by Sara Bennett
Chapter 6
She was standing on the keep steps with the torches flaring behind her. At first all Gunnar could see was her silhouette, the alluring shape of her body. His mind went blank; instinct took over. The hours spent in the devastation of the village, the dead man and the missing miller—all the important questions he could not answer were forgotten at the sight of her.
He wanted her.
It was as simple and as complicated as that.
He, a lowly mercenary, coveted a highborn lady. He might as well try and pull down the moon with his hand! She could have him whipped for his presumption, no matter that he was an honorable mercenary and she a treacherous lady…
Gunnar’s innate arrogance reasserted itself. He was the son of Olaf the armorer, and in him ran the blood of Vikings and Norse kings—he had nothing about which to feel inferior. Let her try and put him in his place, he thought angrily, and he would show her where hers was. On her back in his bed!
The image was instant and vivid. Gunnar gave a silent groan as it filled his head…Her body naked among the bedding, her dark hair spilling over her gleaming shoulders and tangling in his hands as he pressed her down, his hardness against all that exquisite softness…
His rod was rock hard, painful in his tight breeches. As well the chain mail tunic was long enough to cover him—just. Gunnar’s lips twitched and for a moment he was close to laughing at himself and the whole mess he found himself in. But there was more than his own future at stake here, and Gunnar was not a man to let others down. He allowed the humor to leach out of him, making himself cold, unfeeling. Less of a man and more of a weapon.
In control again, Gunnar dismounted. Behind him Alfred was lifting the girl, Millisent, down from his own horse. Her brother rode before Ivo, and Gunnar reached up for the boy, swinging him to the ground. The child scampered toward Rose, crying out, “Lady, lady, there was a fire!” in a high, excited voice.
“But you are safe, Will,” she said gently, reaching out to touch his head.
The boy nodded seriously, glancing around at his sister. “Can we stay with you, lady?”
“Will—”
Rose smiled. “’Tis all right, Millisent. You may stay as long as you like, Will, now hurry inside and see if Eartha’s little boy is still awake.”
Gunnar watched as the child received a nod from his sister and hastily vanished into the hall. Lady Rose had known his name, spoken to him as easily as if he had been her own brother or son—it was rare indeed for such a lady to forgo her dignity and the formality of her position to make a villein’s child feel comfortable. Gunnar wished she had been sharp-tongued and uncaring. He did not want to admire her; he did not want to like her.
“Lady?” One of the villagers had come forward, wild-eyed, no doubt to ask for her favor. Rose leaned down to listen. She did not look like a treacherous woman. Her face was pale and tired within her veil, but still beautiful. Her fingers were laced together, twisting, so that she appeared anxious. Was that truth or pretense, or was her anxiety all for herself, and the possible exposure of her plot against Radulf?
And yet as he watched her reply sympathetically to the villager, Gunnar found it difficult to be objective. Suddenly he knew he needed to be alone; he would speak to her later, when his mind had regained mastery over his body. So thinking, he turned toward the stables and, with a sense of relief, began to put distance between them.
He should have known better.
“Captain Olafson?”
Her voice was breathless, as if she was running after him. Reluctantly, trying not to groan, Gunnar turned and found that she was.
“Please wait, Captain! I wish to speak with you.”
She came quickly to where he waited, until she was so close that he felt his skin prickle with awareness of her. Why did she stand so near him? Surely, even if she could not see his arousal, she could sense the heat sizzling in the air about him? Sense the powerful grip he was having to exert to stop himself from simply reaching out, lifting her into his arms, and taking her to his bed.
But she didn’t know. She was too full of her own concerns—although, perhaps, she felt there was something wrong. He was as tense as a drawn bow. He stood, arms crossed over his chest as if he could lock her out. Hesitantly she put out her hand and rested it lightly on his.
“Captain…are you unwell?”
