Ice Maiden

by Debra Lee Brown

  Or alter her convictions.

  Men used women for their own purpose, and this man was no exception. A home and a bride awaited him in Scotland, and she must remember that the things he did here and now he did solely to speed his return to them.

  “What is that place?” Grant said, snapping her out of her thoughts. “Down there.” He pointed at the graveyard on the moor below them.

  “Some of my ancestors rest there. Come, there are things you might learn.” She started down the other side of the ridge toward the graveyard, and Grant bounded along beside her, the wind whipping at his hair and clothes.

  He seemed not to mind the weather, and that struck her as odd. She envisioned Scotland as a lush, green place, sheltered from ravaging winds and the sea’s fickle temper.

  Sleet bit at her face, and she pulled the collar of her cloak higher to protect herself from its icy blades.

  “Here, take mine,” Grant said. “It has a bigger hood.” Before she could protest, he whipped off his cloak, wrapped it snugly about her and pulled the hood low over her face. “There.”

  Their eyes met, and his flashed a hint of the warmth they’d held last night. For the barest moment it seemed they were truly husband and wife. She looked away, and the spell was broken.

  “Thank you,” she said awkwardly, and continued down the slope.

  A few minutes later they stood amidst the graves, a sea of ships bound for other worlds. Each mound was ringed with stones set in the shape of a Viking long ship.

  Grant marveled at their construction. Apparently Scots did not practice this custom. “Some have the cross,” he said, rather amazed, nodding toward a grave that bore the Christian symbol.

  “Ja, we are not as godless as you imagine. True, we practice the old ways, but most of us are Christian.”

  “So Lawmaker has said.” He ran his hand over the rough stone of the ancient cross. “And ye? Are ye a Christian?”

  The question took her by surprise, and she found herself hesitating. Why? Did she care what he thought? Did she wish her answer to please him?

  “I was,” she said, dismissing her concerns. “Until my mother died and my father left. After that—” she shrugged “—I cared not for any god.”

  “When was that?”

  She turned away and stared out to sea. “Long years ago. I was still a child.”

  “And Lawmaker watched over ye e’er since?”

  “Lawmaker—and Gunnar, though he is the younger of the two of us.”

  “Where is your brother, Rika?” He moved closer and pulled her hood aside so he could see her face. “Why did he leave ye alone?”

  A flood of memories washed over her. God, how she missed him. “He was…Brodir’s men came and—” She caught herself before spilling the truth. What was she thinking?

  Rika snatched the hood and pulled it over her face, then made for the circle of standing stones near the beach. Grant jogged after her. As she reached the outer circle, he grabbed her arm.

  “Let go of me.” She shot him a warning with her eyes.

  “Tell me about Brodir.”

  Her heart leaped to her throat. His grip on her tightened. “What are you talking about? Let me go.”

  “Nay. What is he to ye besides your jarl?”

  “He is nothing.” She wrenched herself free and realized she was trembling. “Less than nothing. Don’t speak his name again.”

  “Why not? What did he do to ye?” Grant edged closer and she backed into one of the towering stones.

  “Move away,” she said, and tipped her chin at him.

  “I’m no inclined to.” He placed his hands on the stone, hemming her in. “Those marks on your wrists. He did that to ye, didn’t he?”

  Whoreson. He had lied. He’d slipped the bracelet from her wrist while she slept. “He did nothing. Now move away.” She pushed against his chest, but he was as immovable as the stone cutting into her back.

  “He’s no your lover, then, as Ingolf said.”

  “Ingolf? What lies has he been spreading?” She pushed at him again, but it was useless.

  “He said ye belonged to Brodir. That if I touched ye—”

  “Stop it!” She tried to sidestep him, but he gripped her shoulders like a vise. “I belong to no one! No one, do you hear?” Her breath came in ragged gasps. She fought to control the anger boiling within her.

