“Wobbles?” Eadyth and Britta both asked, turning to her in surprise.
Bertha threw back her shoulders, thrusting her massive breasts forward with pride. Then she put her beefy hands under the two udders, lifting them higher and jiggling them in a ridiculous fashion.
“See. Mine wobble. ’Tis why the men’s tongues hang out when I pass by.”
Eadyth’s mouth dropped open in amazement at the thought of any man being interested in Bertha’s overblown form, but, come to think on it, the bawdy cook did seem to have a continuous supply of bedmates. Britta’s eyes widened with interest, as well, and then they both looked down at their own bosoms. While Britta’s lush breasts might wobble if she walked with an exaggerated sway, Eadyth knew her smallish breasts would never develop the slightest wobble, even if she jumped up and down.
One side of Eadyth’s mind told her that Bertha was just an ignorant old hag who knew nothing of the world or its men, but another side whispered slyly that perhaps that was why Eirik had not consummated their marriage yestereve. He found her woman parts lacking.
She looked over at Britta, who was still studying her own chest. Then their eyes made contact with sudden understanding, and they burst into giggles like young children.
Wobbling breasts! What next?
Chapter Eleven
For the rest of the day, Eadyth enlisted every servant inside the keep to help with her honey gathering. The spring blossom harvest always netted the most bountiful and best quality honey, but honey production was, at best, an arduous, sometimes messy process.
Basking in this work which she adored most of all a chatelaine’s chores, Eadyth forced everyone who entered her kitchen to scrub their hands with strong soap and to wear clean overtunics. She even examined the honeycombs for cleanliness and removed all particles of dirt or insects with meticulous care.
She cut some of the honeycombs into sections and placed them in special pottery containers for those customers who preferred their honey still in the comb. But mostly Eadyth preferred to keep the waxy combs for her own use and sell only the nectar.
She insisted on performing some chores herself, those requiring expertise. With a critical eye, she first examined the color of the honey in the combs, and sorted them accordingly.
“What difference does it make? Honey is honey,” Bertha complained, wanting all the workers gone as soon as possible from her cooking domain. Now that Eadyth had forced rules of cleanliness on the castle, Bertha took proprietary pride in her sparkling kitchen.
“It makes a great deal of difference, Bertha. See that bright yellow honey? ’Tis from the dandelion flower. The whitish yellow comes from clover. Fruit blossoms, like the cherry trees, produce a light, golden yellow. I like to label my pots so people who purchase my honey know what kind they are getting.”
Bertha grumbled, “Seems to me sum people are too perticya-ler.”
Eadyth just smiled as she sliced the caps off the honeycombs with a fire-heated, sharp knife. The process had to be carried out quickly and with a deft touch to avoid losing any of the precious honey or making a sticky mess in the work area.
She immediately handed the honeycombs to Britta, who placed them in loosely woven cloths hanging over huge earthenware crocks near the warmth of the cook fire so the sweet nectar would strain through, leaving only the wax combs behind. Later, Bertha would mash the drained honeycombs in a massive bowl. Then they, too, would be placed in another clean straining cloth over a second crock near the fire. This second extract would be of poorer quality, but suitable for kitchen use, never for selling in the market stalls of Jorvik.
Eadyth placed the comb fragments and the wax caps she had cut off previously in warm water to clean them thoroughly, then set them out to dry. They would be saved for autumn when she made her beeswax candles.
Finally, she cut the straining cloths into strips and gave them to John and Larise and Godric to suck on for a special treat, shooing them out to the courtyard. The children, always in the company of at least two of Eirik’s guards, had been hovering all morning in the kitchen, ostensibly to help, but more often causing mischief.
“Can we play with Prince in the orchard?” John asked as Eadyth wiped his sticky fingers with a damp cloth.
“Nay, sweetling. Your father wants you all to stay inside the keep today.” Eadyth had made a conscious effort to refer to Eirik as John’s father since the wedding feast, and her little boy surprised her by accepting him so readily.
