“Yea.” Serilda gathered her dress over her exposed chest and stumbled from the hall. The few men who’d heard the interchange were laughing merrily at the noblewoman fighting with a servant over their lord. The rest of the hall was too drunk to pay much heed, but would no doubt learn of it later.
“Why did you go and do that?” Brant slurred from behind her, drawing her attention back to him.
Della turned to glare at her husband. Her chest heaved with the effort it took to control her rage and she didn’t dare to answer him immediately.
“She did naught wrong,” Brant continued unabashed. “In fact, she was fulfilling your request.
“How?” Della shook as her fury started to find the words. Gunther had quieted at Brant’s side and both he and Gayla watched avidly. “How could you, m’lord, in front of everyone? In the main hall, at my place at the high table?”
“I’m sorry, wife. I had no idea you wanted my lap. Here, come.” Brant swayed toward her and pulled her onto his lap. Gayla giggled. Gunther held her fast, turning her head to give the ealdorman and his wife what privacy he could in a crowded hall. “You shall replace her, though I doubt your cold lips can compare to the warmth of hers.”
“Let go…of me,” she hissed as she fell against the warmth of his chest. “I will not be treated as such!”
“Such as what? Such as a woman? Such as a wife? Such as desired? Wanted? Loved? Lusted for? Favored? Adored?” Brant returned in a heated whisper of his own. His ale-laden breath hit hot upon her ear. “Or mayhap you mean such as a lover? Or whore? Or mistress? Or wife? Tell me, how will you not be treated, lady wife?”
“You make no sense. You are too far into your cups.” Della struggled against him. The smell of the liquor made her stomach curl with nausea. She’d thought the sickness had passed, but apparently it hadn’t. “Let…me…go!”
“Nay. Answer me. How shall I not treat you?” Brant successfully pinned her arms at her sides. Her feeble strength was no match for his war-hardened build. She ignored the encouraging cheers of the drunken crowd of knights who still watched the show, unable to feel anything past her husband’s nearness.
“Nay, you’re drunk.” Della strained against him. His power over her excited her and she tried to push the pleasure of his nearness away. He’d been away so long. How could he go to Serilda? Shivering, she saw the fine texture of his lips as they loomed near. When he was gone, she’d imagined his kisses, his mouth on hers, but now shuddered at the pain they caused her.
“Yea, that I am, but all the more reason for you to listen to me,” he warned. “I cannot control myself so well when I drink to excess. Mayhap, it’s the Viking in me wanting to come out. Is that not what you say of me? That I am a Viking barbarian? A thorn? A ravisher? A lewd boor?”
Brant leaned in to nuzzle the pulse in her neck. The short hairs of his freshly trimmed beard brushed along her skin and he licked her throat in a surprisingly expert caress. It had been so long since she’d felt the embrace of his arms, the heat between his thighs, large and wanting. She fought the desire, desperate to stay mad at him.
“I will not be treated with such disrespect.” Her argument lacked conviction. “You treat me like a whore in your hall.”
“Come, wife, what do you think of me?” he inquired of her neck, ignoring her protest. His hands turned caressing as he held her tight against him. The onlookers cheered, some inspired to grab maids of their own.
“Let go,” she demanded weakly against his strength. Inside she ached for him. It had been so long since she’d felt his hands, heard his seductive voice. She imagined his touch every night in bed. But she didn’t want him like this. Not drunk and using her as visual pleasure for his men. To add to her pain, she couldn’t forget that he had been doing the same thing with his hands to another woman a minute ago.
Nay, not just another woman—Serilda!
Della didn’t know what fact bothered her more. That he had been acting wanton with another woman. Or that the other woman had been Serilda. Or that she was so enjoying his attention at the moment that she wanted to forget her reasoning and let him continue.
“Don’t feel like talking, wife?” Brant slurred against her silence. “I have never seen you lacking poisonous barbs. Come, where is my Ice Princess?”
“I told you once not to call me that,” she whispered, hurt by the deliberately rude nickname.
