Viking in Love

by Sandra Hill

  Trying to distract her, he remarked, “Didst know that when you touch me, I tingle?” And grow hard as a pike.

  Instead of laughing, she said, “Me, too.”

  “Huh?”

  “I may not like you much, but there is no denying your sizzling charms.”

  “Sizzling charms? I like that.”

  She did swat him then on the chest with her free hand. “How are things going with Dunstan?”

  “Precarious?”

  She tilted her head to look up at him. “How so?”

  “He wants a portion of Larkspur land to build a monastery.”

  “Uh-oh!”

  “You got that right. Mine is not a big estate, and the last thing I need is a horde of monks nearby, watching my every move.”

  “Will he take the land, regardless of your wishes?”

  “Probably not. I am trying to convince him that the southern border of Larkspur, which is mostly moors, is not conducive to farming or raising cattle or grape growing for wine, which are the usual sources of income for the churchmen. Besides, I warned them of Scottish reivers who covet aught of Saxon ownership and of Vikings who consider the golden chalices and silver plate of the clergy fair game.”

  “I am scared.”

  “For whom? Me or yourself?”

  “Both.”

  He squeezed her closer. “Naught will happen to you whilst under my shield. That I promise.”

  “And yourself?”

  “I have been playing these cat-and-mouse games with King Edgar and his cohorts for years, and King Edwy afore him. I will not let them take what is mine.”

  They were back at the keep now, and he had managed to distract her with their conversation, but he could feel the tremors of fear in her brave body.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  She had plaited her hair, then formed the braids into an intricate coronet atop her head, no doubt to soften the wildness of her red hair. The pale skin of her face was rather golden today from the sun, which caused a few more freckles to emerge. Instead of the Saxon attire she usually wore—and thank God she was not wearing breeches—she had donned a belted Viking undergown of pure white linen, covered by an open-sided green calf-length apron, embroidered on the edges and held together at both shoulders with brooches of gold in the pattern of writhing dragons.

  “You look just fine. Wonderful.”

  Breanne knew that she should not let his compliments go to her head, but pitiful as she was, she did just that. “You do not need to go that far, scoundrel.” She flashed him a shaky smile, then squirmed out of his embrace and walked ahead of him to the open door of the solar, which was empty, except for Archbishop Dunstan and Father Edward, who would be staying at Larkspur as chaplain and tutor for the children.

  Dunstan was sitting in an armed chair, his head bowed as if in prayer. Father Edward was doing likewise, telling his beads with a soft murmur from his seat on a bench near the window.

  “Your Grace?” Caedmon said.

  The archbishop’s head shot up, his eyes alert. He put up a halting hand when they started to enter the room. Staring at Breanne, he asked, “Are you in the midst of your monthly courses?”

  She gasped. It was the last thing she had expected from him. From any man, actually. “Wh-what?”

  “You heard me. I will not be in the same room with a woman having the bloody flux. ’Tis unclean. A mark of Eve’s sin on all women.”

  Flustered by the outrageousness of Dunstan’s observation, Breanne replied, “I am not unclean.” Her hands fisted as she was scarce able to restrain her temper.

  “Sit then.” Dunstan motioned to the two other chairs in the room. “You do not need to stay, Caedmon.”

  Oh, nay! I cannot handle the archbishop alone.

  “I stay,” Caedmon insisted.

  Thank you, gods. She shot Caedmon a glance of thanks, but he ignored her.

  It was clear that the archbishop did not like Caedmon’s tone, but he finally agreed with a nod of his head.

  One hurdle handled.

  “You are daughter to King Thorvald of Stoneheim. A princess.”

  She hesitated, then said, “I am, but I do not use the title.”

  “You and your sisters, including Lady Vana, were at Havenshire when the earl went missing.”

  So, he knows more than we expected. “We were.”

  “Dost know where the earl is?”

  Under a pile of…nay, I cannot even think of that. “I do not.”

