Surrender to the Highlander

by TERRI BRISBIN

  “You have not answered my question yet, Sister. Can you teach them Norn?”

  “I…do not know,” she offered. “I…” She hesitated to admit her lack of experience about the common language in the Orkneys.

  His brow gathered in a deep frown, but he said not a word to her. Instead, he gave her the oddest look and rose to his feet to leave. With a few seconds he had crossed nearly their whole camp. It was that look and what she recognized it to mean that forced her to her feet to follow.

  Disappointment shone from deep within him.

  Disappointment in her.

  Her stomach gripped and her heart pounded harder and louder in her chest. Her biggest fear now that her father summoned her back was that he would be disappointed in the woman she’d grown into. Already she knew she’d failed, but each additional example of her shortcomings said that she had so little to offer him. And that made her worry even more.

  “Rurik,” she called out. “Sir, wait.”

  Margriet hurried her steps to reach him and tugged at his arm to stop him from going farther away. He turned to her, but his eyes lowered to where her hand rested on his arm.

  On the bare skin of his arm that grew hot beneath her touch.

  And on the strong muscles beneath the bare skin.

  Oh, my! Margriet released her hold, took a step back and waited for him to turn back to her before speaking.

  “’Tis not that I am unwilling to do as you ask, sir. I am just not as familiar with the tongue as someone who teaches it need be.”

  “But, you have been speaking it easily with Sven,” he said, in Norn. “You sound as comfortable with that as you do the Gaelic.”

  “It has been many years since I spoke either the common dialect or the formal court language. I spoke both when I was sent here ten years ago,” she answered, switching back to the Gaelic she was more comfortable using. “Then I learned this one and have used it and no other daily at the convent.”

  Rurik laughed then, looking around at the rest of those still eating. “We have such a mongrel group here—a few who speak Gaelic, a few who speak Norn or the court tongue, a few who speak two, but only two of us speak all three.”

  Margriet realized the truth of his words, for only they spoke all three languages. Nodding in agreement, she wondered what to do. She had been speaking in Norn to Sven and Magnus and a couple of the other men, and it seemed that she fell back into it with each day they spent together. Of course, her father would expect her to use the correct language when she arrived, or at least when she made her appearance at the earl’s court.

  She’d learned that as a child. Having a father who served at the highest levels in the Orkneys and whose liege lord was a powerful man in both Sweden and Norway required using the words accepted at those levels. Earl Erengisl had been the former earl’s closest advisor and even son-by-marriage when she’d left the islands and both he and her father had risen at the death of the last mormaer, Lord Maolise. So, of course, she would know how to speak at court.

  Margriet remembered dimly a trip to the royal court in Norway just before her mother’s death and even a visit to the lands that Lord Erengisl owned in the far-flung ends of Sweden. Nothing of the particulars remained in her memories, simply traveling with her mother and the grandeurs of those at court. Even a child could not fail to be impressed by the wealth and power of King Magnus’s palace and courtiers.

  Now, watching the expectation in his gaze, she decided to give him what he asked for. It would help her as well, for it would give her something to do during their hours on the road and it would sharpen her own skills, grown weak from lack of practice over the years. It could also help her fill in the gaps of her knowledge, true knowledge, of what had happened over the years she’d missed of her father’s life. And that was a good thing.

  “Aye,” she said with a nod. “I will help you in this.”

  He smiled, and it was enough to make her heart stop. The warmth and approval of it shone brightly and Margriet thought that she had gifted him with his life’s goal.

  “My thanks, Sister.” He looked around and called to a few of the men—the Scots from the western highlands. “Leathen, Donald, Fergus,” he said, pointing to each one as he named them, “Sister has agreed to teach you some Norn on our way north.”

  She nodded at each one and smiled. “I am glad to help you in this. Rurik tells me it is your wish to remain in the Orkneys?” she asked.

  “Oh, aye,” said Donald. “’Tis a chance to make our way in the world.”

  “Will you not miss your families?” Did they have no one to hold them in the Highlands?

  “I have two older brothers to care for my parents,” Leathen said. “My mother was pleased by Rurik’s offer. She was despairing of me ever making a match in Lairig Dubh.”

  The other men laughed and one smacked Leathen on the shoulder. “No woman would have ye, Leathen.”

  “So, you all come from Lairig Dubh? Where is that?” she asked, glad to get the first clue about her guide and guard and hoping for more.

  “Lairig Dubh is the home of the Clan MacLerie. ’Tis in the west of the Highlands, not far from Loch Lomond,” Donald explained.

  With his words, she realized right then that she would be able to learn more, not only about her father and the situation in the Orkneys and the Norse world, but also the background of the one chosen to bring her home. That thought grabbed her interest. He had only identified himself with the affiliation of that clan when he’d turned up at the convent’s gates, looking as though he was from the north but calling himself with a clan name.

  Who was he? Why did he live in Scotland, and not the north of it that used to belong to Norway, but deep in the heart of it? As though he sensed her interest in him, he met her gaze.

  “You can begin on the morrow,” Rurik explained, as he waved the men away. “Take turns through the day riding at her side,” he called out.

