by Sandra Hill
He put his hands on his hips.
She did the same.
You'd never know they had been moaning in each other's mouths a short time ago by the expression of contempt on Maire's face… a face that was, incidentally, rose-colored from the abrasion of his late-day whiskers. Her lips were still kiss-swollen, and there was a blood mark on the side of her neck from his sucking on her skin like a sex-starved youthling. But her eyes—for the love of Freyja!—her eyes were throwing green sparks of fire at him.
If Rurik were a betting man, he would wager now that Maire was not in the mood for resuming their love games.
He understood perfectly. He was having a few reservations himself about what had almost happened betwixt them. Oh, he was not averse to making love with the witch, but he intended to do so on his own terms, not whilst careening dizzily from lack of control. Best he set the record straight, though, afore she launched into him with her usual shrew words.
"I do not much appreciate your ensorcelling me, witch," he informed her haughtily. "Do not do it again."
"Me? Me?" she sputtered. " 'Twas you who put a spell on me. Just like that other time. Do not do it again."
"I know naught of spells. That is your line of work. I am just a simple soldier."
"Hah! There is naught simple about you, Viking."
He chose to take that as a compliment. But before he could reply, Maire was stomping off, back toward her castle.
"Hey! Where are you off to in such a rush?" he asked, hurrying to catch up. "Did I not tell you that you are to go nowhere without me, or one of my guards?"
She said something under her breath that sounded as foul as the offal that spewed from her son's mouth, and kept walking. But then she told him, "I'm going to the kitchens."
"Since when do you work as a scullery maid, or cook's helper? Would you stand still? I can't keep up with you on these sharp rocks. I hope they're not stones from burial cairns. I would hate to think I'm stepping on so many dead people."
Maire ignored his complaints and answered his question. "I work everywhere in my keep. With the shortage of menfolk, I even mucked the stables last month." She held up her work-roughened hand as illustration. "In any case, it's a special meal we are preparing for this evening." Her eyes danced with mischief.
"Why?" he asked suspiciously, then swore as he stubbed his big toe.
"To celebrate the liberation of the snakes, I suppose. Or our liberation from the MacNabs. Or the beauty of a summer day."
"Or mayhap to show hospitality to your Viking saviors?" he offered, just to tweak her. He had discovered early on that she was easily tweaked. And Viking men were ever so good at tweaking their women. "Or to thank one particular Viking for teaching you so much about love play?" He waggled his eyebrows at her.
Her only answer was a grunt. Really, the wench had no sense of humor at all.
He knew their situation was dire. The MacNabs could attack at any moment. Maire had done naught to remove his blue mark. If the situation did not alter soon, he might very well have to allow Stigand to lop off her head. And, meanwhile, the wench was turning his head and other body parts, with the mere twitch of her hips, or lips.
Still, there was no harm in trying to be a pleasant fellow. So, when he finally matched his pace to hers, he inquired, "And what might this special meal be?"
He should have known better. He really should have.
"Haggis."
Hours later, Rurik walked into the great hall of Maire's keep and surveyed the bustling activity that continued to transform the castle.
While he and all the men and boys had worked on the stone-and-timber walls, many of which were now back to their former condition, Maire had gone indoors to complete some much-needed cleaning. Apparently, recent months had afforded no time to keep up the interior of the castle. More urgent demands… like how to withstand the MacNabs… had taken precedence. But, no, the condition of the keep bespoke long-standing neglect, not just the past few months since Maire's husband's death. Hmmm.
Now old rushes had been raked out, dirt floors swept, and new fragrant rushes laid down. Rusted-out weaponry and shields had been taken down from the walls, and were out in the courtyard, where youthlings were honing and polishing them with sandstone and soft cloths to a glossy shine. Housemaids were scouring the wood trestle tables that had been folded up against the walls during the cleaning operation. And finely woven tapestries were being laundered in a side yard off the kitchen. He wondered who had done the tapestry in Maire's bedchamber and reminded himself to ask her later. Even as he watched, an old woman carried a yoke with two buckets of clean water from the kitchen garden well.
