by Jianne Carlo
“’Tis mostly deGrecy’s work.” He frowned, one brow quirked. She hurried on. “The new cook controls the keep my lo— Ruard. And he will not obey my commands.”
When he made to rise, she blurted, “We needs replace the cook.” She hesitated. “I have a plan my—Ruard. Will you aid me?”
Taking her hand, he brought it to his mouth and then kissed the center of her palm. “Your wish is my command. Speak to me.”
She wanted to howl with joy. Could any woman ask for a better mate? Yet her next words would test him. Before her faint heart claimed her, she told all. Ulfric’s invasion of Carden Tower after Papa’s death, his threat to kill Gæierla, his plans to kill Ruard, wed her, and gain Dunsmuir, though she avoided mentioning the poison pouch.
His face showed no expression as her tale unfolded and she held her breath at the end, twining her fingers to hide their trembling.
“I thank you, Catriona.”
Blinking away the moisture wrought by her recounting of the horrors, she stared at him.
“Thanks? My—Ruard?”
He hauled her into his arms and their gazes tangled. “I thank you for your trust.” I trust him.
Swiping away a lone tear streaming down her cheek, he whispered, “All will be well, wife. I will see to your sister and Ulfric.”
She told him the cook, not the steward, procured all for the castle, and his eyes narrowed.
“The cook has the castle’s coin. I will see to him.”
“My mind is dazed. I forgot Helene.” The look of fury that crossed her husband’s face when she told him of Helene’s birthright made her stomach clench.
“’Tis madness for Helene to be unguarded.” Lurching to his feet, he then carried her to the bed.
“Know you what Ulfric will do, should he discover the truth?”
“’Tis the reason I tell you now.” His eyes narrowed, and the rage pulling his brows together made her heart skip a dozen beats.
“You and Helene will remain in this chamber until I return. I will post guards.”
A shiver ran across Catriona’s shoulders.
Though she had never seen a berserker in full fury, she knew her husband barely had his anger in check from his jerky movements, the way he tested the edge of his dragon slayer sword.
I must empty the poison in the garderobe this morn. He need never know what I had thought to do.
* * *
Ruard found Njal in the hall.
“’Tis the Dragon Slayer I see before me. What is amiss?”
Dawn’s faint light filtered through the shutters before Ruard finished telling him the all of it.
“Where is Ulfric?”
“He and his men have set up camp near the forest. I have guards watching them. Ulfric is the king’s man.” Njal tugged on his beard. “He is well situated at court. ’Tis not wise to slay him outright.”
Njal donned his hauberk.
Ruard fingered the hilt of Heiðir Slayer as he waited, relishing the feel of the cold steel. His nostrils flared. That Ulfric should chain Catriona and her sister in a cold, dank dungeon, that he had bruised her flesh, that she had been denied food, water; fury rioted within him, his flesh boiling in the icy morning air.
“He touched Catriona.”
Strapping his sword to his side, Njal glanced at him. “He dies then? What of his men?”
“None can live. First send a man to throw the cook and the monk into the dungeon.” Njal signaled, two men hurried to him, and he gave the order.
The brothers took the stairs at a dash. Snores, grunts, and the occasional thud of a man falling off a pallet, were the only sounds breaking the silence of the great hall.
“Something is amiss.” Ruard halted when the two men sent to fetch the villains charged across the chamber.
The warriors skidded to a halt, one said, “The monk and the cook vanished last eve, lord.”
“Find them,” Ruard commanded and dismissed the men.
“How plan you this raid?”
“The Picts are sworn enemies of Cnut,” Ruard answered. “They raid Ulfric’s camp and take the blame for his death. We remain in Cnut’s good graces, and my wife and her sister are safe. The monk and the cook die.”
“’Twould be best if you remain here and let me do this. None can gainsay your—”
“Ulfric will draw his last breath with my sword in his heart.” Snow flurries as thick as white bear’s pelt swirled in a gust, momentarily blinding Ruard or perhaps ’twas the wrath boiling his blood that hazed a red inferno before his eyes. “Not another word.”
“When do we ride?”
“Now.”
