THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN

by Shehanne Moore

  “Well, if you are it must be someone else’s bastard. Whoring yourself around half of London—”

  “I don’t whore, Cyril. I run a business. Legitimate if not respectable. I employ women, it is true, to do the dirty work. On this occasion, being asked to ruin my own marriage, naturally I stared hard into my heart.”

  “You never did, you lying, conniving, manipulative bitch who would see only cankers and worms—”

  “I am astonished by your passionate words.” She wasn’t. “That you would call the mother of your child, your own wife, a liar. You have been drinking perchance?”

  “You know damn fine you have never been any wife of mine. And if you are pregnant it must rank with the Immaculate Conception in terms of miracles. Of improbabilities.”

  She slid her arm free. A couple she did not recognize had stepped out onto the terrace. When she wanted nothing so much as to demonstrate her point, that she and Cyril were an item, it would be a mistake on a par of marrying him in the first place, to wrestle herself free.

  “Gracious, Cyril, would you kindly mind not spitting?” She brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face. “It is almost as bad as committing blasphemy.”

  “Blasphemy? I’ll give you blasphemy, you scheming, damned—”

  “My husband.” She offered the goggling couple. “His passion for me is such he cannot keep his hands off me. As for how it drives him to curse in the most terrible . . .”

  Had she ever seen him so furious he propelled her so her heels clattered on the paving stones and she almost landed in the plant pot—the large, stone one that would do her no end of damage, though? So his brown eyes brimmed with rage? So he was more attractive than she had ever seen him? Because he cared finally about something after all? And that was the fact she had him trapped. Well, she wasn’t letting go. Go back to Ratcliff Highway empty-handed? Start all over again? She would sooner swallow the Hadyn minuet.

  “Malice, I warn you . . .”

  “I am afraid there is nothing immaculate about it. I am pregnant. So there will be no divorce. And before you start calling me out on the matter of my virtue, I have been a faithful wife to you.”

  How she uttered that remark without blushing when an image thudded of her and Sin Gudrunnson locked in ecstasy, was a miracle that ranked with this conception. But she did. And if he thought he could still turn this to his advantage, he couldn’t. Not when she had one card left to play and that card was the ace. Although playing it she had not expected to feel yet another pinprick of doubt. How else could she guarantee her survival? When her life had been spent being a pawn because of that stupid dictate to marry him?

  “And if you think you can somehow cast aspersions on that virtue with regard to Strictly, if you think you can say a word about Strictly, I wouldn’t. Do you want to create a series of scandals that would bring down the aristocracy in this country?”

  “What?”

  He wouldn’t, would he? It was perfectly plain that he wouldn’t because he stiffened as if she had slapped him. He also gritted his teeth, Not that a teeth grit hampered her determination to continue.

  “Now, I know your address. Expect a visit from me tomorrow morning at eleven to discuss this new era in our married life. I’m not asking to live with you, Cyril, if that’s what you’re worried about. I shall have the respect due a wife. I shall have an income that means I never have to ruin a marriage, or sew a seam again. Do you understand?”

  He let her go and she stepped away. The encounter had gone better than she had hoped. But Sin Gudrunsson had definitely been her undoing, hadn’t he? How else could she explain the loneliness that had cascaded over her there like a crushing wave, these stupid pinpricks of doubt, the fact she had almost lost this, thinking of him.

  She would need to stop thinking about him if she was to face Cyril in the morning.

  “A moment, Malice.”

  Oh God, not now. She had said her piece an hour ago. She had sashayed about the ballroom too, greeting this and that lady, perfectly making her point. Now, having reached the coach it had cost her last farthing to hire for the evening, it was time to go home and put her throbbing, weary head on what passed for a pillow. What could Cyril possibly have to say to her now?

  What he had to say became apparent the instant he opened his mouth. At least that he intended for her to listen did. A hand. His. Clamped her mouth shut. Her scream died in her throat, smothered by brute force although a strangled what do you think you are doing escaped her. At least she believed it did.

  “Utter one sound and you’re dead.”

  What? He was threatening her? In addition to his hand . . . was that cold steel jabbing her collar bone?

  “I mean it, Malice.”

  Unless she was somehow back with the Vikings? Heavens, this was how they carried on. It would be a spot of pillage next, inside that carriage. Or maybe even here in this shaft of silvery-blue moonlight? Moonlight that glinted along whatever he held just under her chin.

  His breath brushed her cheek. He dragged her closer so her back pressed against him.

  “You have no idea how desperate I am.”

  But not for that. His body was slack. She might as well face it. A knife was at her throat and sex was all she could think about? What was wrong with her?

  She tried digging her elbows into his ribs. He tightened his own across her breasts.

  “What did I say?”

  “Y—y—y—”

  “That’s not what I said. What I said is, you utter one word, make one sound and I will kill you. Do you understand? Do we have an agreement?”

  She wouldn’t say that they did exactly, although he was holding a dinner knife just beneath her chin. Where had he gotten it? The kitchens?

  “Now get in the coach.”

