If something had come of that night she wouldn’t be reduced to stuffing her pantaloons with padding. But it hadn’t. And really it was just as well. An emotional connection with a man who lived hundreds of years ago was silly. It was bad enough that the taste of him lingered right there on her tongue. Somehow, she couldn’t forget the simple things, like the way she’d drifted to sleep on his shoulder. Or the folly of it that she hadn’t got him to remove that collar. But a baby, his baby . . . how would that work, with her here and him there? When she’d never known her father, did she need to ask how difficult it was for a child not to have one? Why. Just look at her at the mercy of this man standing there, unwilling to even let her breathe.
“And how kind of you to want to escort me there too.”
“I wouldn’t like you to fall on the staircase. Lose our child in the process.”
She took the arm he offered. Was he threatening her? “Of course. Although I thought it would be more helpful to your cause if you simply pushed me. The hall is dark enough, No-one would ever know.”
“But you would tell them, Malice.”
“Would I?”
“It’s what you used to do all the time.” He frowned. “Although I have to say . . .”
What? That she had changed? That she wasn’t the old Malice ready to run to Aunt Carter with a tongue-load of tales? Tales that Aunt Carter believed, which made it even harder to think of the terms of that will. Was that what she read in his dark eyes? That he was finally beginning to notice her as a woman? It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Someone to notice her? Someone to care? So she might have the life other women had instead of sitting on the shelf like some ornament, although there were those who would argue she hadn’t exactly been idle. Very well. Driven to run Strictly, which she never would have done had he not abandoned her.
“Oh, my time in Denmark changed me. Or maybe it was Norway.”
“You were in Norway and Denmark?”
She tweaked her hair back from her forehead. It was not the cleverest thing to say but so long as she didn’t say it was with the Vikings, it would be all right. Anyway what was he going to do? Have her incarcerated for insanity? She was already locked up, wasn’t she? Besides his eyes widened. He was impressed.
“Oh yes.” She let him lead her onto the landing. “Quite recently actually. After I left you that evening. I even have this collar to prove it.”
“That awful looking—
“The latest in Scandinavian jewellery.”
“But Malice, you’re such a poor sailor, how the blazes did you manage the journey?”
“It was rough. I probably didn’t as such. There was a man there who . . . Well, we won’t talk of him.” Why should she? Why think of that second at the prow when he had held her despite her disgusting state? “All we will say is that he told me to look at the horizon.”
“And that helped?”
“No.”
“So? How on earth did you manage the return journey?”
“Oh. That flew like nothing on earth.” It certainly had.
“I can’t believe how well travelled you are. Are you saying you have money?”
It was always going to come to that. Say yes and he’d be hers for the taking. Say no and he’d be breaking her fingers to make her sign away her marriage. What there was of it, rather.
“You would be surprised at what I have.”
True, when she thought of all that padding. They had reached the foot of the stairs now, no mean feat in this darkened place. Didn’t he ever take the shutters off the windows? When it came to money, think of the fortune he’d save on candles alone. Heating too in this chilly fortress. A little sunlight was a wonderful thing. It would assist the fire hissing and spitting its last in the grate no end by at least warming the dining room.
Still, who was she to complain? The long walnut table gleamed with silverware—sell a few of these and he’d be fine, although perhaps pawning his uncle’s belongings was off the agenda? The portrait of the said man glowering down from the panelling above the fireplace was enough scare the devil. Indeed, with his eyes narrowed, his brows like giant bushes, he might have been the devil.
In addition to the table, the sideboard was heaped with dishes and at least the place was lit, if somewhat dimly, like her airless chamber. Heaped with dishes? It was, wasn’t it? The whole length of it, all the way to the end.
“Goodness, Cyril, what is this? You have prepared a feast.”
“Because you are eating for two now, Malice. I would not like you to starve.”
“Yes. Well.” She forced a smile. She might have known there was method in the madness. “That does not mean I want to get as fat as a pig. But I will do my best.”
Would she? Definitely not, but she wasn’t going to say so. She walked forward, her heels clicking on the wooden floorboards and he pulled out the chair. “You know I cannot thank you enough for looking after my well-being. And that of our baby.”
He wasn’t. Still, why not flatter? If there was one thing being with Sin Gudrunsson had taught her, it wasn’t how to flatter . . . no. It was how to keep one step ahead. There she went again, thinking of a man she was never going to see again. Another who hadn’t really wanted her, or cared for her. Except for that night. That night she must forget about if she was going to do this. Gathering her skirts, she sat down.
“Just say the word, Malice, if you want all this to stop.”
He leaned over her shoulders and she sat still as stone. Despite the fact he held her prisoner, in fact despite everything he had done, his actual proximity was not unpleasant. Stray details like the scent of his soap, the curl of his long fingers around the decanter filtered into her consciousness. She closed her eyes then immediately snapped them open.
