A Deal with Her Rebel Viking

by Michelle Styles

  ‘That is the plan. He will see I have value. All this will happen after you leave.’

  Moir swallowed his anger. A reminder that the younger sister and the incompetent steward would reach the court in a day or two more at most. Then the King would send a party to take them to meet their destiny.

  ‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘It was merely a suggestion. It is hard when one can see ways to improve a farm and can do nothing. It helps to keep my mind from my friend’s troubles.’

  She put her finger to her mouth, silencing him. ‘All seems quiet. Shall I see if Father Oswald is ready for you?’

  Moir’s feet became heavy. He stared at the closed door to the infirmary. ‘It feels as though I have reached a dividing moment in my life,’ he confessed. ‘The bones have been rolled, but I am not sure I want to see the result.’

  ‘Once you know what has happened, you can act.’ She patted his sleeve.

  Moir froze as the surge of desire at her touch nearly felled him. Lady Ansithe merely offered comfort, not an invitation to take her to bed. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘For luck.’ Her cheeks flamed sunset rose. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t do it again. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  She turned to go, but her feet skidded into each other. Moir put his hand under her elbow to keep her from falling. She looked up at him with darkly fringed brown-green eyes. He reached out and touched her cheek, soft against the pads of his fingers.

  ‘We can’t have you in the infirmary as well. Who would keep order?’

  ‘Nobody expects to fall.’

  The words were little more than a whisper. And he knew he should step away from her, yet his feet refused to move.

  ‘No, they don’t,’ he agreed, watching the way her mouth was shaped. Her tongue flashed out and wet her bottom lip, turning it to the colour of ripe berries, the sort he knew with a glance would be sweet to nibble. ‘Most actively try to avoid it.’

  Neither of them said anything. His fingers itched to draw her closer. He wanted to touch her lips with his and see if they tasted as good as they looked. She swayed towards him, her mouth softly parted. He groaned and gave in, brushing his lips against hers. His tongue met hers and the kiss deepened. He drank from her lips.

  Somewhere a cockerel crowed, breaking the spell. She jumped and hurriedly stepped away from him. It took all his hard-won discipline—won through years of training—to release her and move back. There were so many reasons why it would be a mistake, starting with their exposed position and ending with the fact that he remained her captive. ‘Lady Ansithe, I...’

  ‘Go.’ She pointed towards the infirmary. ‘You were right. You are more than capable of behaving correctly in the infirmary. You don’t need me there and, if I am not mistaken, I have a bee swarm to capture. One I spied earlier.’

  Without waiting for an answer, she quickened her pace away from him. He watched her backside sway as her green gown rippled about her ankles, revealing their slenderness. He itched to discover the passionate woman who lurked behind her carefully constructed walls.

  * * *

  The apiary with its skeps and hum of busy bees was a place Ansithe always enjoyed being. She carefully tipped the swarm of bees she’d collected from the pigsty into one of the disused skeps.

  Although she had lost a few colonies, the rest appeared to have settled back to their routine. She counted the functioning hives. Despite Cynehild’s prediction, they would get some honey later in the year and still have five or six hives to overwinter.

  ‘Concentrate,’ she muttered. ‘The bees know if your mind is elsewhere. It is when accidents happen. That unasked-for kiss should already be forgotten.’

  But as she worked, she kept picturing Moir standing there with his body silhouetted against the sun before he went into the infirmary, alone but determined. He had needed comfort. Something had called her deep within, primitive and dark, and so she had touched him. Kissed him. Then realised her mistake.

  She straightened the skep, trying to concentrate. She hadn’t intended to stumble, but she had managed to keep from totally humiliating herself and demanding his mouth. Heat like a fire had spread through her veins. She’d never known a kiss could be like that—tempting and dangerous. Thrilling, making her long for more. And he’d walked away from her without a backwards glance.

  ‘Nothing is going to happen,’ she whispered to the hives. ‘I haven’t forgotten what I look like. Where my talents lie.’

