by Sandra Lake
The weather was holding. It would be an extended harvest season from what Lothair estimated, and after surveying the supplies, he felt confident they would not only make it back to Lubeck in under a month, but also that they would win his wager with Lars. Katia might even get her map to her father before winter set in and closed off the pass to the north.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lothair watched her golden head weave through the crowd of villagers at the market. He pretended not to notice as she sauntered up to his side.
“A tent? You spoil me, Lothair.” She emptied her armload of provisions next to his.
“We should spend the night at the inn,” he suggested, “Have a proper meal, bath, and sleep with both eyes closed for a change.”
“A bath and a meal sound like heaven, but I am not sure we should spend the night.” She looked around. “What if—”
“You’re right. We should press on.” He smiled at her and she suddenly frowned, going stiff and blank. “What?” He looked around for danger.
“Nothing—’tis nothing.” She seemed to swallow painfully. Perhaps she was taking ill.
“Perhaps one night indoors would be wise,” he said. “They have two inns—which one do you think is cheaper?”
***
Lothair was giving Katia that look again, that curious look. She hated that look.
The past week had been hell in more ways than she could count—the grueling pace of the riding, the terrible hunger, the weather, which was scorching hot one hour and then freezing the next. And then there were Lothair’s beautiful eyes, always looking in her direction, examining her soiled garments and dirty hair. Her exhaustion and aching back were nothing compared to the painful scrutiny of his gaze.
“What?” she snapped at him.
“Is there a tongue you don’t speak?” He grinned at her again.
“Even you must understand Polack some. It is so similar to the German tongue.”
“Yes, I understand them some, but you are from northern Sweden. You shouldn’t understand them at all.” He smiled at her teasingly. Cruel, insufferable man. Had he no pity on her at all?
Unrequited love was the very worst disorder in the world, she decided, much worse than a toothache or pox, or the plague—at least with those a person had a good chance of eventually dying and being put out of her misery.
Lothair just stood there, staring and smiling his wretchedly handsome smile, waiting for her to say something. She had nearly forgotten what they were talking about.
“Right, talking, languages . . . well, I am not originally from Sweden but from Finland, remember? Lots of traders come to port, lots of opportunity to hear different tongues. My grandmother taught me most of them.”
“Impressive.” He took her elbow and escorted her in the direction of the inn, still grinning. Katia cared not for his smiles. Lothair had made it very clear to her that he was not interested in her as a girl—a woman—in her the way a man traveling alone in the wilderness with a woman might usually be interested. He kept his distance and never once tried to touch her, other than shoving her on her horse, or yanking her by the arm in the direction he wished her to go. He must still hate her for ruining his adventure and separating him from his friends, not to mention nearly getting him killed several times.
At the inn, Lothair spoke for them, telling the innkeeper that he was traveling with his wife to his new military posting in Bohemia. He then paid extra for a private bath to be sent to their room. His cover story was a painful reminder that he would never truly consider her a wife. He was never going to take a wife, he had said.
Fine by her. Katia had no intention of ever taking a husband.
Still, she wished she had the power to tempt him, to have that special hold on a man that some wives clearly possessed. Her mother entranced her father, and her grandfather still gazed at her grandmother like a groom on his wedding night, but Katia had no knowledge of how to go about gaining a man’s notice. Sure, she knew how to smile, wink, and get her way, but not how to earn a man’s enduring love.
No. She had no interest in gaining a man’s notice; she only wanted to know how to gain Lothair’s notice. How to become so irresistible that he couldn’t help but kiss her.
The last time they’d kissed—the only time she had ever kissed a man—she had thrown herself into his arms. She cringed inside thinking about it, but yet wondered if the shame was not worth the amazing feel of his lips—if she should not just fling herself at him again.
As they climbed the inn’s cramped stairwell, Katia reminded herself repeatedly that it was improper to stare at Lothair’s backside.
The innkeeper’s wife held a door open for them, giving them both a scornful look of disapproval. Clearly, she did not believe them to be a properly wed couple.
The small chamber boasted two windows with their shutters wide open, spilling ample light and a lovely fresh breeze into the sparse room. The gray linens on the bed appeared mostly clean, although anything would have been agreeable after sleeping for days on a rocky mountain ledge.
Katia scanned the chamber with growing nervousness, realizing for the first time that they were alone together inside, behind a closed door. “Why don’t you have the first bath and I will go order us something to eat,” she said.
“Don’t be daft,” he answered. “You’re the girl. You will bathe first.”
Before she had a chance to protest, a knock came at the door. Two scrawny servant boys entered, carrying a shallow wooden tub. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched them bring in bucket after bucket of clean hot water. Katia had never wanted a bath so much in her entire life. After two weeks on horseback during which she had washed nothing more than a few inches of skin in a cool creek, she would gladly give her right arm for an hour-long soak in steaming water.