She supposed she was confused by this but she prayed that the heat that gathered in her palms did not necessarily mean she was a wanton. This had begun with her kissing Cyril. Kissing him had led to Sin. He had been so incredible in bed anyway, it was natural she was lonely at the thought of the feel of him. But kissing Cyril had raised heat in her and he was here now. Here, so these empty places inside her, these ones Sin Gudrunsson had touched, filled with heat.
“When you look at me like this, Cyril, how can I?”
It was true, wasn’t it? He didn’t just look too close—down the front of her damnable green dress in fact. He leaned too closely too. And not just to return the decanter to the shining silver tray, to select the claret bottle instead. His brown eyes with their boyish charm were fully on her, her cleavage, her neck, her face.
“Well, let us just say you’ve changed, Malice.”
Her heart skipped the tiniest fraction of a beat. She licked dry lips. “I have?”
Crimson claret flowed into ancient gold rimmed glasses. “You’re actually quite attractive.”
What? For a second her breath caught. She was the same person she always had been. But maybe she was more? He set the bottle down, “Finally.”
How ungratifying. He had always been the kind to give with one hand, take away with ten. He inclined his head slightly.
“That does not mean I can afford to stay married to you.”
“Goodness, Cyril, what a flatterer you are. Supposing I had money? Like Grace.”
Naturally she said so. Naturally this would be good. To fight her corner, see his eyes gleam, be proved right, she’d swallow anything. There was an absence of crocodiles and their various relatives in that second though. An absence of a lot in that second. She had his attention. She also had his disillusionment. Because this was another of her lies in his eyes? Heavens, wasn’t the fact she was even here testament to that fact? Bundled in that carriage like an old sack? Held in a shuttered upstairs room?
“Money? And where would you get that?”
Sh
e shrugged. “Strictly. How do you think I can afford to dress so well?”
Largely by not paying her bills but how was he to know? If he did, he’d probably applaud her brilliance. Now, if only she’d thought about taking some of Sin Gudrunsson’s gold and hiding it about her person. If she’d known an old collar was as much as she was going to come back with, she would have. Anything to help her now. But the fact was she hadn’t.
“You mean it pays that well?”
“You mean you’d stop wanting a divorce?”
He swept his gaze over her. The thing was Cyril was a liar and a cheat and yes that padding would require no small explanation but not for the first time she couldn’t help thinking of the problems it would solve if she could just make him want her. Just once. Based on lies. But basing things on lies had been the story of his life as much as it was hers.
“I just mean you’re different. You haven’t even complained. But it’s just not—”
She turned her head fully. She didn’t care if she cut him off. That little flicker of appraisal in his eyes was something else that was new. Lose the moment and she’d lose this. She pressed her lips to his, not wholly unexpected when she saw she must take charge. When what surged in that second, the little flare of heat, rose through her body. This had nothing to do with him keeping her prisoner and everything to do with how close he was. His moist, sensuous lips especially.
Even if it meant nothing on his part, why worry? And who was to say it didn’t? This wasn’t like any kiss she’d had from him. Not that she’d exactly had many kisses from him. What she supposed she meant was if this was an act, it was a good one and she had never thought Cyril’s acts extended quite that far. Even the night she had gone to his door he had been transparent. It was the best thing she could say about him. Not much at that. But a start was a start. What was more, this business of somehow being with the Vikings, then coming back here, didn’t seem to be controlled by a kiss, or she wouldn’t be here now.
She reached her arm round his neck. A finish was a finish too and now she’d had that experience with Sin Gudrunsson, she might as well finish this. At least she might as well part her lips. She would worry about parting other things if and when the moment arrived, who wasn’t to say this couldn’t be a twelve month’s baby? Did these things happen? Not that she knew of. But as the whole business with the Vikings had proved, there was a first for everything. Dear Lord, there was even a first time for this. Cyril seeming to want her.
She rose to her feet, the chair hitting the floor with a clatter. Heat coursed. Not as much as when Sin Gudrunsson had kissed her but actually what she’d done with Sin Gudrunsson had been the result of that very simple thing. Lust. This was pleasantly different. A little tamer. A little sweeter. Yet with the promise that licking heat would flame. Anyway this was her world.
He pressed her against the table edge. Seducing him? Unnecessary. Not when he now deepened the kiss. So long as this was not a trick on his part to see exactly what was under her skirt, he was welcome to grasp her waist. To reach behind him for purchase on the table.
She half closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe her own unbridled reflex, the groan that came from the back of her throat in that instant. “Cyril . . . I . . .”
When she needed to ensure her position why speak at all? Especially now his eyes, melting pools of chocolate, held hers. Devil take him, how long had she waited for him to look at her like that? For him to curl his hand round her head and draw her lips to meet his too in another kiss. An open mouthed passionate one that saw her close her eyes and hang her head back? How delightful was this? How invigorating? How dark and devilishly exciting too. So the room pitched and the floor swayed beneath her and even the cold, the icy sting of frozen water hitting her cheeks took her breath away . . .
“Cyril . . .”
Frozen water?
Her throat caught. Breath was something she grabbed at, hauling in, in, in, until finally there was nowhere left for it to go except into the tortured corners of her lungs which expanded and expanded. Her head sagged, her chest screamed for want of air. Wind tore her hair and lightening sent jagged fingers across skies made of black ink. Ink that matched the river of sea water swirling around her feet, nearly sinking her gown.