  He caught her chin and wrenched it high so she’d have to look at him. “He forced ye, didn’t he?”

  Oh, God. “Stop it!”

  “Didn’t he? Say it.”

  “Nay!” A sting of tears glassed her eyes. She’d be damned if she would cry.

  “The marks on your wrists, the scar on your neck—’twas his doing.”

  She shook her head vehemently as Grant’s fingers traced the path along her neck Brodir’s knife had journeyed the night before he’d left for the mainland. Sleet turned to rain, pummeling her face and washing away the tears she could not stop.

  “Don’t,” she breathed, reading the intent in his slate eyes.

  Too late.

  His mouth covered hers in a kiss that was neither tender nor controlled, and that screamed with a frantic possessiveness that shocked her nearly off her feet.

  Her instinct to fight him crumbled instantly under the weight of some deep longing that she did not understand. A need for him that was more than physical. A yearning for closeness, for—

  She broke free of him and ran.

  Lightning flashed overhead, and a crackling thunder split the air. She threw off his cloak, and hers, and scrambled up the ridge, the wind lashing at her hair, icy sheets of rain battering her on.

  By the time she made the village, she was soaked to the skin. Ottar stood in the closed doorway of the longhouse, waiting for her, as she knew he would be. She slowed to a walk in the courtyard and tried to catch her breath, rein in her wild emotions.

  “Rika, what’s happened?” Ottar cast aside the bit of bread he’d been eating and rushed to her.

  “Nothing, I’m fine.” She pushed past him.

  “Where’s your cloak?”

  “Nowhere. It’s…” They reached the cover of the eaves, and she collapsed against the whitewashed stones of the longhouse. “I lost it.”

  “But—”

  Grant rounded the corner, clutching her sopping cloak, and stopped short when he saw the youth.

  Ottar whipped a blade from his belt. “Blackguard! Did he hurt you?”

  “Nay. Ottar—” She grabbed his arm. “He’s done nothing. Sheathe your weapon.”

  Grant approached them. “Your cloak…wife.”

  The muscles in Ottar’s forearm tensed at Grant’s words. “Go inside now,” she said, and pushed the youth toward the door. “I would speak to my—to Grant, alone.”

  After Ottar had gone, she realized she had nothing to say to the Scot. His kiss had stunned her, but it was her reaction to it that made her afraid.

  They stood there, silent, in the rain until the light went out of his eyes and the warmth of her indifference returned, buoying her strength.

  All was right again.

  He held the door for her, and she went inside to join the others.

  “You’re not concentrating,” Lawmaker said. He snatched the carved game piece from the board and placed it back where it had been before George had moved it. “Try again, and this time think what you mean to accomplish.”

  “Aye, I know, I know.” George ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I must capture your king before he escapes to the edge of the board.”

  “Exactly,” Lawmaker said. “And you have twice as many attackers as I do defenders. So, get on with it.”

  “It’s no like any chess I’ve e’er played.” And he’d played plenty, against some of the finest minds in the Highlands.

  “I told you, it’s not chess. The game is tafl.”

  George made a derisory sound in the back of his throat. “Well, whatever the devil it is, I canna concentrate with her
lurking over me and grunting every time I make a move.” He glanced over his shoulder at Rika, who eyed the board with an arched brow. “See what I mean?”

  Lawmaker shrugged. “She’s your wife. She’s entitled to lurk.”

  He swore under his breath and moved the carved game piece for the third time.

  “Good.” Lawmaker nodded, satisfied at last.

  Rika snorted.

  “Och, what now?” George had had enough of her arrogance. She’d been in a foul mood since their walk that afternoon. And while what had happened between them had been his fault, he grew tired of her unrelenting punishment. At supper, she’d snapped at him over the slightest infraction against their customs.

  Customs he was beginning to hate.

  Leif and Erik had spent the whole meal lecturing him in Norse history—tales of bloody battles, for the most part. The two young men sat watching him now, and he wondered—not for the first time—what stake they had in this dowry business. ’Twas not for nothing they offered their friendship.

