc stared at him. “You heard of the Merry Dancer?”
Olaf nodded. “The whole sorry tale, just!” He stepped back and folded his arms. “I’ve a bedbound survivor we found just days ago, clinging to a skerry. The man has a fever, but he’ll pull through. The Black Vikings meant to ransom him, but”—he cast a glance at Arabella and lowered his voice—“when they discovered he’d lied about his connections, they set him out on the reef to drown.”
Darroc felt his jaw slip. “And who is he?”
Olaf Big Nose’s chest swelled. “A Norseman,” he boasted, his voice ringing with pride. “You know it’s nigh impossible to have done with us.”
“And his name?” Arabella was suddenly at Darroc’s side. She slipped a hand through his arm and he could tell that she was trembling. “Who is this man?”
“One who will be right happy to see you, lass.” Olaf Big Nose turned to her, grinning. “He’s the cog’s shipmaster. Captain Arnkel Arneborg.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lady Arabella!” Arnkel Arneborg’s voice was a raspy croak. “God be praised it is you.”
“Captain Arneborg.” Arabella looked down at the man in the narrow bed, buried to his chin beneath linens and fur coverings. Sweat beaded his brow and his blue eyes glittered feverishly. He’d lost his ruddy coloring and his cheeks were sunken, his jaw beneath the bushy blond beard jutting like a blade. Everywhere in the dimly lit room braziers glowed softly, giving off warmth and scenting the air with aromatic herbs.
A heavy wax candle burned on an iron wall pricket near the bed and in its flickering light, the shipmaster looked almost cadaverous. Of the laughing-eyed sea captain with his bluster and plague bells was nary a trace.
Arabella forced a smile. “It would seem th
e saints cast their eye on us both.”
She hoped the words didn’t sound as hollow as they felt. Truth was she could clench her fists and rail at the saints for not treating him as kindly as they had her. Before Olaf Big Nose had ushered her toward the heavy woolen hanging that separated the sickroom from the rest of his longhouse, he’d sworn that his women were seeing to the captain’s every need. He’d also declared that he was sure Arneborg would regain his strength and recover fully.
Seeing him now, Arabella wasn’t so sure.
She took his hand, trying not to show her dismay when she found his fingers clammy and limp. “I have Mina.” She struggled for something to say. “I tied her in a length of blanketing and kept her bundled in my cloak. She is well and has charmed everyone at Castle Bane.”
Captain Arneborg’s eyelids flickered and he gave a terrible rattling cough. “I’ve heard that you have charmed someone, too, my lady.”
Arabella flushed. Before she could reply, there was a soft clacking of curtain rings and the swooshing of the wool room divider being drawn aside. An attractive blond woman with large breasts, dressed in a colorful full-skirted gown, swept in, carrying a copper laving bowl and an armful of linen cloths. She set the bowl, filled with steaming water, on a small table beside the bed and turned to smile at Arabella.
“It is time that one was charmed,” she said, her voice low-pitched, almost smoky. “Darroc MacConacher has needed a good woman for long.”
Arabella’s face flamed hotter. But she managed to return the Norsewoman’s smile, recognizing her as Jutta Manslayer, Olaf Big Nose’s favorite concubine. Darroc had pointed her out when they’d first passed through the busy settlement on their way to Olaf’s longhouse.
“I think you’re mistaken.” Arabella watched the woman dip a cloth into her bowl and begin dabbing Captain Arneborg’s brow. She couldn’t admit to a stranger that charming Darroc was her heart’s greatest desire.
Or that, after the voyage to Olaf’s isle, she believed she’d actually done so.
“Darroc will be returning me to Kintail after we leave your isle.” Her stomach fluttered against the possibility. “He knows my father will be beside himself worrying about me.”
Jutta Manslayer’s lips curved in another smile. “Your father will joy to see a man as fine as Darroc at your side. There are few men so worthy.”
“I know, but”—Arabella glanced back at the half-open woolen curtain. The main room of the longhouse loomed dark beyond, but the smell of wood smoke drifted into the sickroom and she heard the low murmur of men’s voices as they sat gathered around the central fire. Darroc’s voice was one of them, and just hearing him speak made her heart flip.
“He’s already made firm plans to escort me home.” She turned back to the other woman, wishing it wasn’t so. She also wished she wasn’t worried about what her father would do when he learned Darroc’s name. “One of the reasons he brought me here was to help me prepare for the long voyage.”
“Ahhh, but everything’s changed now, hasn’t it?” Jutta Manslayer plunged her cloth into the bowl, wringing out the excess water. “There will be much to do when you leave here. Men’s business. He will scarce have time to think of journeying north to your distant Kintail.”
Arabella felt her heart skip again. “I know he hopes that he and Olaf Big Nose can find the Black Vikings.”
“Hah! They will find them.” Captain Arneborg pushed himself up against the bed bolsters, his eyes lighting with a trace of his old spirit. “I’ve told them where the blackguards make their camp. Their leader, Svend Skull-Splitter, is a snake but his greed is greater than his wits. Olaf and MacConacher mean to—” He broke off in a wheeze, followed by another burst of coughing.
Jutta hurried to fill an ale cup and tipped it to his lips. “You must rest now.” She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as she helped him drink. “I will tell the lady of the men’s plans to banish Svend Skull-Splitter.”
“He should be sent to hell and nowhere else.” Captain Arneborg coughed after she set aside the cup and wiped his chin with a cloth.