  “The coach, Cyril?”

  “You heard.”

  She had heard. She just wished he hadn’t said it. Get in the coach? In itself it might mean nothing, the simple desire to continue the conversation. But why hold a knife at her throat? Not that he could cut it. That slave collar was of some use, after all.

  “Yes. Yes, I did but you can’t—”

  “I do mean, Malice. I mean every word. I told you I’m desperate. Now, get in the coach.”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

  And why was this part of the driveway so deserted? She could shout, couldn’t she, to one of the drivers who must be about? Only there didn’t seem to be any about. The light from the windows fell on empty spaces. He had chosen his moment carefully. Bided his time with the precision of a Field-Marshall. While she would rather swallow a giraffe, she put her foot on the coach step. Anything to play for time.

  “Hurry. Get inside.”

  “Yes . . . If you would not—”

  Her nose almost struck the coach floor before she could say push, the speed and vigour with which he did push suggesting he didn’t intend discussing anything— despite the fact his own driver sat on top of the coach? My God, was he in on this too?

  “Cyril, I would be grateful if you would take your hands off me.”

  “And I, that you wouldn’t lay the most ridiculous and false accusations on me. Do you have any idea of the debts I owe?” He sank into the seat, tweaked the sleeves of his elegant coat so his lace cuffs dusted his wrists. “Well?”

  He must be mad. Where was the Cyril she knew? The lazy, affable, bored bastard, who would never stoop to doing this? But desperate or not, in debt or not, she could not afford to give in to him. Desperate? Not half as she had been for years.

  “If you are it is no fault of mine.”

  “Sympathetic as ever, my dearest wife.”

  Mustering her calm, she reached for the door handle. It jerked from her clasp as he knocked sharply on the panelling. “Drive.”


  Leaving her sprawling on the floor between the leather seats too. “Cyril, you can’t.”

  “I assure you I can.”

  “You . . . ? Stop the coach at once. Stop it!”

  She hated that she screeched the words. Had she done that when Sin Gudrunsson tossed her over his shoulder at that convent? Probably. She hated that she clawed the door handle too. That was giving him the advantage when she needed to stay calm. But desperation flooded through her very pores, to her fingertips. No doubt it would have flooded to the door handle had she been able to clasp it properly. He was not kidnapping her, was he?

  “I will if you will.”

  He was. He must be. What the blazes else could these words mean?

  “Sin . . .” My God, what was she saying that name for? “Cyril, Cyril, you cannot mean that. This is a public place . . .” And why say that either? Because her heart thudded? Her throat had clenched so she could barely speak and the words were like broken glass in her throat? Another jolt sent her sprawling backwards so she smacked her head against the other door.

  “I mean it, Malice. I won’t have you telling these lies. If you want to stop the coach, if you want all this to go away, you will drop all this nonsense about us being so happy together and give me that divorce.”

  She could do that, couldn’t she? Drop the allegations, stop the nonsense?

  “So you can wreck some other woman’s life?”

  Perhaps she could stop, but she wasn’t going to. To think only a second ago she had behaved like a mouse. A mouse? She had been captured by Vikings for heaven’s sake. Besides, he wouldn’t dare kidnap her. What was this but a ride round the London streets? It would end—actually, thinking where it would end was a bad idea. What if it didn’t? It was better to concentrate on believing it would. That she would stay in control.

  “Wreck some other woman’s life? What do you think I am, Malice? I love Grace.”

  “Grace?”

  Somehow she found her way off the floor and onto the seat. Saying the damned woman’s name was as bad as him saying the word love. As if he knew about such things, what it was to feel that hungry longing, to come up with empty space inside. To pine. To hunger. To know that one person and one only, completed a soul. Initially she had felt that for him.

  No. That was something he probably understood about as much as she had before she met Sin. Oh, there was lust of course. What she’d thought about being faithful to Cyril wasn’t strictly true. But she’d never been his wife and she’d never thought to see him again either. The odds on it were millions to one. If he really did love Grace, then she could stop this.

  “You? Love Grace?”

  She had only to consider his face to know he lied. What she could see of his face anyway in the dim light shafting into the coach, painting the wall opposite and him in silver bands. Not that she was wonderful at interpreting men but the unwavering intensity of his stare said he loved one thing. That was the fortune Grace could bring him. While the faintly petulant twist to his lips revealed a baby whose rattle had been flung so far out the pram, there was no chance of getting it back. As for the shrug . . . her own lips curved.

  “So you don’t love her?”

  “Whether I love her is not the point. I will be her husband.”

  “Oh really? Well, if it’s anything like the husband you were to me she shouldn’t hold her breath, unless she wants to die of suffocation.”

  “Damn you, Malice.”

  When he snatched her wrist, ripples of interest spun through her blood. To think she was finally having that effect on men where they simply could not keep their hands off her.

  “Please do take care . . . the baby . . .”

  “The baby, the backside of my cab driver’s horse. What is this? Padding?”

