‘Possibly,’ she said, barely above a whisper.
‘Good.’
He leant over the table and brushed his lips against hers. He had intended only a butterfly brushing of mouths, but the pulse of heat ricocheting through him at the contact caused him to linger. His tongue traced the opening of her mouth but she kept her lips softly pressed together. He sat back, released her hand and watched her, scarcely daring to breathe.
Her hand explored her mouth. ‘What was that for? You have already kissed me once for the betrothal. We’re alone now.’
The reasons were far more complicated than he wanted to say. He had thought a simple touch would put an end to his urges, but instead it had inflamed them.
He forced his body to rise and carried the bowl over to where a bucket of water stood. ‘A thank-you for the porridge. What else could it be for?’
‘Porridge? You claimed to hate it.’
‘Now I love it. That should be enough reason for a man to kiss a woman—particularly his wife-to-be.’
‘Simply being betrothed doesn’t confer upon a couple the right to kiss or cuddle with impunity.’
‘In my culture it does. We don’t consider “cuddling”, as you call it, to be anything but pleasurable.’
She tucked her chin into her chest. ‘We follow my rules.’
‘Rules are meant to be broken...particularly when pleasure is involved.’
Her tongue tested her bottom lip. ‘Was the kiss pleasurable for you?’
‘Do you need another demonstration?’
She glanced upwards and her cheeks coloured delightfully. ‘I mean for my rules to be kept, Kal. You need to understand that I’ve no intention of going to your bed. I buried my heart with my husband.’
‘Bedding and husbands don’t always go together.’
‘With me, they must.’
He rose and gave a pretend yawn, which turned into the real thing as a wave of tiredness hit him. Her rules? He would keep to them...but he would also give her reason to break them. Her late husband should never have made that last request of her, to take his sword into enemy territory. Some day, Kal vowed, and some day soon, she would begin to see that life was for living rather than clinging to the memory of imagined perfection.
She folded her hands in her lap. ‘We will continue our conversation in full daylight.’
‘My people will need to believe our betrothal is real, Cyn.’
‘Nobody calls me Cyn.’
‘Why not?’
A frown developed between her brows. ‘My mother disliked nicknames. I’ve kept to the tradition.’
‘There is a world of difference between a special name and a nickname. Didn’t your husband have a special name for you? One he whispered when you and he shared a bed?’
‘My relations with Leofwine have no part in this conversation. He is dead.’
‘There we both agree.’
She bit her lip. Kal struggled not to pull her into his arms again, kiss her thoroughly and demonstrate why she needed to start living.
‘My family call me Cynehild.’
‘Cynehild is far too formidable for our current conversation. Cyn works much better. What is wrong with me having a special name for a lady who has become a friend?’
* * *
His special name for her as a friend? Cynehild fingered her mouth. Her lips still tingled from that brief touch. And she knew she wanted more. She had been within a heartbeat of snaking her arm about his neck when he’d ended the kiss. He’d ended it—not her. She had to hang on to that. Men had different ideas about such things from women. He had done it for a specific purpose, not because he found a widow like her attractive.
She had overheard her father speaking to their neighbour just before she’d left, both of them lamenting upon how she’d lost her looks and how it was a blessing in disguise that she wouldn’t be searching for a powerful husband.
Kal kissing her had been a tease. Theirs was a fake betrothal and it would end as soon as they had both achieved what they wanted. There would be no marriage in which he later fell in love with her, as Leofwine had done. In her experience, solid and true love came at quiet times, with shared memories and working together, rather than suddenly, like the heat which had infused her after Kal’s kiss.
What she felt for Kal was the burgeoning of desire, and desire always faded eventually. He didn’t even know what sort of person she was. He was a good man, her heart argued. But she ignored it. One did not become a Deniscan jaarl without doing something significant.
She released all the air in her lungs, feeling steadier. ‘You need to get more rest now that your belly is full.’
‘Yes, Cyn, as do you.’
His soft, husky tones resonated in the room, curling about her insides.
‘I would offer you my bed, but you have already declined it for reasons best known to yourself. I’m willing to share, help to keep you warm should you change your mind.’
‘I never change my mind.’
‘The offer remains open—and, Cyn, know that I have never forced a woman. Your choice, not my demand. Always.’
Cynehild stared intently at the fire, but the image of their bodies entwined on that bed refused to go out of her head. What truly frightened her was the fact that she didn’t recoil in horror. Some part of her thought it an excellent idea, and wondered why she was being prudish.
If she was being totally honest with herself, that brief touch had made her feel far more alive than she had since well before Leofwine had died. Every piece of her thrummed with anticipation at the thought of encountering it again.
Cynehild continue to stare at the fire while she heard Kal move towards the bed and reminded herself of all the reasons why starting anything with him was bound to lead to heartbreak and sorrow. This betrothal was only for show. They would not be becoming man and wife. She had no intention of being his mistress either. She’d lose any authority she had in her father’s house if it became apparent that she had done something so untoward.
And she knew she still loved Leofwine. If he came through that door right now she would throw herself at him and cover his face with kisses. But that was an impossibility. Leofwine was in the ground and had taken her heart with him. Lust was wrong. Everyone told her so.
