Viking in Love

by Sandra Hill

  “In the meantime…?”

  “Among other things, I want to find those Welshmen who served with us in the Franklands a few years past.”

  “The three brothers?”

  “Yea. Madoc, Merrick, and Morgan. Sons of some Welsh border king, or so they claimed. I swear, at least three of the bratlings running about Larkspur belong to them. Mayhap they are acquainted with your betrothed.”

  Wulf snorted his opinion, as if all Welshmen were related or knew each other. “We will ne’er know since I have no intention of meeting the wench.”

  “Methinks you doth protest too much betimes, Wulf. Why not go and meet her? She may be a great beauty, for all you know.”

  “It matters not to me.”

  Wulf’s father, and not the woman in question, prompted Wulf’s stubbornness, though what he had done to cause such a rift Wulf would never disclose.

  “Stay and help me then. You are always welcome. But you must know that the roof leaks. The shire taxes are due, and I would not be surprised to see the reeve show up soon with his hand out. I have already been asked to oversee the next shire court, and God knows I am the least qualified to levy punishment for bad deeds. The cotters want seed for the fall plantings. And I am lustsome as a goat, not having had a woman in nigh on three months.”

  “Caedmon, your life is a bloody mess.”

  He could not argue with that.

  Steam heat and then some…

  Breanne was in the downstairs solar, which had been converted to a hospitium of sorts for the five adults and four children who lay wheezing in the warm steam.

  At Rashid’s direction, hot rocks were constantly being dropped into buckets of water to create the steam, which would clear the lung passages. That heat, along with the warmth from the hearth fire, made the small chamber unbearably hot.

  Although most Saxon estates, and Norse as well, had central hearths in their great halls with smoke holes in the ceiling, few had actual fireplaces with chimneys. Larkspur, a hodgepodge of building styles, had adopted the Frankish style of heating and cooking. Not only were there three central hearths in the great hall, there were also two huge fireplaces at either end, an enormous one in the kitchen for cooking, and smaller ones in some of the bedchambers for heat. It was a style that Breanne, with her building talents, liked very much. If nothing else, it reduced the amount of interior smoke.

  Rashid had long since removed his Arab attire, wearing only an ankle-length linen under-tunic with the sleeves rolled up as he ministered to those ailing with herbal potions and cool, wet cloths. Putting aside modesty, Breanne wore a thin white summer gunna, which clung to her body in the humidity. But she could not be concerned by that as she held the whimpering Piers.

  The first day…Was that yesterday or the day before? I am losing track…. they had lost one elderly goatherdsman. After that all the fevers had risen, then gradually lowered until today, when the wheezing was no longer a death rattle. Piers was the one they had worried about most, being so young.

  “Rest, little one,” she crooned, rocking his little body in her arms, “soon you will be running about like a puppy again. Shhh. Do not cry. Shhh.”

  He had fallen into a restless sleep. When she was placing him in his pallet on the floor, she felt a draft of air. Caedmon stood in the open doorway. The look of utter shock on his face as he took in the scene was soon replaced by one of thunderous rage.

  Then his gaze hit on her. He jabbed a finger in her direction. “You! Come with me! Now!”

  She would have liked to refuse the brutish order but did not want to disturb the others.

  Grabbing her by the upper arm, he nigh dragged her down the passage and into a small guest bedchamber. When he released his hand, she staggered with weariness and with the effect of the cool air after all that heat. With a groan, she dropped down to sit on the edge of the bedstead.

  “What is going on here?”

  She told him what had happened and the status of the sickness at this point.

  He nodded. “Why did you not contact me immediately?”

  We were too busy saving lives. “I did not want to interrupt your wooing.”

  A foul word was hurled at her.

  She shrugged. “We did not know at first how bad it was. Rashid is a more than competent healer. We thought he could handle it. And he did.”

  “That was not a decision for you to make.”

  “I did…rather, we did what we thought was best at the time.” Ungrateful wretch!

