by K. E. Saxon
‘Twas clear, as the lad had told him, that Vika’s outer injuries were mending well. And, he could only hope, and pray, that the lad was also right about the injury to her brain: That she had not lost her wits with the pounding her head had taken in the fall.
Having found some solace from his worry for her now that he’d seen her for himself, and heaving a mental sigh, he slid from the bed and slipped out of the chamber without waking either the healer or Vika. ‘Twas clear she could not travel as yet, and he would not leave without her, so ‘twas a boon that he’d told Robert that he was not sure how long ‘twould take him to conclude his dealings in the area, and Robert had extended his hospitality to him for as long as was needed.
Back in his own chamber, he doffed his clothing and swung himself onto his back on the bed, with his arms under his head. Staring up into the dark nothingness above him, his thoughts continued to churn and turn on Vika. He was as determined that she would be the mother to their daughter that Halla needed and craved, as Vika was that she could ne’er fulfill that duty. But what if her wits had been damaged? Nay, he would not think such. Not, at least, until he’d seen it for himself. So, he’d somehow contrive to visit her in privy on the morrow to find out for sure. And, if her wits are gone? Well, he’d deal with that as it came. And, what if she is cold as stone to our daughter after being forced home? Rolling onto his side, he closed his eyes, turning his back on that dread thought, which slipped between the cracks of his resolve sometimes, unbidden.
* * *
Vika, feeling full of vigor the next morn, and refusing to owe it to the stirring dream she’d had the night before of a familiar pale-haired warrior she refused to give name to, hummed as she took the steps down to the great hall to break her fast. As she swept through the entry, a word of greeting trembling on her tongue, her gaze landed on the back of a blond head, skidded with heart-palpitating panic down the well-formed shoulders and back, then swung to Robert as he came toward her, hand extended, saying, “Vika. Come. Meet our guest.”
She only had time to see a glimpse of the all-too-well-known visage of her former lover before she whirled and fled, without a word, out of the hall, up the stairs, and into her chamber, swinging the bar down to lock out any who would follow.
A scream burgeoned in her throat, so full that it caused a piercing ache to keep it down. Pressing both hands o’er her mouth, she paced in a frantic pattern about the chamber. What to do...what to do...what to do...what to do…. Oh Lord, Dear Lord, what am I to do?
A knock came on the door, and Vika stumbled as she swung around, her eyes wide with dread as she stared, unblinking, at the slatted wood.
“Are ye ill, m’lady? Th’ laird sen’ me oop to ‘ave a look a’ ye.”
With some relief that she had not made the true purpose of her flight known, she called out, “Aye, Wife Deirdre,” and stepped to the door, lifting the bar, and opening it for the old woman. “My head began to pain me and it caused a sudden churning in my stomach. I feared I might purge, so I fled. ‘Twould do me a great service if you would tell my cousins that I will rest in my chamber this morn, and should be well again by the nooning meal.”
“Aye, m’lady. An’ there’s still some draught there on th’ table nex’ ta th’ bed, if ye need it.” With that, she departed, closing the door behind her, and leaving Vika once more to moil in her worry, wondering again how she might deal with Grímr’s unexpected arrival, with keeping the fact of her unborn babe—his unborn babe—unknown to him until she was ready to reveal it, and also wondering how she was e’er to keep him from revealing the fact of their daughter, and Vika’s abandonment of her, from her cousins, and even more fearfully, from her father.
On the cusp of that thought, the door swung open, and in stepped the exact last man she e’er wanted to see. “Grímr!” Her gaze swept o’er his shoulder to the passage behind him, but thankfully, he was alone.
He shut the door and leaned against it with his arms crossed over his chest. “Vika.”
She took a step forward, then stopped short. “How—” Forcing a breath into her lungs, she started again with more bite: “Why are you here?”
“Do your cousins know you are childing?”
She blinked. “Wh—I-I’m not!” She turned and walked several paces away, wringing her hands. She would not swoon. “Why would you think it?” Good God in heaven! He knows! He knows! She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, then swung around to face him once more, saying, “Clearly, that insult was a ploy to set me off the true subject. You have not answered my question: Why are you here, Grímr?”