The battle was fierce but short. Ulfric had not expected an ambush from his host. Scarlet coated Heiðir Slayer as Ruard stormed through Ulfric’s guard cutting a path to the warrior.
“Cnut will hunt you down for this,” Ulfric’s shout rang above the clang of steel meeting steel.
“He will destroy you and yours.”
“And who will live to tell him?” Because they had caught Ulfric and his men off guard, none wore mail. Ulfric missed a parry.
Ruard slashed a wide gash on each of his forearms. Blood spurted from the wounds and Ulfric stumbled. “’For the bruises on my wife’s wrists.”
“The bitch.” Ulfric regained his footing and raised his weapon above his head.
Ruard moved in and slit the other man’s belly.
“For denying her food.”
Ulfric grabbed the gaping flesh and glanced up.
Ruard smiled seeing the knowledge of death in Ulfric’s eyes.
The warrior’s knees buckled, and his sword slipped from his bloodied hand.
Positioning the tip of Heiðir Slayer at Ulfric’s heart, Ruard asked, “Why?”
“I am a third son.” A ghostly gray washed over the warrior’s bronzed flesh. “Land.” The minute he rammed his sword into Ulfric’s heart, the hunger for revenge cleared Ruard’s berserker lust. His glance swept the meadow now carpeted with red stained snow. All his men still stood, but none others. The full score of Ulfric’s guard were either dead or in the last throes of life.
Njal sheathed his sword.
Ruard swiped his blade on his breeches and strode to his brother’s side, his mind on what must be done next. “See you to Catriona’s sister. I will see to the Picts. Need you more than a dozen men?”
“’Twill suffice. Guard your temper, brother. All eyes will be on you.”
“I am no court jester. I labored long and hard for Dunsmuir. I will not lose my holding.” The brothers parted ways, Ruard heading north to the Pict settlement, Njal riding hard for Carden Tower and Gæierla.
Fortune smiled on Ruard and they encountered a band of Picts cantering along the border not an hour’s ride from Dunsmuir. Even so, by the time they slaughtered all, transported their bodies to Ulfric’s camp, piled them into a ditch, and set fire to the lot, dusk had settled on the land.
As he rode across the drawbridge the castle gates opened, and he glimpsed the completed bathhouse. ’Twould take a night of rutting to slake his hunger for his wife, but he could not go to her stained with the blood of battle. He sent a page to fetch a change of clothes, wound his way to the bathhouse, and made quick work of washing his body.
Clean and refreshed, he took the stairs two at a time and sprinted down the hall to their chamber.
He dismissed the guards with a nod, and threw open the doors to find the two women sewing by the light of the blazing fire. He watched Catriona thread a needle in less time than it took him to draw a deep breath and swallowed a string of curses.
Catriona set the thread wheel and the needle on a low table, rose, and curtsied. “My lord, I bid you welcome.”
He had to be inside her. “Leave us.” Not even glancing at Helene, he fixed his glance on Catriona noting the roses in her cheeks, the nervous twist of her hands, the rapid rise and fall of her full breasts.
The moment the door creaked shut, he spun about, slid the bar into pla
ce, and strode the distance between them. He hauled her tight to his chest, captured her mouth, and drank in the sweetness of the mead she’d had earlier. Her arm curled around his neck, she made a purring sound, and suckled the tip of his tongue.
His prick near burst through the breeches he wore.
She pushed against his chest, her small hands exhibiting surprising strength, and tore her lips away from his.
“Wife?” By Odin he was ready to explode.
“Are you whole?” Her fingers traced the high plane of his cheekbone; she pulled at his tunic and tried to peek at his chest. “What happened? Where is Ulfric?”
“After.” He nuzzled her neck, set her on the bed, pulled his tunic over his head, and untied his breech rope. Shucking off his boots, he growled,
“Remove your cyrtel or ’twill be in tatters.”
“You wish to tup?” Her eyebrows rose.
“I have to tup.” He crawled onto the bed, unlaced her dress, and bared her breasts. “Mine.” Firm, full, soft, the pink nipples pouting for his mouth. He kneaded her breasts, his cock near ready to spurt, his balls on fire. Waves of lust crashed across his groin as his tongue lapped the taut buds and she purred for him again.