  “The little mite…Piers…” he seemed to choke up, then cleared his throat “…How is he?”

  Well, mayhap not such a wretch, if he cares about the boy. “Close to death he was at one point, I believe, but he is getting better. They are all getting better. Except for the goatherder Ufric.”

  Now would be the time for him to thank her. But did he do that? Nay! Instead, he studied her and said, “You look like bloody hell.”

  She put a hand to her head where her hair was damp and sticky. Her face was no doubt dirty. And she probably smelled. “You would, too, if you had been sitting in a steam bubble for two days. Besides, dost think I care if you find my appearance repulsive?”

  “Did I say that?” A smile twitched at his lips. “Truth to tell, I find your appearance…delectable. Even resembling a drowned rat, you make me tingle.”

  What did he mean by tingling? She was the one who tingled when he was about. But then she glanced down and saw that her gunna was almost transparent with wetness. Her breasts and nipples were visible, as well as her nether hair.

  She tried to cover herself but had not the strength. Instead, she started to laugh because, damn the man, she was tingling in those forbidden places he perused so arrogantly. But her laughter soon turned to tears of utter exhaustion.

  Quickly, he walked over and picked her up in his arms.

  “What?” she squawked. “Put me down.”

  “I am taking you to the bathhouse. And then to a bed with clean linens for a long rest.”

  “I must help Rashid.”

  “I will help Rashid. You have done enough.”

  “You?” she asked, skeptical.

  “Dost think I am incompetent?”

  Yea. “Nay. I just cannot see you wiping a sweaty brow, or cleaning a dirty bottom.”

  A smile turned his enticing lips upward, and, amazingly, considering her sorry state, she felt a decided tingle in her tummy. Hunger, no doubt.

  While her mind had been wandering, Caedmon had still been talking. She caught the tail end. “That is the best thing about being the leader, I can delegate. Methinks Wulf would make a good bottom wiper.”

  So, the lout had a sense of humor. So what? she tried to tell herself. But then, against all good sense, she nuzzled up against his neck, inhaling his salty manscent, which was not unpleasant, mixed as it was with that of fresh air, leather, and horse. As hot as she had been in the steam heat, she was hotter now, but it was a different kind of heat, a heat generated by this man and this man only. Sex heat. “Just so it is not your bed where you deposit me,” she murmured.

  He murmured something back that sounded like, “We shall see.”

  “I am sorry to be such a bother.”

  He laughed. “M’lady, you have been a bother from the moment you first arrived.”

  “I made a wager with my sisters that the first thing out of your mouth on your return would be a demand to know why I am still here.”

  “I am saving that for later.”

  “Did you win the fair maiden?”

  “Nay. She preferred Geoff.”

  I doubt that.

  “Wulf and I were not even in competition with the blond god present.”

  Will he ever let me forget that I referred to his friend in that way? “Are you very unhappy about losing the fair maiden?”

  “Not at all. And Sybil is far from a maiden. She is closer to your age.”

  “In other words, long in the tooth?”

  “Precisely.�
�

  She slapped him weakly on the chest for his teasing. “To my eyes, you are far more attractive than Geoff.” Oooh, did I say that out loud?

  He chuckled and squeezed her closer in his arms.

  “One can take only so much of a blond god afore one’s stomach starts to roil. They love themselves too much.” Mayhap I am getting the lung fever, too, if my tongue cannot control itself. Be still, tongue. Be still.

  “Black-haired gods are so much better.”

  “Yea, they are.” Tongue, you must needs stop. Oh, gods! I am talking to my tongue.

  “You are going to hate yourself on the morrow for these revelations.”

  “No doubt. I could give you lessons in wooing so you might better compete in future.” I surrender, tongue. Do your worst.

  “What makes you think I am interested in wooing anyone?”

  “Pfff! All men are interested in wooing, as long as it gains them what they want.”

  “Bedsport?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of marriage.”

  “Methinks you think too much, wench.”