  The hum from the bees increased and it seemed as though they were disagreeing with her words and agreeing with her heart which kept whispering—what did she have to lose? He had wanted to kiss her as well. He might do so again.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Is the operation finished? Does Palni live?’

  The priest looked up from where he sat, scratching notes on a piece of vellum. ‘You have returned quicker than I would like, but, yes, to both your questions.’

  Moir put his head on his hands. Palni lived. ‘Thank you and your God. And his leg?’

  ‘Fortunately, the infection had failed to reach the bone. Flesh only, not bone. Understand? Good. But if we had delayed much longer...’

  Moir’s throat worked up and down. ‘You saved his leg. Lady Ansithe said to trust you, but I didn’t dare hope. I didn’t even think it could be possible.’

  Lady Ansithe. The woman he’d just shared a kiss with. He had not intended it to happen. He knew all too well what Palni and the priest would both say about it if they knew. She was the one woman he should not dishonour and he had.

  ‘I am no butcher.’ Father Oswald turned back to his writing. ‘You may stay with your friend. All things are possible to my God.’

  Moir crossed over to where Palni lay, white against the linen. Palni’s eyes snapped open.

  ‘How much of my leg have they cut off?’ Palni whispered. His hand scrabbled at the bedclothes. ‘I swear by Thor’s hammer that I can still feel it throbbing. And I can move my toes.’

  ‘That’s because it remains whole. The priest was able to cut out the infection from the flesh without touching the bone. He said it was to show you his God’s power,’ Moir said, crouching down. He touched his pendant and promised to anyone who might be listening that he’d be a better person now that Palni had been saved.

  ‘His God’s power?’ Palni groaned. ‘I should know not to argue with a priest.’

  ‘Did you have words with him before this?’

  ‘I may have done. Told him if his God saved my life, I’d give up my heathen gods.’ Palni’s eyes glistened with unshed tears and he raised his voice. ‘It appears I was wrong, Father. I am as good as my word. Teach me about this here God of yours.’

  ‘My God’s mercy is great.’ The priest put down his stylus and looked directly at Moir. Moir shifted uncomfortably. It was as if the priest knew all his faults, including his growing passion for Ansithe. ‘He believes in forgiveness. Be better in the future. It is what I say to all who confess and truly wish to repent.’

  * * *

  The deepening colours of the sky never failed to fascinate Moir. The sunset this evening reminded him of the many shades of auburn in Ansithe’s hair and how it felt against his fingertips. He knew he had no business thinking about such things or about their kiss. He should be thinking about how to apologise to her and ensure that it did not happen again.

  The priest’s words earlier clung to his mind. Forgiveness and mercy—two qualities his father’s gods did not have. And he had much to do before he could demonstrate that he was worthy.

  After leaving the infirmary, he had worked the remainder of the afternoon, hoping to encounter Ansithe and explain about his presumption in kissing her, but she had been conspicuous by her absence. Enemies, he reminded himself. She considered him her enemy. And all he could think about was the taste of her mouth.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in
the byre with the others?’ Ansithe asked behind him, making him start.

  ‘I like to watch the sunset. It reminds me that I’ve lived through another day.’ He kept his gaze pointedly away from her mouth. Perhaps ignoring what had passed between them was best. He would ensure it did not happen again as it could put his men at risk. ‘My man will recover, according to your priest. He thought my faith in him lacking.’

  Her smile could have lit several halls. ‘It can take some weeks to recover from such operations. If Elene returns before then I will keep him behind until Father Oswald deems him ready for travel.’

  ‘You will do that?’ Moir ran his hand through his hair. He understood her immediate unspoken words. Her sister should be at the court by now. Their time here was coming to an end. He doubted he had ever felt as at peace as he did here, watching the sun slowly sink and thinking about nothing more consequential than the precise colour of Ansithe’s hair. He reminded himself yet again why touching her would be a bad idea.