‘Cyn? Have you fallen asleep? Do I need to carry you to bed?’
‘Allow me to worry about my needs. You look towards getting well—and that means sleeping alone.’
‘Such a cruel Cyn. Not even one little kiss to send me off to my dreams?’
Cynehild wrapped her shawl more tightly about her body. ‘Certainly not that.’
Chapter Seven
Was she doing the right thing?
It was one thing to agree with Kal in the middle of the night to gain more intelligence and quite another to do it. How Ansithe would laugh—her ultra-cautious older sister, deciding to take a chance without a well-thought-out plan. Ansithe only knew the old Cynehild—not the woman who travelled on her own, saved a wounded warrior, actively plotted to discover a deadlier enemy and longed to learn how to play tafl. Cynehild wasn’t entirely certain about the lady she was becoming, but she liked her. She liked being considered good for more than keeping house, nursing and making cloth—things which Leofwine had kept pronouncing to be her ‘proper sphere’.
Leaving her men to watch over the slumbering Kal, she decided to act on her instincts. They did need to know more about what was happening at the hall. And this was the best compromise. Luba should be alone in her cottage at this time of day.
‘Luba?’ she called out, knocking loudly.
‘My lady? I warned you to stay away.’ The elderly woman hurried out of the barn, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Does Icebeard still live?’
‘Kal lives. I...that is Icebeard requires information.’ She held out her second-best
shawl. ‘I remember how much you used to admire my dark green shawl. I think this one will go well with your colouring.’
‘Oh. A gift for me?’ The woman straightened her apron. ‘I was just checking on the grain for the animals, seeing how much we have left until the new grass grows.’
‘Kal... Jaarl Icebeard wants me to learn what is happening at the hall. You will know everything, Luba. You always had such an eye for detail, and an ear for an interesting story which far surpassed any of my husband’s warriors.’
‘Men only think they know things.’ Luba tapped the side of her nose. ‘My son-in-law continually spouts on and forgets my people have lived on these lands since time began. My husband was the same. The mess he left when he died... It is a wonder I can stand in front of you.’
‘Has your son-in-law heard any more about Icebeard’s disappearance?’
‘My daughter says...’ Luba lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper ‘...that at the hall Lady Toka speaks about witches and frost giants. She says that Icebeard has been enchanted and sups with the Fairy Queen, but others are muttering about the dark deeds of Mercians.’
‘Who is this Lady Toka?’
‘A Dane. Recently wed to Jaarl Icebeard’s cousin, and a very cold fish that one. But she spotted my daughter tending our geese and demanded she serve in the hall, which is where she met Haddr, so I suppose she isn’t all bad.’
‘Is your daughter contented with her choice?’
‘It was Haddr who pushed for the union and convinced Jaarl Icebeard. And, my love potion helped matters along.’
A loud whistle sounded on the wind. Cynehild froze.
‘People still come for my remedies.’ Luba glanced over her shoulder. ‘Please go. Tell Jaarl Icebeard I keep your secrets close to my heart.’
‘I’ll return tomorrow.’
‘Lady Cynehild, you are taking a terrible chance.’ Luba gave a crooked smile. ‘Have you used the herbs yet? He is a handsome devil, that one. I’ve no wish for you to take any risks.’
Cynehild feigned ignorance of which herbs Luba meant. ‘I am far too busy. I’m trying to ensure Kal regains his proper place with the minimum of bloodshed. Then I will place Leofwine’s sword and leave without glancing behind me.’
‘Lady Cynehild, romance is wasted on you.’
* * *
The lengthening shadows marching across the cottage floor told Kal he’d slept through most of the day. He wriggled his toes underneath the furs. He struggled to remember when he had last slept for such a long time or so soundly.
Had Cynehild done as he’d requested and sent word to Luba? Or had she overruled him in the interests of safety? He regretted even mentioning it.
He stretched. The dark abyss remained, but now he could think properly around the pain.
His dreams had mainly been of Cynehild’s mouth and how it had moved under his, before they had become more detailed and erotic, replacing his bleak memories of leaving his late wife’s grave.
Cyn had been right. He’d lived through his wife’s death years ago. He knew that guilt over what he’d failed to do would always haunt him, but bringing her or their son back to life was impossible. And as the memories of how he’d attempted to honour her memory returned the solid ache in his chest faded. In his heart, he was more than ready to live his life again.
Cyn had been most insistent that they would not be repeating their kiss, but he knew he’d felt her lips soften under his, and her cheeks had coloured when he’d teased her about sharing his bed.
Kal resolved that tonight Cyn would sleep in that bed. But he would not go in it again until she invited him to be there with her. He wanted to be the one who vanquished the demons which plagued her sleep.
‘Cyn?’
No answer. Not even from her men.
The cottage was empty except for him. He slammed his fist down on the furs. He hadn’t realised how much he’d counted on her being there when he woke. If she returned, he would have to be more cautious. He’d have to give her reasons why she should welcome his kisses and touches rather than assuming she would.
He was about to call her name louder when he heard raised voices—Cynehild’s and a man’s, a Dane’s. Arguing.
