by Jianne Carlo
If ’twas the case, he could refuse the marriage. Neither King Kenneth nor Harald Bluetooth could fault him for that.
* * *
Xára could scarce draw a breath.
The man walking alongside her held her fate, Jennie’s, and that of Evie’s in his hands. Dráddør, the man who had dedicated his life to killing Arnfinn, Earl of Caithness, thought she was dull-witted no matter what Jennie had told him. She had considered pretending to be such, but ’twas not her nature to cower to anyone.
Jennie.
She swallowed her tears.
Locked her jaw and grappled for control.
If only she had known that Jennie had resolved to end both her life and Arnfinn’s. She would have stopped her from drinking the poison.
What had caused her to make such a sacrifice? And why did Jennie refuse to speak of it? What terrible threat had Arnfinn used? Or had it been another?
Hatred, raw and grating, boiled her blood to thundering in her ears. She despised the man all thought her father. She loved the woman all thought her mother.
Blinded by her fury, she bumped into a side table and would have tumbled had not Dráddør grabbed her by the waist. His aroma enveloped her at once, veiling her other senses as she inhaled the mingled aromas of male sweat, leather, and the sea. So different from the female perfumes of lavender and rose she had grown accustomed to at the abbey.
He wore no gloves and an inferno danced over her skin where his fingers gripped her through the threadbare habit. She could not recall the last time any but a woman had touched her with such gentleness. ’Twas intoxicating and exciting and dizzying.
And yet she sensed naught of him. ’Twas her gift, her strength, to touch someone and catch a brief memory playing in the present, an oath taken, a port visited, mayhap even such trifle as a thirst quenched. Yet naught escaped from this man.
He steadied her. “Are you ill, lady?”
The wonder of his voice. Deep, like low thunder vibrating through clouds. Dense, rich, strong, and heated like a boulder baked in the sun. Mesmerized by his low rumble, she yearned to press her fingertips to the corded veins in his thick neck, and learn from him how to speak again.
“Lady Xára, are you faint?” He gave her a little shake.
She dared not look at him, too afraid her confusion and the secret, delicious thrill coursing through her showed plain on her face. Ducking her chin, she nodded, shifted out of his hold, and picked up her pace.
Now her awareness of him, of the warrior manliness leashed beneath those powerful muscles and his immense size, bubbled through her veins. Her nape grew damp and she had to choke back a nervous tickle scratching at her throat.
He muttered something she did not catch and she swept him a surreptitious peek. His mouth had canted into a grim line and she knew his patience with her, Jennie, the whole lot of it, was nigh at an end.
“’Tis pointless.”
Nay. He would not deny her this. She glared at the pitted stone floor and concentrated on hurrying her footsteps.
Jennie had made her promise not to cry, to be strong, to win over this Viking and swear him to Evie’s protection, and she would, by the mercy of the lord above. Xára fisted her hands. She would make this warrior respect her.
It had been difficult to hide her meager possessions from Néill’s rampaging destruction. They approached the garderobe and Dráddør’s steps slowed. As awful as the whole castle stunk, the aroma here was powerful enough to fell even the most insensitive nose.
“Halt. I do not need the use of—”
She touched two fingers to his lips and froze. ’Twas as if lightning had struck her fingertips. The skin there sizzled. His mouth felt like satin and velvet, hot and smooth. Xára jerked her hand away.
Hurrying, nigh tripping over her own two feet, she rushed into the tiny chamber where the privy straw was stored. The master of the garderobe had vanished two sennights past and she had moved her treasures here.
“What are you about?”
She shot a look at him, scrabbled the loose hay from the hidden alcove, and retrieved her writing supplies. When she had lost the use of her voice, Jennie had devised a clever way to communicate without using their scarce stores of precious vellum. Carrying the box and bundles, she pushed past where he stood in the archway, and pointed her chin to the opposite direction.
He made a sound somewhere between a growl and an exasperated sigh, but followed her to the chamber she had once called her own on the third level. She heard his quick inhale when he saw the state of the room. Naught but one table had been left standing, but at least ’twas clean.
