Viking in Love

by Sandra Hill

  “I meant that he disappeared, though his death is almost a certainty by now,” she mumbled, ducking her head. Then, raising her head as if with resolve, she added, “By your leave, m’lord…I mean, Sir Caedmon, my sisters and I seek welcome here for a short time,” Vana said hopefully.

  Of a sudden, he took note of her right eye, framed by dark and yellowing bruises. Her cracked lip. One arm in a sling. And the way her free hand kept going to her ribs. That must be the reason for the wimple, to hide finger marks on her neck…or worse.

  “Who beat you?” he demanded to know.

  Her face bloomed with color. “I fell off a horse.”

  And I am a eunuch.

  Without turning to face him, a man in Arab garb surrounded by children made a snorting sound.

  “Pfff!” He snorted as well. “And I have a Scots castle I can sell you!”

  “Really?”

  “Nay! Not really.” He exhaled with disgust. Oh, Lord, spare me from lackwitted women. “It was a jest.”

  “Oh.” Her voice trilled into a ludicrous attempt at laughter.

  His eyes crossed with frustration at one more boulder being placed in the path of his life. A boulder with breasts.

  The Arab was standing now. Tall, dark-skinned, wearing a long robe with hooded cowl as Caedmon had seen in the Eastern deserts.

  “And who might you be?”

  “I am Ibn Rashid al Mustafa, your humble servant.”

  There was not a single thing humble about this man.

  “You may call me Rashid. I am assistant to Adam the Healer, a far-famed physician.”

  “Hmmm. We could use a healer here at Larkspur.”

  “A thousand pardons, m’lord, but I am here only as a companion to my master’s wife, Princess Tyra. I leave when she leaves.”

  Soon, I hope. “As you wish.”

  Turning his attention back to the beehive of activity in his great hall, he saw Gerard rushing up to him. “Gerard! What in bloody hell is going on?”

  “Master, the wench…I mean, the princess Vana…is supervising the cleaning of the hall. New rushes, scrubbing the tables…”

  “Did I order that to be done?” Mayhap he had been further into the alehead than he had realized.

  “Nay, but it needed doing,” the impudent lady interjected.

  “I have been remiss,” Gerard said, ducking his head with embarrassment.

  He patted the old man on the shoulder. “You have done your best in trying times.” And, after all, you have given me a castle filled with big-breasted women.

  “One thing, though, m’lord.”

  “Please, Gerard, stop calling me ‘Lord.’”

  “Please, Master…”

  He groaned. “You have known me since I was in swaddling clothes. Just call me Caedmon.”

  Gerard inhaled with exasperation. “The lady has ordered all dogs out of the hall.”

  “You have?” He turned to the woman.

  “They are a peril to people’s health.”

  “Dogs are unhealthy?” Methinks women are the unhealthy ones…unhealthy to a man’s well-being.

  “Well, not dogs as such. Dogs in an eating place. The dog products, I mean.”

  “She means shit and piss and fleas and such,” Gerard explained.

  “Christ’s cross! I know what she means.”

  “And drool,” she added, as if one more dog sin mattered.

  “The men will not be pleased,” Gerard pointed out. “They like to toss bones and rotted meat to the rushes.”

  “My point precisely. Rotten rushes.” She preened as if she had won some important argument.

  “Should I countermand her orders?” Gerard asked.

  “I am standing right here. You do not have to speak over me,” the lady said.

  Caedmon was about to say something rude, when he sniffed the air. There was the most delicious odor.

  Without asking, Lady Havenshire told him, “My sister Ingrith has taken over…I mean, she is helping to straighten out your kitchen. That is bread you smell baking.”

  He was fairly certain that his eyes had crossed again at the words “taken over.” But, at the same time, his traitorous stomach growled with hunger.

  “Princess Ingrith is making quail in dill-cream sauce for dinner,” Gerard further informed him, indignant. “Such fancy fare for fighting men! But she would not heed my warning.”

