It was the girl’s gentle patting of Margriet’s hand that gave her comfort, and finally she lay back down and fell to sleep.
’Twas when the lantern light threw her shadow on the side of the tent that Rurik knew he was losing the battle once more.
His body gave him all kinds of messages and warnings as he watched the silhouette undress before him. He did not need to see inside—his mind filled with images of his own making. Having helped her onto and down from her horse, watched her walk and then seen the garments plastered to her skin by the weight of the water, he did not need to see the reality in order to imagine how the feminine curves of her body would appear.
Ripe breasts that would fill his hands.
Hips wide enough to bear children.
Muscular but soft thighs to open in welcome to him.
He cursed then, in a low grumbling voice, letting out some of his frustration, not at what he saw but at what he allowed himself to imagine. Stepping back from the tent, he motioned to Sven and Magnus to follow. Then he walked back toward the river, flinging the soaking wet garments over various bushes as he passed them. If they landed in the dirt, he knew not, for he did not dare to pause when his desire was so strong.
Rurik reached the riverbank and stopped only long enough to remove his weapons and boots, breeches and tunic, before diving into the deepest area of the river. Luckily, the cold water did exactly what he needed it to do, so that when Sven and Magnus joined him, there was no evidence of his unholy urges.
They dove and surfaced, letting the cold water cool them for several minutes before Rurik finally swam to one of the rocks that was submerged at the river’s edge. Sitting on it, he reclined mostly under the water. After the others followed, he spoke.
“Why did you allow her in the river?” he asked, rubbing his face. “Did she tell you of her plan?”
“Her plan?” Magnus asked, looking from one to the other.
“Aye, her fall was no accident,” Sven admitted. “They asked if they could step in the water to cool their feet. What could I have done?”
“Said nay?” Rurik offered.
“There was no sign of danger and it seemed like such a little thing, so I said aye.” Sven laughed. “I knew they were plotting something when they put their heads together as they removed their shoes. So, when Sister Margriet fell, I knew the other would also.”
Sven swam away from the rocks now and dove back under the water. This water was cold, but they were all used to much colder, for they’d all swum in the sea at home. Rurik considered that Margriet’s plan was a good one to relieve the heat of the day. At least he was not covered from foot to head in swaddlinglike garments and could simply remove his cloak when too hot. Not like the women—the nuns—who must, for decency’s sake, remain covered. When Sven returned to the river’s edge, Rurik thought it best to warn him.
“Do not be cajoled or misled from any order I give, Sven. Not even when the young one teaches you a new word or smiles at you.”
Sven batted Magnus’s arm and then met Rurik’s gaze. “And I could warn you of the same thing with the other. You devour her with your every look.”
He lunged without thinking, grabbing Sven by the throat and taking him down under the water. Sven did not make it easy, not with his words or actions, for the struggle went on until neither could hold their breath any longer. Gasping as they rose from the water, Rurik released him and flung himself aside to gain some distance and to gain some time to gather his control.
That Sven was right simply made it worse. That Rurik himself recognized his own weakness did not help. Now, with the words spoken, his lust for the nun would have to be acknowledged, at least among these friends.
“You saw her comely figure when she ran out without her habit on at the convent. That hair,” he said, meeting Sven’s gaze. “That face and body,” he said, winking at Magnus. “But for her assurances that she has taken the veil, there is nothing about the woman that would declare her a nun.”
And he realized that the problem had begun then, in that very moment when he’d seen her as a woman. Her defiance and challenge to him as he carried out his duty and then her respectful capitulation added to the appeal. No matter though, he had never taken a woman against her will or dallied with those who were virgins or married and he would not begin to now. In spite of his body’s urges to the contrary. After the others joined him in his moment of appreciation, he knew it was time to put this aside, both within himself and among them.
“Old habits die slowly and not without a fight,” he said to both of them. “Since I have been old enough to have hairs on my…chin, I have loved women. Nun or no’, Margriet Gunnarsdottir is a woman and some things—” he paused and threw a glance down to the part of him in the water “—have not a care about her vows. But, those vows and my duties to her father and mine are a line I will not cross.”
Magnus and Sven nodded in understanding and agreement, for lust was one thing, but violating one’s honor was a completely other matter.
Rurik climbed from the water and picked up his clothes, making his way back to the camp without another word. He’d explained all he needed to explain and more than he wanted to, but admitting his reactions seemed to lessen them. Taking a deep breath of the cooling night air, Rurik felt in control and ready to face the challenges of the rest of the journey north.
Then he spied the sisters’ habits strewn over the bushes where he’d thrown them and was stopped in his tracks.
She was sleeping without garments on this night. The cold water had brought a rosy glow to her skin, one he noticed on her face when he helped her from the water. Such a glow would cover not only her face but extend down onto her neck and her breasts and even her…
Sweet Freya’s Tits!
As he pushed his way back through the trees to the camp, he fought the powerful urge that filled him and nearly made him change direction toward where she slept. In spite of his best efforts, he knew that the only thing that kept his feet on the path to the place where he’d left his supplies was the sound of Sven and Magnus following not far behind.
