Fires of Winter

by Johanna Lindsey

Brenna remained seated. “Are we not to go home? ’Tis only a short distance.”

  “’Twould only waste time, Brenna. The horse race begins early on the morrow, and I will be here on time for it.” When she frowned, he added, “Mayhaps I will take you home on the morrow’s eve, then we will return on the day following.”

  “Return?”

  “Yea, this feast will continue for nearly a fortnight. Now come.”

  Brenna sighed, took the hand he offered and followed him to get their cloaks. There was still much activity in the hall. Only a few had taken to benches to sleep off their sodden-ness. Heloise had retired to bed earlier, as had Linnet, but not before Brenna was able to apologize to her aunt for her unreasonable sharpness. Anselm and Hugh were still full of vigor and were involved in a serious drinking bout, with many wagering on the outcome.

  Garrick bellowed his farewells, but no one paid much attention, and he quickly slipped out the door with Brenna under his arm. The icy fingers of the wind went unnoticed as Brenna snuggled in the warmth of Garrick’s closeness. She felt as if she were floating, gliding smoothly over the cold ground. As her head began to swim dizzily, she rested it on his chest and felt total contentment.

  When he led her into the stable and to an empty stall where many blankets were piled on top of a bed of straw, Brenna drew away from him with slight annoyance. She watched him close them in with a large wood panel, making the stall a tiny private room.

  “This is the place you spoke of?”

  “’Tis the warmest I could find,” he said without looking at her, and shrugged off his cloak.

  “And you expect me to sleep here?”

  He ignored her indignation and grinned at her. “You will not be alone.”

  “But—”

  “Be quiet, wench,” he interrupted softly and came to stand before her. “This is indeed better than a hard bench in the hall. Will you not agree?”

  She looked down at the improvised bed and grudgingly nodded. “I suppose.”

  His warm fingers grazed her cheek. “And we will not be disturbed here.”

  Brenna felt something akin to pain take root in her chest. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, yet she would not gain her ultimate goal that way. She would indeed find pleasure, but for how long? He would not make her his wife if she became his devoted slave.

  Reluctantly she stepped away from him and sought a topic that would delay what she knew would soon come. “The race that is planned for the morrow—can anyone enter?”

  “Yea.”

  “Can I?”

  Garrick started to laugh, but thought better of it. “Nay. Any man may enter, but no woman.”

  “And I imagine no slaves either?” she asked, rather piqued.

  Would this woman ever let pass a day without showing her temper? he wondered. “’Tis true.”

  “But I could conceal my appearance, Garrick. At home I was oft mistaken for a boy by those who knew me not. And ’twould give me great pleasure to best your brother.”

  “How did you know my brother will race?” he asked her pointedly.

  Brenna blanched and quickly turned away. How could she admit she overheard them talking of the race without admitting she understood their tongue quite well? “Will he not?”

  Fortunately, Garrick let her question suffice for an answer. “He will, but then, so will I. Do you wish to best me also, mistress?”

  Brenna glanced at him sideways. “I suppose it would not do to beat you where all could see.” Then she added with an impish grin, “As long as you know that I could do it, that is enough.”

  Garrick burst into laughter. “I will accept that challenge one day soon, wench. But for now, I have a much more interesting sport in mind.”

  He reached for her, but Brenna ducked beneath his arm and moved to the entrance of the stall, ready to push aside the panel and flee. She faced him and put up a hand to try and halt his pursuit.

  “You know I will not lay down with you willingly, Garrick. I will sleep outside if I must.”

  Garrick moved one step closer, but that was all. “I have enjoyed your presence beside me this day, Brenna,” he said in a level tone. “I had hoped for even greater pleasure this night. But I will not chase you for it.” He lay down on the straw and motioned for her to join him. “Come. You had best sleep while you can. The morrow will be a long day.”

