Ice Maiden

by Debra Lee Brown

  Grant didn’t spare her a glance as she crossed the room and seated herself facing him. Fine. She had naught to say to him, either, and was glad for his disinterest.

  What they’d shared last night—what he’d done to her, rather—meant nothing. Not to her certainly. Nor to him, from the cool expression he bore.

  It was over now, and time to move ahead with her plan.

  Sitryg brought a flagon of mead to the table along with two drinking horns.

  “Nay,” Grant said, and waved her off. “None for me.”

  “But you must,” Sitryg said. “A bride and groom partake of honeyed mead—together—until the moon is new again.”

  Grant scowled at the old woman, and for the first time Rika shared his sentiment.

  “It’s your honeymoon,” Sitryg said.

  Rika shot her a dark look and pushed the flagon away. “Go, and take this back to the brew house.”

  Sitryg flashed a loaded look at Lawmaker, and left without a word.

  “The blizzard,” Rika said, changing the subject.

  “Can we sail?”

  Lawmaker shook his head. “You know as well as I we cannot.”

  “Why the devil not?” Grant said. His expression twisted into a mask of disbelief.

  “What, are you so eager to repeat your last experience at sea?” Lawmaker arched a brow at him. “Was losing a brother not enough for you?”

  Grant ground his teeth, and behind his stoic expression she read his pain. Compassion was not an emotion she fostered. It led to weakness, especially where men were concerned. Still, a curious wave of empathy breached her well-schooled heart.

  She pushed the emotion away, and focused instead on the weather. She wanted nothing more than to quit this place. Every day they waited was another day of bondage for her brother—and another day closer to Brodir’s return.

  “It’s not the snow, but the wind that is the danger,” Lawmaker said, and Rika knew he was right. It would blow the byrthing to bits before they lost sight of the island.

  Grant rubbed the tawny stubble of beard on his chin. Rika recalled the feel of it on her skin and shivered.

  “How long must we wait?” he said.

  Lawmaker shrugged. “Who can say?”

  Grant swore under his breath, some Christian curse she’d never heard. It sounded wicked, whatever it meant. She must remember to ask him about it, although now was clearly not the time.

  She watched him as he stared at nothing in particular, then wet her lips absently, remembering their coupling.

  He’d wanted her.

  Perhaps not at first, nor afterward. Certainly not now. But last eve, for one fleeting breath of eternity, the ardor of his kisses, the passion in his eyes, had been for her.

  Grant caught her watching him and, for an uncomfortable moment, she held his gaze. What did she expect to see in those steely eyes? Love?

  What nonsense.

  Men didn’t love, they controlled. Oppressed. She was smart enough to know that, and knew—too well, perhaps—how to beat them at that game.

  She broke his stare and began to pick at some of the food on the trencher. “What now, old man?”

  “Ah, well.” Lawmaker cleared his throat authoritatively. “Methinks your hu—”

  She shot him a look icier than the blizzard without.

  “Uh, Grant, I mean—” Lawmaker paused and nodded to him “—has something for you.”

  Rika frowned at them both. “What?”

  Grant looked equally befuddled, then his face lit up. “Oh, right.” He drew something from the pouch at his waist and slapped it on the table before her.

  “What’s this?”

  “’Tis your…” Grant looked to Lawmaker, apparently for help. “Morgen gifu? Aye, right. Your morning gift.”

  How dare he? Her eyes widened, and she felt suddenly over warm. “I…I don’t want it.”

  “Suit yourself.” Grant slid the trinket toward Lawmaker. “I was just doing as instructed.”

  “Take it,” Lawmaker said, and pushed it toward her.

  “At the least, have a look at it.”

  She arched a brow at him in annoyance, then glanced at the gift. It was a piece of jewelry—a silver brooch. Something about it seemed familiar to her. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Grant said, reading her suspicion.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just…” Where had she seen this before? She narrowed her eyes at Lawmaker, and he cast her one of those all-innocent looks she loathed. “Nothing,” she repeated, and set the brooch on the table. “I won’t accept it, is all.”