  “Did you kill him? You or your sisters?”

  Bloody hell! I must needs tell one lie after another, and I am no expert at lying. “What? You wound with me your words, Your Grace. You have no reason to say that to me.”

  “The man has disappeared off the face of the earth. What else can I think?”

  Who asked you to think? “Mayhap he is with his mistress.”

  “He is not.”

  He does not seem at all perturbed that Oswald had a mistress. How typical of a man! And a priest, at that!

  “She believes your sister is responsible for his disappearance.”

  “She would, would she not? To divert attention from herself.” By thunder, how much longer will the questioning go on? He is sure to catch me in my web of lies if I am not careful. She could not help herself then. “You do know that Oswald was a vicious, cruel man who beat my sister?”

  Dunstan waved a hand dismissively. “She no doubt deserved disciplining.”

  Breanne was about to launch herself at the misogynistic, poor excuse for a priest, but Caedmon put a hand on her forearm and spoke first. “You have to know, Your Grace, that Lady Havenshire is a small woman in stature and strength. How would she have been able to kill and then hide such a big man as Oswald…if he is in fact dead?”

  “With help,” Dunstan replied, staring at Breanne accusingly, as if his stare would cause her to reveal all.

  I have been stared down by better than you, priest. My father, for example, has guilt staring down to an art. “If you are accusing me and my sisters of some conspiracy to kill the earl of Havenshire, you are wrong.”

  “Why did you leave?” The archbishop’s questions pelted her like little stones.

  “My sister…Vana…was in such distress, grieving over the loss of her husband, that we felt she needed a change of scenery.”

  Dunstan arched an eyebrow. “A husband whom you claim abused her?”

  Breanne shrugged. “Some women love men who are not good for them.” Where did that load of nonsense come from?

  “Why Larkspur? Why not some place closer?” Dunstan narrowed his eyes at her.

  He is suspicious. “Caedmon is kin to my sister Tyra’s husband. We decided to visit.”

  “You came all the way from Havenshire to Larkspur…for a visit?”

  “Yea, we did. And Caedmon has been generous in offering us hospitality.” Believe that and I have a fjord I can sell you in Trondheim.

  “Where are your sisters now? Where is Lady Havenshire?”

  “Two of my sisters have gone to nearby Heatherby to help prepare a wedding. And Vana has returned to Stoneheim.”

  “What wedding?” Dunstan’s stiffened posture in the chair bespoke the fury to come.

  “My friend Geoffrey Fitzwilliam is to marry Lady Sybil of Heatherby, Lord Moreton’s widow,” Caedmon interjected. “I was under the impression you had come this far north to officiate.”

  “Never! I was told that Lady Moreton would marry the king’s choice in due time after her period of mourning. This is a disgrace. Her husband is scarce cold in the ground.”

  “Well, I am sure you will be able to settle the matter once you go there.” Caedmon paused. “When might that be?”

  “Not until I settle matters here first,” he said icily. “Back to you, m’lady. What are you doing here alone in a keep full of men?”

  “Uh…”

  “She has a chaperon,” Caedmon inserted quickly.

  I do?

  “And who mi
ght that be?”

  Caedmon’s face turned red. She could tell he was stumped for what to say. But never did she expect him to say what he did. “Lady Amicia.”

  Breanne barely stifled a snort of disbelief.

  “Why have I not seen her?”

  “A megrim,” Breanne told him. Good Lord! We are telling one lie after another here. To a holy priest, at that. “Her head was aching; so I told her to lie down and rest.”

  “You will present her at dinner this evening.”

  By the stars, how will we ever manage that?

  “Of course,” Caedmon agreed.

  “And, by the by, Caedmon, you will seat no women above the salt whilst I am here. Too many men are lax in putting their women above themselves.”

  “That is what I always say, Your Grace. Keep women in their place.”

  She was going to throttle Caedmon when they left this room.

