“You speak the Highland tongue as though you were born to it,” Margriet said. “Are you Scot and not from Norway or Sweden?”
“My mother is Scottish, from the west.”
Rurik decided that was all he need reveal. In spite of the offer relayed to him by Sven and Magnus, he would believe it only when the words came from his father’s mouth. Allegiances changed. Arrangements changed. No need to hold himself up to shame if more promises were broken.
She did not ask another question, but seemed to think on his words. Sipping from the cup, she watched him as he continued his inspection. When he stepped away, she followed, never missing a thing he did. Finally, when the constant observation irritated him, he looked at her.
“Is there something you need, Sister?” he finally asked. “I cannot pay attention to the task at hand if I am conversing with you.”
“Nay,” she said with a shake of her head.
The wimple that had tilted precariously while she beat his back was now back in place, hiding the hair he knew would be bouncing around her shoulders if freed from its constraints.
Great Frey’s Eyes, he lusted after a nun! With each attempt to rein it back and tamp it down, it reared again with the slightest gesture that reminded him of the woman beneath the garb. A shake of her head and he was lost? How could he have so little control?
When he thought she would return to her meal and the others, she did not. Instead, she finished the ale in one tilt of the cup and then looked at him.
“I wished to walk to the river and need your permission,” she said. The lowering of her head for a moment would have appeared to anyone watching as acquiescence, however only he could see the flash of anger that darkened her eyes to a darker shade of blue.
Margriet Gunnarsdottir did not ask anyone’s permission to do anything, they seemed to say, and he suspected it for the truth. Rurik nearly laughed at her attempt to placate him, but decided this bore watching.
“Sven, come!” he yelled. When his friend approached, he pointed at Margriet. “Escort the sisters to the river’s edge. There might be a cooling breeze there to ease the heat.”
She spoke no words of thanks to him. She said nothing at all and only granted him the smallest of nods in exchange for the consent she sought. Rurik knew the area was safe, for both he and his men had searched it thoroughly before setting up their camp. And, if she were gone, he could finish his work before the sun set.
Or so he told himself.
And that was but another lie heaped on the ones he already said or thought. He’d been living a lie for years, portraying the man those with whom he lived and fought next to expected him to be, and he’d lost the man he truly was. His sudden arrival without explanation at his uncle’s holding, his upbringing in Sweden and Norway and on the Orkneys and his appearance—tall, blond, strong—all helped him create the facade of a Viking warrior of legend. He resisted a smile as he remembered but a few of the women and their reactions to him. On the verge of full manhood, their brazen interest in his growing sexual prowess spurred him on and he discovered that he loved women…and they loved him.
Now, he must find the truth of the real man within before confronting his father and the demands that family and honor required. Still though, his practiced behavior of the last ten years was more comfortable than examining his character, and so he found himself watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.
His gaze followed them—her—as Sven led the women across the camp and toward the river. Sister Elspeth walked with her head down, in prayerful contemplation or in her usual silence he knew not, and in a demeanor closer to what he thought a nun’s should be. The young woman only spoke to Sven, who seemed intent on learning her Gaelic. Rurik shook his head and turned back to his task.
Why Sven bothered himself with the effort he could not understand, for there could be nothing between them and Rurik knew that Sven would not return to this or any part of Scotland. But the young sister laughed softly and corrected Sven’s mangling of the words he tried to say. He decided there was no harm in it. After all, learning another tongue was no’ such a bad way to spend the time on the journey.
A few minutes passed and Rurik mastered his lack of control and completed his inspection. Night approached, but the morn would find them ready to travel. He wanted to take advantage of the fair weather they had now before reaching the blustery and stormy northern edge of the country.
As they traveled farther, the conditions would surely deteriorate and their progress would be slowed. No more summery days with heat like this. No’many days of full sun beating down from above. Nay, he expected that the rain showers and winds of the far north would greet them soon. He surveyed the gathering once more and was about to see if any stew remained in the pot when her scream pierced the calm.
Rurik pulled the sword ever at his side from its scabbard on his belt and took off in a full run, calling out instructions to the men as he passed them. Branches slapped at his face and arms as he pushed through the dense brush. He ran not on the path where the women had walked, but into another area so that his arrival at the river would not be where expected. Better to surprise an attacker than give them the advantage of knowing where you would be.
The scene that met him as he reached the river’s edge was like something from one of the farcical entertainments that Jocelyn planned at Lairig Dubh. One nun sprawled out in the water, the other standing on the edge trying to reach her. Sven standing nearby, laughing like a madman, not helping at all. Then, before he could do anything, the second nun went flying into the water as well. His men crashed through the bushes and circled the bank of the river waiting for his orders.
Sven caught sight of them first and frowned at him. Then the two women, both now mostly under water save for their wimpled heads that bobbled on the surface, noticed them standing at the ready for battle. Rurik could tell the exact moment when Margriet realized that she was the cause of their presence. And their fully armed presence at that. The obvious enjoyment left her face in a rush and she tried to stand up.