“Troll’s teeth. Troll’s—”
Was that the Viking equivalent for shit? My God. Sin Gudrunsson. What was he doing here in Haggersly Hall? Rather what was she doing here with him, large as life and ten times more dangerous, his blue eyes spectral in the rain lashing down his face? His brows furrowed in shock? Towering right there before her. Where was Cyril? Holding her head as high as she could, largely so it didn’t fall off her neck and clatter off the deck, she tried to force her frozen lips apart.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Malice? Malice is that you?”
Malice, was that her? Now the wind clawed the thoughts from her head, she couldn’t tell, if this was her, or not. Or, perhaps, for that matter, the silver teapot. Nothing would have surprised her which was why she didn’t want to give that assurance. The deck pitched as Ari bounced towards her, his voice rising above the howling gale.
“Raven’s breath, Potlicker, what in the name of Frigg is she doing here?”
A good question. Malice, was this her? When a chorus of voices insisted this was, she couldn’t very well pretend it was the teapot. Sin Gudrunsson stood there. She must try and explain.
“Drottin . . .”
“Potlicker, this doesn’t happen. Did she stow away?”
On this tub? With her history of seasickness? Did Ari need his brain examined?
“Drottin . . . I . . . I . . .” The boat lurched. She quickly covered her mouth.
“Witch!”
“Troll!”
And when she did, covered her mouth and sprung for the side of the ship, that was, when she had nearly been polite enough to ask them to excuse her, she really wished the men wouldn’t shout like that, seemingly at her. Surely she hadn’t found herself back here merely to acquaint herself with the contents of Davy Jones locker?
“Sacrifice! Sacrifice!”
Yes. Yes she had. Men unpeeled themselves from the oars, fell on their knees, hauled off their helmets. As if she was Satan incarnate and only one man could save them. The one standing there rooted to the spot, his hair plastered to his forehead. Sin Gudrunsson. As she clutched at the prow too, trying to calm her heaving stomach.
“Potlicker, I don’t know about the gods, but the men have been rowing for three hours now in this maelstrom,” Ari spoke through the wind tearing at his hair. “And they’re angry we haven’t been able to find calm waters since the storm started up. What if she’s the reason? You know what kind of luck it is to have women aboard. Bad luck.”
He hoped she thought it was a three course banquet for her. She dragged her head up.
“Oh, so it’s all well and fine when you’re raiding and women are the spoils?”
Sin Gudrunsson ducked forward. “That depends on the woman.”
“Well, to answer your question, as you can see, yes this is me. And I—”
Her breath caught as he gripped her wrists, holding her there against him, so his ice-cool scent sent ripples of warmth cascading through her blood. As it did a thought grew feet and legs and galloped about her head. Kissing Cyril had brought her here. Twice. And having sex with this man had sent her spinning back to Regency London. That much she knew from some black recess in her soul. Why bother relying on her wits to get her out of this mess when all she need do was kiss him. This had to be about the two men and no others. Not the neighbour, not the lamplighter. Just Cyril and Sin.
The set of his hard angled jaw, the wind’s fingers in his hair, the fact she did not recognize these glittering eyes, so like crystalline rocks she almost believed he’d missed her, should not prevent her.
If she didn’t kiss him, she might die here. Of sea-sickness if nothing else. Then there was Snotra. Suppose he’d married her? He wouldn’t kiss Malice then, would he?
Somehow, despite the fact her gown was welded like a ton weight to her, she stood on her tiptoes. For an instant his breath mingled with hers in the wild air. In that same instant, lightning flashed, the memory flared of his mouth on hers and herself in his bed. Of things she died to remember, but feared to forget. Of his body hard and knowing and her own fitting its contours like a glove. Of his breath on her skin and the way her heart beat in his embrace.
What if she kissed him and never saw him again? Ever? A man she’d thought had died hundreds of years ago.
What if there was some place for her still to go to with him? Some place beyond this howling mob baying for her blood? Oh God, some place, when she thought about her mother and all those disappearances and those times Malice caught her kissing the gardener, might be the right place? His body was hard against hers. She didn’t mistake one pertinent fact about it. Even in this maelstrom a certain bit was hard.
She stiffened. So long as her backwards pull, her attempt at gentle disengagement, did not offend him, there was a place, wasn’t there? Whatever Ari said? However this looked to these men begging him to save them in this maelstrom?
His jaw tightened. “Actually Ari, you’re right. Do you know the penalty for a disobedient slave, sweeting? How my golden pieces won’t count for a chipped farthing if we land at the bottom of the sea because you’re bad luck?”
“Perhaps. But it depends on what other treasures you—”
He flicked his glance over her shoulder to Ari, a tiny nerve ticking at the base of his cheek.
“The whip.”
Why did the fist of horror clasping her heart almost break it? Because she was not treating this as business was she? A place to go? Was she mad?
THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN Page 18
