By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  The pressure of his mouth parted her lips to mead-flavored warmth. His whiskers rasped against her skin. Simultaneously she was burning and drowning, the room revolving around her.

  “Stop this! I will not—”

  “But you will, my fine lady.” Fury and desire mingled in his voice. Tendrils of heat coiled through her, all the way to her fingertips. “By Odin’s name, you will—aetheling or no.”

  “No!” Head spinning, she pushed away. “Is—is this your pursuit of duty?”

  With an oath, he kneed the chair aside and caught her in his arms. Cursing him, she struggled as he swept her across the chamber at a frightening height, arms like bands of steel around her. Skeins of her copper hair snagged painfully between them as she kicked and pummeled him, but his chest was a wall she couldn’t breach.

  The bed loomed before them, curtains drawn wide. With heart-stopping suddenness, he flung her down in a tangle of flailing limbs.

  Desperately she scrambled to hands and knees, panting like a cornered beast. She crawled backward, still facing him, until her heels brushed the wall. Nowhere to flee, unless she fought him. There was no place she could run where he could not catch her.

  Grimly, he propped his sword against the bed, its cross-guarded hilt jutting against the fire like a holy vision. In charged silence, their eyes met.

  She’d always found his gaze unsettling, direct as an inquisition. Now those eyes laid her soul bare, read her guilty conscience written plain as script.

  Blazing with defiance, she faced him down. With a grimace, he eased his head left and right, stretching his neck.

  “What am I to do with you, Katrin of Courtenay?”

  “I’ve said I regretted—”

  “Not a word,” he said curtly. “The king’s own niece—I must be daft.”

  Silence stretched as she struggled to quiet her breathing, hair streaming down in disarray.

  Softly he said, “Come here.”

  She shook her head. Meeting her stare for stare, he lifted his brows. Dampness broke out along her skin.

  Run. As her courage crumbled, panic threatened to swamp her. Or scream. They would hear her below if she did. But her pride reared up against the scandal that would create.

  Really, what could he do to her? Both logic and instinct said he couldn’t intend her any serious ill. Why she possessed this thin shining remnant of trust in him, she couldn’t imagine. But all these things and none of them drew her forward, inch by painful inch across the fur-piled bed. He drew her with the pull of his eyes alone, toward the long-limbed pagan etched against the fire.

  Before him, she stopped. Her mouth was utterly dry. On hands and knees, she lifted her gaze.

  When he fired into movement, her heart stopped. But he merely gathered her streaming hair and wound it around his hands, lifting her to her knees. She knelt before him, still and silent as prayer. Her eyes closed.

  He’ll do nothing to hurt me, I know it.

  And if her faith in him proved misplaced, he’d regret leaving his sword within her reach.

  His weight sank into the bed and tipped her off balance. Disconcerted, she tumbled across the corded length of his legs, sheathed in leather trews. Her eyes flew open as she sprawled face-down across his lap. The warm smells of horse and leather filled her nose.

  “My lord—”

  His hand closed around her nape, holding her by the scruff like a kitten. “I am no lord.”

  Sprawled across his lap, clad in her fur-lined chamber robe, Katrin gasped as realization spilled over her like a bucket of icy water.

  “Knave! You wouldn’t dare—”

  She exclaimed as his palm connected smartly with her bottom. “Sweet Jesus! What do you think you’re about?”

  “Ridding you of that excess pride.” A second blow landed, stinging her ego far worse than her bottom.

  “You have no right!” Outraged, she struggled to free herself. “You’re not my husband.”

  “Gods be praised for that,” he muttered.

  Pinned by his grip on her neck, she couldn’t gain leverage to escape. Simmering under a few more brisk smacks, she ground her teeth to choke back the words that boiled on her tongue. For this humiliating setdown to be overheard below would be the final indignity.

  “You may stop,” she said stiffly. “I’ve learned your lesson.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.” Yet he lapsed into stillness, and pushed out a harsh breath. “Freyja’s mercy.”

  His calloused hand still curled around her nape. Lightly he squeezed, as if apologizing for this high-handed treatment.

