“I thought it was supposed to be a bride gift,” Toste added with a grin at Rurik.
Rurik felt his face heat up at Toste’s carelessly tossed remark. It had been a gift he’d planned to give to his betrothed on the morning after their wedding, to show his pleasure in her, but a man could change his mind. Couldn’t he?
Quickly, he glanced at Maire to see if she’d heard Toste’s words. Her face was bright red, but that might still be the result of Toste ogling her breasts. He hoped so.
“What are you doing up and about so early?” Rurik inquired of Toste and Jamie, wanting—nay, needing—to change the subject.
Toste sliced him a disbelieving scowl. “Are you daft, man? Everyone from here to Northumbria is awake from all that caterwauling Bolthor is producing.”
Rurik had to grin at that.
But Maire was not grinning. Forgetting momentarily that she wore only her chemise, she placed a hand on each hip and demanded, “What are you doing in the keep, Jamie? And don’t think you are going to escape punishment for that word I just heard come from your mouth.”
“He made me come here,” Jamie spat out. The boy, still flat on his back, imprisoned by Toste’s greater weight, looked directly at Rurik as he spoke.
“You?” Maire inquired of him, incredulously.
“Aye, the bloody damn Viking what’s been swivin’ me own mother, that’s who,” Jamie answered for him.
“Jamie, stop it! Halt that midden talk right now!” Maire told her son. Then she directed her attention back to Rurik, “How could you, Rurik? I told you how important it was to keep Jamie hidden away, protected from the MacNabs.”
“Yea, you did, but some things happened yesterday, whilst we were otherwise occupied. I made a decision, as chieftains are often called upon to do, that will better protect the boy.” His chin rose in defiance, daring her to disagree with his expertise.
“What things? What have the MacNabs done now? And why was I not told afore this?” Her green eyes grew cloudy with anger, and her cheeks flushed with the strong emotion roiling through her. Despite all that, the only thing Rurik could focus on was her heaving chest, highlighted by the amber pendant.
“See, mother, he’s just a bloody Viking. See how he gawks at your tits like a lackwit calf.”
“That’s it,” Rurik declared with an exclamation of disgust. Shoving Toste aside, he picked up the now squirming and squealing Jamie and tossed him over his shoulder. “This boy has been begging for a battle with me since first we met. So be it.”
“Nay!” Maire shrieked with alarm. “Jamie is my son, and mine to correct when he has done wrong.”
“You’re wrong, Maire. This is between me and the boy. I think the first thing we will start with is a bath. You stink to high Asgard, boy.”
“Doona be callin’ me ‘boy.’ I am James, High Laird of the Campbell Clan.” The boy sounded pathetic, his head bobbing against Rurik’s back as he spoke upside down.
“Hah! Right now you are more like the High Laird of Stench. Methinks Bolthor should create a saga about you.”
As if on cue, Bolthor, somewhere in the distance, let loose with another, “Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!”
Still addressing the boy, Rurik sniffed in an exaggerated fashion and asked, “Have you been rolling in a sheep pen?” When Jamie merely gurgled in response, he added, “Yea, first a bath, then we will have a man-to-man talk and set some terms.”
“Rurik … please …,” Maire begged, genuine alarm ringing in her voice. Really, she protected the child overmuch if she thought contact with a Norseman would contaminate him in any way, but that was precisely how she acted. “We need to talk.” This last was said in a weaker voice of surrender.
“Yea, we do, when I get back,” Rurik was already stomping off toward the stairs, intending to dump the flailing child into the nearest loch. “Send Toste after me with clean garments for the whelp, along with soap, drying cloths, a comb, and scissors. And tell Toste to bring that damn cat with him, too. Rose is not smelling much like a rose these days and needs a good dunking, too, I be thinking.”
“Me? Touch that bloody cat? Have you seen the size of the monster’s claws?” Toste retorted. Rurik had forgotten he was still there.
But Maire homed in on something else. “Scissors?” she asked in puzzlement.
“Scissors?” The boy paled with dismay. “You dare cut me up, and me clansmen will cut you to pieces.”