He drew on her breasts, wetting her skin. Her hands tangled in his hair as she pressed him closer.
He settled between her legs, no thought filling his head but the velvet clamp of her walls around his cock. He pushed up her skirts and skimmed his palm over the silken flesh of her belly. His hand slipped between her thighs and his eyes squeezed shut when her cream covered his fingers. “By Freyja, you are ready for me, elsking.” Lifting her hips off the sheets, he touched his prick to her center, and plunged his pulsing hardness to the hilt. She wrapped her legs around his waist and arched. He groaned as she took all of him into her. He rode her at a gallop, his cock driving fast and furiously, battle lust raging through his loins.
Gritting his teeth, he slid his hand down their joined bodies, found her nub, and pinched lightly.
She cried out his name. His sac contracted tight against his groin, and his seed burst forth in fiery explosive spurts. Her muscles squeezed his manhood and he thrust again and again until she shattered into a myriad of sweet convulsions, and he collapsed, his hot, sweaty chest meeting her supple flesh.
Chapter Six
“’Tis magikal.” Catriona drank in the bathhouse. Thick pine walls framed a wide chamber. To one side steam wisped above a pile of smooth rocks glowing orange-yellow over a pit of charred logs. Flames from hanging lamps flickered needles of light across the rippling surface of an oval pool dug into the ground. Stooping, she dipped her hand into the clear water. “’Tis hot. How?” I have wed a man of great worth. And great appetites. A man I trust.
He had ridden her thrice before bringing her here and she had yet to receive replies to her queries. She was sore tempted to grab his tunic and demand answers.
A good, irritating man of great worth.
His gold hair glistened like a burnished halo and she couldn’t resist smoothing a wayward strand. He turned her around and began unlacing her cyrtel. “We dug a canal where the brook enters Dunsmuir’s forests, the water goes through the fire pit, feeds into the pond, and then we dug another canal so the water runs downhill to where the brook leaves the boundary of our lands.”
“’Tis clever, my lord.” Her dress puddled on the stone floor.
She jumped when he lightly slapped her buttocks.
“Ruard, wife. You screamed my name loudly enough this eve. Cert you can say it softly to me now.”
Heat scaled her face. Catriona worried her lower lip for she had indeed cried out his name like a prayer litany when she found her pleasure.
“Ruard, you have not spoken of what transpired this day.”
“Patience wife. I will tell you all.” He carried her into the water, settled her between his bunched muscular thighs, her back to his chest, and began his tale.
’Twas hard to concentrate for he fondled her all the while, nibbled on her ear, licked and nipped her nape, and she had to fight to comprehend his words. “Ulfric is dead?” She twisted in his arms her heart beating like a falcon’s in full flight.
“Aye and all his men. Njal left for Carden Tower. Your sister arrives within the sennight.” Joy flooded her soul.
And I thought to poison him. Lord, hear this vow. I take this man to husband willingly. I will see to his every need. Obey his every command.
* * *
Nigh on a sennight later, Catriona yearned to strangle Ruard with her bare hands.
“I will,” she vowed, resisting the urge to stamp a foot. “I am lady here and this keep will be run my way.”
“My wife will not cook for the castle.” Ruard folded his arms across his chest. “Sewing I will allow, supervising the running of the holding I will allow, but you will not cook for the castle.” She hated sewing, and threaded a needle only when there were no other duties to perform or when imprisoned in her own chamber.
“And will you eat this swill?” Waving at the cold oats lumped into a soggy burnt trencher, she continued, “Look closer, the weevils are still swimming.”
He peered at the half-congealed goo.
“By Odin I see them.” Ruard shuddered and pushed the stale bread away.
“I cannot visit the village because you have kept me prisoner this sennight.” Her cheeks flamed. “We have sampled a dozen cooks. All have produced swill. If you would but let me supervise.” She did stamp her foot then.
“Nay. I will not have it said my wife is a cook.
’Tis for your safety you are confined to the castle.”
“I see not the danger. Ulfric and his men are dead. You hobble my work here as lady of the keep.”