  Knowing that was all the apology she was likely to get, she scrambled up and straightened her garments with furious tugs. “You’re either very brave or very foolish to handle me in such a fashion. Do you stand so high in Ethelred’s regard?”

  His eyes flickered away. Not so high, then. The man had simply lost his temper. Still, he hadn’t hurt her, merely bruised her pride.

  He raised his brows. “Take it as a warning. Next time I find you lying to me, you won’t sit for a week.”

  “Oh, indeed?” Fueled by defiance, she planted hands on her hips. “I assure you there shall be no next time.”

  “If you wish to avoid it,” he said flatly, “you’d best steer clear of lies and treachery. Men nearly died on your account tonight.”

  Chagrined, she glanced aside. “I’ve said it won’t happen again. Will you please go below? Otherwise your visit is likely to be—misconstrued. I don’t imagine you’ll wish to explain that to my uncle.”

  Grunting, he rose and buckled his sword around his hips. She felt the momentum of events between them propelling her forward, like a ship caught in a fatal current. It dragged her toward the edge of the world she knew, leaving the familiar shores of her life behind, bobbing like jetsam in her wake.

  “Well?” Lightly he caught her chin in his palm. “Will you be ready to ride at dawn, with no more delays?”

  “Aye,” she muttered.

  “Good.” Still he held her. “How long do you intend to stay angry with me?”

  “I’ve not yet decided.” Warmth rising, she pulled away. “You still seem unrepentant.”

  An unwilling grin twitched his whiskers. “It’s a goodly long road to court.”

  “It can’t be long enough to suit me.”

  “Long or short, we’ll arrive before Midwinter—I’ve sworn to that. If I had any sense…”

  The thought surfaced in her mind. All may not be lost. He was still beguiled—and now remorseful, after that display of temper. Guilt was a tool she could use, when the moment came.

  Now she dared not look at him, lest he read it in her eyes. “Will you not leave? If you’ll have me in the saddle come daybreak, I’d like to snatch a few hours’ sleep.”

  Her breath came easier when he strode to the door—then paused. Hugging her elbows, she slid a glance toward him. He shook his head as though denying her impact on his senses.

  “Bid you good night, my lady.” He closed the door between them.

  Chapter Five

  “Fall out!” Muffled by the sleet that pummeled the Roman road, Eomond’s command echoed down the column. “We camp here tonight.”

  Pushing back her sodden hood, Katrin strained to see through the twilight. The theyn’s stallion stood before a swaybacked structure, up to his hocks in muck. No smoke leaked from the leaning chimney, and the windows gaped like empty mouths.

  She heaved a sigh. This was no abbey with civilized comforts, but little more than a corncrib. Still, three days into their journey across the barren north, a leaky roof was better than none. This was no night to make camp in the wild.

  Eomond came striding out, ring-mail clashing, and raked wet ribbons of hair from his face. “Hobble the horses wh
ere the roof’s gone. We take the hearth for ourselves.”

  His ruffians swung down, stamping their feet, thrusting fingers under armpits to warm them. Huddled in her damp cloak, Katrin admitted her misgivings about them had been misplaced. She’d judged their disreputable appearance, but Eomond had known his business when he hired them.

  Taciturn and—she strongly suspected—louse-ridden as they were, still they discharged their duties with brutal efficiency. Given the shifty and ill-favored look of those they’d passed on the road, she was grateful.

  As she eyed the mud, Eomond waded to her side. Struggling for composure, she looked away, heart pounding, as he swung her from the saddle into his arms.

  While he bore her across the sea of muck, she flamed beneath her cold skin. Despite their enforced proximity, he’d held to the most decorous conduct after manhandling her in her privy chamber, his court manners tarnished by a soldier’s rough edges.

  And why not? To him I’m little more than a horse, delivered to suit the king’s convenience.

  But the candle of her time was burning down, the walls of her doom closing in. The threat of another marriage woke her sweating in the night. She’d never allow him to deliver her, trussed like a Yule goose, to the altar. But for now, he need not know it.