Rurik laughed. “You misread me, boy. I intend to trim your grimy hair. A man who neglects his hair is a poor man, indeed.”
Rurik would bet that Maire and Toste were both gaping at his bit of absurd wisdom. Well, ’twas true. If a man did not care for his hair and his teeth, he might as well be a barbarian, in Rurik’s opinion.
“You’re a toad,” Jamie spat out with childish venom.
Rurik grinned. “It takes a frog to know a toad, little one.”
“I am not little,” Jamie proclaimed.
“Have some food prepared for our return, Maire,” Rurik requested over his shoulder, ignoring Jamie’s ludicrous statement. “I daresay that by the time this wee giant and I get back to the castle, Jamie and I will be famished.”
“I should take a bite outta yer arse,” Jamie snarled.
“Try it and we’ll have ‘Campbell Laird Haggis’ for dinner tonight. Or ‘Wee-Laird Stew.’ ”
“You don’ even know me; so, doona be sayin’ laird this or laird that,” Jamie huffed.
“Oh, I daresay we will get to know each other very well by the time I’m finished.” There was a deliberate, ominous ring to his words. “You might get to know me better than your own father.”
Even from the great hall, Rurik could hear Maire in the upper corridor moaning over and over, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”
“Oh, my God!” Maire said as Rurik and Jamie returned to the great hall a full two hours later.
“Oh, my God!” Old John said, as well, gawking with amazement. “I shoulda known. I shoulda known.”
“Oh, my God!” Young John said, squinting through his one good eye as he spoke. Bolthor had fashioned an eye patch for him over his wounded one.
Murdoc lowered his bagpipes, Callum muttered, Rob twitched, Nessa set down a trencher of bannocks on the head table, but they all concurred with an, “Oh, my God!”
Even Stigand, Bolthor, Toste, and Vagn were incredulous. They exclaimed as one, “Bloody hell!”
Rurik had just walked into the hall from the courtyard door and was heading toward Maire and the high dais, where everyone was about to break fast with the morning meal. He was holding the hand of the surprisingly docile child next to him … a child whose hair had not been cut after all, but instead had two narrow braids on either side of his face intertwined with colored beads. Jamie’s face and body had been scrubbed clean and he glowed, both from the scrubbing and good health and from the sudden adulation he seemed to have developed for the huge Viking at his side, whom he kept gazing up at for approval. Above a pair of trews, her son wore a miniature pladd, fastened at one shoulder with a brass brooch in the form of intertwining wolves, which Rurik must have given or loaned to him.
Rurik looked as if he must have bathed again, too… if his wet hair was any indication. Or more likely he had fallen in the loch during the initial bathing confrontation with Jamie.
And—Blessed Saints!—was that Rose trailing behind them, almost presentable with her newly washed and brushed fur. Had Rurik really bathed a cat? Did he not know that felines did not favor dunking in a loch? They much preferred tongue lavings.
Tongue lavings? Now, those words brought to mind one of Rurik’s tantalizing areas of expertise. How can I think about such inconsequential exercises in the midst of this latest disaster?
Maire heard Bolthor mutter in a low voice, as if preparing the words to a saga he would develop later. “This is the saga of Rurik the Greater,” he began.
Onct was a Viking warrior,
Blind as a bat was he.
Not in the eye,
But in his mind,
For the one thing he could not see—
Maire interrupted the skald’s verse-making with a sharp jab of her elbow into his ribs. “Don’t… you … dare!” she warned.
Bolthor ducked his head and rubbed his side… not that she’d done the giant block of flesh any real damage.
The closer Rurik and Jamie got to the high table, the more apparent it became to everyone that they were father and son, so remarkable was the resemblance. Everyone, that is, except Rurik, who was beginning to notice the gaping stares of astonishment.