He saw Maire giving orders like a Norse chieftain. She looked as exhausted as he felt. Pressing the heels of his palms to the small of his back, Rurik arched his shoulders back to remove the kinks of hard labor. There was a strange, immediate sort of satisfaction in working with one's hands, and Rurik suspected that Maire was feeling the same way about the work she'd accomplished this day. He knew he was correct in his assumption when she glanced up and smiled at him… before she remembered that he was her enemy, and turned her smile to a frown.
But he'd seen the smile. That was enough. He winked to let her know that he knew.
To his amazement… and delight… the wench made an obscene gesture at him.
Odin's Blood! He was going to enjoy taming her… though not too much. A little taming, that's all he wanted.
"What are you grinning about?" Bolthor asked, coming up to his side.
"A little taming," Rurik disclosed.
Bolthor glanced from him to Maire, then back to him again. "Who will be taming whom?" Bolthor asked.
Rurik glared at his skald. "Did you come here for a reason, or just to provoke me?"
Bolthor smiled lopsidedly at him and scratched his head as if he was not sure. The dolt! But then he revealed, "Yea, I had a reason. The MacNab is waiting in the bailey to speak with you. He is unarmed and alone."
"Well, why did you not say so?" Rurik scolded and rushed outdoors, but not before he heard Bolthor practicing a new saga, which started out with the usual "This is the saga of Rurik the Greater," an introduction that made him cringe every time he heard it.
Rurik was a soldier fierce.
Many an enemy his sword did pierce.
Thus garnered he great self-pride
That none would dare deride.
So armed, the foolish man did boast
From coast to coast to coast
That not only his enemies could he tame
But, as well, a fair dame.
The problem was the dame was no mare,
But a maiden, oh, so fair.
Maire the Fair would not be tamed…
Not e'en by a warrior so famed.
In truth, some advised Rurik to take great pains,
Lest he be the one in reins.
But he would not listen,
Though tears of mirth on his friends did glisten
And so it came to pass that Rurik the Vain
became… Rurik the Tame.
Rurik scowled at his skald.
Bolthor merely shrugged and said, "It needs some work."
"It needs scrapping," Rurik muttered and stepped outside into the lowering sunshine. Evening would be approaching soon, and he and his men had not yet bathed or supped.
And there stood Duncan MacNab, cocky as a Sunday rooster, examining the work they'd done to reinforce the collapsing walls of the Campbell castle. If he bent over much farther, and his pladd rose much higher on his legs, Rurik was going to get more of a view of the Scotsman's backside than he ever wanted.
Maybe Maire had been correct in keeping her son hidden if her enemy could enter her keep with such ease.
"Does it meet with your approval?" Rurik asked coolly as he stepped up to the man.
Duncan straightened, and being of roughly the same height as Rurik, met his gaze, eye to eye. Rurik made a concerted effort to look away from the single brow that stretche
d across the other man's forehead and took in, instead, the clean, though unruly, mane of gray-flecked red hair that covered the MacNab's head. He would not have been an unattractive man in his youth, but at fifty and more years, he was way too long in the tooth for Maire, in Rurik's opinion. Not that Maire was actually considering the suit of the MacNab. Far from it.
In fact, he saw her standing in the open doorway of the great hall, staring down the wide steps at the two of them. For once, she had the good sense to hold her tongue and not interfere in men's talk.
"Aye, the work on the wall meets with my approval," Duncan conceded with ill grace. "But why overexert yourself to build up the defenses of this keep when I will be the one to benefit from it eventually?"
Rurik's only answer was a raised eyebrow.
"Listen, man," Duncan said in a more conciliatory manner, turning his back on Maire and the castle, "I can see that you are striving hard to build up the defenses here. And I would have to be blind not to notice all the Campbell vermin who have crawled out of wood and vale to come back home. But you are far outnumbered. You know it, and I know it. And not just in manpower… in whole-man power, not a lot of limbless, half-blind graybeards."