“What is amiss here?” he called out.
“Sister Margriet slipped and fell into the water. Sister Elspeth reached out to help her, and you see what happened,” Sven offered, all the while not looking the least bit concerned for either of them. Rurik sent the rest of the men back to the camp and walked closer. “The river flows softly in this spot and they are in no danger.”
Still, it was unseemly for two nuns to be paddling around in the pool formed where the river made a turn. And instead of expressing outrage or fear at the occurrence, they remained in the water for several minutes before swimming over the shallow edge and beginning to climb out. After slipping back into the water twice, each time with a splash and a now-tempered laugh, they managed to climb out.
The whole incident was quite…unsisterly. He’d never known nuns who would take part in such folly and play. He’d never known nuns that reveled in falling in a river and did not scream for help. He’d never known nuns like this…well, actually, now that he thought on it, he’d never known nuns.
Shaking his head, he could not decide if he should help or not. However, when the increased weight of the soggy layers of clothing made it difficult for the women to walk, Rurik sheathed his sword—the one he now noticed he yet brandished in his hand—and strode over to assist them. They should remove their sodden clothes before the chill of the night set in and they took ill from this mishap.
As he reached out for Margriet’s hand, he caught sight of her shoes and stockings placed carefully away from the water’s edge. He caught her eye and saw in the amused glimmer there that this was no accident. She veiled her expression quickly and looked away, but too late. Rurik knew in his gut that she had fallen into the river on purpose. And the other sister as well.
He would ask Sven about this once the women were settled in their tent for the night. And he would keep watch over their behavior on the rest of the trip for something surely was awry. Sv
en’s words as he passed only confirmed it.
“Puir wee women of God,” he said in Gaelic with an accompanying tsk.
Apparently Sven was learning a new tongue, but not a thing about women.
Puir wee women indeed.
Chapter Six
The foolishness of the risk seemed worthwhile when the cool water soaked through the layers of heavy cloth and hit her overheated skin. But the true pleasure came when she dunked her head, wimple and veil and all, under the cold surface. If no one had been watching, she would have ripped the constraining layers off and let her skin feel the rush of the soothing wetness directly.
Truly, the first thought she had was to only remove her shoes so that they would not be ruined, but the sight of the cool water flowing by made her lose all thoughts of being circumspect. The day had been one constant stream of sweat—beading and trickling, beading and pouring—under the rough clothes she wore, and her finer chemise could not protect her from the coarseness against her skin.
But the cold water had soothed her. Now, as Rurik assisted her back to the camp, she wondered if this had been a grievous error on her part. He’d said not a word as she stopped to retrieve her shoes from the side of the path where she’d left them, but his expression darkened and she was tempted to move away from his side. They reached the small tent and he waited for them to enter.
“Hand out your wet garments and I will spread them over some bushes to dry. It feels like a mild night. They should be dry by morning.”
The words were rote, but they carried such an ominous undertone that Margriet worried she’d crossed over some line. And mayhap she had?
“My thanks, sir,” she said, allowing Elspeth to enter first. Meeting first the gaze of one and then the other, she continued, “I did not mean to cause such a problem for you over such a small thing.”
Hoping that her words would salve his conscience, she bent down to enter the tent.
“You jumped in,” he whispered so that only she would hear.
“I fell in, sir.”
“You pulled Sister Elspeth in.”
“She lost her balance trying to help me, sir,” she placated. Apparently he’d seen more than she thought. The water trickling down from her sodden hair was not soothing any longer.
“As you say, La…Sister,” he growled.
Margriet turned and quickly pulled the flap down between them. Elspeth had already taken off the gown and tunic and veil and wimple, and held them out to her. She in turn held them through the flap until he took them.
“Pray, one moment, sir, and I will hand out mine.”
No sound came in reply, but Margriet hastened to untie and remove her garments. With Elspeth’s help, she finished quickly and held them out through the flap of the canvas to him. They were taken from her grasp without another word, but Margriet would have taken an oath that she’d heard coarse words being muttered as they were.
Once that task was done, to her surprise, two drying cloths were tossed in to them. She sat down and pulled her small bag out, searching for her comb until she found it. With a motion to keep quiet, Margriet handed the comb to Elspeth and they spent a short while combing and braiding each other’s hair. She discovered that sitting in her damp chemise was much more comfortable than the nun’s habit and soon, the traveling and the weariness she now felt each day grew until she gave in and lay down on the blankets arranged on the ground.
After she readied the items she needed first in the morning, Elspeth handed their small lantern out to the now present guard. The sun’s light quickly disappeared and the quiet of night crept in and surrounded them. Her body was exhausted, but the questions and problems began tormenting her and her mind could not let go of them.
Did Rurik know she was not a nun? He was not a stupid man and she knew her efforts at keeping up her disguise were not the best. Margriet examined her reasons for even trying and found that she still needed to continue the subterfuge. Or did she?