“What? Has no one e’er seen a clean boy afore? Or is it just Wee-Jamie that has ne’er been viewed in all his glory?” Rurik turned his attention to the child at his side, who was gritting his teeth at what he perceived to be an insult. Maire noticed that his grip on Jamie’s hand tightened to make sure he did not bolt and do something foolish, like go roll in a puddle of mud to be contrary. “Jamie and I both decided that a young laird must take better care of his personal appearance if he is to set an example in all ways for his clan. Is that not so, Jamie?”
Rurik and Jamie exchanged a long, meaningful look in which Rurik silently conveyed the message, “You promised, boy. Now, do your duty,” and Jamie silently conveyed, “Don’t push me too far, Viking.”
Finally, Jamie nodded, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
Meanwhile, Maire’s heart had practically stopped beating. This was it… the crucial moment. Who would be the person to tell Rurik he had a son? As the minutes ticked by and no one spoke up … not her people, nor Rurik’s retainers … she realized that they were leaving it up to her. It was her responsibility and no one else’s to inform the father of his paternity.
She let loose a sigh of relief, but her heart was still heavy. She knew it was a temporary reprieve.
It was only then that Maire felt free to examine Rurik in detail. After all that had passed between them the day and night before, this was the first time they’d come together outside the bedchamber. It was still hard to believe that this beautiful man had done so many wicked things to her, and that she’d done such wicked things to him in return. She was the one who allegedly practiced witchly arts, but truly Rurik must have put a spell on her. How else could she explain her behavior?
Was Rurik affected at all? Or was what she perceived as extraordinary lovemaking just routine to him?
His eyes connected with hers then, and instantly turned smoldering. He was remembering, too. And, aye, he was equally affected, Maire exulted to herself.
And had Toste really mentioned something about the amber pendant being a bride gift? Maire was shocked and thrilled at the same time, to think Rurik might be contemplating marriage… if, in fact, that was what Toste had meant. With deep emotion, she touched the spot on her chest where the special necklet rested under her arisaid. No one else could see it, but she knew it was there. For some reason, she wanted to hear from Rurik’s lips the significance of the gift. Mayhap she’d misheard or misunderstood. Until she knew for certain, the gift would be for her eyes only.
Maire looked at the Viking knight who approached and he looked back at her, causing a thrill of excitement to ripple over her body. All he had to do was look at her now, and she melted. Rurik gave her a wink to show he understood that sizzling magical thing that ricocheted between them. Maire felt her lower stomach lurch and her breasts tighten at that mere movement of his eyelid. Such a simple gesture, and yet, everything Rurik did now would have erotic undertones to her. The sight of his slender fingers touching the hilt of a sword would remind her of other things those fingers had done. The sight of his lips breaking into a lazy grin would remind her of the kisses he’d laid on her with such expertise. The shift of his hips as he walked would remind her of—
“We’re starved,” Rurik said, jarring her from her wanton reverie. “Aren’t we, boy?”
“Aye,” Jamie agreed. “Can I sit with me friends?” He pointed toward a group of boys of a similar age at one of the lower tables.
Rurik looked to Maire for her opinion. She nodded, but not before adding, “As long as you stay inside the keep, or within eyesight. I mean this, Jamie. It’s important that you do not stray.”
“I ken what ye say, mother,” Jamie said in an uncharacteristically meek voice. “Rurik ’splained it to me. The bloody MacNabs, and all.”
Maire was about to correct him for his foul language, but decided to wait till later. “Come here first and give your mother a hug,” she encouraged. “I have missed your hugs these many days we have been separated.”
“Mo-ther!” Jamie protested, glancing toward his friends to see if they were watching. Still, when Rurik released his hand, he jumped forward and gave Maire a sloppy kiss on her cheek and an exuberant child hug with his arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
Into his neck, Maire whispered, “Are you all right, sweetling?”
“Aye,” Jamie whispered in an overloud voice directly into her ear. “But I still think Rurik is a bloody hell Viking.”
“That he is,” Maire found herself concurring in an undertone.
As her son rushed off to be with his friends, Maire smiled and wiped away a tear.