  ‘I made a promise and Palni will remain in my care. I’ve no wish to get on the wrong side of Father Oswald. He can be fierce when it comes to protecting his patients.’

  ‘I will make my men understand that Palni is in safe hands if we must depart before he is ready. They understand I am not my father.’

  Her entire body became alert. ‘What does your father have to do with this?’

  Moir silently cursed. ‘A boring story about self-serving betrayal. I learnt from his mistakes.’

  ‘Do you think your jaarl’s son will try to lead your men now that he has recovered instead of tolerating you to do it for him?’ she asked instead of pressing further.

  Moir’s neck relaxed. He appreciated her understanding that there were certain areas in his life which he didn’t want to talk about. It was possible she fully understood why the kiss they’d shared was best consigned to history. ‘All Bjartr has done since I removed him from the infirmary is curl up in a ball and moan.’

  ‘Maybe he is ashamed of how he acted. It can be hard to face people when you know you have let them down.’

  ‘Do you know what it is like?’

  Her eyes became haunted and he longed to remove the weary sorrow from them. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I believe your priest is right. There is power in forgiveness. I had not thought about it until today.’

  ‘I like to think there is.’ She put her hand on his sleeve and he covered it with his. They stood there for a few breaths watching the sun’s final glow. The rays turned her skin a lovely rose peach. Then she withdrew her hand.

  ‘Apparently Father Oswald and your friend share a love of King’s Table. They have been playing it ever since he woke up. Father Oswald is pleased to discover someone with talent and a modicum of intelligence.’ She gave a half-smile. ‘Unlike me or my sisters. He says I deliberately lose when I get bored.’

  ‘You don’t enjoy playing it?’

  ‘It reminds me far too much of when my late husband was ill. He forced me to play match after match. He took delight in lecturing me about what I was doing wrong.’

  Moir nodded. ‘I enjoy playing in the winter months. On days like today, it is far better to be outside...’

  ‘A man after my own inclinations,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Cynehild gets annoyed that I spend so much time outdoors. She believes a lady’s place is inside, attending to the weaving first. She told me that I’m becoming as brown as a berry.’

  A small spray of freckles sprinkled across Ansithe’s nose. He wanted to reach out and taste each one. He clenched his fists and concentrated. It was not going to happen.

  ‘Your sister is too harsh. How else can you ensure the estate is well run?’

  ‘My destiny is to disappoint my father.’ She turned away from him.

  ‘Is it important to have a future? To have your life mapped out in front of you as far as you can see?’ His voice was as soft as the evening breeze which ruffled her hair.

  ‘It is how my life has always been. I know what is happening when and what is expected of me. Where I have failed. How I will never measure up.’

  ‘Sometimes I think it is more important to grab the present and be part of that instead. The future can take care of itself. It normally does.’ He tried for a weak smile. ‘Like earlier. With Palni.’

  She turned towards him. Her enquiring brown-green eyes seemed far too large for her face. He doubted any woman had ever looked at him in quite that fashion. His easy words died on his tongue.

  ‘Is that why you kissed me, because you were afraid for your friend and needed a distraction?’ Ansithe asked, knowing it was now or never for the decision she’d made at the apiary. She needed to know why he’d kissed her earlier.

  ‘Kyrie.’ The word was a whispered groan. He held out his hand to her.

  Her fingers curled about his. He tugged and she came within the circle of his arm. His mouth hovered a breath from hers.

  ‘Kyrie,’ he whispered again. She caught the whisper in her mouth and leant forward to meet him.

  At his touch, Ansithe parted her lips eagerly. His arms came about her and pulled her tight against his hard body.

  How long they stood there, tongues touching and tangling, she had no idea.

  Someone coughed in the byre.

  He stepped away. Her body shivered with a series of warm pulses.

  ‘And that is your answer—another kiss?’ Her voice sounded husky to her ears.