  When Eomond ducked into the cottage and swung her down, she shied away, skittish as a wild doe.

  Half out the door, he paused. “Something trouble my lady?”

  “Nay, how should it?” Vigorously she brushed at her mud-daubed skirts. “I’m blessed by a defender who cleaves to his duty.”

  He stiffened at her barbed remark. “I know you don’t think highly of me for it.”

  “How should I not?” Bedraggled as a beggar, still she dropped her lids and slanted him an upward look. “Devotion is said to be a virtue.”

  He turned full around and shot her a penetrating stare that pitched her into alarm. Pinned beneath that keen regard, she fidgeted.

  To her relief, one of the ruffians shouldered through the door, muttering curses as he set his weight against a balky packhorse. Shaking free of the moment like a dog shedding water, Eomond ducked around the obstacle and went out.

  Later, as Gwyneth heated the pottage, Katrin changed the lad Eahlstan’s sodden bandages.

  “Your leg is healing well—though ’tis nothing short of a miracle, since we’ve been swimming in mud for days. Does it pain you?”

  “Nay, milady,” he said stoutly. “Nothing I canna’ handle.”

  “Good lad.” Eomond hunkered, hair falling in his eyes as he rummaged in his saddlebags. “But you’ll not win a girl’s sympathy without fearsome groans and shudders.”

  He cocked a humorous eye toward them and caught her gaze. Pulse tripping, she bent over the boy. Eahlstan watched his captain with shining adulation—as did they all. Clearly, the man inspired worship in those he led.

  “Here, milady,” Gwyneth called. “Come to the fire. Ye’re soaked through.”

  An hour later, clad in a dry kirtle and cradling a horn of hot mead, Katrin was still wondering if her frozen extremities would ever thaw. Yet, as they huddled around the fire, a pleasant languor stole over her limbs…

  The howl of a wolf jerked her out of a waking doze. Sweet mercy, is it so close?

  Shuddering, she recalled the boldness of the wolves at Courtenay. Despite her spirited defense, they’d have had her—if not for Eomond. He’d saved her life that day. Though the man had been pure trouble ever since, her conscience stung her. If her plan succeeded and she escaped his keeping, the furious king would kill him.

  Crouched on his heels before the fire, he shot her a keen glance. “Don’t be alarmed. The scent of the horses draws them, but they won’t risk the fire.”

  One-eyed Wulfric nodded. “Nay, they’re shy as maids this early in the winter. In the thick of a bad snow now, when yonder beasts be starving, I’ve seen ’em come right through the window and steal a sleeping baby—”

  “Now, Wulf,” Eomond said mildly, as her hair stood on end. “That’s no tale for a dark night.”

  “Right ye are, milord.” Wulfric darted a look at her.

  Chafing her arms, Katrin stared into the flames. “If ever you see a threat, I’d have you tell me straight out. Don’t seek to cozen me with child’s tales.”

  Eahlstan chuckled. “If ye’d hear aboot every threat we see on this rood, we’d never stop talking, aye? Would be an unhooly babble filling your ears morning to night.”

  A ripple of laughter ran around the circle. She, too, smiled wryly—until another howl split the air.

  “It’s enough to give a godly man the shivers,” Wulfric muttered. “Have ye heard the priests talk aboot the end of the world?”

  “I mean no disrespect to the Christian priests.” Eomond pitched a stick of kindling on the fire. “Still, with raiders pouring down from the Danelaw and Ethelred slaughtering Vikings like cattle across the countryside, we’ve demons enough to frighten children without these hearthside tales.”

  England’s enemies pour from the Danelaw through the gap in my defenses—a gap that opened when Maldred died. Must the entire isle suffer on my account?

  “Aye, milord.” The lad cast a jittery eye around the circle. “But what of the pox? They say it rages in Tadcaster, and we’re headed straight for it.”

  Vigorously, Gwyneth stabbed at the stocking she was mending. “We should’ve prayed to the saint in Durham cathedral when we had the chance. They say being blessed at high noon over St. Cuthbert’s relics wards off the pox.”