“Why not? Is it not the truth? Have you not hardened yourself to me?” Brant laughed humorlessly as he leaned back. His arms loosened only slightly to allow room between their bodies. “Isn’t it true, Ice Princess, that you do not feel?”
“I’m not an Ice Princess. I have feelings, feelings that you should respect. But instead, I find you fornicating in the front hall with a whore. You disrespect me and most of all you disrespect Strathfeld. And you let your men dirty my hall!” Della pushed away from his chest, her heated whisper not appearing to affect him in the slightest. Unable to break his embrace, she knew she only extended as far as she did because he chose to let her, just as he could choose to pull her back. His strength both frightened and excited her.
“You could have fooled me,” Brant snorted. “Methinks you do not feel at all.”
“Stop it!” Della tried to hide the tears that brimmed in her eyes. “You’re being cruel and for naught.”
“But is that not my nature? The nature of my people? We are naught but Viking barbarians. Murderers. Ravishers. Savage pillagers.” Brant suddenly stood, drawing her up with him so she was trapped against his chest. With each word his voice got lower and harder to resist. “What says you wife? Care for a dance?”
“What? You drunken lout! You speak nonsense and then wish to dance? You make no sense.” Della tried again to pull away from him. She’d missed him, but not like this, not being intentionally cruel.
Brant laughed and pulled her toward the dancing couples. They twirled in circles to the fast paced beat of the music. Tilting his head to the musicians, he laughed again. The beat stopped, only to immediately begin once more at a slower tempo. The hall cheered their approval as Brant lifted his arm to Della in the first position of the dance.
“Methinks we didn’t have time for this the eve we were wed. What say you we dance in celebration of that day now?” Brant asked in low, mocking tones.
Della had no choice but to lift her arm to join his at the wrist. Couples linked around them to do the same. Slowly, Brant circled her in one direction, his movements like a stalking beast, before turning to walk around her the opposite way. They touched only by their wrists, but Della felt his fire through her entire length.
The warmth of his hand moved to close over hers in a hard grasp. “This is the first time I have danced with you. As I remember, you were too anxious to get to the marriage bed at our wedding celebration.”
“That isn’t how it happened and you know it. My father was dying.”
“Yea, and methinks all kind thoughts you had for men died with him.” He turned her in the other direction, releasing her only long enough to switch.
“Nay, I like Rab.”
“He is a child. I speak of men.” Brant said. “Ice Princess.”
“Stop.” Tears threatened her eyes at his intentional barbarity.
Brant bowed mockingly toward her in time with the dance steps. “As you wish, lady wife.”
They danced in silence for a moment, joined at not only the wrist, but also the eyes. A silent battle brewed between them.
“Why?” Della asked, thinking of Serilda. She lifted her chin proudly, as if the gesture might help. It didn’t.
“Why not?” He knew instantly to what she referred. “Did you not say I had your blessing to take a mistress?”
“But why her?” Della whispered, disappointed in his choice. It was true that at one time she’d have welcomed him to find another, but now…? Now was different. “Why Serilda?”
“Why, are you keeping Serilda for yourself? Are you upset that I didn’t ask you to join us
? Is that what you like lady wife? You wish to have another woman in our bed? Why did you not say so? Leastways, you both could ravish me at the same time.” Brant’s smile widened. “Who should I ask?”
“I-I-ah,” Della stuttered, not knowing how to respond. The idea that one could do the marital act with more than one person at a time confounded her. It wasn’t a prospect she’d thought of before and she found she didn’t like the idea of sharing her husband.
“I had no idea you were so unconventional in your lovemaking tastes. You should have told me. I’m your husband. I’m well experienced and could teach you things you never dreamed possible.” Brant’s expression was serious, but Della thought to detect a teasing light to his eyes.
“What do you mean?” Della didn’t like his first idea at all, but was intrigued that there could be more.
“I don’t think you are ready. Mayhap, I will show you someday. More than likely, I will not.”