Her hand was cold, with fine and delicate bones, the nails bitten down. His was large and callused, scarred from a life of fighting, and warm. Very, very warm.
Gunnar shivered, and found himself almost light-headed as he wondered what it would be like to have that slender hand between his thighs.
“No, I am not unwell,” he said hoarsely. I am being driven mad by my own lustful fantasies, may Odin help me!
“Then tell me what happened at the village,” she demanded.
He stared back at her as if he had lost the ability to speak. Her body was scented, and she was close enough so that he could smell her. Her eyes glinted in the torchlight, and her lips were lush and red against the pallor of her skin. He could lean down now and cover her mouth with his; he could lift her hand and suck each of her vulnerable fingers, one by one.
“What happened at the village, Captain?” There was an impatient authority to her voice. It cleared Gunnar’s head. Somehow he assembled the necessary words, began sorting them into the correct order.
“Captain Olafson?” Very impatiently, and so close now that he was drowning in her sweet scent.
Gunnar cleared his throat. Tell her? Aye, he would tell her, and read the truth in her face turned up to his.
“Much of your village is destroyed, lady, and a serf called Hergat is dead.”
Gunnar saw her flinch and knew he had been brutal, but he had what he wanted—a genuine reaction.
“I have left two of my men on guard with the villagers who wanted to stay behind. The rest of your people have sought the safety of your keep.”
“Of course.” She removed her cold hand, snuggling it back inside her cloak with the other one, and he felt the loss of it. Her eyes strayed past him, to a huddled group of sanctuary seekers. Her voice trembled. “And those who did this thing? Did you capture them?”
“No. They were already gone when we got there. Tomorrow we will begin our search, lady.” His reply sounded like failure, but as always Gunnar oozed self-confidence. He stood before her, arms folded over his chest, legs apart, as if daring her to berate him. Gunnar almost wished she would, so that he could walk off and clear his mind of this sexual sizzle. How could he do the job required of him when all he wanted was to bury himself inside her?
But to his frustration she didn’t argue, just nodded her head, quietly accepting his explanation, before turning away to give orders to her servants.
Gunnar stood, watching her, asking himself in bewilderment how his famous calm had so quickly and so easily deserted him. If the woman knew she was causing his usually solid world to crack and shiver, if she was using her wiles upon him intentionally, he might be able to resist her. If she was a practiced temptress, a woman who knew how to play the game, he would be able to counter her moves. He understood such women—they were the kind he was most familiar with.
Gunnar did not normally consort with highborn, high-strung Norman ladies. A mercenary found relief with whoever was available, and earthy women experienced in pleasure were his natural choice. And to make it worse, Rose didn’t appear to realize the effect she was having on him—he’d swear it by all his father’s Norse gods. How could he make his moves or protect himself in a game that she did not even know they were playing?
She was still giving orders.
As she spoke, she gathered the miller’s daughter, who had been standing quietly beside her, within the safety of her arm. When she had finished allotting their tasks, Rose turned to the girl, taking in her dirty, ripped clothes and wild hair.
“Millisent, my poor child, where is your father?”
The kindness undi
d the girl. With a gasp, she crumpled against her shoulder, heaving sobs. Rose’s arms closed about her in sympathy and alarm, and she turned back to look at Gunnar with big, startled eyes.
Reluctantly he came forward, until he could speak without being overheard by the villagers. She stood and waited, her eyes growing a little bigger as he loomed over her. “The miller is missing. He was not in the village, and Edward, there on the gate, has not seen him enter the keep.” He hesitated, but she continued to watch him, sensing there was more bad news and trusting him to deliver it to her.
Her trust disturbed him; he made his voice cold, set up a barrier. “Lady, we found a dead man by the miller’s cottage—a man who may be a Norman—and no one seems to have seen him before.”
If she sensed his withdrawal, it didn’t prevent her from moving even closer and gazing up at him, the girl still tucked in against her shoulder. “But…I don’t understand. Is he from the Mere? One of those who caused the devastation?”