  “Now, m’lady, I will have the truth from you. Why are you here at Larkspur? And no more lies.”

  There was a long pause before Caedmon raised a hand for permission to speak for her.

  “The princess Breanne is too shy to disclose the real reason why she is here.” He cast her a false smile of besottedness, before telling the archbishop, “We are betrothed.”

  Breanne blinked several times and clicked her gaping jaw shut. Whaaaaat?

  “Do you not think it would have been wiser to get the king’s permission first?”

  “We are in love,” Caedmon said, batting his eyelashes at her like a cow-eyed youthling.

  “Pfff!” was the archbishop’s opinion of love. He turned to Breanne then. “Do you have a dowry?”

  She nodded hesitantly.

  “How much?”

  She really resented this invasion of her privacy, but felt compelled to answer, naming the generous sum her father had settled on each of his daughters.

  Caedmon turned slowly to look at her in astonishment, while Dunstan was practically wringing his hands with anticipation at the cut he and the king might gain as their portion. She had told Caedmon before; he must have forgotten.

  After that, things went downhill faster than a snowball in a Norse avalanche, ending with the archbishop saying, “I will bless your betrothal this evening, my children.”

  With this ring, I thee tup…

  “Have you lost your bloody mind?” Breanne hissed at him as soon as they left the solar.

  “Shhhh!” he said and put a fingertip to her mouth to indicate silence until they put distance betwixt themselves and Dunstan.

  She attempted to bite his finger.

  He was almost certain it was not a love bite.

  “Have a caution, wench. I am in no mood for your antics today.”

  “My antics?”

  He nigh dragged her along with him through the keep and up the stairs to his bedchamber, where they would not be overheard. Along the way, he nodded to various housecarls of his and members of the archbishop’s retinue, as if his yanking on a reluctant woman was usual fare at Larkspur. They probably thought he was going to beat her. Shoving her inside his room, he closed and locked the door.

  Dazed, she glanced around. “Why did you bring me here? Oh, you randy goat! If you think I am going to—”

  “Hush, Breanne! I brought you here for privacy, and naught else.” Although now you mention it, mayhap there would be time for a bit of bedplay.

  “Lady Amicia? A betrothal? How could you, Caedmon?”

  “I had to think quick, and that was the best I could come up with. Dost think I have any desire to be married again? I would sooner cut off a limb.”

  “Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

  “At least I tried. What did you offer, except a bit of stuttering?”

  “I do not stutter.”

  “Stutter, stutter, stutter.”

  “How immature of you!”

  “Listen, we are accomplishing naught with this bickering. We need to decide what to do next.”

  She inhaled and exhaled several times, then sat on the edge of the bed.

  He sank down into a chair, close by.

  “I will do my best to make Amicia into a lady,” she said.

  He had to grin. He just had to.

  “’Tis not funny.”

  “I beg to differ. You must needs find a gown long enough to fit her and with wide enough shoulders, but beyond that, who will shave her mustache?”

  “Tsk-tsk!” she clucked, trying to hide the smile that was tugging at her lips. “Amicia has a slight fuzz above her lip, but not enough to be called a mustache.”

  That was debatable. “We cannot let her speak. If Dunstan insults her the way he does all women, Amicia is likely to tell him to go bugger himself.”

  “I will tell her to pretend that she is folk-shy.”

  They both rolled their eyes at that.

  “Why in the name of all the gods did you tell him we were betrothed?”

  “Hah! You could show a little appreciation. Dunstan’s questions were leading in a direction that could very well have ended with you being dragged naked behind a cart with your head shaved. The mark of an adulterous woman.”

  “How about an adulterous man?”

  “No such thing.”

  Her face went deathly white. “He would not.”

  Caedmon shrugged. “I have seen worse done by God-men in the name of the church. And Dunstan is a power unto himself.”