  And talk too much.

  And then he kissed her lips ever so gently, causing her to nigh swoon, even more than she already had. The man was beguiling her, pure and simple.

  Once she was rested, she was going to berate him for taking such liberty, but for now she was enjoying the tingling too much.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Can’t we all just be friends?…

  For about the tenth time that day, Caedmon crept into his bedchamber at the far end of the upper corridor to check on the sleeping princess from hell. Not only was she still sleeping, for six straight uninterrupted hours, but soft snores emanated from her open mouth.

  ’Twas a sign of his crumbling control that he found her snores charming. Not that he would tell anyone that, least of all this feminine plague on his life.

  Rashid had insisted on a hearth fire so Breanne would not get a chill. As a result, the room was hot, and she was covered with only a thin linen sheet. There was no longer any question of her having caught the lung fever, she was just exhausted, according to the healer, who also promised the six remaining patients in his care would be on their feet, good as ever, within days.

  With absolutely no hesitation, he lifted the sheet to stare at her nude body. She was slim but well proportioned, with small but firm breasts crowned with raspberry-tinted areolas and nipples which were turgid even when at rest. The same red hair that covered her head comprised a curly thatch over her mons. Her arms and thighs were well defined with muscle due to the ridiculously hard labor she insisted on engaging in. Her over-generous mouth was too large for her face to be beautiful, but instead, to his mind, it gave her the sensual aura of a temptress.

  Pathetic sod that he was, he smiled, knowing how much she would hate that image. Was he reverting to a boyling that he got his pleasures in such small-minded ways?

  Nay, there was naught boyish about him at the moment. He would have to be a monk not to be aroused by her body, and he had ne’er leaned toward priestly abstinence. He adjusted his breeches to accommodate his thickening.

  Caedmon had a problem, and not just the lust rising in him like summer sap, thick and warm. The problem was that this woman and her sisters, not to mention the talented healer, were doing too much good at Larkspur, and he feared his men and his people would expect that same standard when they departed, which they would soon.

  He was closing the door softly when he noticed Lady Havenshire walking toward him.

  “Are you going to the great hall for dinner?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He held out his arm for her.

  She flinched.

  What? Did she think he was going to hit her? Ah!, he thought, recalling the bruises about her face and neck which were almost gone now, though her arm was still in a sling. That is precisely what she had imagined.

  Before he had a chance to ask about that, she spoke. “M’lord Caedmon, I must thank you for letting us stay here under your protection.”

  “Protection?” That word again!

  Her pretty face, framed by almost white Norse hair in one long braid down her back, heated with color. Vana the White, she was appropriately called in her land. “Did I say protection? I meant hospitality.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her.

  “We will only stay until word comes from my brother-by-marriage Adam of Hawkshire or his kinsman Lord Eirik of Ravenshire. They will be arranging my safe passage back to my father’s home in the Norselands.”

  Safe passage? Now there was another odd choice of word. “Why did you not go to Eoforwic in the first place?”

  “Eoforwic? Oh. We Norse refer to it as Jorvik.”

  “Ships leave from the market town’s port almost daily.” And Larkspur is way off course on the route from Havenshire to Eoforwic.

  Her blush deepened from pink to deep rose. “Ah…uh…there were matters to be resolved first.”

  Caedmon had a bad feeling about these “matters.” A very bad feeling. “I have not yet offered my sympathies on the death of your husband…or disappearance.”

  She nodded her acceptance of his sympathy. Not surprisingly, considering Oswald’s character, she did not appear to be in the throes of grief.

  “I assume those are the matters to be resolved…matters related to your husband.”

  Her throat worked with visible gulps of distress. “We did think to stay at the monastery at Lindisfarne, despite the ill feelings there toward anyone of Norse background.”

  Years ago, the first Viking assaults on Britain took place at Lindisfarne, also known as Holy Island. Norsemen considered church goods…gold chalices, bejeweled scepters, silver crosses…to be well-deserved plunder when taken from greedy clerics.