John gazed up at her through eyes as blue and captivating as Eirik’s and whined, “But nobody wants us about. They all tell us to stop bothering them. We make too much noise. Father said he would show us how to spit off the ramparts when he returns, but it may be too dark by then.”
Eadyth made a clucking sound of disgust at John’s words about spitting, then advised, “Listen, dearling, why do you not ask ‘Uncle’ Wilfrid to teach you to play that board game? Hnefatafl, I think the Norsemen call it.”
His doleful face brightened and he shouted to Larise and Godric, even though they were only a few steps away, informing them of the new plans. They ran, shrieking, from the kitchen.
Wilfrid would, no doubt, have much to say later about the favor she did him. But everyone in the kitchen breathed a sigh of relief at the blessed quiet.
“Gawd, I ne’er heard so much squawkin’ ’n squealin’ in all me life,” Bertha commented with a smile.
“That Godric never said more than two words afore John and Larise arrived,” Britta added with a rueful shake of her head. “Now the halfling babbles endlessly.”
Eadyth remained silent, knowing that both women, despite their complaints, cherished the warmth the young children brought to the forlorn castle. Even with the threat of Steven hovering over her head, Eadyth, too, found herself relaxing under Eirik’s protection and enjoying the seductive lure of family life.
By late afternoon, when they had finally cleaned up the kitchen, Eadyth looked with pride at the long line of pottery containers—twenty pots with the combs, and fifty of the strained honey, each with a special mark on the container to denote its variety.
“What is that God-awful smell?”
Eadyth looked up to see Eirik filling the doorway of the kitchen with his large frame. He tunneled his fingers through his overlong hair. His clothing was filthy. And she could swear she heard his stomach growl with hunger from across the room.
Her husband had been gone since early morning on his ride to the far northern reaches of his estate to investigate the new misdeeds. She anxiously waited to learn what he had found, but his scowling expression spoke of bone-weary exhaustion. She decided to wait until later to ask her questions.
In the meantime, she motioned several kitchen maids to begin preparing the tables in the great hall for the evening meal. Then she turned back to her loudly sniffing husband.
“’Tis my honey,” she said defensively, trying to still her fast-beating heart. It was the first time she had seen her husband since sharing his bed the night before, since he had touched her naked body so intimately. She pulled her head-rail forward, hoping to hide the blush which no doubt heated her face. “Do you not like honey?”
“I love honey, but too much of a sweet can gag a person. The whole keep reeks of it. Even the outer bailey. There are so many flies out there, I swear some have come from as far as Jorvik.”
Eadyth stiffened at his mocking words. “At Hawks’ Lair, I have a separate shed for processing my honey, away from the keep. In any case, the flies will go away in a day or so.”
“Oh, I dare say they will be gone sooner than that,” he remarked lazily, “especially since the flies have drawn every crow from all the shires in Northumbria. There are so many bird droppings in the courtyard, I could barely see the dirt.” Then he looked pointedly at his white-speckled boots which were dirtying her newly scrubbed kitchen floor and smiled wickedly. “Mayhap you should get your broom brigade out there. The lackwit birds have not yet heard of your strict code of
cleanliness.”
Eadyth bristled at his taunting criticism. Did he jest? Or did he truly mislike her pristine ways?
Meanwhile, Eirik moved closer to where Eadyth stood at the table, as Bertha and Britta began to move the pottery containers to the scullery. Peering over her shoulder, he placed a palm familiarly over her right buttock, and let it rest there.
Eadyth almost shot off the floor. “Unhand me, you lecherous brute,” she hissed.
“Oh, forgive me, wife,” Eirik said, his blue eyes blinking innocently. “I thought it was the table edge I was holding.”
She glared at him, disbelieving.
“I had not thought to mention it afore, but I have a problem seeing some things up close.” He squinted at her, emphasizing the defect.
Eadyth slanted a suspicious look his way, not sure whether to believe he had grasped her backside accidentally. When she looked at Bertha, though, who was gathering the last of the pots at her side, the bawdy cook rolled her eyes and whispered in an undertone, “What did I say ’bout lustful men? First wobbling tits, then the arse.”