“Perhaps.” Her face was lifted to his, guileless and open. Gunnar tried to read the lies in her, but all he saw was concern and bewilderment, and the same lonely melancholy of spirit he sometimes felt in himself.
“Perhaps? That is no answer, Captain.” She moved yet closer, until the hem of her pale undergown brushed against his dusty boots.
Gunnar gritted his teeth and pretended he was made of iron. “We will know more tomorrow. For now we will consider him a stranger, because none of your villagers will admit to knowing him.”
“You think they are lying,” she stated softly, searching his face for clues.
“Mayhap,” he murmured, giving her nothing more. But as he was beginning to learn, she didn’t accept half answers.
“Mayhap? Either they are lying or they are telling the truth—how can it be both?”
He didn’t answer, preserving his suspicions and his silence, but his gaze slid to the girl in her arms. A warning.
Finally she took the hint. “Then we will talk of this later,” she answered him with quiet dignity and a stony glance from her dark eyes.
Gunnar nodded once in agreement and watched as she led Millisent gently into the great hall, where light and warmth gave an illusion of safety. And that was all Lady Rose was, Gunnar reminded himself grimly. Despite her delectable body and beautiful face, she was all illusion.
Alfred went to follow.
“Did the girl say anything?” Gunnar asked quietly, for Alfred’s ears alone.
“No, Captain, but she is afraid. She is hiding something.”
“Find out what it is, Alfred.”
When he had gone, Gunnar stood a moment in the shadows, gazing at the woman in the light. It was madness. He knew it, and still was powerless to help himself. He wanted her. The need was primitive, irrational, but it was there. Maybe it only needed to be the once, he told himself feverishly. Just one time, and he could go back to being himself. And she would be out of his blood, forever.
It was late.
Rose stood at the inner entrance to the great hall, watching over the mounded shapes of sleeping bodies. The waning light from the fire picking out the pale curve of outflung arms or legs, and tousled heads peeping above the edges of warm cloaks or blankets. Gentle breathing, with an occasional snore, broke the heavy silence. Behind the dais, Millisent and Will, Harold the miller’s two children, were safely cocooned in a curtained alcove with Eartha and her young son.
Rose had always had a soft spot for Millisent. Was it because the girl was motherless, and she saw in her something of her own childhood confusion and loneliness? Mayhap. The difference, however, was in their fathers, for whereas Millisent’s father loved and cared for her a great deal, Rose’s father had been cold and manipulative. Certainly he had never loved her, and as she grew she had learned not to long for his love or approval. Her father was skilled in turning such longings into weapons. Had she not seen enough of her mother’s suffering to know that?
The lessons had been well learned. To be loved too little was to be constantly longing for more; to love too much was a fatal wound in the heart. It was much better not to love at all.
The hall smelled of stale woodsmoke; the villagers had brought the scent of the destruction of their homes with them in their hair and on their clothes. What had happened out there in the fiery night, during those first moments of terror? Almost, Rose could hear the screams and shouts, smell the burning, see…what? Merefolk intent on doing harm? Creeping out of the darkness and back into it again? Or had the attackers and their reasons for the attack been other than she believed?
And why had no one seen anything? she asked herself in frustration.
Why had Harold the miller run away into the darkness, leaving behind him a dead stranger? That did not sound like the man Rose knew. Harold was no fugitive, and neither was he a murderer. He was a stolid, kindly man who treated fairly all who brought their grain to his mill. A man who cared deeply for his family. Rose did not accept that he would abandon his children in such circumstances, unless it was for a good reason. But what was a good enough reason? Had he been taken against his will, dragged off by the merefolk to be held for ransom? But if that was so, why take Harold and no one else? And why do it so stealthily?