“Lest you forget, the Picts fired the blacksmith’s cottage last eve. You will not go to the village.”
“Fine then. I have already sent for deGrecy. He and his men will help me set the kitchens to right.”
“DeGrecy is no longer necessary. I will not have him at your side.” Ruard stood, braced his hands on the table, and leaned down so their noses near bumped. “I will dismiss him and his man this morn.”
Pushing at his chest she said, fair hissing the words through her lips, “By King Cnut’s command they are not yours to dismiss.”
“Then you will dismiss them.” He pulled her to standing.
“What do you do?”
“We will find deGrecy now.”
“Nay.” She dug her heels into the wooden platform.
“Catriona. Cease.” Helene nudged her waist.
“The hall. All watch.”
A quick glance around the chamber made Catriona grimace and cold reason dulled her ire.
She ducked her chin, staring at knotted wooden floor while praying for patience. “I beg you, my lord.
Give me this one day to sort matters. I vow not to cook. I will simply supervise the meal.”
“I will assist her, my lord.” Helene rose.
Just then the hall doors burst open and in strode Njal, helm in one hand, Gæierla tucked on a hip in the other.
Catriona’s heart soared as she carefully studied her little sister. Two braids, two small elfin ears, one long nose, two wide eyes, one pointy chin, and a mouth with a perpetual smile. Her gangly legs peeked from under too-short, too-shabby skirts.
Gæierla’s long spindly arms jerked as her gaze met Catriona’s, one clutching a cloth sack to her chest, the other around Njal’s brawny neck. One booted foot drummed Njal’s thigh as Gæierla squirmed in his hold.
“Sweetling.” Catriona fair flew off the dais and darted through the crowded hall. When she reached Njal, she held out her arms and her grinning sister tumbled into her embrace. Hot tears blurred her vision and she had to blink to focus on Gæierla’s thin features.
“Are you well sister? They did not harm you?” Smoothing Gæierla’s fat golden braids, Catriona squeezed her tight and sniffed her hair.
“Look,” Gæierla ordered lean
ing back and digging in her sack. She held up a ruby apple. “Njal gives me all I want. He let me swim in a brook.
’Twas icy but he gave me a sweet smelling soap.
See?” She put her wrist to Catriona’s nose. “’Tis sandalwood from the east. I know not whom to wed now, Thor or Njal.”
Catriona laughed and swung her sister around and around and around. She had been so afraid the stay in the dungeons would shatter Gæierla’s fiery spirit. “I love you.”
She sensed Ruard’s approach before his hand cupped her shoulder, and she half-twisted to meet his gaze. “I bid you meet my sister, my lord.” She set Gæierla on the floor and gave her a hard stare.
The sprite remembered her manners. Holding her skirts, she sank into a curtsey, and bowed. “My lord.” The apple fell to the floor. “Odin’s toes, come back here, you damned fruit.”
“Gæierla.” Catriona glared at her sister. “Young ladies do not curse. For recompense, you will give me your sack and the apples go to the kitchens.”
“’Tis not cursing Catriona, ’tis knightly speech.” Gæierla’s grin widened as she added, “My lord Njal knows Odin well.”
Helene approached the sprite and relieved her of the cloth bag and retrieved the apple from the floor. “I do believe your sister is overexcited to see you again. And I would wager this entire keep she merely repeats the words learned while journeying with warriors.”
“Aye. I take the blame for this and will make you all the sweetest atonement.”
“So says Njal the Peacemaker.” Ruard squinted at his brother who had the grace to duck his head.
“You will answer to me for this on the morrow. As for now, I bid you welcome, little sister.” Ruard caught Gæierla up in his arms and held her so their gazes were level. “How many summers have you seen?”
“Seven. You look like the god Thor.” Gæierla wound a lock of Ruard’s hair around her finger.
“’Tis gold like the sun chariot he rides through the sky. I like storms. Make it thunder, god Thor.” Ruard’s eyes crossed.
Njal chortled. “I envy you not, brother. Your new sister has the makings of a scald. She can recite every saga that mentions Thor. I fear you will be commanded to perform oft.”