Remembering herself, she stiffened, angered by his comments, angered by what he hinted and would not tell her more about. What he had done with others and now claimed she was not capable of trying? Had he been with several women at once? Had he enjoyed it? Did he truly want her to be one of the women?
I will not do it!
“Nay, Della?” Brant lifted a brow when she didn’t speak, purposefully confusing and taunting her. It was an easy mark, hitting her with her innocence, but he was drunk and he was mad. He’d begun to sober during their dance, though his words still carried a slight slur to them.
“Nay, I will not be privy to your sinful ways.” Even angry, she was beautiful. “It is enough that I have been expected to share your bed in the past.”
At that Brant frowned, seething in irritation at the slight. The dance ended and he dropped his arm to bow to her. What else could he really say? Della curtsied properly to him and bowed her head in halfhearted acknowledgement of those around her. Unable to help himself, Brant pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Della made a weak noise.
He couldn’t continue, or he wouldn’t be able to stop. Her felt her heart beating hard and fast against him. As soon as his lips left hers he whispered, “Get you abovestairs and interrupt my festivities no more. Lest the next time I see you tarrying, I will suspect you wish to be shown what you claim to want no part of. Repeatedly.”
Della jerked away from him. Fear swam in her gaze as she looked at him. Without another word, she turned and ran abovestairs. Brant stared for a long moment before moving toward the high table. He ignored all who spoke as he grabbed a goblet of ale. It should only take a few more drinks before he could feel nothing at all.
Chapter Eighteen
Brant didn’t come to her bed that night, as she lay awake, her heart pounding in her throat, in her chest, even in her thighs. She’d seen the distant anger in his blue eyes when he looked at her. Those eyes belonged to a man she had never seen before and, for the first time, she truly feared him.
Though she lay awake night after night, he didn’t come to her bed. The feasting and gaming continued on belowstairs, much to Della’s dismay. She hadn’t seen Serilda in the hall again and had been informed that the midwife had indeed left the keep. In that she could take some bleak pleasure. However any happiness was short lived.
Her sickness held on, making her rest more than usual, but sleep was not peaceful and she almost preferred to stay awake. She missed Brant, missed the smell of him. The nightmares she had of her mother were gradually replaced by nightmares of Brant in the arms of other women. Often times they were faceless images sent to torment her, sent to remind her that she could not have the one thing she wanted—her husband.
Della believed her depression somehow kept the sickness in her. After the fifth night of hiding away from the main hall, she’d had enough. The few glimpses she’d been afforded of the dining area were enough to make her stomach churn.
On the sixth morning of exile, she dressed in one of her best gowns and took special care plaiting back her clean hair. She smiled pleasantly as she made her way belowstairs, preparing herself for what awaited her. Della was not disappointed as the fresh scent of rushes washed over her. They were being applied to the floor and were a great relief after the spilled food from Lord Blackwell’s festivities.
“What goes on here, Ebba?” Della questioned the maidservant in forced surprise. “Has Lord Blackwell stopped the gaiety so soon?”
“Nay, m’lady. It’s the cleaning spirit again. She appeared to Gayla last eve.” Ebba pulled at her short black hair in agitation. “She said the spirit was angered greatly by the mess the men made in her hall and that we had to clean it at once!”
Della gasped, trying her best to look awed. She’d said no such thing to Gayla in the night. “The spirit, she talked?”
“Yea, m’lady, and not just to Gayla. Many of the others swore that they saw her too. She told Isa that if the kitchen was not scrubbed, she would cook us black in the caldron and then the spirit threw Isa into a wall. And e’en Edwyn said she told him if we didn’t remove the stench from the rushes, she would make us part o’ it! She’d make us part o’ the stench!”
My spirit has gotten most violent.
Della tried not to laugh as she nodded. In truth, Gayla was the only one she’d run across in the hall during the darkened hours of the night. Everyone else had been passed out in a drunken slumber. And she hadn’t talked to Gayla.
“And what did my lord husband say to this?” Della wondered aloud.
“M’lady, it’s most like he doesn’t know of it,” Ebba admitted.