This night, when she had affected him so strongly, he would accept their presence and their knowledge of his weakness as the way to fight this attraction. Surely, in the light of day, he would have more strength.
Rurik tugged his breeches and tunic back on his damp skin and wrapped a blanket over his shoulders. Finding a tree with a broad trunk, he sat next to it, laid out his sword and two daggers within reach and then leaned back to rest. With a nod, he acknowledged the first two men serving as guards this night. They positioned themselves away from the remnants of the fire so they could see the whole camp. When Sven and Magnus gained their makeshift pallets, quiet descended and soon the air was filled with the sounds of night.
Fair fortune was with them, for the weather held for several more days, allowing the party to cover miles and make their way steadily north. The winds were cooler and there was no repeat of the incident that sent the nuns tripping, or jumping, in the river. Whether that was a good thing or no’, Rurik debated, for he did not see that lighthearted side of Margriet over the next few days. The sickness plagued her each day, though she seemed to rally as they moved on.
Fight it though he did, he could not resist the urge to watch her as they traveled. He was simply more circumspect about it so that others did not notice. Or he tried to be.
In many ways, she reminded him of Connor’s wife, Jocelyn.
Capable.
Smart.
Kind.
And they both possessed an earthy kind of sensuality that drew men, although neither would admit to it or to their beauty.
Jocelyn swore she was plain of face, but if she ever saw the way her face glowed when she looked at Connor, she would realize how wrong she was. Margriet’s habit hid most of her beauty, but having glimpsed it briefly, Rurik remembered the raven hair, framing the heart-shaped face with its flawless skin, entrancing eyes and lips meant to…
/> Ah, he did but repeat his error again, focusing on the facets of Margriet that drew him like a bee to nectar. He turned back to see how the women fared and allowed only a momentary inspection before the solution struck him.
When he met Jocelyn for the first time, he was infatuated with her. Of course, he’d not known that she was the laird’s new wife when he’d snuck up behind her at the river’s edge and attempted something more. But once the boundaries of their relationship were set, he and Jocelyn became friends, a good thing considering what happened to her those next weeks in Lairig Dubh as she and Connor struggled their way to happiness.
So, if befriending Jocelyn had helped him rid himself of the lustful feelings he had for her, mayhap it would work with Margriet? There were so many more reasons for trying it now, her vows, her father…his father. Possibly this would be a way around his body’s reactions?
Rurik looked up at the sky, gauging the height of the sun and their journey so far this day. Leathen already rode ahead looking for an appropriate place to stop for the night. Tonight he would put his plan in action.
Chapter Seven
The Earl’s Hall
Kirkvaw
Thorfinn strode from the latest audience with his father and sought out his own chambers. The anger built inside until he was ready to destroy something…or someone. Slamming the doors behind him, he ordered the servants out and then did as he felt—the nearest table his target.
But, even knocking it over and spilling everything on it all over the floor did not relieve his frustration, so the lantern was next and then the pitcher of ale and the cups with it. Bashing them against the wall, spilling ale from one end of the chamber to the other simply increased his rage. He screamed out his anger.
The servant who entered the rooms then must have realized his mistake for he tried to leave. Thorfinn stepped in front of him and grabbed him by the tunic. Throwing him to the floor, he kicked him and ordered him to clean the mess. The damn fool deserved far more punishment, for he should know not to look at him in disrespect.
He, Thorfinn, was the legitimate son of Erengisl Sunesson and he should be inheriting everything. He should stand in his father’s stead. He should be second to his father, representing him here or wherever needed. Instead, the bastard son had been called back to steal part of his inheritance and to steal the standing he should have as the only son, the only son that mattered.
Thorfinn tugged his cloak from his shoulders and tossed it on the floor. When the impudent servant stared at him once more, it took only a few swiftly delivered blows before the man learned his place—on the floor, at Thorfinn’s feet. Only the knock at the door spared him further attention. Pushing the servant aside, Thorfinn walked to the door and opened it himself. His man asked leave to enter.
“You are long overdue,” Finn said, taking a deep breath. The rage was spent now—using his fists always relieved it—and he wanted to hear the news in private. “Get rid of him and get me wine.”
As Sigurd summoned servants to fulfill his wishes, Thorfinn went over to the window and watched the ships in the busy harbor. His chambers overlooked the water and he could see merchant vessels and smaller sailing skiffs dot the surface of the waters. When the noises behind him subsided, he turned and held out his hand for the cup he’d ordered. Sigurd did not disappoint him in that, and Thorfinn hoped he would not in the task given him, either. For his own sake as well as Thorfinn’s plans.
The table was righted and the papers and books replaced on its surface. The disciplined servant was gone as well, but the blood on the floor and the ale on the wall would need to be scrubbed later. Thorfinn sat in a chair and waited on Sigurd’s report. A little punishment to one and all of his underlings behaved better, or so it seemed to him when Sigurd launched into a succinct and thorough account.