  Brenna had not expected Garrick to give up, certainly not so easily. She let down her guard and almost sighed in regret. She doubted she would get much sleep being so near him, but she was determined at least to try. However, Garrick was on top of her before she was even fully prone, his weight pinning her securely beneath him.

  She glared up at his look of triumph, her eyes darkening quickly. “You tricked me!”

  “Nay, wench,” he chuckled. “I only said I would not chase you, and I have not.”

  His lips came down on hers to silence any further arguments. She tried to turn her head aside, but he cupped her face between his large hands as his tongue plundered her mouth. The very pressure of his body, his strength, his desire—these were intoxicants that helped melt away her objections. And then even these were quickly forgotten as he moved to her side and slipped one hand into her bodice.

  Her belt was opened and her long skirt raised, and before she even had time to think of the folly of it, they both lay devoid of clothing. His hands moved gently over her body, caressing, molding with skillful fingers that set fires where they touched and brought moans to her lips. She did not care. Her love for him was all that mattered, her desire, her intense need to feel his hard, throbbing shaft inside her.

  And when at last he drove deep into her, Brenna cried out with the ecstasy of it. It was as natural as if they were made only for one another. She drained him of his strength, and her will was his. Even the after-glow was beautiful as they lay pressed together in exhaustion, breathing heavily, contentment flowing through them.

  Several minutes passed, but Garrick did not move from her. Brenna finally opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, a soft yet strange expression on his face. She wondered about that expression only briefly before the words she had cried out in passion came back to her.

  Her first reaction was panic, and she pushed at Garrick. She wanted to flee, to hide. She had not planned to declare her feelings this way, and certainly not this soon. She was not sure of him yet.

  Her hands could not budge him, and at last he bound them at her sides to still her. “Did you speak the truth? Do you love me, Brenna?”

  She closed her eyes against his penetrating stare. She could lie, but that would not gain her his trust. And she needed that above all else if they were ever to be truly happy.

  “Yea, I love you.” She whispered the same words she had cried earlier.

  There, it was done, and now she felt good about it. She opened her eyes and found he was smiling tenderly at her. She took heart from this.

  “Are you sure, Brenna?”

  “I know what I feel, Garrick. I am most sure.”

  “Then you will give me your word that you will never run away from me again?”

  His question surprised her somewhat, but she answered readily, “You have my word.”

  “Good. This has been a remarkable day that I will not soon forget.”

  He rolled to her side, and Brenna lay with her eyes open wide in disbelief. When no further words from him were forthcoming, she propped herself up on an elbow and faced him.

  “Is that all you have to say to me, Garrick?”

  “I am pleased that you have softened to me, Brenna,” he replied, then turned his back to her. “’Tis late and I am tired. Go to sleep.”

  His words were like a physical blow. He said naught of returning her love, only that he was pleased that she had softened to him. She stared blankly at his hard back. “Methinks I have given you more pleasure than you deserve this night.”

  “Eh?”

  Garrick’s back remained to her and suddenly Bre

nna saw red, blind red fury. She shoved him forcefully, gaining his attention again.

  “I would know your intentions, Garrick. Will you wed me?”

  He frowned at her. “A Viking cannot wed a slave. You know that.”

  “Your father would free me! You can free me!”

  “Nay, wench, ’twould serve no purpose. I will not wed you. If I set you free, I would lose you.” Then he tried to calm her. “As my slave I will keep you always, Brenna. You will be like my wife.”

  “Until I am old!” she snapped. “Then you will put me out to pasture as you would a mare!”

  “’Twould not be that way.”

  “Words, Viking!” she cried, pain making her unreasonable. “If you know me at all, you know that I have more pride than most. I can never come to you freely without sacred vows between us. You are the only man I will wed. If you refuse, I will never be content.”

  “You will in time.”

  “In time my love will die through bitterness. Do you not see that?”

  “You ask too much, woman!” he said curtly. “I have sworn never to wed!”

  “Or to love?”