  “But Rashid angered the monk healers when he tossed out a large pottery jar of leeches. Rashid and Adam do not believe in bloodletting.”

  Caedmon had to smile, picturing the pompous monks being chastised by what they would consider a heathen healer and pagan princesses. But then he noted the continuing distress on her pretty face as she worried her bottom lip, staring up at him with fear.

  He put a hand on her arm, ignoring her discomfort at his touch. “Is there aught I can do to help?”

  “Nay! Just let us stay until help…I mean…”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “You are welcome.” For a time. A short time. Most of all, he could not kick them out on their lovely arses without warning, since Breanne and Rashid had cared for Piers and the others inflicted with lung fever. He owed them.

  “I promise that my sisters and I will do all we can to reciprocate your kindness.”

  Oh, please, do not. Enough is enough. “M’lady, look about you,” he said as they entered the great hall. “My keep…every space in it…is cleaner than it has ever been, thanks to your efforts.” New rushes mixed with juniper tops crackled under foot and emitted sweet odors. Laundry was being done daily so that there were always fresh garments and bed linens. He would not be surprised to find one of the princesses hanging from the rafters dusting cobwebs from the high beams. To his consternation, even the swords and shields in his weapons room had been polished to a high sheen.

  “’Tis the least I could do.”

  I shudder to think what the best might be. He led her up to the high table and seated her next to Drifa, her half-Arab, half-Norse sister of the petite body and slanted eyes. She was the one obsessed with gardening.

  Nodding to Drifa, he remarked with dry humor, “I noticed that you swept the dirt in the courtyard today and planted more rosebushes.” And disrupted my men in their military exercises every time you bent over. Not only had she planted more bushes, but she had erected little knee-high spiked-twig fences around them to prevent the dogs from lifting their legs there.

  Like her sister, she blushed prettily and announced, “The kitchen herb garden is flourishing once again,” as if she were handing him a pot of gold. While
he was appreciative, he would have preferred the pot of gold.

  “Next I am thinking of a grape arbor.”

  Help me, God! He made his way to the center of the table and plopped down next to Wulf, who was staring fixedly at the food lined up before him.

  “Now what?” Caedmon inquired.

  “Look at this. Even King Edgar does not have such fine fare when holding a grand feast.”

  He surveyed the table and sighed. Thanks to Ingrith, yet another of the princesses, his kitchen was, indeed, now producing mouth-watering dishes fit for a…king. Usually, the regular evening meal included bread, water or ale, a companaticum or whatever happened to be in the broth simmering in the huge kitchen cauldron, and, if they were lucky, meat, fish, or whatever was available in season. Instead, he saw slabs and joints of mutton and venison, vinegar-brined sea trout, pigeon in lemon wine sauce, lentils with scraps of lamb, baked lamprey sprinkled with dill, mashed turnip, and a sallat of beets, shredded cabbage, nuts, and apples in a mustard-looking aspic.

  “What is that?” he said, dipping his spoon into one wooden platter, then licking his lips at the delicious taste.

  “Do you know nothing, Caedmon? ’Tis blank-mangere. Chicken in cumin cream.”

  “Where would I have ever learned that?” he asked indignantly. “How did you know?”

  “I asked Ingrith.”

  He smacked him on the arm, then remarked, “Ingrith?”

  “Yea. Ingrith and I have something in common.”

  “What, pray tell?”

  “Skin.” He laughed.

  “You can make mock of me, and all this,” he said, waving a hand to indicate his great hall with all its cleanliness and fine food, “but it all poses a problem for me, which is no laughing matter.”

  “What?”

  “Some of the higher-born men in my ranks are thinking about inviting their wives for extended visits.”

  “That could only be good for Larkspur.”

  “You would think so. Men longing for home do not make the best soldiers. But that presumes that conditions would stay the same here at Larkspur, and that presumes that the princesses will stay, which is not going to happen.”