“Why?” Della’s stomach fluttered as she awaited the maid’s answer. “Has he left Strathfeld?”
“Nay. He has spent many nights away from the rest of us. No one knows where he sleeps.” Ebba looked away as she blushed. “Or with whom he sleeps.”
Della frowned at the blatant statement. “It is not your concern, Ebba. Mayhap you should get back to work before the cleaning spirit hears of your harsh gossiping tongue. I should hate to see her foul temper taken out on you.”
“Yea, m’lady.” Ebba curtsied. Her eyes darted around the hall only to close with relief when she saw no spirit.
The idea that Brant had more than likely found another to warm his bed hadn’t escaped her. Serilda was gone, but that didn’t mean one of the other servants wouldn’t want to be under the prized protection of the Ealdorman of Strathfeld—and if the ealdorman just happened to be an excellent lover and a virile specimen of masculine health, so much the better. Any serving maid would be foolish not to want to be his mistress.
Della made her way to the kitchen. She’d purposely missed the morning meal, not wanting to risk seeing Brant. His last warning had been clear.
“Isa, some bread if you would,” Della said as she entered the kitchen. “And do not serve me any of the maids who have blackened your cauldron. It’s unlikely they will sit well upon my belly.”
Isa chuckled. “You will not be the only one here who gets a bit o’ fun.”
“I have no idea what you are speaking of.” Della sighed in feigned innocence. “Did the spirit fling you about until your arse was bruised from the fallings?”
“Oh, yea, m’lady.” Isa winked as she handed her a crust of bread. “Just remember, I was once in charge of washing the dirty laundry. There are many a white nightgowns that get scrubbed in a sennight’s time.”
Della coughed. “Interesting, Isa, though hardly relevant, I am sure.”
“Oh, yea, it’s most interesting. The cleaning spirit, she’ll not e’en do her own wash.” Isa’s cackling laugh echoed off the hard walls of the kitchen.
“Isa, I can take no more of you this morn.” Della gave the cook a playful wink. How many people suspected that she was the spirit? “I shall walk about the grounds.”
“Be sure not to step on yer husband while you walk, m’lady,” Isa teased.
Della shook her head, no longer amused by the woman’s jesting.
* * * * *
B
y all the gods! What is that horrible stench?
Brant wrinkled his nose in disgust. The sun streaked heavily through the stable’s rafters to shine uninvited on his face. He turned his head to avoid the accusing glare of the afternoon rays, but as he moved away from the sun, the smell only grew more distinct. Opening his eyes, he stared straight into a warm, steaming pile of…
Dung!
Brant shot up, ignoring the now constant pain in the back of his skull. He coughed heavily, his movements having stirred up dust. Next to him, his horse fussed and pawed at the ground. The stallion’s neigh sounded quite mocking considering the circumstances. Brant eyed the fresh manure and then his stallion.
“Do you think to defy me as well?” Brant growled at the horse. He shook his fist in the animal’s insolent face. The stallion tilted his head back in protest. “Has my loving wife been to whisper her deceits into your ears as well?”
“M’lord?”
Brant jolted at the sound. He looked hastily behind his back only to see Rab near the stall opening. The boy crouched behind the wood frame, his round, green eyes moving from the horse to the ealdorman.
“Begone, Rab.” Brant didn’t want to be the cause of the child’s amusement.
“M’lord,” Rab said quietly before clearing his throat. “M’lady wished me to find you.”
“Which lady?” Brant growled in outrage. The sound rang in his head until it started to ache. Surely his wife would not send a little boy to spy on him.
“Lady Del…Blackwell.” The boy took a brave step forward. Brant’s scowl deepened by menacing degrees. Rab lifted his head proudly. “She wishes fer you to come and greet yer guests.”
“Guests? Do you speak of the musicians?”
Why was the boy still talking? Had he not told him to leave? Brant grabbed his head and pressed his palms into his temples to get it to stop pounding.
Rab frowned. “Nay, m’lord, the musicians left two nights ago. You banished them fer playing too many disheartening ballads.”
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 28