by Kris Tualla
There was a bond between the two of them that she couldn’t explain—Grier felt it the first time their eyes met. Did he feel it, too?
“I could love him, I think,” she whispered to the empty room. “I wonder—could he ever love me?”
***
The kisses were not mentioned as Rydar cleaned fish for the supper’s stew and Grier baked bread. She nervously filled the air with words, telling him about the gashed thigh she stitched, staunching the loss of blood, and hopefully saving the man’s life.
“I’ll know in three day’s time,” she added. “If the wound doesn’t fester he should yet live.”
“Hm,” Rydar grunted. He didn’t look at her.
“What were you about today?” she asked. She selected a large onion and fetched her steel cooking knife.
“I ride Salle to Durness with Logan.”
Grier spun to face him. Firelight glinted off the sharp blade. “What?”
He looked up at her, his green eyes hooded and his gaze cool. “I ride Salle to Durness with Logan.”
“Why?”
Rydar rolled his eyes. “I go to Margoh. Talk lessons. Logan say is good idea I ken the way.”
“Oh.” Grier hefted the knife in one hand and the onion in the other. She should have kilt Logan when she had the chance. She tried to sound unconcerned though she wondered how much longer her heart would beat. “Will you have your lessons there now?”
“I think yes.” He returned his attention to the fish. “You say I ride Salle any time, aye?”
Grier set the onion on the table and hacked repeatedly into the pungent bulb. Fumes rose and stung her eyes. “Aye.”
“Now I ride to Margoh.”
Now I ride to Margoh. The words cut into her as mortally as she cut into the onion. After their kisses this afternoon, how could he sound so cold? Perhaps he didn’t care anything about her at all and was simply in the mood to rut. A typical man. She sniffed as tears ran down her cheeks.
“Grier?”
She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Aye?”
“What is wrong?” he asked, his voice softened.
She held up the onion and forced a smirk that she prayed was convincing. “Tis only the fumes. This one is strong.”
“Hm,” Rydar grunted again and considered her, unsmiling.
She turned her back on those beautiful pastel eyes that saw into her soul and dropped the ragged onion pieces into a pot. Her heart was ragged as well, shredded by his indifference to her.
She struggled to speak casually. “Have you done with the fish yet?”
Chapter Twelve
The call to deliver a babe came as Rydar, Logan and Grier sat down to their supper of fish stew, bread, cheese and cider. Moira tapped her foot and waited for Grier’s response. With a hungry sigh, Grier stuffed a slice of bread into her mouth and dropped a wedge of cheese into her clean apron’s pocket.
She spoke to the men with her mouth full. “It’s her fifth bairn and will likely come fast. I’ll go now.”
Rydar’s eyes narrowed briefly then his gaze fell back to his food. Grier thought she saw his jaw clench.
The wind had slowed with the lowering of the sun. As Grier crossed the castle yard toward the stable, she made a quick calculation: she could walk the half mile to the cottage in the time it would take a groom to saddle and bridle Salle. And besides that, the evening was warm. The turquoise sky glowed with orange-edged lavender clouds.
Grier coveted the few extra moments alone to ponder Rydar’s kisses and the way they touched the emptiness inside her. And the puzzling coolness in his attitude afterward. And what it meant to her that he would begin riding into Durness for his language lessons.
She was no wiser, however, at the end of her walk, though her prediction proved true. The babe clambered into the world soon after she arrived, early but strong, and wailing to wake the dying.
Grier sat another hour with the woman to be certain the bairn suckled well and her bleeding stopped, so the summer night’s sun was hiding below the horizon when she started home.
In the grayed light she saw her way easily without a torch. Half-a-moon peered askance at her, as if to scold her for being so unwary. The twilit sky lent an otherworldly patina to the landscape and she imagined sounds and movements that were most unlikely.
“Summoning shades is best left for bonny days,” she murmured. “Not for nights such as this.”
“Hello, missy.”
Grier gasped and jumped back. Her basket banged her knee. Hard.