  Eomond raked a hand through his hair. “We must reach the king’s stronghold by Midwinter. We can’t tarry to mumble nonsense over every saint’s bones between Lindisfarne and Lincoln.”

  “Those be not the words of a pious man.” The heavyset soldier named Uhtred crossed himself. “But I don’t doubt yer own heathen gods will guard ye, milord.”

  “I am no lord.” Eomond scowled. Katrin studied his fearsome profile etched against the fire, cheekbones slicing down, brows bristling, whiskers gleaming golden. Her gaze lingered on his capable hands, calloused and rough-knuckled—the hands of a fighting man.

  Yet he was more than a hired killer. She thought of the humor that lurked beneath his beard, the gentleness of those hands caressing a horse’s sensitive hide, the soothing press of his fingers against her nape as she lay spent across his knee—and felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. At that moment, her body molten with memory and color rising, he turned his head and their gazes met.

  Resistance and desire smoldered in his eyes like banked embers, ready to kindle into flame at a breath.

  Aye, he desires me. I mustn’t waver now—just give him the chance to prove it.

  “I’m not a pious man, Uhtred. But I hold nothing against the Christian God. I’ll accept any god’s aid, and give each his due.” Eomond cleared his throat. “But Ethelred keeps a Christian court. The gods help those who help themselves, and don’t ask too much.”

  “I hope it ain’t too much then, askin’ to avoid the pox.”

  An eddy of dread passed from man to man. Eomond glanced around sharply. “A few grains of common sense are worth more than some priest mumbling over a cache of bones. If there is pox in Tadcaster, then we will not go there.”

  He rose to tower over them. “No more of this. Set the watch and seek your beds. Dawn will be upon us all too soon.”

  * * *

  And so he’d scotched any apocalyptic jitters that nibbled away at their morale. Exhausted though she was, agitation simmered in her blood. Nearby her companions slumbered, untroubled by the monsters that haunted her sleep. Two or three men were snoring, which was two or three fewer than usual. Mice scurried in the thatching—at least, she fervently hoped they were mice. The possibility that they might be rats brought her swiftly uprigh
t.

  Eomond had taken the first watch. Wrapping his cloak around his long body, buckling his sword-belt around his hips, he’d gone out some time ago. Biting her lip, she weighed the time left to her. Each day, her doom drew closer. And Eomond stood guard alone, an opportunity she dared not squander.

  She wrapped her cloak over her shift, then tiptoed among the sleepers and went out.

  At first she couldn’t find him, but instinct whispered he was near. When a blanket of clouds rolled away, silver moonlight unfurled across the land. Eomond was sprawled on a fallen log, honing his knife against a sharpening stone.

  “If you must go out,” he murmured, “take a torch, and don’t tarry. The wolves are close.”

  Beyond him, a low shape slinked across the Roman road. From the tangled scree, green eyes glittered in the darkness.

  Her chest tightened. “Are we in danger?”

  “As long as the fire burns, they won’t trouble us.” He slewed her a glance and hitched his brows. “The wolves would fear you if they knew what’s good for them.”

  “I would rather not try my luck,” she said dryly.

  He cocked an eye at her. “What, can’t sleep?”

  “Nay.” Gingerly, she sat beside him.

  “Too much talk of dire portents before bed.” He frowned. She followed his gaze to a pair of gleaming eyes. They studied her with cool intelligence, then winked out.

  “I need no dire portents to steal my sleep. I’m riding to another marriage with a brute or a drunkard.”

  “My lady, you can’t know that.” His long-knife rasped against the stone.

  “I know my uncle. He’s reason enough to make any woman wakeful.” She hugged her knees. “How any man can serve such a monster is beyond my comprehension.”

  “Aye, well, I’m a soldier,” he grunted, “and he’s the king.”

  “And that’s sufficient to justify all ends?”

  Softly now, don’t anger him.

  “Ethelred fights his own demons—” Eomond shrugged, “—like any man who’d kill his own brother at thirteen for the throne. I don’t claim to be his intimate—ten years in his service, and we’ve never had a private word. But I’d be faithless to question him.”