His brow lifted, but, thankfully, he pursued his query to her no further, instead dropping his arms to his side and coming away from the door, he strode with ease, as if he were master of the keep, as if he were master of her, to the chair by the hearth and settled in it before saying, “I think you are full aware of my intentions with regard to you, Vika, so why do you waste precious breath asking me such?”
CHAPTER 12
GRÍMR WATCHED, WITH both ire and amusement, Vika glare at him in silence as she struggled to remain in control of her natural inclinations, which, he had little doubt, included at least a slap to his cheek, and at most an attempt to throttle him. Such fire. He’d been drawn to it from the moment they’d met—what seemed years and years ago now—and he was pleased beyond words to see it in her now, the healthy glow to her cheek, the near-ease she had in her movements, the quick-witted sparring they had shared thus far, all signified to him that she truly was fully on the mend.
And the babe…. Aye, he’d seen her in this state before, and no matter that the evidence of it barely showed beneath the layers of clothing she wore, nor the lie that fell so easily from her lovely lips, she most assuredly was childing. He knew from the glow to her skin, from the slight rounding to her face, from the evident blossom in her breasts. The jealousy, the fiery ball of anger at the thought of another man touching what was his, he ignored—or, was determined to do so. And, if ‘tis my babe she carries ‘neath her heart? He fought the joy that came with that thought just as vehemently. Still, he would allow the admission to himself that he was glad to know that the fall she’d taken had not flushed it from her womb. For, who knew? It might have been the final blow that would have caused her death, and then he’d not be able to fulfill his vow to his daughter.
Rising from the chair, he said, “I’ll leave you to your rest now, svanfríðr.”
“Bu—”
He shut the door against further speech. There was time and plenty for that in the days ahead. For now, all that mattered was that she had not sustained any lasting injuries. The matter of the babe, and whether he’d sired it, would have to wait. And, in any case, ‘twas clear she had no intention of wedding another, whether he be father of her babe or nay, so even if ‘twas proved to be another man’s when ‘twas brought forth at last? Again he fought back the instant burn of jealous rage that seethed in his gut, flexing his hand, then curling it into a tight fist at his side. Nay, even then, he’d not deny the babe a place in his home.
* * *
“I think it not at all so difficult a thing,” Vika said, a brow arched as she rubbed the pad of her thumb o’er the nail of her middle finger.
Morgana’s lips twitched with mirth in response to her cousin’s clearly nettled barb at Grímr’s answer to Robert’s query regarding the last joust Grímr had entered. For some unknown reason, Vika had been behaving with much hostility to their male guest, and had countered near to every comment the man put forth, as if he’d offended her in some way. Truly, Morgana had ne’er seen her cousin behave in such a manner to any man, especially one as handsome and virile as this one. Nay, ‘twas more her way to use her tongue to seduce and charm than to taunt and vex.
“And, how many times, pray, have you fought in a tourney, so that you might be so knowing and assured of this opinion?”
With a turn of her head, Morgana’s gaze rested again on Grímr. Aye, Vika had finally made h
im show a bit of ire. She shifted her attention to her husband. And, ‘twas evident, Robert was so flummoxed by the situation, that he would only clear his throat and shovel another turnip into his mouth.
“There is no need for me to fight to know that what I say is truth,” Morgana’s cousin said, gazing down at the nail on her middle finger as she stroked it with the thumb of her other hand, “for even Robert uses that very ploy at least once in every joust he’s been in.” She stroked her palm up and down Robert’s upper arm. “Is that not so, Robert?”
She’d purred his name, in a voice more suited to the bedchamber, and Morgana’s earlier good cheer was replaced by worry, and anger. Morgana moved her hand toward the chalice of wine as if to pick it up, but knocked it over instead, directly into the pale-blue silk-covered lap of her cousin.