  “There is no love in me. It was destroyed long ago.” He took her hand and held it tightly. “But ’tis you I come to, Brenna,” he said, his voice soft again. “’Tis you I care about above all others. I can give you no more than that.”

  “But you can change.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I am sorry, Brenna.”

  “So am I,” she murmured and added to herself, “for you give me no hope, Garrick.”

  Pain and regret brought tears to her eyes and she turned away from him to hide her misery and spill her tears silently.

  The stars of early morning were sprinkled across the black sky. A lone woman hurried furtively down the fjord where two small canoes were tied to a wooden landing. The fjord was calm, cast in murky shadows, and the woman shivered and pulled her cloak tighter about her.

  She quickly untied one of the small fishing crafts and jumped inside. In a second it floated slowly away from the landing. She grasped the oars and they sliced through the water. Time to change her mind was swiftly fleeing.

  The plan that had come to her the night before was daring enough, but dangerous. Her destination was the opposite bank of the fjord and the Borgsen settlement. Because she lived on the north side of the fjord, they would consider her their enemy. She hoped that a fat purse would make them forget that. She knew no one here who would do what she wanted—but a Borgsen would. At least that was what she was counting on.

  The current hurried her along and she reached the opposite bank. Only once before had she ever set foot on this side of the fjord. That was long ago, when the two great clans were joined in friendship. She had come to a marriage feast held at Latham Borgsen’s house, when his daughter was wed to a distant cousin. It was a grand celebration lasting nearly a month, and all were invited for miles around. She wondered now if she could remember the way to Latham’s house. So many years had passed.

  She started to walk inland. Her cloak was wrapped tightly against the cold. A bulky fur hood concealed her features, as she had intended. She did not want her identity known on the off chance her hastily concocted scheme failed. It was such a simple plan, she thought. How could it fail?

  According to the woman’s calculations, there was less than half a league left to walk before reaching the Borgsen settlement. She did not have to journey the full distance. In a dense crop of trees she was set upon by two riders who galloped to her in haste. Their mighty mounts pinned her against a tree trunk in her fright.

  They laughed at her cowardice. From this and her short stature they knew her to be a woman, though they assumed they were making sport with one of their own.

  One of the stout men dismounted. The younger of the two, he was wrapped in fur pelts; these made him look twice his normal size, which was immense to begin with.

  “A wench out this early, and alone, must be meeting her lover. You need look no further, for you have found two instead of just one to satisfy you.”

  The other Viking still sat on his steed. He was not much older than the first, but just as large and menacing. His expression showed he was impatient with the other man’s remarks.

  “Ease off, Cedric,” he said, though it was hardly a command. Then he turned to the woman. “Your name, mistress?”

  “Adosinda,” she lied.

  “I know of no one with that name,” Cedric remarked. “Do you, Arno?”

  “Nay. From where do you come, Mistress Adosinda?”

  She hesitated, her heart beating wildly. “From—from across the fjord.”

  Both men became deadly serious. “You are of the Haardrad clan?”

  “Only distantly, very distantly.”

  “If you come from across the fjord, then you must know you are not welcome on this side!” Arno exclaimed.

  “This is a plot, Arno,” the younger Viking speculated. “I told you the Haardrads had been quiet for too long. They have sent a woman to sneak into our homes and kill us while we sleep! Who would suspect a woman?”

  “’Tis not true, I swear!” she cried. “No one knows I have come here!”

  “Do not lie, mistress. I am Cedric Borgsen, third son of Latham. “Twas my oldest brother Edgar that Hugh Haardrad killed. If I sense deceit, you will die instantly!”

  “I mean you no harm!” she insisted, fear gripping her. “I came without weapon.”

  “Why then do you trespass where you are not wanted?”

  “I seek your help.”

  “You seek to trick us!” Cedric accused.

  “Nay—nay! I know of no man who would help me, for ’tis my intention to slight a Haardrad, and what vassal or kin would do this? Nay, only a Borgsen would carry out my plan.”