  “Ingrith tends to be a bit domineering,” Lady Havenshire conceded, even as she turned and ordered a maid—a maid with big bosoms fair pouring out of her ill-fitting gown—to work faster, with a sarcastic observation, “We are raking hay here, not growing it.” For such a small woman, she had a booming voice that nigh made his brain explode inside his head, which was surely twice its normal size.

  Just then a bare-arsed boy toddled up to him and grabbed at his knees, staring up at him with huge brown eyes. ’Twas one-year-old Piers, who was at least clean today, his hair definitely a pale blond. In truth, the mite looked more like Geoff than him. He lifted the little one up into his arms and chucked him under the chin, which caused the child to giggle and say, “Fafa.”

  “I think he means ‘Father.’” Lady Havenshire smiled wistfully at the child.

  He scowled at her. “Where is this child’s nursemaid?” he yelled at the top of his lungs, causing Lady Havenshire to jump, Gerard to flinch, and the child to whimper.

  A big-chested girl, no more than sixteen, came hurrying from the kitchen area. “Sorry, master, but the boy got away from me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Mary. Me mother is the dairymaid.”

  “Edgiva?”

  She nodded and reached out for the child. “Come, Piers. You need a nappy and a warm gown.”

  “He could have fallen into one of the hearth fires,” Lady Havenshire remarked, the criticism levied more at him than the child’s minder.

  Piers chose that moment to prove that he was all boy by aiming his little pizzle at Caedmon’s chest, soaking his clean tunic. Then he flashed him a toothless grin.

  Shaking his head, Caedmon handed over the child, then headed for the double doors leading out to the bailey and the still continuous pounding.

  Bam, bam, bam!

  “Can my life get any worse than this?” he muttered.

  Turns out it could.

  There was a young man…nay, a woman in men’s braies and tunic…bending over between her bouts of pounding to present her nicely rounded backside to his laughing men, who stood about like idiots. She was mending a fence around the pigsty.

  The pigs were not pleased.

  Neither was he.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Oink, oink…there are pigs, and then there are PIGS!…

  Breanne, straddling the top of the pigsty fence, paused to discuss some ideas with the Larkspur woodworker.

  “Methinks that the lintels of the doorway leading to the keep, as well as the eaves of all these outbuildings, should have a particular design—even the stables, the chicken coop I am going to build next, and, yea, the pigsty. Mayhap matching the twining larkspur carvings that abound in the great hall’s wood trim.”

  “Huh?” Efrim said. “What be larkspur?”

  Breanne smiled. “Larkspur is a flower…delphinium. Look out in the fields beyond the castle. They are filled with wild larkspur, no doubt the reason for this estate’s name.”

  “You are not decorating my pigsty with flowers.”

  Breanne jerked and almost fell off her perch, saved only by the strong hand that grasped her upper arm, then yanked her off the fence and to her feet. It was the loathsome lout of the big…arrogance. Caedmon of Larkspur.

  Efrim had the good sense to scoot away.

  “Your sty fence was broken and the pigs were running wild,” she snapped, bending over to place her mallet and a handful of nails into a wooden work bucket. When she began to straighten, she looked over her shoulder…and caught Caedmon staring at her buttocks.

  “You really are a loathso
me lout.”

  “Thank you, m’lady.” He made an exaggerated bow from the waist.

  “’Twas not a compliment.”

  “Coming from the likes of you, it is.”

  She bared her teeth at him. “You belong on the other side of this fence with the other pigs.”

  “Dost think so?”

  If he were closer, she would have given him a mighty shove to place him exactly there.

  As if reading her mind, he folded his arms over his chest and said, “If I go over that fence, so do you.”

  “Loathsome lout!”

  “You are repeating yourself.”

  “Donkey dolt!”

  “Irksome shrew!”

  “Troll!”

  “Harpy!”

  “Stinksome warthog!”

  He lifted a hand high and sniffed at his armpit. Apparently satisfied at his smell, he smiled at her. And, oh, it was a dangerous smile. The kind that lured women to do things they should not. “I am capable of repairing my own fence.”

  “Now you will not have to. Are you not the lucky one?”