The servants finished, leaving several extra buckets of rinsing water. The chamber door closed and she ogled the bath. Lothair cleared his throat, waking her from her daze. He had peeled off his leather vest and now stood in his under-tunic, which gapped open at the collar, exposing a rare peek at his well-muscled chest.
“I would give you your privacy,” he said, sounding a bit awkward, “but then the innkeeper may not believe we are wed. I mean, if I were to be downstairs while you were up here . . .” Lothair shrugged. He pushed a tall wooden chest away from the wall, creating a privacy screen of sorts between him and the tub. The chamber was warm, and had grown warmer still with the steaming water.
Behind the chest, she could hear Lothair pull off his tunic and sit down on the floor, presumably stretching out his long legs. Now all she could see of him was his boots, which he had crossed at the ankles.
Katia stood quietly for a few moments, marveling at the glorious steaming bath that awaited her, while a half-naked handsome man sat on the floor, just a few feet away. He was being a gentleman, but it gave her a tingly feeling to think of removing her clothing while in the same room with him.
Don’t be such a ninny, she scolded herself.
This was Lothair, who thought of her as no more desirable than her horse. She stripped, stepped into the water, ducked under the surface, and held her breath for a few moments. It was heavenly. She bobbed her head out and snatched up the soap, scrubbing her scalp, body, and especially her toes. She grabbed up one of the rinsing buckets, dumped it over her head, climbed out of the bath, and wrapped a drying cloth around her body.
“Done,” she announced, nearly out of breath from her rushed efforts.
“Already?” He sounded groggy, as if she had woken him from a nap. His feet uncrossed at the ankles.
“Yes, the water is still warm. I will get dressed behind the wardrobe if you would like to switch places,” she said as he peeked around the corner. He was still sitting on the floor. His hair was messy, sticking up in the back, and he couldn’t have looked more adorable if he’d tried.
/> She collected an armload of new clean clothes and quickly moved behind the furniture so he could have his privacy.
Water splashed and sloshed about. She reminded herself several times that it would be rude of her to spy. She would not think to peek at his bare, muscular chest as he lathered it with soft soap. That would be wrong . . . yes, definitely wrong. Anyway, it would only add fuel to the futile, hopeless, lustful feelings that she had already developed for him, which he clearly did not have toward her.
She dressed in a thick linen under-tunic and soft wool stockings. As she combed out her wet, tangled hair, she recognized the unmistakable sound of water trickling. He must be rinsing. The scent of pine soap filled the air. She dropped her small bone comb. Bending over to pick it up, her eyes disobeyed a direct order and looked around the wardrobe.
Lothair was standing naked with his back to her. He had a thickness to him that made her feel rather small and oddly warm. She crossed her arms over her body, uncomfortable with the tight, tingling sensation in her chest. His broad, well-defined muscles glistened as the soapy water ran down his back and over his . . . oh . . . that was the nicest backside a person could possibly have.
“Would you pass me that drying cloth?” Lothair asked. His head turned as he looked back over his shoulder and their eyes locked for a moment. She recoiled and smacked her head into the wardrobe, pinching her eyes shut. Her heart was in her throat and she couldn’t speak, let alone breathe. Her blood pumped so fast that she could feel her ears burning with the throbbing pressure. She managed a few cleansing breaths and her hearing returned, and with it the sound of Lothair’s laughter. Her irritation at his mirth was enough to push down her raging embarrassment.
Keeping her eyes closed, she turned around and grabbed a drying cloth off a chair, tossing it behind her.
“Thank you, Kat,” he said, soft and low. Her name on his lips felt intimate, like a tender caress. At least it did in her imagination.
“You are welcome,” she said curtly, and quickly returned to the other side of the chamber to comb her hair as if nothing was wrong. Everything was fine. So why was her face burning hot, her palms sweaty, and her heart racing out of control?
She would simply reject the idea that he had caught her looking at his backside. She would erase it from memory, just as she would erase the image of his perfectly formed naked back. It had never happened. She had never seen it.
“So, Turku,” he said as he dressed in the fresh linen tunic and trousers they had purchased. “Tell me more about it. You told me once that your birth father was from Finland.”
“Yes, he died before I was born, killed during the first Swedish crusade into Finland. His name was Urho Lyyski. My half brother by him has the same name and is the new chief of Korski, a village they built after Lylasku burnt down. But my mother’s family lives much further south, just outside of Turku. I was visiting them this summer when I met by chance with Otso. He’s originally from Lylasku and is very good friends with my parents.” She was speaking to the back of the wardrobe, continuing to comb her hair.
“Why do you not use your real father’s name? I would expect that to be an insult to your father’s family.” He walked around to face her. He stood very close to her, smelling very fresh and much too good. Katia wished he would back up a bit—either that or come much closer. This middle ground was torture.
“Well.” She tried to remember what they were talking about. “It is a bit of a long story.”
“We have about a month before we reach Lubeck. Do you think you can finish before then?” He smiled generously. She hated and loved it when he did that, his pearl white teeth showing and everything. The swirling storm of bees in her stomach had multiplied by a hundred.