  “Your words ring false. What Haardrad would seek to harm another?” Arno demanded.

  “A woman—one with much to gain by it.”

  “Hear her out, Arno. I am most curious now.”

  “What I want done is very simple, and I will pay you well for it. There is a slave girl captured only recently—a Celtic beauty with raven hair and eyes the color of smoke. She stands in my way, and I want her gone.”

  “Killed?”

  “I do not care what you do with her once you have her,” the woman continued. “You can keep her for yourself as long as she does not escape—and she will try. You could also sell her far away from here and gain another fat purse. Or, yea, even kill her; I care not.”

  “How does stealing a slave girl slight a Haardrad?” Arno demanded.

  “’Twas Anselm Haardrad who brought her here and he gave her to his second son, Garrick. In a short time, Garrick has been bewitched by her. He treasures this girl and will be devastated when she runs away.”

  “Runs away?”

  The woman laughed, an evil cackle. “It must appear that way. You see, Garrick will search for her far and wide, but he will give up eventually. However, if he thought she did not leave freely, that she was taken away by force, he would never rest until he found her.”

  “It sounds to me like a trap,” Arno said. “We cross the fjord and find Haardrads waiting there for us.”

  “If you know anything of the Haardrads, you know they do not deal in trickery. They fight fairly, Borgsen.”

  “’Tis the truth,” Cedric admitted reluctantly. “Hugh came and challenged my brother. ’Twas a fair fight.”

  “Mayhaps this is so,” Arno replied skeptically. “But your father should be informed of this plan—he knows the enemy well. ’Twould be foolish to agree to this woman’s scheme without Latham’s advice.”

  Young Cedric was affronted. “Do you imply, Arno, that I cannot decide on this matter myself?”

  “Nay, only that I think it wise that your father be enlightened. After all, there has been no bloodshed in this feud for years, naught but the slaughter of worthless cattle and scrawny dogs. This woman’s scheme could well bring about vengeance of a different nature.”

  “It could also make us richer, with no one the wiser,” Cedric responded greedily.

  “And the slave?” Arno persisted. “How will you explain her presence here?”

  “My friend, you search for a storm when it has yet to brew. We will keep the slave at your farm until we decide what to do with her. ’Tis that simple.”

  The woman stepped closer, glad to see that the greed of these men was overcoming their suspicions. “You need have no fear that bloodshed or vengeance will come of this,” she assured them. “It must be made to appear that the slave has run away. Therefore, you and your clan will not be suspect. And you will have this to gain,” showing them the sack of gold. “You will also have the knowledge that you harmed a Haardrad without him knowing of it. If you give me your word that you will do as I ask, you will have the payment now and see no more of me. Do you agree?”

  The man on the ground did not consult his friend again, but answered readily. “First you will tell us how you think this plan of yours can be accomplished, then you will have our word.”

  The woman smiled, confident that she would soon have what she wanted.

  Brenna woke to boisterous cheers and the sound of horses galloping away from the settlement. Her first observation was that she was alone. Then the sounds that had awakened her made sense in her turbid thoughts. The horse race had already begun.

  She quickly donned her velvet gown, careful to shake the straw from it first, grabbed her cloak and left the stable. The crisp morning air helped to bring her fully awake, and she wondered now how she had slept through all the excitement as men readied their horses for the race.

  The memory of the night before was like a cancerous sore festering inside her, and the thought of staying for more festivities was abhorrent.

  In the crowd that had gathered for the start of the race, Brenna spied her aunt and sauntered slowly to her side. Linnet looked refreshed after a good night’s sleep, and met Brenna with a warm smile.

  “I thought you would be here to wish your Viking luck,” Linnet said cheerfully. “He did look for you.”

  “If he had wanted any good wishes, then he should have woken me,” Brenna replied in a listless tone.

  -->