  “This will also work for Sister Elspeth,” Margriet said. “She is from a local village and does not speak it, either.”

  “Ah,” he said, crossing his arms of his chest and meeting her gaze, “but she and Sven are already teaching each other.”

  Margriet turned and looked for the two and discovered that they sat nearby and near each other, speaking back and forth in a low voice. Elspeth seemed to point to something and then give its name. Sven repeated the word, or stumbled over it in most tries, and soft laughter followed.

  Her stomach twisted as the scene reminded her of her own behavior just a short few months ago with Finn. Words led to touches that led to passion that led to…disaster. She shook her head and faced Rurik.

  “She is an innocent, Rurik. Order your man away.”

  “Of course she is, as are you, Sister.”

  His words startled her and so nearly exposed her own lack of innocence that she clamped her lips shut. He must have realized her surprise and he explained, “You are both nuns who have taken vows of chastity, so I assumed you were both innocents. Holy innocents.”

  Holy was not a word she would apply to herself, especially when she reacted solely as a woman to his raw masculinity. The tone of his voice sent heat through her body, but the words did not match the tone. And when her core pulsed deep within her and her breasts ached to be touched, it was difficult to connect the words to herself. Holy innocent? Elspeth, certainly, but not her.

  “Does he understand?” she asked, nodding her head in the young couple’s direction. This could bring disaster to their door too quickly.

  ’Twas only at the moment when their eyes met that she knew that he also recognized the danger in the arrangement. When she was of a mind, she could and would discover much more about him than he wished her to know. She watched as he followed the men and spoke quietly to them, most likely warning them to limit their discussions with her. She would need to have the same discussion with Elspeth over her past and the girl’s to prepare for the questions that would come.

  He approached now
and nodded to Sven, who stood and assisted Elspeth to her feet. “’Tis getting late now, Sister, and there is a small village ahead on our path where I would like us to stop tomorrow eve. It will mean rising early and riding farther then we have so far, so a good night’s rest will ready you for it.”

  He held out his hand, guiding her to a spot where they had arranged a tent between several trees. They walked silently then and Rurik lifted the flap so they could enter it. She watched as Elspeth crouched down and walked in and, when she turned to follow, he stopped her with a touch on her arm.

  “My men,” he began in Norn, “know what is expected of them in their behavior around you both. If any one of them is disrespectful or forward to you or to Sister Elspeth and I do not see it, tell me and I will make certain he learns how costly his failure is.”

  Margriet tried to swallow, but the ominous warning tightened her throat. She knew in that moment that she would never want to be the target of his anger.

  “My thanks…” she began in Gaelic, and when he shook his head and glanced to where Elspeth had just entered, she knew he wished this to be between only them, so she continued in Norn as well. “My thanks for your concern, Rurik. No one had been anything but respectful to us.”

  He wanted her to say it again. He loved the way her tongue rolled when she said his name. Or sometimes it came out like a growl. He cared not how she said it, just that she did. Rurik found himself nodding at her words, and at the same time, being completely and thoroughly guilty of the very sin he promised that none of his men would commit.

  “Rurik?”

  There! She’d repeated it. He imagined ripping off that damned veil and tangling his hands in the waves of her hair while plundering that ripe red mouth. As his body responded to his escalating desire, he shifted and crossed his arms to keep from grabbing her. Then he realized that he was lost in the fog of lust and she was asking him a question!

  “Sister?” he replied, trying to force that crucial bit of knowledge into his mind. “Forgive me, my thoughts wandered for a moment,” he offered in apology. Bringing his attention back to the matter under discussion, and knowing he was the worst culprit, he asked, “What was your question?”

  “’Tis my turn to beg a boon from you, sir.”

  Rurik’s eyes closed against his will and the image that swam before them was one of her begging…for very sinful things. He cleared his throat and opened his eyes. “A boon, Sister? What do you have need of?”

  His body, especially his lower body, shuddered in anticipation and though he knew the request was something mundane, desire pushed forward hoping for something else. By Odin’s Word, he needed to get himself under control or he would be a danger to her and to himself!

  “I would like to talk with you, also, as we travel. I have many questions about my father and Lord Erengisl and how things are now in Kirkvaw and in Norway. I have been away for so long and received only an occasional letter from my father.” She paused and looked deeply into his eyes. “And it has never been enough.”

  Rurik knew she had just revealed something personal and painful to him. His exile had been of his choosing, but hers, as was the situation with many daughters or wives, was not.

  “Sven or Magnus would be better to ask those questions for I have not been in Kirkvaw for nigh on thirteen years now.”

  She gasped and her eyes blinked rapidly at his disclosure. Rurik had surprised himself, for he did not intend for her to know that much about himself. But, he felt the pain she carried over her abandonment and offered it as a salve on the wounds.

  “Thirteen years? You have lived in Scotland for thirteen years?”

  “Aye, longer than you, but not by much more.”

  “You were much older than I was when I arrived here.”