Rurik bristled, as did some of the Campbell men who overheard the callous remark, including Old John, Young John, Murdoc, Callum, and Rob, whose faces turned red with humiliation. 'Twas unkind of Duncan to demean their manhood so, but then, Duncan was not known for his kindness.
"Your gall passes all bounds, Duncan MacNab. Do not underestimate the power of any man," Rurik said defensively. "If you are half the fighting man you claim to be, surely you know that might is not always measured in weight or height or wholeness. Betimes, the difference between victory and defeat is measured in the heart of the warrior. And I can tell you this… these men have heart aplenty."
Rurik saw Old John and the others gape at him with surprise. He did not immediately see Bolthor, but he was certain he would be hearing a saga this eve about this very event, making him sound more heroic than was merited. More important, he would warrant that he'd earned points with Maire, who was equally slack-jawed, though that was not why he'd spoken.
Duncan made a snarling sound of anger, but all that issued from his mouth was a profane expletive.
"What brings you here today, Duncan? Medoubts 'tis to make peace."
"Hah! Hardly." Duncan rubbed his mustache with a forefinger, pensively. "I had hoped that we might come to an agreement, soldier to soldier."
"Such as?"
"I could locate the old crone for you." A crafty lift appeared in the center of his lone eyebrow.
Now, that offer surprised Rurik. "The old crone? What would I want with some old crone? Do I look as if I need an aged woman for swiving?"
"You misread me, Viking. I refer to Cailleach… the old crone who was mentor to Maire the Witch."
"You would deliver another witch to me? I can scarce wait. Two witches of my very own."
"Not just any witch… a powerful witch… one who would surely know how to remove your blue mark."
"Are you saying that Maire cannot?"
"I'm not saying she canna, but I notice your mark is still there."
Rurik didn't need any reminders. But something nagged at his memory. "Didn't Kenneth banish the witch from Scotland when he took Maire to wife?"
Duncan threw out his hands as if that fact were neither here nor there.
Rurik frowned. "Speak plainly. Know you where the old crone is?"
"Mayhap I do, and mayhap I do not."
"Aaarrgh! Enough of your games! What is it you want of me?"
"Maire. And her Campbell lands. In return, I give you back your pretty face and safe conduct out of Scotland."
Rurik pondered for several long minutes. It was a tempting offer. Truly it was. Especially since he had a wife-to-be waiting anxiously for him in the Hebrides. A smart-thinking man would jump at this chance.
But Rurik did not always do the smart thing.
And he did not like the MacNab… not one bit.
And he did not relish jumping to any man's tune, least of all a scurvy Scot.
And honor was too hard-won for a man to give it up easily.
And the look on the Campbell men's faces when he'd defended them had touched a place deep inside of Rurik.
And he had not yet "punished" Maire with long bouts of bedsport.
Still, Rurik surprised even himself when he declined with a curt, "I am not interested."
Chapter Six
It was late before supper was served that night.
Maire and her women had worked hard to clean the hall—the first time in many, many months, apparently—and she'd insisted that everyone bathe before coming inside to eat. So, the men went to one loch and the women to another, where they made quick work of their ablutions in the icy waters.
Although the Scotsmen did a bit of griping, Rurik and his men didn't mind all that much. Norsemen tended to bathe more often than the average man. Some said that was why women from many lands were attracted to them… not because of their wondrous good looks, but because they were less malodorous than their own menfolk. Rurik preferred to think it was both.
He now leaned back in his chair on the dais where the head table was located, sipping at a cup of uisge-beatha. The amber-colored liquid went down smoothly, and his gullet was becoming accustomed to its bite, but Rurik was cautious about imbibing too much. He had plans for later that would not be enhanced by his having an ale-head. In the meantime, it was rather nice, just sitting in a clean hall, with muscles aching after a day of hard labor, knowing they were safe for a while, and relishing the pleasant scents wafting around them—not just the sweet-scented herbs from the rushes, but the rich aromas of roast meats, soon to come to the table. I must be getting old, to gain satisfaction from such small things.