“Lady Xára, I have not the time for this. The people of the keep are restless and I must attend to the castle defenses.”
Ignoring the laced irritation in his tone, she quickly assembled everything and using her fingers wrote in the sand in the tray, Néill assembles an army in Leòdhas.
She motioned for him to come forward and pointed to the sand tray Jennie had had made so the two of them could “speak” to each other.
His golden brows pulled together, but he did as she asked, and read her words. Quick as a furious winter melt, he spun around, massive hands on his hips, his glance sweeping from the tray to her, back and forth, and back and forth. His frown deepened. He scrubbed at the light dusting of hair on his chin.
“Do you understand me when I speak?”
Oh, she yearned to pinch him for even asking such a doltish question. Were all men witless? That she could write words but not comprehend them? She rolled her eyes, pursed her mouth, and nodded.
“Lady, you cannot expect me to know your thoughts or abilities. I have to secure the castle before nightfall. Who is Néill?” His straight nose could’ve breathed fire, he appeared so vexed.
After smoothing the sand, she inscribed, Arnfinn’s stepbrother. He claims Lathairn Castle. He travels to Leòdhas to bring back Godfraid and his warriors.
He gave her a look as if she was daft. “Godfraid mac Arailt, the Earl of Leòdhas is vassal to King Harald of Norway. King Harald has commanded our union. ’Tis treason if Godfraid aids your Néill.”
Not her Néill, never her Néill. Resisting the temptation to stamp her feet, she nigh punched out her words in the sand. Néill and Godfraid are on their way.
“How know you this?”
She wanted to howl in frustration. But she and Jennie had agreed how to handle this query. She wrote, Ask Liam the Lucky.
At his ferocious scowl, she added, Lathairn’s Man-at-Arms.
He studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Xára knew if he gainsaid her now, all was lost. She did not waver under his persistent scrutiny even though perspiration broke out over her back and chest.
Finally, when she’d decided he would cast her to the wolves, he blew out a long breath. “When did Néill leave for Leòdhas?”
Cert now he understood the gravity of the situation she raised two fingers and wrote in the sand, 2 eves.
His mouth flattened. “They could arrive within the sennight.”
Turning away from her, he clasped his hands behind his back, and paced the length of the chamber. While he was striding up and down, she inscribed more in the sand.
Abruptly, he halted right in front of her. She pointed to the tray.
He read aloud, “Néill intends to wed you and claim Lathairn. Godfraid supports him. I surmised as much. So be it.”
She craned her neck to meet his gaze and waited, heart thundering against ribs so hard her chest ached.
“First, I will verify all you have said—” He sighed. “What you have written. Then I will send two of my men to you. Have your mother moved to her rightful chamber. I will have the healer summoned. The vow saying will take place before sunset. Am I correct that you understand what must be done?”
Xára’s ire surged, but she wrestled her growing irritation into submission and nodded. Working quickly because she knew he had much to do, she wrote, “I am ready to do
my duty.”
He straightened and once again his size dwarfed her, but she refused to let him see her fear, and looked unblinking into his piercing blue eyes. “I will send our monk to assist you. He is a learned man. Do what you must.”
She dipped a curtsey and then felt like a fool for resorting to courtly formality in such circumstances. Her cheeks heated.
“Let Monk Herbert know what you need and he will see it done. I bid you leave, Lady Xára.” He inclined his head and departed.
The image of him stayed in front of her for long moments. Never had she seen such haunting male beauty. The war braids at his temples seemed to draw his cheekbones high and taut while the golden waves that fell to his shoulders made her recall all the tales she had heard of the god, Thor.
The man must spend most of his time training to have a shoulder span so wide he had to twist through the doorway to Jennie’s room. The sleeveless tunic he wore reflected the color of his eyes, a blue so dark as to appear black in the shadows. Greenish-blue runes etched into his bare arms banded his bulging muscles.
She had kept her gaze lowered when they walked and could not help but be fascinated by the way his powerful thigh muscles flexed with each stride. Everything about him radiated absolute supremacy. The square-set jaw and the sinewy neck, even the scent of him, and his voice, Xára sighed. That a man’s voice could send tremors through her body? Cause her woman parts to heat and tingle?