Jutta waited until he slumped back against the pillows. When his chest heaves subsided and his eyes drifted shut again, she smoothed the bed coverings and then took Arabella’s arm, drawing her aside.
“When Arnora Ship-Breast and the other women took you away to see to your clothes, I heard the men speaking as I served them meat and broth.” She spoke softly, the words meant not to carry beyond the wool partition. “Olaf has ever desired a charter for this isle but the Scottish crown has always refused to acknowledge Olaf’s rights. His wishes are well known in these isles. Now”—she cast a glance at the bed and the sleeping shipmaster—“we shall put word out that the crown has accepted Olaf’s offer, but only in exchange for much silver.
“Olaf means to send out a galley that he hopes Svend Skull-Splitter will mistake for the ship carrying Olaf’s payment to the crown. Then—”
“He hopes the Black Vikings will attack so Olaf and Darroc can ambush them at sea,” Arabella finished for her, all too familiar with her father’s warring strategies. “It could work. If they plan well and—”
“It will work.” Jutta’s eyes sparkled. “Olaf is a peace-loving man but his blood runs hot with the fire of his grandfathers. And Darroc”—her smile widened—“has good reason to see justice served. He wishes to avenge you!”
Arabella looked down at her hands, now clenched into her new brightly colored skirts. “I would not wish either of them or their men to suffer injuries. I have seen the Black Vikings’ dragonship and what they can do.”
The other woman laughed. “Then you know what Olaf and his men are capable of when they desire it. They, too, are Viking! But first”—she stepped back and turned a critical eye on Arabella—“we must find you some adornments for tonight’s feasting.”
“Feasting?” It was the first Arabella heard the like.
“So I say!” Jutta shoved back the woolen hanging and led Arabella back into the smoky darkness of the longhouse’s main room. They moved slowly, slipping past the empty sleeping benches lining the walls and taking care to avoid the men still huddled around the fire, talking.
When they stepped outside, the Norsewoman released Arabella’s arm. She smiled at a group of children playing noisily in front of one of the fishermen’s huts. “There will be a celebratory feasting with much merrymaking.” She indicated a clearing where men were setting up great sailcloth awnings and preparing two whole bullocks to be roasted over open fires. “It is not often that we can entertain visitors.”
Arabella’s pulse jumped. Already there was an air of excitement in the camp. A sense of anticipation that made her belly all fluttery again, this time in a good way. Merrymaking meant music and dance. And that meant…
She felt herself color again. She knew well enough from her father’s hall the kinds of things that could happen when ale flowed freely and spirits were high. Her sister wasn’t the only one who’d crept out of bed and hidden in the stair tower to watch the raucous revelry.
“Yes, there will be dancing.” Jutta Manslayer spoke as if she’d read Arabella’s mind. “Later, it could be that Darroc will take you to admire the moon from our boat strand.” She leaned close and winked. “It shines there most invitingly.”
“We shall see.” Arabella wondered if she could be so bold.
Deep inside she knew she had to be.
Her happiness depended on it.
“I’m worried about Captain Arneborg.”
Arabella raised her voice above the sound of music and laughter coming from the center of the clearing. She and Darroc sat at a well-laden trestle table beneath one of the sailcloth awnings, a good distance away from the whirling, stamping dancers. But even here the wild skirl of the pipes was earsplitting. Bonfires and flaming resin torches turned night to day, casting all in a weaving, ruddy glow. Including the dark forms of couples who, tired of jigs and reels, hastened away to disappear into the quiet behind the fishe
rmen’s huts and bunkhouses.
Arabella knew why they were leaving.
Seeing the excitement on their faces as they rushed past did funny things to her stomach and made her mouth dry. So far Darroc had given no indication of wishing to take her to see the moonlight as Jutta Manslayer had predicted.
Quite the opposite, he applied his enthusiasm to digging in to the roasted beef rib the huge-bosomed Arnora Ship-Breast had plunked down on his trencher. He ate with gusto and showed no sign of sharing her concern for the shipmaster. Indeed, Arabella doubted he’d even heard her.
But guilt pinched her, so she curled her fingers around his arm, stilling his hand just as he reached again for the beef rib. “Do you not think the noise is keeping him awake? Or”—she hated this possibility—“that he hears the music and is sad he can’t join us?”
“Who?” He jerked around to face her, a speck of rib juice glistening on his chin.
“Captain Arneborg.” Arabella reached to dab away the grease, then gasped when he seized her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers.
“Arneborg?” He turned her hand over and dropped a kiss on her palm, his gaze not leaving hers. “He will no’ be sad to hear the din. He—”
“It has to be ruining his sleep.”
“To be sure!” Darroc grinned. “And he will be glad for each burst of laughter and song. He knows we’re celebrating the banishment of his foes and that”—he leaned forward and gave her a swift kiss on the mouth—“is sweeter than any dreams he might have in his sleep.”
“He wants worse than banishment for the Black Vikings.” Arabella fingered the carnelian and rock crystal beaded necklace Jutta had given her. “He said this afternoon that he wished to see them in hell.”
“And so they will be—as Arneborg knows.”
“But you just said they are to be banished.”
Humor sparked in Darroc’s eyes. “That is the way of it, aye. See you”—he sat back, his lips twitching—“there are places one such as Svend Skull-Splitter will find more terrible than hell. After we capture him, we shall give him a choice. Either we consign him to Valhalla then and there or Olaf will see him escorted to Greenland.”
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