There was another activity bringing enjoyment to Rurik, and that was just watching Maire as she bustled about the hall, ordering maids and housecarls about in the serving of the meal. She'd changed her arisaid after bathing, and this one-piece, belted garment that the Scotswomen arranged so artfully into pleats and gathers was just as faded as the one she'd had on this afternoon. Were they all she had? And her a highborn lady, too. Why hadn't her husband—gone only three months—provided better for her? Oh, Rurik knew the keep was in bad shape, neglected because of other, more dire concerns, but her people raised their own sheep and wove their own cloth.
Hmmm. There was a puzzle here… one that Rurik promised himself he would solve later.
Besides, she looked good to him, even in the loose garment. A braided belt called attention to a slim waist and the turn of hips and high breasts. She would hate it if she knew how all her movements pulled the loose fabric this way and that, but mostly taut against her feminine parts, including the sweet, sweet curve of her buttocks. She would also hate it if she knew that she kept touching, reflexively, the love mark he'd put on her neck, and each time she did so, he felt a jolt in his nether regions. Lance—the ridiculous name he was now giving to his man part, thanks to Maire—was nigh gleesome with anticipation.
Her hair was still damp from her bath and curled about her face since she'd not had time to dry it properly. He remembered suddenly how her luxuriant hair had felt in his fingers that afternoon.
And how her lips had felt under his lips. Oh, Holy Thor! He would never forget that. No other woman had such a sensual mouth. He should tell Bolthor to concoct a praise-poem to her lips. "Ode To a Woman's Lips." That idea caused his own lips to curl up at the edges in a slight grin. He could only imagine her consternation.
She glanced up suddenly, and her eyes connected with his. In that moment, when time stood still for a mere second, he saw awareness in her gaze. He would wager a king's treasure that she was remembering, too.
A burst of laughter somewhere in the hall caused them both to blink and glance away, as if they'd committed some forbidden act. He forced himself to take several deep breaths and concentrate
on other activities.
At the far end of the hall, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Wee-Jamie, followed by Rose, the mangy cat, followed by the huffing and puffing monk, Father Baldwin, who grabbed both boy and feline by the scruffs of their necks and dragged them back outside. The boy appeared to be still filthy and the only one in the entire clan who hadn't taken a bath. If Rurik didn't know better, he would swear the priest was showering the lad with bad words.
Maire noticed the boy, too. He saw the yearning look in her doleful eyes, but she did nothing to call him back. Evidently, Maire still wanted the boy away from the keep, for his own safety. It seemed unfair to deprive a child of the feast, but that was her decision to make, not his.
Old John was there at the high table with him, as well as Bolthor, Stigand, Toste, and Vagn, though the latter two were ogling the sloe-eyed daughter of some sheepherder come down from the hills yestereve. They were all sipping at the potent brew, and, whilst not drukkinn, they were all feeling mellow.
Rurik's eyes strayed to Maire once again… an involuntary action he could not seem to stop.
Old John coughed when he noticed the direction of Rurik's gaze. "Smitten with our fair Maire, are ye?"
"Huh? Who? Me?" Rurik said halfwittedly.
Old John just smiled and touched his neck, mirroring Maire's gesture. By the holy rood, had everyone noticed the mark on her neck?
Sensing Rurik's discomfort, he said, "Now, now, do not be blustering so. 'Tis a natural thing fer a man to want a woman. The bulls in the fields, the rams in the hills, even the wee fishies in the burns… all these are subject to the same urges as we men. Some say it all began with Adam. Aye, methinks 'tis all part of God's plan and you and Maire be no different."
Odin's eyes! Now, I'm being lectured on sex by a one-armed, aging Scotsman! Rurik heard an odd gurgling sound and realized it emanated from himself. "Maire hates me," he pointed out.
"Faint heart ne'er won the fair lady," Old John expounded.
Oh, God!
"Besides, Maire deserves some good treatment from a man," Old John rambled on. "She's had little enough of it in her life thus far."