The bastard Rurik was on his way to Kirkvaw after several delays in receiving his father’s call. Thorfinn smiled at the thought of those delays and how angry his father was over them. The bastard did indeed escort Gunnar’s daughter back now and the slut was forlorn over “Finn’s” sudden departure.
The best part, the part that made his heart pound in anticipation of the success of his plans, was that there were many signs that his debauching of her was successful. Sigurd’s man had spoken directly to a woman at the convent who had, with a bit of strong-armed convincing, revealed the slut’s condition.
Nothing would neutralize Gunnar more than the dishonor of his daughter. So many arrangements would be undone over it, so much respect lost by it, that Thorfinn knew it had been the right thing to do. And, although Gunnar would know he was behind it all, there was nothing the Erengisl’s first counselor could do to expose him or his hand in it all.
And Gunnar deserved all the humiliation he got, for it was his persuasion that convinced his father to call the bastard home. It was Gunnar who suggested that Rurik was a good man to leave in charge and who could rule in his father’s name. It was Gunnar who stole his birthright and his father’s esteem from him and Gunnar would be made to pay.
Thorfinn clenched the cup so tightly in his hand that it left an imprint on his palm. He tried to calm the shaking as he drank deeply of the wine. His thoughts were filled with images of the lovely, but stupid Margriet.
Gunnar’s daughter had walked right into “Finn’s” arms, accepting his advances and talk of love and a future. Stupid slut that she was, she would be the instrument of her father’s downfall. Even better and more satisfying, he would bring the bastard down as well and have done with all of them.
Now, all he had to do was wait for their arrival, planting seeds of distrust before they arrived and preparing for his own acceptance of his father’s recognition.
Thorfinn drank the last of the wine and waved Sigurd off with orders to continue as they’d planned. When his gaze settled on the stained floor and wall, he realized these were just portents of things to come.
Blood would be spilled and bigger messes than this one would need to be put aright before he was done with Gunnar, his slut of a daughter and the bastard he’d chosen to support.
They deserved anything they got for being in his way.
Chapter Eight
Margriet watched as he circled the camp again. Everyone else sat near the fire and ate their food while he walked around them eating his. Somehow he’d managed to find another hot meal for them and, between the hearty fish stew and the coarse bread, it was flavorful and satisfying…and completely unexpected. When he’d come with his summons, she’d thought of being forced to eat dried berries and oats along the journey. So, each day’s hot meal was a boon.
After almost six days traveling, they were only halfway to the coast, but her body was becoming more accustomed to riding now. Aye, she certainly ached by the end of the day and, truth be told, she did not think her bottom and legs would ever recover, however, each day was a bit easier than the last. Even the morning distress that plagued her on waking was subsiding and that was a very good thing.
Rurik passed her again, this time slowing as though he planned to stop. At the last moment, he continued on, throwing a glance in her direction as he walked and mumbled something under his breath. Then, he abruptly turned and sat down next to her. His breadth and width took up much more of the improvised bench than she did, so Margriet gathered the folds of her habit closer to give him room on the fallen tree where she and Elspeth sat.
“I would speak to you about something,” he began. “Sister,” he added after that momentary hesitation that occurred every time he addressed her.
There was another longer pause before he spoke again. Margriet cleared her throat to encourage him to say what he came to say. Elspeth, she noticed, scooted as far as she could away from them to avoid being included. Margriet only wished she could do the same.
“I would beg a favor from you.”
His expression was one of sheepish dismay, probably due to whatever the need was that forced him to ask her this. Rurik’s face flushed red as
he seemed to search for the words he needed. ’Twas then that she realized the others, not only Elspeth, but the other men also, had scrambled away from them, giving them a small measure of privacy.
Surely not a good sign.
“Sister, several of the men with us do not speak Norn, something they must do if they wish to stay in the Orkneys after our journey.” He did not meet her gaze yet.
“And is that their intention?”
“Aye. Can you teach them?” he blurted out. “While we ride or when we stop for the night?” he added. His eyes reminded her of the cook’s son when he’d done something wrong, the glimmer made him appear much younger than his…and made her curious.
“How many years have you?” she asked without stopping herself.
He shrugged and frowned, and Margriet thought he would not give her an answer. Then he looked at her and answered, “Twenty and six years.”
“That is not so old then,” she replied, then realized that it was impertinent to ask such a thing.
“And you, Sister? How many years have you?”
Startled that he would be so direct back to her, she answered. “Eight and ten years.”
“Not so old, either.”
“But you expected younger, did you not?” she asked as she remembered his words and his call to bring out the “girl.”
He laughed then and his face brightened and softened in the most appealing manner. “You are correct, Sister. I had thought Gunnar’s daughter to yet be a child. That detail was not given to me when the task to escort you was.” He brushed his hands together, removing dust from them, and then he turned to look at her once more. “His letter spoke of his young daughter and instead I found a woman full grown.”
Margriet felt the heat rise in her cheeks and she lowered her face. He said nothing more just then, but she could feel the heat of his gaze. A few moments passed and then he cleared his throat and gained her attention.
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