Rurik was watching her closely. “You coddle the boy overmuch,” he said, but Maire could also see something else in his blue eyes … eyes that marked the only difference between him and his son. Jamie’s were green, like hers. Well, that, and the blue mark. Rurik must have yearned at one time for the kind of maternal affection he’d just witnessed between her and her son.
So, instead of reacting adversely to his “coddling” remark, she said, “You and I have much to talk about.”
To her surprise, he conceded, “Yea, after we eat, we will sit down and discuss all that must be done about the MacNabs.”
Rurik had misunderstood. She had meant to tell him, at long last, about his son … before someone else did. But now she realized there were issues that had greater priority.
At first, the meal passed in silence. An awkward silence, to her, because people’s heads kept pivoting from her to Rurik to Jamie, as if expecting some explosion. But Rurik seemed unaware of the looks. He was wolfing down his food to assuage the great hunger he’d alluded to earlier. He paused at one point and commented, “Kenneth must have been a handsome man.”
Maire choked on her ale.
He clapped her heartily on the back.
“Why do you say that?” She tried to make her voice as casual as possible as she picked at an oat cake.
“Well, Jamie shows promise of great size and uncommonly good looks. Since the boy does not resemble you, except for the eyes, I assume he got these traits from his father.”
The others at the table began to make strangled sounds and kept their eyes averted, just waiting to see what Maire would do next.
What she did was nothing, coward that she was. “Kenneth was passable in appearance,” Maire replied. Talk about evasion and half-truths!
Rurik seemed satisfied with that explanation and resumed eating.
If a Viking’s you-know-what falls off, eventually, for telling a lie, I wonder what happens to a Scotswoman who fails to tell the truth for five long years. Maire knew—she just knew—she was going to pay someday for her lack of honesty, and perchance this was her punishment… never knowing precisely when the ax was going to fall.
Even more alarming, there was absolutely no doubt in Maire’s mind that the “ax” would be in Rurik’s hands.
Rurik found it difficult to justify his actions to a woman, but Maire deserved to be kept abreast of the happenings on her clanstead… especially since she was, for all purposes, the clan chieftain, till her son reached his majority. He’d already outlined the essentials for her, involving Toste and Vagn slipping inside the MacNab ranks, but he could tell by the bullish expression on her fair face that she remained unconvinced.
“But it’s a dangerous plan,” Maire said, wringing her hands wit
h dismay as they walked along the parapet of her keep.
Yea, she was unconvinced … even though Rurik had just explained to her the new dangers posed by the MacNabs, why he’d needed to bring her son into the safety of her keep, and the bare bones of the scheme they’d concocted.
What he didn’t explain to her was this new feeling of protectiveness he felt toward her. Originally, he’d agreed to provide his shield and manpower, limited as it was, in return for her removing the blue mark, but now he could not hide the fact that he would stay till she was safe, blue mark or not. And it was not just honor that bound him, either. What it was, exactly, he suspected, but would not name aloud for fear of the power it would wield over him.
“Yea, ’tis dangerous,” he agreed, pausing and reaching out to brush his knuckles across her cheek. “But, really, any plan would be at this point.”
To his amazement, instead of slapping his hand away as would have been her wont just days ago, she leaned into his caress, much like a cat purring out its pleasure at a petting. Of course that prompted him to recall how she had purred for him the night before … on more than one occasion. It would be an understatement to say that he and Maire suited well… in the bed furs, leastways … and in the petting.
Too bad he was otherwise betrothed.
Too bad Maire was a witch and lived in god-awful Scotland.
Too bad he had not recognized her worth five years ago and taken her with him, as she’d requested.
Too bad he still carried the ignominious blue mark.
Too bad he had become such a maudlin Viking, weeping in his mead, so to speak. One should not argue with fate, whether it be dealt by the Christian One-God, or the Norns, the wise old women whom the Norse fables held responsible for the destinies of all men.
Clearing his suddenly tight throat, he persevered in his attempt to convince her to accept his plan. “We are seriously outmanned. Even if all the males here were of prime age and whole of body, we would still be outmanned. We need to outmaneuver them. Many a time a war is won with wit, rather than weaponry.”
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