‘Twas with no little satisfaction that Vika’s antagonist for the meal burst into laughter, that Morgana’s husband leapt off their bench to keep from getting drenched himself, and Vika screeched that her best gown had been ruined.
You must curb your willful anger and pride, Morgana, for they are sins, she heard the chiding voice in her head of Ma dame Aliénor, the abbess of the nunnery Morgana had been raised in, and Morgana’s elation was instantly tainted with guilt. In repentance, she silently vowed to the rarified image of Ma dame to give her own favorite gown to Vika as recompense.
The page rushed over with a cloth and Morgana reached for it, then wrapped one arm about the waist of her cousin and used the other to daub at the stain, as they both exited the great hall together.
* * *
After the ladies had departed, Robert sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and studied Grímr with a raised brow. ‘Twas all Grímr could do not to show his discomfiture in manner or word, instead composing his visage into an indifferent mein as he took a long pull on his ale and waited, this time, for Robert to speak his mind first.
It took much longer than Grímr e’er believed it would, but after what seemed to be several quiet, ponderous, moments, as the only sounds about them were of the pages clearing the remains of the meal from the table, Robert said at last, “I ken now why that island of yours struck a familiar chord within me when we met: ‘Twas Vika’s home as well, before her husband’s death.”
Grímr watched the door shut behind the last page carrying a loaded tray before saying, “You’ve caught me out. Vika was wed to my uncle—and, aye, we two are well acquainted.” How well, he’d not reveal unless absolutely necessary to his own ends.
Robert’s eyes narrowed on him. “The two of you seem at sixes and sevens.”
Grímr shrugged. “Aye,” he said, and took another pull on his ale, but did not allow his gaze to waver from his host’s.
“All right,” Robert finally said. “I see that you’ll share naught more. But, I’ll tell you this: If it comes to choosing between you and Vika as guest, I must, and will, choose my wife’s cousin.”
“As it should be. But, worry not, for ‘twill not come to that, I give you my vow.”
* * *
Vika paced her bedchamber, nibbling on her thumbnail. Had her ploy worked? Would Robert demand that Grímr leave, find another place to stay while he carried out the alleged duty that he’d come to do? She prayed he would, yet she feared ‘twould take much more to push Robert to do so.
‘Twas a shame she’d had to sacrifice her lovely gown for the attempt, but, she had to admit, ‘twas worth losing it to see the e’er agreeable Morgana so vigorously protect what was rightly hers. Mirth rose up from Vika’s belly and exploded forth in a snort. She wondered if Robert realized his wife had purposely spilled the wine, out of jealousy and umbrage.
Nay, no doubt not. For Robert had his eye to his meal and would not have seen the spark of satisfaction that glimmered e’er so briefly in Morgana’s eyes before, sadly, her conscience o’ercame her bout of fiery will, and once more the illusion of docile kindness prevailed.
Even so, when Morgana had insisted Vika take the very lovely lavender silk gown, Vika did not refuse it. She ran her hand o’er the shiny white-and-purple violets embroidered around the low neckline with fine silk thread. ‘Twas truly beautiful. Much more so than the gown Morgana had ruined.
With a sigh, she hung it on a peg, then settled on the bed for a short nap.
As she drifted to sleep, images of Grímr’s reaction to her in the gown, of his handsome face and desire-filled eyes, of her cool reception of such open admiration, floated behind her lids, and she smiled.
* * *
Robert shut the door behind him as he came into the bedchamber behind his wife that eve after supper, and after the second round of sparring between his guests he’d been subjected to. “Those two are making my meals not settle well.”
Morgana turned her gaze to him and gave him a small smile that included a shrug and a shake of her head.
“He is the nephew of Vika’s husband, did she tell you?”
Morgana’s eyes went round. She shook her head and lifted the filet and veil from her head, then put them away.
“I’ve told him that Vika will be the one to stay, should their animosity become a burden.”
On a sigh, his wife nodded.
“Why did you give Vika your gown?” he said, walking up behind her and aiding her in disrobing for the night.