  “Fine,” Grant said. “It doesna matter a whit to me.”

  She could murder the old man. Had she known he was going to meddle like this…“Tell him, old man. Tell my husband why I can’t accept such a gift. He doesn’t know, does he?”

  Lawmaker shrugged. “The morning gift compensates the bride for her…availability to her husband.”

  Grant’s eyes widened. “Ye mean…”

  “Exactly.” And she had no intention of ever allowing him into her bed again. “So you see why I won’t accept it.”

  “Aye, fine.” The Scot put up his hands in a gesture of compliance. “I could no agree more.”

  Her blood began to heat, and she knew if they continued the conversation it would reach dangerous temperatures. She rose to take her leave, feeling the need for that bath more than ever.

  “What I said last night, about trust,” Lawmaker said quickly.

  “What about it?” She was not in the mood for more of the old man’s preaching, nor was Grant from the sour look on his face.

  “It seems you have taken my advice.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?” Save Ottar and her brother, she trusted no man, especially the Scot. Lawmaker, himself, was fast losing her good opinion.

  She turned to leave, and Lawmaker caught her wrist.

  Her wrist.

  Thor’s blood, her bracelet!

  She wrested herself from Lawmaker’s grip and protectively covered her bare wrist with her hand. Where was her bracelet? Her eyes flew to Grant’s.

  He looked at her expressionless, his eyes unchanged. Cool slate, like the sea on a winter’s day. “I…it fell off. In the bed,” he added. “I set it on the chest.”

  He lied.

  Her cheeks grew hot, serving only to fuel her anger.

  “I’ve work to do,” she said flatly, then threw her cloak around her shoulders and made for the door.

  “We can use the time,” Lawmaker called after her.

  She turned in the open doorway, sleet blowing past her into the room. “What time? For what?”

  “Until the weather clears and we can sail,” the old man said. He turned to Grant. “The Scot has much to learn if he would woo your father into giving up your coin.”

  She hadn’t thought of that. Lawmaker was right: Grant knew nothing of their culture. The unclaimed brooch sitting on the table was evidence enough.

  “You must indoctrinate him,” Lawmaker said.

  “Indoctrinate?” Grant scowled, and shifted restlessly on the bench. “I dinna wish to be indoctrinated.”

  Rika drew herself up, taking strength from his displeasure and from the biting sleet whipping at her garments. Oh, how she loved the winter. Whatever had she been thinking to wonder about Scotland in the spring?

  “Your wishes do not concern me,” she said. “Your training begins today.”

  Chapter Six

  He simply wouldn’t do it.

  “Why should I?” George let the question hang there, and ignored the two young warriors who’d spent the better part of an hour trying to convince him to comply.

  The dark one, Leif, said, “If you master our ways, ’twill ensure a fruitful meeting with Rollo.”

  Rollo. Rika’s father. George doubted the man could be more difficult to deal with than his sharp-tongued spawn of a daughter.

  The air in
the brew house was hot and close. Packed with men, the small building reeked of wet wool, sweat and the cloying odor of mead.

  Erik, the fair one, called for another flagon of the stuff, and George screwed up his face.

  “You wish to go home, do you not?” Erik said.

  George thought the question so absurd, he didn’t bother to answer.

  Leif whispered something to Erik, and Erik said, “Methinks Rollo’s dwelling is not so far from your own.”

  “What?”

  “A few days’ ride,” Leif said. “A sennight at most.”

  “Ride?” How could that be? George had assumed Rika’s father lived on some other island—in the Shetlands or Orkneys. It hadn’t occurred to him that they’d be sailing straightaway to—“Her father lives in Scotland?”

  Both men nodded.

  “On the mainland, at any rate,” Erik said. “Whether it’s held by Scots or Norse, one never knows from one day to the next. Rollo’s wife is a Scot, and his loyalties lie with those from whom he can best profit at any given moment.”