A skinny man with tangled black hair and beard materialized on the path. Threadbare clothes hung loose on his bony frame. Gray skin sunk into his cheeks and bagged under his pale eyes.
“Good evening, sir. Good journey to you.” Grier tried to skirt around him, but he stepped in her way.
“No’ so fast. What have you there?” He jerked his chin at her basket.
Grier shrugged and forced diffidence into her tone. “Only women’s things. Herbs, flowers. Naught of value.”
“I’ll judge that meself!” He grabbed for the handle but Grier tossed the basket aside.
“Now what did ye do tha’ for?” he asked. In the dim light, Grier saw his eyes pass over her. She didn’t care for the way his mouth twisted. “As it stands, I’m thinking it’s ye wha’ might be the value after all.”
Grier tossed her head. “I assure ye, sir. You do no’ want me.”
“Oh? And why no’?”
“I’m poxed.”
“I dinna believe you.” The man lifted his tunic and rubbed the front of his braies.
Grier stepped backward. The fellow jumped forward and grabbed her jaw with skeletal fingers, twisting it toward the moon. Grier could smell his body odor and sour, ale-tainted breath.
“I said, I do no’ believe you,” he sneered.
Grier stared at him, determined not to show the fear that twined around her bones like English ivy. “Then risk your own life. It’s no concern of mine. I’ll die either way.”
“Ye’re lyin’.”
Grier shrugged. “Who lies about death?”
“Awbody lies about awthing,” he countered. His numbing grip was bruising her jaw. And the other bruise had only just healed.
“Do you think I care to face God with li-lies on my li-lips?” Grier ground past the pain.
He narrowed his eyes, considering. Then he sniffed her.
“Ye’re too clean to be poxed.” He shoved her hard and she fell backward. Twigs snapped and damp leaves stuck to her flailing limbs.
Before she could scoot away, he knelt on her belly. Air rushed from her in a rough whoosh and she couldn’t breathe in. The man pushed his braies down, rubbing to keep himself hard. Grier’s world condensed to tiny black gnats and white fireflies, swirling in front of her eyes and blotting out her accoster.
She struggled, clawing where his face must be and wrestling against the carpet of moldering leaves until her body went limp. Somehow, he avoided her attempts to dislodge him from her body. Then he pinned her wrists against the ground with his free hand.
When the man shifted his position, breath returned to her lungs in a throat-searing gasp and left in the loudest scream Grier could manage. The man slapped her, but she screamed again. He slapped her again and she tasted blood.
“Hush it or I’ll use me fist!” he threatened.
Grier screamed anyway. The punch made her ears ring and blurred her vision. She blinked and gasped and tried to make sense of her surroundings. He clamped his lips over her mouth to silence her. Grier’s gorge rose at the stench of his breath.
He collapsed on top of her with a guttural gurgle. Grier felt something warm run over her neck and she was certain he had vomited on her. She took advantage of the moment. She shoved him aside and rolled away.
From the corner of her eye she saw steel reflecting moonlight. Grier scrambled to her feet and bolted into the safety of the forest, not seeing or caring where she ran.
“
Grier!”
He kent her name? How? She grabbed a tree trunk and used it for protection as she swung around behind it, panting and shaking beyond control. She gagged violently, realizing there was no vomit on her, only blood. Its filth and stink enveloped her. Swallowing the sobs that wrenched her chest she tried desperately to be silent.
“Grier!”
She froze—the voice was familiar. Could it be that Rydar was here?
She peered around the trunk. In the dim light she saw the silhouette of her tall rescuer standing on one leg and leaning on his massive sword. Salle snorted and stomped nearby. Grier stumbled from behind the tree. Rydar hopped toward her on one foot. She staggered in his direction and fell into his arms nearly knocking him over.
“Where—did you—come from?” she gasped.
“I follow you.”
She sniffed wetly and dragged the back of her hand under her dripping nose. “Why?”
“Ruffians.” His tone was stern and his expression angry. His eyes showed dark and dilated in the dim light. “You no’ go alone! Is no’ good!”
“What?”
Rydar huffed and repeated his reasoning.