  ‘Strictly speaking, you kissed me as well.’ His eyes became blue flames in the lingering light. ‘But as you require an explanation for my kisses—the first one was because you were there, looking like an angel.’

  ‘And the second one?’ She worried her bottom lip. ‘You must require something else. I am not the sort of women men steal kisses from. Ever.’

  ‘Because you were in the sunset’s glow, standing close to me, asking me why I had kissed you. You seemed to doubt that I could desire you. I believe I have successfully demonstrated that to the contrary.’ He put out a hand and touched her cheek. Rose-petal soft. ‘How else could I convince you that you are a desirable woman?’

  She removed her cheek from his warm palm. It was far harder to do than she had imagined. She wanted to turn back to him and touch her mouth to his again and see if his words of desire were the truth or designed to lull her into letting them escape.

  ‘We have no future,’ she said bluntly. ‘I can’t fail my family again.’

  The words came out in a rush. She winced. It sounded as though she had expected a marriage proposal or declaration from him.

  ‘I am not asking for for ever, Kyrie. I agree that it is impossible. Neither am I asking for more than you are prepared to give. I know your society views liaisons between men and women differently from mine. I know about the power your priests wield. I am asking only for the now. For whatever you are prepared to give.’

  For the now. For whatever she was prepared to give. He did not know how tempting it was—to be held as if she might learn what it was to be cherished. To feel that she was wanted for more than being the person who ensured food was on the table and the bed linen was changed. Not to be the practical one. She sighed. She was the sensible one, the one who saw the problems and found the solutions.

  She touched her mouth with her fingers. She felt far more alive from Moir’s kisses than she ever had from any of her late husband’s pawings. She had dreaded the marriage bed when she had been married. Now her insides felt as though they were made of liquid fire, all from this man, this Northman, a man who should be her enemy, but somehow wasn’t.

  ‘I should go.’ Her feet stayed rooted to the ground and he was far too close. If she leant forward a little bit, her chest would brush his. Ansithe’s mouth went dry at such a wayward thought.

  ‘Then I will apologise. Profusely.’ His eyes watched her intently in the owl-light. They were
like beacons of pure blue heat. ‘It won’t happen again, but I need to know—did you like it? Tell the truth, Kyrie.’

  ‘I did like it,’ she admitted unable to lie as he started to turn away. ‘It is just that...that it is complicated. You are supposed to be my enemy.’

  ‘I don’t consider you an enemy. Your actions saved my men’s lives. You fed us. You have bound our wounds. You permitted us to retain our dignity by working for our keep.’

  She bit her lip. ‘My husband married because he needed practical support in running the household. He never desired me.’

  ‘Your late husband was a blind fool if he didn’t desire you.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ she gasped.

  ‘Not all men’s tastes run to curvy blondes with feathers for brains.’ His knuckle brushed her cheek. ‘I, for one, have become quite partial to flame-haired archers with well-trimmed ankles and eyes to drown in in recent days.’

  ‘You are in the minority.’

  ‘But my preference means something to me.’

  She stared at the ground. Why couldn’t she be one of those women who could easily share a kiss or flirt with any creature in trousers? Because this was surely what it was—a flirtation to pass the time.

  ‘The sunset is over. Darkness falls. Cynehild will panic if I’m not there.’

  Her voice faltered on the exaggeration. Cynehild enjoyed ordering Ansithe about during meal times while she kept Wulfgar on her knee.

  A braying noise came from the byre. ‘Is someone in distress?’

  ‘Bjartr is probably objecting to something one of the others has said. We will continue our conversation another time, preferably when we won’t be interrupted.’ He leant towards her, but she moved so that his mouth brushed her ear. ‘Thank you for the kiss.’

  He strode into the byre, shouting for calm. The noise instantly ceased.

  Ansithe put her hand to her ear. Kisses from Northmen could only lead to trouble. She had to forget them. And the best remedy for that was more work.