  If he found that out she was finished and the wild way he thrust out his hand and tried to reach beneath her skirt said it was a real possibility. She must, she would defend herself. “Cyril, take your hands off. If you don’t, I shall—”

  Bite was the word she sank her teeth into his wrist on.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  All these scenes with Sin Gudrunsson had surely taught her something, even if Cyril did almost dislocate her jaw as he hauled his hand away.

  “I had merely hoped to discuss this reasonably. But you went to the magistrates—”

  He knocked on the carriage wall so she couldn’t finish. Then he delved into his coat pocket for his handkerchief. What a fuss to make over a tiny bite. A row of pinpricks darkening his flesh in the moonlit bands. Binding. Tying. As if she had taken his arm off. Sin Gudrunsson wouldn’t have done it, although he was slack about other things. Snotra for example.

  “We’ll discuss this later shall we, Malice?”

  “There is nothing to discuss.”

  How could there be? As far as she was concerned the matter was settled. He was the father of her padding. That was all there was to discuss, although the horses, picking up speed sent little ripples of apprehension scudding along her veins.

  “I’m glad you think so. That is providing there is a baby.”

  Providing? She curved her lips. To actually kidnap her would require a degree of planning—weeks of planning in fact. There was no way on the face of this earth she had walked in all sorts of desperation, that he could put this together in the space of an evening. As for there being a baby, she was going to obtain a foundling. There were plenty about. Just think of the good home they would have. All paid for by him. Confidence flooded. Why shouldn’t it? Perhaps she was in this coach but she had him on the turn.

  “Oh? And what do you mean to do? Hmm? Keep me a prisoner till I have it?”

  He secured the handkerchief knot with his teeth, as impressively as if he was a boy of twelve again, tying her to a tree so he could fire arrows at her. Then he reached across the carriage and cupped her face with his hand.

  “I am glad we understand each other, Malice. Finally. After all the years. Glad that you can foretell my every move.”

  “Your every move, Cyril? Well, I suppose that is because they have always been transparent. You are my husband after all.”

  “Yes. And you’re my wife. And that is how we are going to live until the baby is born. In seclusion.”

  “What?” Her voice shot up an octave before she could stop it.

  “Yes. Of my uncle’s estate. I really should look after you, don’t you think? Till you are ready to pop, dearest wife. Either that, or give me the truth of this sorry situation you wish to use to trap me.”

  Chapter 11

  The sorry situation? As she smoothed her hair into place, Malice determined not to think of it as that. Possibly it was sorry, but what was it Gentle had said to her again about being in worse places?

  Hagglersly Hall was not the nicest place—what she’d seen of it anyway, being locked in this bedroom, unable to jump from the window since that was nailed shut—but she had been worse. Far worse. The portraits on the staircase, though brooding, were beautifully painted. The panelling in the dining room was the best if somewhat dark. It didn’t smell of peat flame and whatever else was burnt in Sin Gudrunsson’s homestead. It didn’t have piglets running about the floor, nor was it propped up by poles.

  As for the servants—she’d none of them apart from Old Bob. Dealing with Gentle, with Snotra, as a servant, had been far worse. Far worse. And there was a woman about somewhere. Izzy, the name was.

  What was more not even Cyril could keep her here indefinitely. Could he? Three days was nothing. The fact he had invited her to dine with him again tonight was encouraging. Not as encouraging as letting her go. Agnes was sure to notice her absence eventually.

  She rose to her feet, grasped the candlestick. It could also be better. After all. she had disappeared for weeks not so long ago. Wh
at if Agnes thought this was the same?

  “I think we said we’d leave the candlestick. That if a candlestick is required, we will have mine.” Cyril’s voice wafted from the doorway. She glanced in the mirror and saw him standing there in an immaculate ruffled shirt and cream waistcoat. His dark hair loosely combed about his shoulders. She shrugged. To do otherwise would be show she was ruffled. She had been held captive by the Vikings.

  “Of course, Cyril.”

  “Then put it down. So we can go downstairs. That’s if you want to eat. Maybe you’d rather starve, although such things would not be good for our baby.”

  Did he fear her taking the candlestick off his head? Gritting her teeth she did what he said. Their baby? Once she had hoped for such a thing. Now here she was nourishing a piece of padding stuck in her drawers. Still, as she’d thought a second ago, it could be worse. Being locked up like this forced various reconsiderations.

  While she hoped for rescue she must face the fact it might not come. Of course she could bulk up that padding with the cushion over there. But if she were to place herself in his good graces, make him like her a little, where mightn’t that lead? To him forgiving her? To there being a baby for real? When the possibilities were endless why shoot herself in the foot by being anything other than amenable?

  “Oh, my appetite is hearty.”

  “Good, because I’ve prepared a feast.”

  “How kind.” She crossed the floor with a smile fixed to her face. The calm one Sin Gudrunsson had seemed to like. Even as she did her heart shifted for all her bright front. What had happened between them had been extraordinary. She swore if she closed her eyes she could taste it, his skin, his mouth, the ale that laced his breath, she could taste him.