Eadyth stifled a giggle. A giggle! God’s Bones! The man is turning me barmy.
But Eadyth soon forgot about Eirik’s violation of her person when she saw what he was doing to her honey. First, he inserted a long finger into the pot of her best clover honey and licked the finger clean. He was about to test another pot when she slapped his hand away.
“Are you daft, man? Those are for my customers in Jorvik. Who would want to purchase them after you have stuck your dirty fingers inside?”
Eirik just grinned and pretended not to hear her, sticking a finger in the next pot, drizzling honey carelessly across the clean table on the way to her mouth, where he offered the sweet nectar to her on his fingertip. “Here, have a taste, my lady. ’Tis always best to sample your own wares. Besides, you need sweetening up.”
“I have tasted enough for today,” she protested, backing away. But he persisted in following her, waving his honey-laden finger in front of her lips, drizzling some accidentally over her bosom. To her horror, Eirik looked as if he might lick it up, but, instead, he pressed his fingertip against her lips.
“Try it.”
“Nay. Oh, Good Lord, at least use a spoon. Have you no manners at all?”
“Apparently not.” He was still grinning, and Eadyth’s heart slammed against her chest at his enticing closeness. He smelled of horse and sweat and wood smoke and man. Instead of being repulsed, Eadyth was drawn inexplicably by his particular scent. The man discomfited her mightily, and she did not like it one bit. And now that he had shaved his mustache, he looked younger, less hard, too enticingly handsome.
She was backed against the far wall by then and did not want to create more of a scene, so she flicked the tip of her tongue against the end of his finger. It was a big mistake.
Be careful, she admonished herself silently as every hitherto unknown erotic spot in her body came to full attention. One devilishly handsome man tricked you afore. This one could toss you aside just as Steven did.
But Eadyth could not ignore the delicious sensation of her tongue rasping against the rough skin of his forefinger. It heightened and brought to the forefront her own softer femininity. It made her feel wicked. And wonderful. She wanted to taste his skin again.
She should not.
She did.
“Umm,” she moaned. “’Tis the cherry blossom honey.” Now, go away, you fiendish wretch, afore I do something foolish. Like brush the hair off your forehead. Or run my hands over your muscled chest. Or, Sweet Mother of God, give over to my baser self and reach up to taste the honey on your lips.
“Try more,” he urged in a husky voice. The finger still lingered in front of her mouth enticingly.
“Eirik, I do not—”
He rested his other hand on the wall above her head, leaning sinfully close. Brazenly, he stuck his finger in her mouth, and she had no choice but to lick and suck on it, especially when he pushed it in and out several times. For some reason she could not explain, she thought suddenly of that novel tongue kiss he had given her in his bedchamber on their wedding night. The one she had liked so shamelessly.
Soon she forgot about the honey altogether as Eirik’s moving finger created an odd reaction in other parts of Eadyth’s body. Her breasts suddenly felt fuller. Her blood seemed to thicken and lodge heavily in her arms and legs, and, oh dear, in that secret place between her legs. She wanted to put her arms about his neck and pull him even closer. Restraining herself forcefully, she drew on that small part of her self that had not turned totally wanton.
The only saving grace was that Eirik did not grin anymore. Instead, his blue eyes darkened, and his lips parted, moving closer. He was staring at her mouth like a starving man suddenly offered a feast.
Fighting the pull of his gaze, Eadyth tried to resist this devious charmer of a man who could turn her senses inside out with a mere finger. She must be turning into a lewd woman. Oh, surely he would not kiss her here in the kitchen in front of everyone. But Eadyth did not care. For some reason she could not understand, against all her better instincts, she leaned closer, hungering for his lips, wanting something she could not name, but knew would bring her immense satisfaction.
Bertha’s lewd chuckle from the other side of the room jarred them both back to awareness, but not before Eirik pulled her closer and nipped at her ear through her head-rail, whispering silkily, “And would you suckle the honey from my tongue, as well, sweet wife, if I bring a pot to our bedchamber tonight?”