  He could see that she was warming to ask more questions and wanted to stop her. Aye, he’d opened the matter with his admission, but he wanted it to go no further than that. There were questions he did not want to answer to himself, let alone to her, so he put her off about them.

  “Aye and much older even now, Sister. Here now,” he said, lifting the side of the tent so she could enter, “the morning will be here too soon and you need to rest.”

  The flash of pain in her eyes nearly stopped him, for he knew his dismissal was a curt one. He fought not to back down from his stance, for there was much danger in doing so. Still, he’d felt the pain of exile and could not stop himself from trying to soften the blow.

  “We have many days yet ahead of us on the rest of the journey for your questions,” he added, sounding much less concerned than he was.

  The shadow of her pain still reflected within her eyes, but she nodded in agreement and went inside without further argument or comment. Rurik’s heart pounded, for hurting her was never his intention and he wanted to see her smile at him instead of wincing from the pain of rejection.

  Had she any notion of how much alike their stories were? Both in exile from family and friends. Both recalled for honor and duty’s sake. Both resisting that call.

  Rurik stepped back and let the canvas flap drop to close the women inside. No matter how much he wanted to hold her and comfort her, their differences were what mattered now.

  For he was a man and she a woman.

  For he was Erengisl’s son and she was Gunnar’s daughter.

  For he was a bastard warrior about to masquerade as a honorable man and she was…What?

  Rurik knew it to deep in his bones that she was not a nun. He could not prove it, but the feeling was too strong to be wrong. Margriet did not wear the habit and veil as a sign of holy vows. He just did not know why she did, but he would discover her secret before the journey’s end. The problem and dangers lay in that he both carried secrets and protected them. As he was certain she did.

  While he walked once more around the perimeter of their camp, he wondered about hers. Things had changed much in the last ten years, the situation made more tenuous by the death of Lord Maolise and the assumption of his own father to the position of the Earl of the Orkneys, a title not inherited, but more taken through marriage. Now, trouble between the king and his sons forced Erengisl’s hand and brought his own return to the Orkneys.

  Rurik nodded to the guards as he circled once more. He did his best thinking while pacing or walking, so he continued trying to decide how Margriet fit in to all this. Was it just coincidental that they returned at the same time? Was his task to escort her home simply an efficient means of getting her from the convent?

  And what bond would her father cement with her hand in marriage? For marriage agreements were the basis of everything—the underlying connections between families, between friends, between enemies. Did Gunnar plan that Margriet would be a gift to a friend or would seal a bargain to end enmity between two rival families?

  No matter which scenario, Gunnar would not stand by as his daughter entered the convent. And neither was this woman for him, nor he for her. Their destinies were entwined during this journey, but would part and go in entirely different directions when they arrived. ’Twas even likely they would not see each other again after this journey was completed.

  So for now, he would learn about her and the secrets she carried, all the while trying to protect his own. The pain he witnessed in her gaze when he shunned her only brought back his own memories of the same and he had no wish to feel that once more. Rurik would wait until he heard the offer from his father’s own lips before believing it and accepting it.

  For now, he was still his own man.

  Later? Only the Almighty knew.

  Chapter Nine

  The sun had barely peeked over the horizon when the call came to wake and be about the day. Thinking this was worse than the convent’s schedule, Margriet carried out her morning routine, chewing her herbs and sipping water, and then roused Elspeth from sleep. The girl slept from the time she lay her head down until the time her name was called, but there had been no sleep for Margriet this night.

  Tr
ying to stretch out the soreness in her back that must have been the cause of her sleeplessness, Margriet tucked her braid inside her tunic and placed the veil and wimple back over her hair. She hated it more with each passing day—the rough fabric that surrounded her face and neck and the prickly, long veil that added weight and caught her hair with every movement.

  Complaining about something she’d brought on herself made no sense, so Margriet crawled from the tent and stood up in the cool morning air. Upon seeing Donald was their guard, she greeted him in Gaelic and then repeated it in Norn, asking him to do the same. He smiled and tried to imitate her pronunciation, but with comical results. The good thing was that he had tried and she had no doubt he would improve with practice.

  Once Elspeth joined them, Donald led them down a path to the edge of the river, though now not much more than a stream, and gave them a measure of privacy as they washed and took care of other needs. Margriet only dared loosen the strap of the wimple a bit to dab water on her neck and face.

  Watching as Elspeth did the same, she realized the sacrifices that the young woman was making on her behalf. Although Elspeth had excitedly agreed to her plan, for it gave her a chance to leave the convent and a future of prayer behind, it had not so far produced anything promised to her in return. When they arrived at her father’s house and had straightened out all of the misunderstandings and mistakes, Margriet would make it worthwhile for the girl. A call from the camp drew them back for a hasty meal of porridge and weak ale and then they were riding north.

  This day, the sun decided to hide behind the clouds and the air took a cold turn, with the winds picking up steadily as they traveled toward the coast. Time moved faster, or so ’twould seem, but Margriet knew it was just that speaking to the three Scots and teaching them words and phrases in Norn helped it pass by more quickly. They stopped two or three times for comfort, but Rurik pushed them a bit harder, as he’d promised the night before.