  This was news, indeed. George might be out of this mess sooner than he’d thought. Once they landed on the coast, what was to stop him from hanging this dowry nonsense and going his own way?

  He’d been bound for Wick, which was off the northernmost tip of the mainland. Mayhap they’d sail right into the town’s harbor. Ha! The thought brightened his spirits.

  “So,” Erik said. “You’ll allow us to teach you some of the things you’ll need to know?”

  George was barely listening. He was thinking of August Sinclair, and Anne, his bride-to-be.

  “We’ll start with some simple games,” Leif said.

  “What?” What the devil were they going on about? George turned his attention back to the two young men.

  “I told ye both. I need not learn your ways.”

  A loud belch cut the air behind him. “He’s too stupid, if you ask me.”

  George turned slowly, bristling at the familiar voice.

  Ingolf sat at the table behind him with the doltish Rasmus and a half-dozen other men. Brodir’s men, so George had come to learn.

  “No one asked you,” Erik said. “Ignore him, Grant.”

  George was unaccustomed to ignoring insults, especially those delivered by ill-mannered heathens. He sized Ingolf up, and wished he still had Rika’s brother’s sword or that handy hammer tucked into his belt. The weapons had been stripped from him after the celebration.

  “Scots are not built for it.” Ingolf drained the drinking horn in his hand. Mead ran in rivulets down his heavily bearded chin. “The Viking way, our skills, cannot be learned. One is either born to it, or one is not.”

  Bollocks. He had a mind to teach this unschooled heathen exactly what the Scots were built for. “What kind of skills,” George said, and looked to Erik and Leif for an answer.

  Leif shrugged. “Tests of wit and strategy.”

  “Bah. Tests of manhood.” Ingolf scowled.

  “Those, too,” Leif said.

  George turned his back to them.

  “I told you,” Ingolf’s voice carried over the din in the room. “He’s not man enough.”

  Brodir’s men laughed behind him, and George’s blood boiled. ’Twas time he imparted some lessons of his own. “When do we begin?”

  Leif and Erik smiled. “Straight away,” they said in unison.

  “Besides,” Erik said. “What else is there to do in weather so foul?”

  The youth had a point, George thought. He must do something beyond sitting on his arse all day, or he’d go mad.

  The door to the brew house banged open, and Rika blew in with the wind. Ottar pulled the door shut behind them, and the two settled on a bench across from George. Rika spared him not a glance—not that he expected her to.

  ’Twas the first he’d seen of Ottar since the wedding. The angry youth had avoided the bridal feast. No small wonder. George had stepped into a role Ottar fancied himself filling. Or so it seemed, by the fierce protectiveness he displayed toward Rika. The youth glared at him.

  Rika was strangely quiet. He hadn’t seen her since they’d broken their fast that morning. The incident over the bracelet had enraged her. He saw that she’d recovered it from the cottage. Both hammered bronze bands were strapped snugly in place over her wrists.

  At first he’d thought Brodir made her wear them, then he realized the truth. She wore them because she was ashamed for anyone to see what that animal had done to her. He’d read the humiliation in her eyes, and sheer will alone had prevented him from offering a word or a look of comfort.

  Looking at her now, he marveled at her stoic behavior. ’Twas as if last night and this morning had been like any other for her. That Valkyrie’s shell of hers was tough as burnished leather, but he knew what lay beneath it. He knew her warmth, her passion, the feel of her yielding beneath him.

  George, she’d called him—just the once—in the heat of their lovemaking. His Christian name had never sounded so exotic as it had when breathed from her lips.

  As of the dawn, he was merely Grant. She hissed the word as if it were some blasphemy.

  Now that he knew her better, he realized she had to work at maintaining her indifference. She was not so comfortable in her icy skin as she would have the world believe. There was a natural femininity about her that one could see if one looked.

  And he was looking.

  Nonetheless, she took pleasure in crushing to dust any attributes exemplifying her sex. Compassion, tenderness, generosity. Oh, she’d been generous with him between the furs last night.