Rose sighed, feeling the burden of so many lives pressing down on her. She had too many questions and not enough answers; it was impossible to make sound judgments. She must wait until the morning, as Gunnar Olafson had said, except Rose knew that a dead stranger in an English village—particularly a dead Norman stranger—was more than just another paltry worry.
She had seen by the cautious expression in Gunnar’s eyes that he understood that. Mayhap that was why he had seemed so reluctant to speak with her and answer her questions. He knew of the old ways, the old days, before King William came to stamp his mark on England. When Harold was king—and long before—murder had been a matter of wergild. Instead of declaring a blood feud, the relatives of the murdered man could be paid an agreed amount to compensate them for his death. This was the murderer’s punishment—to pay for what he had done. Now such arcane laws meant nothing—Norman justice had come to replace them. King William decreed that the dead man must be proved to be English, or else he was assumed to be Norman. And, under William’s law, a dead Norman meant that an Englishman must die.
A life for a life, that was the Norman way.
And if the dead man was Norman, it looked very much as if Harold the miller would be that Englishman.
Was that the reason Captain Olafson had looked so serious when he returned to the keep tonight? Rose knew she would have to question him again, but she was reluctant to do so. Whatever it was that had sparked between them during the meal in the great hall had seemed dead and cold by the time he returned from the village. It had been clear to her that, for whatever reason, he wished to escape her company as soon as possible. She had had to all but order him to wait! And he had been so emptied of emotion as he told her of what he had found, so icy—his men had shown more compassion and feeling than he! The one with the terrible scar upon his face, Alfred, had even helped her to make up beds and bathe cuts and burns, anointing the more serious ones with goose grease.
Alfred had told her that his mother used to do the same, the memory making him smile. “Where is your family now?” she had asked him, for he seemed too young to be a mercenary like Gunnar Olafson.
But his eyes had turned old and bleak. “The captain is my family now.”
They were a strange bunch, these mercenaries. Rose’s first impression of tough and dangerous still held, but she was beginning to realize there was a great deal more to them than blood and brutality. That did not mean she trusted them, but she was learning to read them better. Apart from their captain…
A step sounded behind her.
Rose stiffened. Constance? The old woman did not sleep as much as she used to. Eartha? Millisent, perhaps, unable to rest for worry of her father? Arno, guilty at his earlier drunkenness and seeing that all was in orde
r?
But it was none of these.
She already knew who it was.
Mayhap it was the physical impression of size, of a big warm body close behind hers. Mayhap it was his musky male scent, tangled with that of leather and cloves. Mayhap she just knew.
And that frightened her, because it meant there was a link between them. She did not want that; it frightened her so much she could hardly breathe.
Slowly, unwillingly, Rose turned.
He was standing even closer than she had thought. A large and imposing Viking. His strong legs were encased in those tight dark breeches that clung to every line and muscle, while the blue tunic covered his wide shoulders and chest and the bulging muscles of his arms. The tunic was unlaced at his throat, and Rose could see a pulse beating in the shadowy hollow there. His copper hair was damp—perhaps he had poured water over it—and the rich color was muted further by the light of a failing torch on the wall close by. Broad forehead and wide jaw, high cheekbones and narrow nose; the masculine beauty of his face caused a hitch in her breathing.
His presence was overwhelming and Rose stepped back too hastily, stumbling and almost falling. Swiftly, instinctively, he steadied her. The grip of his fingers around her arm was firm and yet gentle, as if he were well aware of his greater strength and was taking care not to hurt her. “My lady?” he murmured softly, mindful of those about them sleeping.
Rose moved to shake off his hand with a curt thank you. Instead, as she looked up at him, she suddenly had a glimpse beyond the handsome looks that held all the women of Somerford in thrall. He is weary! she thought, stupidly surprised that a man like this could feel the same ups and downs as normal folk. There were dark shadows under his brilliant eyes, and the lines between his brows looked more marked. Red-gold stubble covered his lean cheeks and strong jaw, and he held his lips pressed hard together, thinning their normally firm shape.