Grier blinked up at him, a realization congealing in her chest. “Is this the first time?”
Rydar paused then shook his head, no.
“You have been following me?” she demanded, her voice rising in pitch.
He lifted his chin, daring her to challenge him. “Aye.”
She pulled away from him and glared up at his shadowed features. She was livid. Beyond livid. How dare he? Who did he imagine himself to be?
She yanked at her apron with spastic hands and scrubbed her assailant’s blood from her face and neck with forceful swipes.
“Why did you no’ tell me?” she shouted.
Rydar gave her a knowing look. “You say no, and I tell you, aye?”
“Aye!” Grier stomped her foot. She gestured toward him with the hem of the bloodied apron crumpled in her fist. “I don’t need you! Ye ken?”
Rydar frowned at her and his jaw gaped in disbelief. He waggled his bloodied sword at the path and its gruesome occupant, now headless.
Grier glowered her defiance.
“I can take care of myself!” she shrieked. She whirled around and stumbled towards her basket, her legs tingling and unsteady, and her boots’ wooden soles slipping on damp leaves and pebbles.
“Grier!” Rydar barked. “Stop!”
She yelled over her shoulder, “How could you follow me? Who asked you to? Of all the—shite!” She tripped and felt to her hands and knees. Rydar hopped after her and reached down to help her stand. She slapped his hand away.
“Don’t touch me,” she growled.
“Grier, do no’ be wroth!”
“Do no’ be wroth? Do no’ be wroth!” Grier grabbed for her basket and used its handle to leverage herself up. “What do you ken about it anyway?”
“I save your life!” Ryder shouted.
Grier stomped away from him, turned back to face him, pointed her finger at him, waved it in front of his nose, then dropped a clenched fist by her side.
“You do no’ understand!” she cried. She kicked rotted leaves at him. Twice.
“No! I do no’!” Rydar hop-stepped closer. He towered over her, arms flexed. “I do no’ understand!” he bellowed. “Forbannet sta kvinne! Gud forbanner det all til helvete!”
Grier flinched. She was enraged and she was terrified and she shuddered under the weight of both. Her emotions in turmoil, she searched through their frenetic disruption for words he would understand; words to express the reality of her truly precarious situation.
Rydar glared down at her, the moon’s light glimmered in his pale eyes. His jaw jutted forward. He looked absolutely furious.
She could no’ blame him.
But she mustn’t cry in front of him. After their tumultuous kisses this afternoon, she was determined to grasp any dignity still within her reach. She tightened her grip on the basket handle and swallowed the lump that strangled her words. She spoke, her voice low, her words slow and very deliberate.
“You are a man.”
Rydar scoffed. “Aye. Good you see that!” Sarcasm, apparently, transcended language limitations.
She pressed on. “But I am a woman.”
Rydar threw his arms wide, his expression disbelieving. “What is your meaning!” he roared.
Grier poked her stiff forefinger hard into Rydar’s chest, jabbing him with every word. “My world is no’ your world, Viking!”
Rydar’s arms fell limp at his side and his shoulders slumped. Glowering, he shook his head. “I do no’ understand!” he barked.
Grier sucked in a breath, angry that it came unevenly. “I’m alone.”
Rydar stared hard at her, his expression unchanged. “Alone is why—” he began.
“Aye!” Grier interrupted. “Alone is why!”
Rydar stepped back. His jaw hung slack and his brow puckered. His eyes never left hers.
Grier kent he was confused. She kent he was working through the English words. She kent she hadn’t been clear. But she was about to admit her deepest fear to this unexpected man, and she feared what might happen when she did.
Cursed tears came—yet again—and she was helpless to stop them. But she would not acknowledge them. She would not wipe them away. She wouldn’t even sniff back the slime that dripped from her nose and ran along her lips.
Rydar reached out to dry her cheek and she smacked his hand away. She couldn’t accept his kindness. Not now. Not at this particular crossroad.
“Say me,” Rydar whispered.
Grier lifted her chin. The half moon shone in her eyes and she knew Rydar could see her clearly.