Observing his treatment of her and Elspeth, she was beginning to doubt that they were in danger of lechery by him or his men on this journey. Granted, the men believed them to be nuns and that belief probably held back the worst of their words and actions. Rurik seemed to command the men and none seemed interested in breaking his rules.
She could not, absolutely could not, return to her father’s house in this garb unless she planned on entering the convent and taking her vows. Her father would not understand and she needed to find Finn so they could speak to her father to gain his permission to marry. If her father announced any plans for her future, she would be bound by his decision and her condition would bring shame to his honor.
So, at some point in the journey she must reveal herself to Rurik and make him understand her predicament. Would Rurik help her? He spoke only of a duty to be performed. Could he understand the plight of a man and woman in love? She thought not.
The next problem, not borrowing trouble but simply trying to sort things out in her mind, was about her condition. The herbs did help a bit in the morning and made her sickness just bearable as long as she had time to chew them before rising. Now though, her breasts ached and seemed swollen and the shape of her belly was changing. The old cook had warned her to expect such things and more in the coming weeks as her body adapted to the bairn growing inside.
Caught. That was what she’d heard whispered about girls who shared themselves with men before betrothal or marriage and got with child. And so she was and would be called if the truth became known. Margriet could only hope that Finn would be true to his word and was already putting things in order so that he could make the arrangements for their marriage with her father.
And he did love her. She knew it in her heart and believed his pledge to her to be as strong as any betrothal. Finn loved her and when she promised herself, body, heart and soul, to him that night, she did so because she believed his words. He was a wealthy merchant and would be acceptable to her father as a husband for her. He would marry her and they would raise the bairn together. He did love her and would stand by her.
Margriet’s heart began to pound and her stomach churned as the bitter taste of doubt entered her thoughts. Then why had he disappeared so swiftly? Why had he left without a word and without giving her some token of his love and vows? Something had changed between them when a messenger arrived from the south and, within two days, he was gone.
She wished she had some confidante with whom she could share her worries and fears and her hopes. Certainly the nuns at the convent were not about to listen to her stories of love and virtue surrendered. Even when she spoke to the cook, a woman who had borne five children, she could not bring herself to mention matters of the heart, for she was of a noble family and her father’s status was one of honor and high standing and…
And she should have known better than to lie with a man outside the bounds of holy matrimony.
Apparently, the extensive education she’d received in the language arts, mathematics and even some topics thought unnecessary for a woman did not prepare her for the emotional onslaught of a charming, handsome, rich young man intent on pursuing passion. So long ignored by family so far from home, she’d lost the ability for all logical reasoning when faced with his pledges of love and promises of a future together.
Finn answered all her questions about the world outside the walls of the convent and made her feel important and loved for the first time since before her mother died and she’d been exiled here. And if she’d been a little infatuated or had not seen the folly in her actions, well, she could understand it now as she looked back on those magical days.
Margriet rolled to her side and tucked her hand under her cheek. Remembering the thrill of passion in his touch and in his kisses, she felt her lips tingle and her core pulse with life and heat. How could she have resisted when he did things she’d never known could happen between a man and woman? Even now, when doubts raced through her, her body responded to just the memories of it.
M
en were truly strange creatures—honorable when it suited their purposes, strong when they must be and subtle when guile worked over force. They did not think as a woman thought or expect the same things in life as a woman wanted and needed. Watching the men who escorted her now, Margriet could see more of the differences between men and women and also among the group of men. With her only exposure to the opposite gender being those men who lived on the convent grounds—old ones, blind ones, crippled ones—seeing these young, healthy, hardy, muscular warriors afeared of nothing and no one gave her pause.
So, could she not be forgiven for not having that understanding and wisdom when she’d met Finn to realize the kind of man he was? Surely the Almighty would consider it even if her father did not?
The pitiful ache in her stomach grew as she felt the doubt grow inside. Each thought and memory brought with it recognition and revelation…and guilt and shame. Reaching in her bag, she took some of the herbs and tucked them inside her cheek, waiting for them to soften so she could chew on them. She brushed away the tears that flowed and tried to quiet the upset within her.
Margriet was not accustomed to self-pity and she blamed this bout of it on her exhaustion and her fears. Torn from the only place she remembered as her home and taken back to people and places she could not recall, ’twas no wonder she was falling victim to such doubts and terrors.
Just when she calmed herself down with some deep breaths, shouting broke the silence of the night. She sat up and began to reach for the flap when the guard spoke. He must have heard her rustling around in the tent.
“Just some of the men in the river, sisters. Naught to worry about.” Leathen, one of the Scottish men in the group, chuckled then. “Apparently your mishap gave them an idea.”
“My thanks for watching over us, Leathen,” she said. Then, for good measure, she added in a solemn tone, “May God bless you.”
Hopefully, the man did not hear Elspeth’s giggle, muffled by the blanket she held over her mouth as she did so. So, the girl did not yet sleep, either. As though hearing her thoughts, Elspeth whispered softly, “All will be well, Lady Margriet.”
Surrender to the Highlander Page 6