Woman parts.
Her stomach cramped.
’Twas all coming to pass, Magnhildur’s malicious prediction. An icy shiver raised all the hairs on her body. She rubbed her arms and prayed. Prayed for a miracle for Jennie. Prayed she could save Evie by wedding the Viking.
Chapter Two
“You have the look of a warrior facing the greatest battle of his life.” Tighe joined Dráddør on the mound.
A sharp, sudden gust whisked dried leaves into a whirl and threw a flock of screeching gulls into an awkward arc. Dráddør lifted his face to the sun and enjoyed the heat of the midday sun. “Olaf Longface insists on a public consummation.”
Tighe grimaced and tugged on his scruffy beard. “I fear he is right to do so. If what we have learned is true, Néill and Godfraid will invade before the sennight is out. E’en with the wedding and the bedding, Néill will contest your claim to Lathairn. You must needs produce an heir within the year to secure the title.”
“Néill is but Arnfinn’s step-brother. Xára is Arnfinn’s only child and King Kenneth has affirmed she is the sole heir. I cannot see the king reneging on his word. ’Tis not as if Xára is a bastard.” Dráddør had spent the last while arguing with Olaf, King Harald’s lawsayer for the region. In the end, he had surrendered to Olaf’s ruling knowing that having a horde witnessing his taking of Xára solidified his hold on the castle and its lands.
“Agreed.” Tighe slapped him on the back. “The good news is that aside from the hall, the rest of the castle is fit for occupation, though strangely lacking in furniture. Lady Jennie has been moved and the healer brought from the village.”
“At least the bedding will not have to be in the open. ’Tis Loki’s mischief, the timing of it all—to have to wed and bed Xára when her mother is at death’s door.” Dráddør massaged the back of his neck. He had never expected to feel pity for Arnfinn’s wife and daughter.
“I have ne’er taken a maid, have you?”
Tighe’s question added to the worry dogging him since Olaf’s decision on a public swiving. Dráddør snorted. “Think you I could take any female as innocent as Hjørdis? Nay. ’Twas the reason I left the caliph’s service. I could not stomach him taking the girl virgins he so prized.”
“’Tis a detestable practice. I would sever the cock of any man in my service who defiled a child.”
“I swive oft, ’tis true, but I bed only tavern wenches and widows—lusty women who have long lost their innocence. Now I must take Xára’s maidenhood in public.” Dráddør traced the runes carved into the handle of his hammer.
“I envy you not.”
“She cannot speak, Tighe. Not a word.” He did not know why it bothered him so. Why he felt an overwhelming urge to protect her. Her clever way of communicating had earned not just his respect, but a grudging admiration. He explained the sand tray to Tighe.
“Why ’tis crafty and cunning. Her mind is sound then?”
“Aye. So are her ears though she concentrates on your lips when you speak to her.”
“Are you cert she understands what you say?”
“Aye. There is no doubt in my mind.” Dráddør couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching as he recalled Xára rolling her eyes when he had asked the same question this morn. “But she is a maid who has led a sheltered life.”
“Think you she has any inkling of what to expect?”
Dráddør shrugged. He studied the waves battering the cliffs in the distance.
Tighe cleared his throat. “I have found fear of the unknown to be my own worst foe. If Xára knows naught of swiving and ’tis obvious her mother cannot prepare her—then the task falls to one of us.”
All at once Dráddør knew the perfect strategy to make the best of the formidable consummation. He stamped his feet to take the chill from his toes. “I will handle the matter.”
Tighe pointed to the horizon. “See you that?”
Dráddør shaded his eyes. “Loki’s balls be sliced! Two ships on the horizon.”
The ships were mere dark blobs and he could not discern their shape clearly. ’Twas impossible to tell if they were of Norse origin or from elsewhere, and even that would not indicate whether a foe or an ally approached, for Godfraid was a Viking.