  “Besides, neither of us is married. So adultery does not come into the picture.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “You are naive if you think that matters.” He went on to tell her stories of things he had witnessed done by churchmen, including the skin of a man tacked to a church door, not to mention all the depravities the king himself had performed.

  “I had no idea.” Her shoulders drooped.

  “You are not to worry, Breanne.” He got up and went to sit beside her on the bed. Putting an arm over her shoulder, he tucked her into his side and kissed the top of her head. “I will protect you.”

  She sniffled, then straightened. “If we work together, mayhap we can survive this mire of quicksand.”

  He smiled. “That is the spirit. Now, first off, I think you should wear my ring.” He tugged the signet ring off his middle finger and pushed it onto her right hand. “Nay, do not protest. ’Tis the first of my arrha gifts for you. If we were really getting married, you would move the ring to your left hand during the ceremony, signifying that you will be obedient to your new husband.”

  “Never!”

  “I am just saying.” He smirked at her.

  The lout! She adjusted it on her finger, then made a fist to ensure it did not fall off. “I like it,” she said, staring up at him through lashes that sparkled with tears, like burnished copper.

  His heart swelled for some odd reason. “It is too big,” he said gruffly.

  “I will fix it with yarn.”

  “Once Dunstan leaves, we can dissolve the betrothal,” he pointed out. “So do not worry in that regard.”

  “Seems to me that we are spinning so many lies we are bound to be caught.”

  “Too bad Rashid is not here. He would no doubt have a wisdom parable to suit.”

  She laughed and swiped at her damp eyes. “Definitely, and it would involve camels.”

  “Dost think we should seal our betrothal?” he asked then.

  “With a kiss?”

  “Nay. I was thinking more in the line of a swiving.” Or two.

  “That is all I would need…to be discovered by the archbishop in the midst of fornication. Not that I am interested.”

  “Your nose twitches when you tell a lie.”

  “It does not.” She put a hand over her nose to make sure.

  “I could make you be interested.”

  “I doubt that. I have built up a resistance to your tempting charms.”

  I have tempting charms? I had no idea. “Did I ever tell you about the time I spent in the Arab lands?”

  “You
pop from one subject to another like fleas on a white dog.”

  “’Tis the same subject. Whilst there, in Baghdad, I learned the most amazing things about sex.”

  She examined her fingernails, pretending disinterest. But she was interested, all right. Bloody hell, he was interested, too, because he sure as spit did not know what he was going to say next. But then, an idea came to him, unbidden. Ask me, little mouse. This cat sitting next to you is in the mood for a juicy mouse stew.

  “What amazing things?”

  Meow! “There is one particular position, a favorite of mine, truth to tell, where the female ends up peaking over and over and over. So well-pleasured is she that her bones nigh melt.”

  “What position? Seems to me we have tried them all.”

  “Oh, nay, how can you say that? There are dozens and dozens, mayhap hundreds of positions to try yet.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “You wound me.” He pretended great affront.

  “Name one.”

  “How about the ‘Butterfly,’ or ‘Row the Boat.’”

  Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. “Do you stay up all night dreaming these outrageous tales?”

  “You may laugh, but did you know there is a famous book written a thousand years ago that explains many, many ways to make love, illustrated with drawings. ’Tis called the Kamasutram.”

  “You surely jest.”

  He shook his head. “Well, the only way to prove it is to demonstrate.” He batted his eyelashes at her.

  She stared at him for a long moment, clearly tempted. Then she stood and shook her head, laughing. “You are incredible.”

  “Thank you.”

  “’Twas not a compliment.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I can do WHAT with a candle?…

  “Does my rump look too big?”

  Breanne rolled her eyes at Amicia’s question. Like the back end of a cow. “It looks just fine. Stop worrying.”

  It had taken several hours and ten ells of fabric to turn Amicia into anything remotely resembling a noble lady. In truth, she looked like a big blue tent.

  “I was noted fer my rump at one time.”