Her answer was a flurry of hand movements reminding him of the spill of wine at the nooning meal. He gave a gruff grunt in answer and opened his mouth o’er the pulse at her neck, more interested now in the soft, pale, succulent flesh feast laid before him.
The heartbeat under his tongue fluttered and sped, and a rush of breath beat, warm and moist against his cheek, as she lifted her arms up and around his head. In answer, he cupped her breasts, fuller now because she carried their babe in her womb, and tweaked their dark tips into tantalizing points.
When she tried to turn in his arms, he stayed her movement by dropping an arm across her belly, bringing her lush bottom up against his cock, and pressed his palm against her mons, prying her humid lips apart with his fingers and sliding them into her liquid heat as he teased her clit with the rough pad of his thumb.
In moments, she’d drenched his hand and her thighs trembled and opened. When she arched, went rigid against him, when he felt the first ripplings of her womb begin to contract, he pinched her nipple and sucked hard on that pulse point at the base of her neck.
She came so hard, he almost lost hold of her, almost stumbled. And, as was becoming e’er more common, she vocalized her pleasure with a long moan.
Which only made his own need for completion more acute.
Lifting her up into his arms, he cradled her head in his palm and pressed a lip-splitting, passion and need-filled kiss on her mouth as he brought them to their bed.
“I would have had you where we stood, but I don’t want to hurt the babe,” he told her, as he quickly doffed his own clothing. Then, climbing atop her, he kissed her brow, lifted her limbs about his waist and drove home. “Blood of Christ, ‘tis Heaven here, I swear.”
In answer, she ran her tongue up his neck and bit down hard on his earlobe, which made him arch, which sent him deeper, which made him touch the mouth of her womb, which nearly made him spew his seed before he’d had time to enjoy the ride.
“Nay, none of that,” he told her, then imprisoned her wrists above her head, gave her a small nip on her lower lip with his teeth, pressed his cheek to hers, and lifted and lowered his hips in slow, seductive movements, keeping them both riding the sharp edge between delight and torment, between the need to remain bonded, and the desire for release, for long, long minutes, until Morgana’s face and chest were so flushed, and Robert’s pulse was so rapid, that he feared they’d both burst into flame if they did not fall o’er that searing, pleasurable precipice soon.
With the very last bit of strength he had left, he raised up on his knees and took her with the force he’d been depriving himself—depriving her—for much too long and, as his cock slid in a
nd out of the tight, slick, engorged center of her, as her hips came up again and again to meet his, the world around them exploded into millions of flashes of starlight. Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, Robert heard Morgana cry out her pleasure, and his deeper answering cry as well.
Sometime later, Robert awakened from his passion-induced sleep to find Morgana had bathed him, and was now settled by the fire, as so oft she was, mending yet another piece of clothing of his. Warmth filled his heart as he watched her.
Rising up, he walked over and settled on his knees in front of her, reached out his palm, and placed it on the small mound of her belly. “How is my son?”
She smiled and smoothed his cheek with her hand, mouthing, “He is well, worry not.”
“But he needs his rest and, so wife, do you.” Rising to his feet, he lifted her to hers at the same time, making her drop what e’er she had been working on. Tho’ she tried to bend down to retrieve it, he would not allow it, and tugged her toward their bed instead.
He rolled her to her side and curled around her, stroking her hair from her forehead and cheek before dropping several soft kisses from her temple to her chin, then pulled her more snugly into him, with his hand resting lightly o’er their babe.
‘Twas not long before Morgana heard the deep, slow breathing that indicated Robert had fallen back to sleep. She tried to sleep as well, she truly did, and she did know that Robert was right: She and their babe needed rest. So, on the advice that Modron had given that the sleeping draught she had begun to need so oft in the past sennight, for precisely such times, would not harm the babe, Morgana took just a drop or two in a cup of water, weakening the dose—just to be safe.
In moments, and tho’ the babe was making her stomach churn a bit, she was sound asleep.
* * *
The next morn, Morgana’s queasiness had not lessened, so she only nibbled on a bit of stale bread to break her fast before beginning her duties for the day, with Modron beside her.