  He muttered something under his breath about luck and women. She suspected there were several foul words involved.

  “I was just being helpful.”

  He arched his brows.

  “I was bored.”

  “And you could not go sew a tapestry, or stroll through the gardens, or strum a lute?”

  “Bor-ing! I but wish to be useful. What harm is there in that?” Her eyes shifted to the right. Uh-oh! Now, she looked everywhere except to the right.

  He, of course, had to glance at that very place on the far side of the bailey, which she was avoiding. “Do my eyes play me false? Could that be a fine-garbed woman on her knees planting something up against the castle wall? A prickle bush! God’s breath! Those are the bushes that snag on horses when riding through a forest.”

  Breanne sighed deeply. Of course, there was a woman in fine garb, the gunna pulled up to her knees, the hem tucked into her belt. “That is my sister Drifa. She likes growing things, especially flowers. That is a wild rosebush she is transplanting.”

  His eyes widened. “A noble Viking princess is crawling around my bailey, digging in dirt, planting a prickle bush?”

  Nay, ’tis a dragon building a nest. Idiot! Of course it is a woman, my sister.

  The woman stood and walked over to a wooden wheelbarrow. Digging a shovel into the contents, she then emptied it onto the spot she had been weeding.

  “And that is…?”

  “Manure.” What a dolthead! Does not even recognize animal waste, even when it smells to high heaven.

  He put his face in his hands, counted to ten…then twenty, before inquiring in the sweetest voice he could muster. “Where did she get the manure?”

  “Your cow byre.” What? You thought she was digging in your privy?

  “Of course. How foolish of me not to know that.”

  That goes without saying. “You have plenty.”

  Something seemed to occur to him then. “Is this a jest? Did Geoff or Wulf put you up to this flummery? Are they off somewhere watching us, laughing their arses off?”

  “I never met your comrades afore today.”

  “Oh.” He seemed disappointed at her answer. “What are you doing here then?”

  “That was not polite.”

  “I ne’er claimed to be polite, nor do I aspire to such. Why are you and your sisters here?”

  I wonder what he would do if I punched him on his lofty chin. “We were just passing and thought to stop and visit.”

  “On your way to…where?”

  Questions, questions, questions! “Uh, I am not certain. You should ask Tyra. ’Tis some distant kin of her husband.”

  “As distant as my kinship?”

  That chin is looking very tempting. “You are the rudest man I have ever met.”

  “You have not traveled much then. I can name at least three ruder men.”

  Do not punch him in his arrogant chin. He would probably punch me right back. She exhaled whooshily, tired of this verbal sparring. “Do you offer us hospitality, or not?”

  He hesitated, then asked, “For how long?”

  “One day, or two, or so.” Or fifty.

  “The ‘or so’ is what bothers me.”

  The man was too astute by half. “All we ask is a few days of your hospitality and protection.”

  He straightened abruptly. “Protection…that is the first I have heard of protection. What do you need protection from?”

  I best keep my mouth shut or I will trap myself with ill-chosen words. She waved a hand airily. “This and that.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, beautiful blue eyes framed by sinfully thick lashes. “By the by, your sister mentioned being the widow of the earl of Havenshire. When did that villainous poor-excuse-for-a-man expire?”

  Breanne could feel heat coloring her face. “Recently. He disappeared recently. And, yea, he was a villain.”

  “How did he die…assuming he is dead? Lord Havenshire was not that old, as I recall.”

  “Well, no one really knows.” Except us. “He went out one night to visit his mistress and never came back.” How easy a liar I have become. “But his horse did. Return, that is.” Brutus is out in your stable right now. Go check. “Road rogues no doubt murdered him for his purse.” Whew! Lying is hard work.

  “They found no body?”

  She shook her head. I need to get away from here and his too-perceptive questions.

  “Where is the earl?” he demanded abruptly.

  She jumped. “No need to yell. I already told you, he is dead.”

  “Mayhap he is still alive.”

  “Mayhap. Nay, he is more likely dead.” As a fence post.