“I. Am. Alone,” she said deliberately. She thumbed her chest. “I have to take care of myself. I have to rely on myself. I have only me. Do ye ken?”
Rydar folded his arms. He looked at the ground. He rubbed his beard. “Aye?”
“Rydar!”
He met her gaze again, staring from under a darkly twisted brow.
“If I can no’ take care of myself…” Grier paused, and then named her demon. “I will die.”
There it was. Out in the world. Acknowledged.
Grier hoped her defiant expression masked her soul-deep terror. These two attacks in as many weeks—the man with the poppy medicine and tonight—shook her confidence more than she wished to admit. If she could no longer go safely to practice her healing skills, what would she do? Where was her purpose then? To merely play servant to Logan’s young bride?
She didn’t want to consider that. That was merely a lingering death.
Rydar unfolded his arms. He leaned over and pulled the basket from Grier’s grip. He opened the lid and fished out a rag. Without a word, he wiped Grier’s cheeks and nose. He was so tender that Grier thought she might scream.
He sighed heavily, and narrowed his eyes. Then he pointed his forefinger and poked her with each word, gently, in the same manner that she poked him earlier.
“You,” he said in a voice as deep and powerful as the North Sea, “are strongest woman I ever ken.”
Grier was stunned. She opened her mouth, but no words came.
Rydar’s finger moved upward and tucked her mussed and blood-wetted curls behind her ear. “I never ken woman so strong like you.”
“Strong? Like a man?” she ventured.
Rydar’s lopsided grin made a vigorous appearance. “No! No’ like man. Different strong. Strong in here.” He tapped her chest again.
Tears continued to wash Grier’s cheeks but she didn’t heed them. Rydar had just given her the greatest compliment of her life. Did he know it? Did this Viking sailor that crashed so unexpectedly into her life truly understand her after all? She sniffed; loud, sloppy and very un-ladylike.
“Thank you, Rydar,” she conceded.
Rydar handed her the basket. “We go now.”
Grier nodded and gripped the handle. Rydar whistled an
d Salle trotted to them. Her ears pricked and tail swished as she sidled against Rydar.
The mare does ‘move’ when she’s close to him, Grier realized. Rydar placed his hands on Salle’s back and vaulted into position. Then he pulled Grier up behind him. She held the basket with one arm and his waist with the other.
She realized suddenly that he had gained weight. Memories of his gaunt frame faded as she felt his solid presence in front of her. He was stronger; growing even more handsome as he healed. Tonight he had demonstrated considerable strength and he wasn’t fully recovered yet.
Grier pressed down the ache, confusion and pain that this day’s diverse events kindled in her chest.
He does no’ care for me, she reminded herself cruelly. He’s riding to Margoh.
Rydar steered the mare away from the decapitated torso of the miscreant and urged Salle toward the castle. Grier shuddered and turned aside. The reality of the night’s threat rose in front of her, a spectre of her uncertain future. She squeezed her eyes shut.
It was too much to ponder now, and she was too fragile. She would wait and think about it tomorrow, in the rational light of day. For tonight, she would bathe, and then burn her blood-ruined gown. A sizeable cup of warm mead would help her sleep.
“I have question,” Rydar said over his shoulder, tugging her from her morbid thoughts.
“What is it?”
“Now you ken; I come all time, aye?”
Pride gave Grier every intention to object, but the strength that the big, male body in front of her gave her pause. With Rydar, she felt safe and protected for the first time in six years. Besides, a competent guard would bring peace of mind in this increasingly dangerous land. A bit of the hardness she feigned fell away, chipped again by the Norseman’s respectful kindness.
“I suppose,” she consented, her tone chiding. “If you do no’ get in my way.”
She felt him chuckle and his understanding endeared him to her.
“I stink. I need a bath,” Grier mumbled. “And this gown is ruined.” Rydar rested a hand on her leg and rubbed it soothingly.
She was not soothed.
Awareness of his muscled back and powerful arse between her thighs was akin to considering a rich banquet after vomiting violently. She had been accosted, very nearly raped, and a man was killed.