The brave but foolhardy woman.
The man’s voice sent a prickle down his spine. Friend or foe? He concentrated on the black abyss which was his mind. Nothing. No clues. Just the darkness.
The one thing he knew was that he could not show weakness to a warrior. Weakness would have his enemies circling like a pack of wolves, ready to bring him down. He was under little illusion about what would happen if the true extent of his injuries was known. Far too many coveted his position and wealth. And what could happen to Cyn, if his enemy decided to strike at him through her?
Wincing, Kal removed the bandage from his head, stood and focused on the open doorway. Because the wound was at the back of his head, it would remain hidden as long as he faced the stranger.
When the world ceased spinning, he picked up Leofwine’s sword. It was lighter than he recalled. He practised a swing. He stumbled to his right, but stayed on his feet.
‘Your mother-in-law is correct.’
Cynehild’s voice floated towards him.
‘The Jaarl Icebeard hasn’t been kidnapped or enchanted by anyone. Nor is he being held here against his will.’
‘Wake him.’
‘He sleeps until he decides to wake.’
‘My Jaarl would never behave in that way—making a marriage contract with a Mercian lady. He detests them and their overly precious ways, their fluttering lashes and feather-brained thinking. Stand aside.’
Kal winced. If that was truly what he’d thought about Mercian women, then his former self had never encountered the force of nature that was Lady Cynehild. Overly precious? Inclined to flutter her lashes without a coherent thought in her head? How wrong he’d been. Lady Cynehild exuded competency, courage and common sense.
‘Except he has.’ Cyn moved so that she stood in front of the doorway with her feet braced against the stile. Her hair was impeccably styled and she’d changed her gown to a more flattering blue one, which emphasised her waist and the curve of her hips. ‘I warn you that you risk his displeasure at your peril. If you lay one finger on me, you will answer to him.’
Inside, Kal nodded in agreement.
‘Jaarl Icebeard! Jaarl Icebeard!’
Cyn gestured imperiously with her right arm. ‘Sit on that stone. Keep quiet. And remember to thank me later when you emerge in one piece.’
‘I want to see him, so I will remain,’ the man declared, his voice rising. ‘If you have harmed a single hair on his head you will answer to me, Saxon witch.’
‘Luba, I would ask you to control your son-in-law. I have explained that the shawl you are wearing is a present from me and that is the end of it.’
‘Why is there all this infernal noise?’
Forcing all dizziness from him, Kal strode to the door and put his hands on either side of Cyn’s neat waist, which curved out to her luscious hips.
‘Why are there raised voices, Cynehild? Why are you out here rather than where you belong...in my bed? Whoever has disturbed us must pay!’
‘Icebeard! I mean... My Jaarl...’
Kal knew he should know the voice, but he struggled to place it.
‘Kal, you are awake.’ She glanced over her shoulder. Her voice was light, but the pinching of her mouth showed her agitation. ‘Luba’s son-in-law Haddr demands to see you. Immediately.’
‘You defied this excuse for a warrior in order to guard my sleep? Another reason, if I needed one, for you to become my bride.’
Kal peered over her head to the warrior, who stood with a raised sword and an angry expression on his face. The heavily scarred face framed by a mop of unruly hair resonated in his mind. He had the impressio
n of clashed swords, standing shield to shield, pushing the enemy back. But beyond that his memories slipped away.
He tightened all his muscles and willed them to appear. Nothing. ‘Haddr has always been far too impatient. Nearly cost us the shield wall at Basceng.’
‘My Jaarl, I explained about that and you forgave me. Several times.’
‘No doubt you have an explanation for this intrusion as well? Let us hope it is a better one.’
Haddr shuffled his feet. ‘Rumours about your whereabouts swirl in the hall. My mother-in-law has a new shawl. I wanted to know why she had it, and she came out with a story which led me to believe she was up to her neck in mischief.’
Kal inhaled and Cynehild’s scent, faintly floral intermingled with sunshine, wafted up. The scent reminded him of summer days and hope. He had not realised how much that had been missing from his life until it had returned.
‘Rumours about me always swirl.’ He put an arm about Cynehild and shifted her to the right, so that they were standing with touching shoulders. ‘I believe I asked for privacy in my message, so as to get to know my bride, not to have all and sundry invade and ask questions.’
‘Message? What message?’ For the first time Haddr appeared nonplussed. ‘Your cousin failed to mention any message.’
‘Does the Jaarl’s cousin confide in you?’ Cyn asked in a firm voice. ‘I had understood you were not in the inner circle.’
The man gave a nervous smile, sheathed his sword and bowed low. ‘My mother-in-law sometimes stretches the truth, pretending to know more than she actually does, my lord. My wife was certain that this was one of those times. There are disturbing rumours, my liege. Northmen have been seen in our lands. There is talk of a band of Mercian mercenaries prowling the outer limits, and a powerful witch well-versed in enchantment.’
Luba gave an audible sniff from where she stood. ‘Poppycock rumours. Jaarl Icebeard has made a betrothal which will benefit everyone. Even if some refuse to see it that way.’ Here she gave Cyn a pointed look.
Betrothed to the Enemy Viking Page 11