  Just then, Ivan and Ivar, their guardsmen, stepped out of the stable, came over, and stood, legs braced, on either side of her. While she was thankful for this means of changing the subject, she could tell that Caedmon was not happy with their presence. “Go away. Shoo!” she said in a whisper.

  But the thick-headed fools did not budge.

  “’Tis one thing to ask for hospitality. ’Tis quite another to bring armed men into my keep.” Caedmon threw the words at her like stones, and his one hand went to the hilt of his short sword.

  Her guardsmen did likewise.

  She motioned for the guards to halt their aggression, then told Caedmon, “They are harmless.” Unless provoked. Then, you should see how good they are at lopping off heads. Eeew!

  He gave them a thorough scrutiny. “Hah! Harmless as starving bears.”

  Or head-loppers.

  Ivan, the guard closest to her, growled, not unlike a…well, bear. Ivar bared his teeth, not unlike a bear, as well.

  “I meant that they intend you no harm.” Turning, she scowled at her guards. “Ivan, Ivar, go. I am safe. You must needs help Tyra prepare to leave for home.”

  After they departed, reluctantly, Caedmon asked, “Dare I ask, who is Tyra?”

  “My sister…your kinswoman by marriage.”

  “Ah, wife of my close kinsman, Adam the Healer.”

  “Your sarcasm is not pleasing, m’lord.”

  “And I do yearn to please you. I am not a m’lord.”

  “M’troll, then?”

  He grinned. “And where is this Tyra going?”

  “Home. To her husband at Hawkshire.”

  She could tell that he wanted to ask why they did not go with her. So, she quickly attempted to get his mind on other things. “You are bleeding,” she observed.

  “Huh?”

  “Your face.”

  “Ah.” He put a hand to his chin, then looked at the dab of crimson on his fingertips. “I cut myself shaving.”

  “Three times?”

  “’Tis fortunate I am that it was not more. Every time you began that incessant pounding my hand wavered.”

  “Oh, so it is my fault you are so clumsy? Not your ale excesses?” She reached into a side placket of h
er braies and pulled out a linen cloth. She was tall for a woman, but he was taller; so, she had to go on tiptoes to reach his face, which she began to minister to.

  He inhaled sharply.

  “What? Did I hurt you?” I should be so lucky!

  “Nay. ’Tis your scent.”

  She tilted her head to the side in question and just scarcely refrained from lifting her arm to sniff, as he had.

  “You smell like flowers.”

  She nodded. “My sister Drifa’s rose-petal soap. Would you like some?” I could stick some down your slimy throat.

  “So I can smell like a rose?” He smiled. “That would go over well when I ride to battle. I can overcome my enemies with rose fragrance.”

  Grrrrrr. She smiled back through gritted teeth, despite her best intentions to keep the rogue in his place. “By the number of children inside, most of whom claim to be yours, I would say that a fair share of women, who would enjoy rose soap, reside here.”

  “Or women who pass by.”

  “Or pass by,” she agreed, knowing full well that he hoped she and her sisters would soon “pass by.”

  One bit of blood had already dried. So, she wet the edge of her cloth with three quick darts of her tongue.

  “By the rood!” he muttered.

  She glanced up to see what he was muttering about.

  His gaze was riveted on her mouth.

  She licked her lips, assuming she must have something on them. Mayhap wood chips.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

  “What?”

  “Your mouth is…amazing.”

  At first she did not understand.

  And then she did.

  Oh, my! Oh! My! She should have been outraged at his suggestive words. Instead, her heart began to race, and she felt her nipples harden and ache in the most annoying, wonderful way. She could swear there was a dampness pooling betwixt her legs. She tingled, all over, but especially in some forbidden places. Was this lust?

  Just barely, she restrained herself from leaping on him, with her legs wrapped around his middle, the way she had seen Tyra do with Adam one time. How he would laugh at that!

  But he was not laughing now. In fact, she sensed he was in the throes of his own attraction to her, and it was just as unwelcome.

  “Do you blush, Breanne? By thunder, you do!” He seemed inordinately pleased by that discovery.