Eadyth’s heart skipped a beat in alarm, and a breathless thrill of pleasure rushed through her.
“Mayhap I will not be so tired this time,” he said in a raw undertone of promise as he pushed her in front of him, away from the wall, giving her backside a crude pinch in the process. Before she could chastise him, he asked, “Have you practiced those love moans I taught you yestereve?”
Eadyth stopped mutinously, refusing to budge any farther. Turning indignantly, she put both palms to his chest, giving him a mighty shove to show her displeasure. He did not move a hairsbreadth.
Instead, linking his hand in hers, he pulled her out of the kitchen through the corridor to the keep, then looked back at her over his shoulder, “Best you close your teeth, Eadyth, especially with all these flies about. And you smelling like a honey pot.”
She snapped her mouth shut in self-disgust, promising to get her rioting emotions under control. If only she could stop herself from rising to his continual baiting. The charming rogue was getting under her skin and would soon dominate her with his seductive ways. That she could not allow.
But then she forgot her annoyance when Eirik explained, “I must talk to you in private about Steven and our findings today.”
“Steven! Oh, Holy Mother!” Eadyth chastised herself for momentarily forgetting the danger that had brought her to Ravenshire in the first place. How foolish she had been to relax her defenses! What had the evil Steven done now? By Eirik’s somber demeanor, she knew it must be very bad.
When they were in the private chamber off the great hall, Eirik slumped into a chair and waved for her to sit, as well. For the first time, Eadyth noted Eirik’s condition. He had removed his chain mail but still wore the padded undertunic over his heavy wool braies. Scratches and bruises and soot covered his face and arms. Soot? Eadyth pondered.
“There has been a fire, has there not?”
He nodded.
“The cotters’ huts in the north end of your estate?”
He shook his head wearily and poured mead into two large goblets, handing one to her.
“Nay,” she declined, feeling sick. The honey smell of the keep, in combination with Eirik’s news, was turning her nauseous.
But he shoved it into her hands. “Drink.”
His blue eyes studied her closely, but Eadyth was no longer concerned about whether he discovered her ruse. She felt a sour, sinking sensation low in her belly—guilt that she might have
brought misery to Eirik’s people. And that guilt far outweighed her silly masquerade.
Eirik’s grim expression frightened her, and his insistence that she drink…well, there could be only one explanation. She took a long swallow, barely tasting the liquid as it passed the fast-forming lump in her throat, then quickly drank the remainder in her cup.
“Hawks’ Lair?”
“Yea.”
“How could that be?” she cried. “I left it well-protected.”
Eirik shook his head. “’Twas not the keep. The castle and its walls are still secure.”
Eadyth frowned in puzzlement, waiting for her husband’s explanation.
Suddenly Eirik pulled his chair closer to hers so they were sitting almost knee to knee. Gently, he took both her hands in his. Instead of comforting her, Eirik’s concern filled her with dread. Then he surprised her by changing the subject. “Tell me, Eadyth, how many of those bees do you have in my orchard?”
“Wha—what?”
“The bees—they seem to have increased an ungodly amount already. Do you have any idea how many you have?”
She lifted her shoulders as if to guess. “Mayhap a hundred thousand.”
“A hundred thousand bees!” Eirik’s sweet consideration vanished under his consternation. “Have you lost your senses, woman? They will overrun the entire estate.”
Eadyth smiled. “Nay, a hundred thousand is not that great an amount. In just one colony, with one queen, there can be more than fifty thousand workers and two thousand drones. And I have dozens of colonies thriving.”
Eirik’s eyes widened in amazement.
This was the first time Eirik had exhibited any interest in her business, and it pleased her greatly. She did not even feel the need, in the glow of her pride, to pull away her hands which he still grasped warmly in his. Not even when he distractedly caressed the betrothal scar at her wrist with the callused pad of his thumb, sending subtle tingles of sweet pleasure up her arm which started her heart to racing.
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