  God’s truth, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He needed a diversion. Something to keep his mind occupied while they waited for the weather to clear. Mayhap these tests of strategy would provide some amusement.

  “Your drink,” a feminine voice said.

  Lina.

  She was all the diversion a man could want.

  George looked up into the girl’s doelike eyes. She set the flagon of mead on the table and batted her lashes prettily at him.

  “Our thanks,” Leif said, and winked at her.

  Lina was a woman a man could truly appreciate. And one he had no problem understanding.

  “I have found a keg of ale.” Lina smiled demurely at him. “In the storage shed. ’Tis a bit young, but methinks you would prefer it.” She leaned closer so that her breasts were level with his eyes. “Would you not?”

  Oh, he understood her perfectly.

  “Only, I cannot lift it.” She batted her lashes again. “It’s far too heavy for my delicate frame.”

  George grinned. He was familiar with a woman’s wiles. They connived, manipulated, never came right out and told you what they wanted.

  “But not for mine,” an icy voice said. Rika appeared out of nowhere and towered over Lina’s small form. “Go on—” she pushed the girl toward the door “—and I’ll be along directly to help you.”

  George opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.

  “As for you, Grant, meet me in the courtyard. There are things I would show you before we sail.”

  She turned her back on him, snatched her cloak from the bench, and quit the room with the same blast of chill air she’d come in on.

  “Our work together can wait,” Leif said to him. Erik merely smiled.

  George filled his drinking horn with mead. As the honeyed liquor burst upon his tongue he decided that some women had wiles, and others simply did not.

  Rika waited for him near the stable, under the cover of an open shed. Her favorite pony nickered softly in the straw beside her and nudged her hand for the treat he knew she had brought. She opened her palm and the pony made short work of the small turnip. She smiled and scratched his head.

  “It wouldna hurt to do more of that, ye know.” His voice startled her. Grant stood in the snow outside the shed watching her.

  “Do what?” she snapped, annoyed that she’d not heard him approach.

  “Smi
le. No matter. ’Tis just…ye look more…”

  She tensed, waiting for him to finish the thought.

  “Christ, forget that I said it.” He moved under the overhang and studied the pony with more than mild interest. “What in God’s name is it? ’Tis no like any colt I’ve e’er seen.”

  “It’s not a colt, it’s a horse full grown.”

  “Go on. It canna be.”

  “Ja, of course he is.” She frowned. The Scot had much more to learn than she could ever teach him if he didn’t even know a colt from a horse.

  “He’s too small to be full grown.”

  She clucked her tongue. “He’s the biggest and sturdiest on the island.”

  “Ha!”

  “Lawmaker imports them from the Shetlands. Shetland ponies we call them.”

  Grant reached out and stroked the pony’s neck. “Fair Isle, where the women are big and the horses small.”

  Rika bristled and bit back the curse she was tempted to let fly. The unschooled idiot wouldn’t have understood it anyway, she surmised.

  “Follow me,” she said curtly, and stalked off toward the moors, heedless of the wind and sleet.

  It was the first time she’d been alone with Grant since last night. Now she wondered at the wisdom of it. Being with him unsettled her, made her feel…strange. Not like herself at all.

  After a short, steep hike to a ridge top, she stopped and turned, prepared to wait until Grant caught her up. He nearly plowed her over.

  “Thor’s blood!”

  “Whoa, sorry,” he said, displaying not a hint of breathlessness.

  He was fit, she’d give him that. More so than most of her kinsmen, who whiled away the winter months indoors, growing soft and flabby.

  Grant had not an inch of spare flesh on him. He was pure muscle. A dizzying image of him naked and powerful, spreading her thighs wide with his own, caused her to suck in a breath.

  He could have forced her last night, but he had not. He’d wooed her with gentle kisses and caresses so soft his fingers might have been dove’s wings.

  Oh, she must stop these thoughts!

  They rushed over her unbidden and unwelcome, at the slightest provocation. She must get hold of herself, and quickly. Difficult days lay ahead, and she would not allow one night with a stranger to befuddle her thinking.