It could not be. Néill could not have reached Leòdhas, gathered an army, and returned so soon. But Dráddør had never travelled to the isle, did not know how the currents and the winds ran, and could not chance ’twas not the expected enemy.
The stiff breezes that constantly swept the mound suddenly died. Tighe licked a finger and tested the wind’s direction. He glanced over his shoulder. “A storm. Coming from the east. But ’twill not break this day. They will be becalmed.”
“Mayhap. I will not lay odds on it. Set a watch here. The fealty oath swearing will take place before the feast. I needs find the leader of the men-at-arms, Liam the Lucky. We must make haste.” An urgency he dared not ignore fueled Dráddør’s furious pace.
They found Liam the Lucky supervising the repairs of a broken portion of the curtain walls. He greeted Dráddør with an offer of swearing his fealty oath at once. Surprised by Liam’s eagerness, Dráddør demanded an accounting of the events prior to their arrival. The warrior not only confirmed what Xára had written earlier, he volunteered intriguing details of the circumstances leading to Arnfinn’s death. Dráddør digested the information for later consideration and focused on the matters at hand; repairing the wanton destruction in the hall and bailey and preparing for a feast.
After accepting Liam’s vow, Dráddør and Tighe, with Liam’s assistance, secured laborers from those assembled in the bailey, and all set to work. The combined forces accomplished more than Dráddør had expected before the sun hovered above the horizon.
A cleansing swim and a change of clothing only served to heighten Dráddør’s dread of the impending consummation. He surveyed the grounds from the wide terrace that encircled the front of the castle. A thorough scrubbing revealed the gray-blue speckles in the broad swath of stone stairs leading down to the bailey and they now sparkled in the waning rays of the sun.
The sharp scent of lye had replaced the ripe aroma from that morn. The grounds overflowed with his and Tighe’s warriors, the keep’s inhabitants, and people from the nearest villages. Word of the wedding and the feast had spread far and wide. Half of Dráddør’s men had hunted earlier and their bounty now cooked in the bailey. Several hinds of deer, suckling pigs, and dozens of fowl roasted on spits strung over a series of low fires against one wall.
He checked the lookout mound an
d heaved a sigh at the relaxed postures of the three warriors on watch. The ships they had spied earlier remained becalmed on the horizon. With any luck, Odin would grant them another day to prepare.
Approaching footsteps drew his attention and he glanced over his shoulder to find Tighe and Egron nigh upon him. “The sun leaves us soon. Lady Xára?”
“Is ready. She and the monk should be here anon.” Tighe wore the garb of his title, dark hose tucked into tall hide boots, a navy tunic embroidered with his coat of arms, and a wide leather belt that sheathed the many weapons of a highland warrior.
Before the echoes of Tighe’s voice died away, the corpulent monk, with Lady Xára at his side, appeared in the double-doored archway of the castle.
Dráddør had been too preoccupied previously to take any notice of Xára, the woman. Not that he would’ve been able to discern much the way she had been clothed earlier. She had worn a matron’s cap and a shapeless, muddy-colored robe with a high neck.
Xára the woman sucked the breath from him.
Sunlight danced in the golden streaks threaded through the mass of her tight chestnut curls that fell like a caressing curtain to well below her waist. Lithe tendrils swirled around slender shoulders bared by the scooped neckline of the forest-green cyrtel she wore. Plump, full mounds peeked over the black lace sewn into the top of the dress.
His cock hardened when their gazes met. The unique color and expressiveness of her eyes had stayed with him while he toiled all afternoon. The niggling concern of his pecker not rising to the occasion died at once. He held her stare and she faltered not, firming her chin, and gliding to a halt in front of him.
“My lady.” Dráddør sketched a half-bow.
She inclined her head and sank into a deep curtsey.
How had he not noticed her grace and elegance? The titillating slant of her almond-shaped eyes? Cheekbones high and proud, skin smoother and more golden than the creamiest, fresh-churned butter? The slight tilt at the tip of her nose, or those bee-stung, ruby lips?
Beside him, Tighe muttered in Norse, “By the almighty, you have the luck of your god, Odin.”