“I will try to finish before the end of our meal,” she mumbled, looking him in the eyes. All she could still see in her head was his spectacular wet, soapy, naked backside.
“Good. Then I won’t have to bother coming up with dinner conversation. I hate having to think of polite questions and appropriate comments on topics I care nothing about,” he said, which made her laugh.
“Are you trying to convince me that you normally bother to come up with dinner conversation? If so, I confess I have not noticed.” She wiggled into her new leather over-tunic and added her new belt. She made a quick, single braid of her wet hair.
“Traveling with a girl who blathers on about every subject under the sun has taken the burden of entertainment off me. I didn’t say I was complaining.”
“Blathers?” She wasn’t sure if she should bite at that one—she did have a terrible habit of tittering away when she was nervous or overexcited, and at the moment she was both.
He opened the door for her. “Shall we?”
She bit her bottom lip to stop herself from smiling like a lovesick twit and moved toward the stairs.
A hearty meal of stewed meat and freshly harvested vegetables awaited them below, and Katia explained her history in between shoveling spoonfuls of stew into her mouth.
Lothair’s carefree air had infected her. She was . . . happy, joyful even; nervous, tired, and hungry yes, but underlining that was a rare contentment she could not remember feeling before.
***
Lothair ate and drank, hanging on to Katia’s every word. Her voice soothed him. The candles in the tables had burned down low, yet still they lingered.
Lothair had suspected the jarl to be an honorable man, but even so, to go against tradition and give his name to his stepdaughter spoke volumes about the jarl’s love for Katia. A sharp pain twisted in his gut as Lothair realized that his own father was not half the man as Magnus Knutson. The duke had put up false pretenses for political gain, hiding his bastard children and living a double life, while Knutson went against social norms to make his love for his wife and stepdaughter known to all.
“My father said that all his children would have a ring bearing the family crest, but that as his—” She suddenly seemed shy about her tale. “As the daughter of his heart,” she whispered, “he wanted me to have his father’s ring. Even though he was not my sire, he said I was his true firstborn. He had a hard time learning how to tell the people he loves that he loves them. So for years, he used to give us ridiculous gifts instead. You should just see some of my mother’s jewels. She nearly buckles under their weight. He is—” She swallowed and her smile left her face. “He is the greatest father a girl could have, and I . . . I lost his ring.” A single, heavy tear ran down her cheek.
“I guarantee you he cares nothing for that piece of gold compared to how much he values you,” Lothair said. She was twisting her lips to the side and he did not know what to say to make her stop looking so pained. “My father has a few things in common with the jarl. He thinks that gifts are better than words. Somehow titles and castles are supposed to make up for his inaction.”
She whispered with a sincere look in the eye, “The way the duke looks at you—he is very proud of you. It must be torture for him not to claim you openly.”
“No. He is only proud of himself and his own cursed bloodline to the German throne.” He began grinding his teeth. He should have never brought up his father.
“Someone once told me that situations are not black and white,” she said quietly. “That problems are complicated and sometimes cannot be simplified down to one answer.”
“Do not try to compare this, Kat,” he said, his temper flaring. “You know nothing about him, and you know nothing about me.”
She swallowed hard and looked down.
He felt like a worthless codpiece, growling at her to shut her up when he did not want to have to explain his true feelings. She had a loving and supportive family that announced their affection from the high walls of the Iron Kingdom. Lothair’s father had hidden him away; his mother was treated like nothing more than a servant.
He tried again to explain. “He calls me his ne
phew and makes up lies to explain my origin. He grants me titles and land, says he wants the best for his children, but he makes his true intentions well known. All he truly wants is an heir to carry his name and he will do anything to get it.”
“Anything but acknowledge your mother,” Katia said quietly. He looked up at her and did not see pity in her eyes, but understanding.
“My mother was his mother’s maid. Above stairs, she said she was treated with kindness, but below stairs she was treated like she did not exist.” He took a long drink of ale.
“Where is she now?”
“She lives in my house. She . . . she introduces herself as my head housekeeper when my father is about with his dignitaries and politicians.” He loathed admitting his part in the continued deception out loud.
“She must be a very strong woman,” she said sincerely.
“Strong? Being a man’s doe-eyed mistress for thirty years with no chance of ever being acknowledged as anything more than a serviceable slut; you think that is wise?”
“Do not call her that!” Katia’s eyes filled with hot intensity. “Is Tosha’s mother a slut? Is my half brother Urho’s mother, Leki, a slut? Those women do what they must to survive and work hard for their children. They are to be respected, not degraded.” She leaned in closer and pointed her finger in his face. “I have met many real sluts, spending too many summers at court. I also know of what a woman is capable of, how much suffering she must bear and how little choice she usually has in the matter of deciding her own fate.” She swallowed and stared at him more seriously than she ever had before. “I am sorry to tell this to you, Lothair, but you know nothing about women. You have no idea what we go through.” She leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms and glared at him.