  The two of them, along with Rika and Lawmaker, were thick as thieves. Meanwhile, Ingolf slouched in the corner with his rat-pack, watching Rika’s every move.

  George mouthed a silent prayer for clear weather. The sooner they sailed the better. For him and for Rika, too, he suspected.

  “It’s your move, Grant.” Rika poked him in the back.

  “D’ye think ye can do better?” He shot her a nasty glance. “Here, take my place and show me how ’tis done.”

  George started to rise, but she pushed him firmly back down on the bench. “Nay, you must learn to master this game if you’re to win my father’s favor.”

  So he’d heard a dozen times that night.

  “Perhaps you should play against him, Rika.” Lawmaker rose and offered her his seat. “It would be an excellent test of his concentration.” George could swear the old man suppressed a smile.

  “Pff! Nay, I will not play him.”

  George had sought all afternoon for a way to soften the tension between them, for it served no purpose and only made for misery in the close quarters mandated by the weather. Perhaps this tafl was a way to ease her out of her mood.

  Lawmaker asked her again, and George recognized his opportunity. “Dinna force her,” he said. “After all, women have no the wit for games of strategy. ’Twould only embarrass her.”

  He hoped she wasn’t armed. Looming there behind him, ’twould be easy enough for her to slit his throat. He resisted the urge to turn around, but did not have long to wait for her reaction.

  “Out of the way, old man,” she said, and plucked the elder from his seat.

  “As you wish.” Lawmaker put his hands up in defense and sidestepped out of her way. He smiled discreetly at George, then moved to the hearth where Leif and Erik sat grinning in amusement.

  Fine. He’d play her if that’s what everyone wished.

  “It’s your move,” Rika said, and propped her elbows on the table.

  This was going to be fun.

  George was good at games, particularly those that required forward thinking. Lawmaker had taught him all the moves and basic strategies, and George was certain he could beat her without much trouble—should he wish to.

  He did not.

  ’Twould be better to let her win. It might brighten her mood. Besides, women truly did not have a mind for such things. Oh, he’d seen her best Ottar, but the youth was smitten with her, and for certain let her prevail so he might win her favor.

  George moved one of his pieces and stole a glance at her while she studied the board.

  He felt a strange remorse for his actions that afternoon. He should never have mentioned Brodir—and should have known she would deny the jarl’s mistreatment of her.

  George didn’t know what had possessed him. He’d felt suddenly angered by the whole affair, and couldn’t stop himself. What had he expected? That she would collapse in his arms and beg him to protect her from the brute?

  Any ordinary woman would have.

  Rika, daughter of Fritha, was no ordinary woman.

  She moved her king with confidence and raised a brow at him.

  “Who taught ye to play?” George moved one of his men in turn.

  “Lawmaker, after my father abandoned us.”

  “Why did he go, your father?”

  Her expression darkened, as it did each time Rollo was mentioned. “He remarried when my mother died.”

  “Ah, right. A Scot.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Erik. Or Leif.” He shrugged. “I canna remember which.”

  “I allow them to school you, but do not bother them with unnecessary questions.”

  “I’ll ask what I—”

  “I shall tell you the things you need to know.”

  Haughty bitch. Perhaps he’d not let her win, after all. He had a mind to beat her soundly, in fact, and studied the board while she made her next move.

  She called for more mead, and the old woman Sitryg brought another flagon to their table. George hadn’t seen Lina since that morn. It amused him that Rika found the girl threatening. He had no real interest in the lass. She was entertaining only in that she provided such a marked contrast to Rika.

  He lifted a game piece from the board.

  “I wouldn’t make that move,” she said.

  “Why not?” The woman was increasingly irritating. The move would put him in a position to win, and she knew that. The scheming little vixen. Mayhap she was not so unlike Lina, after all. “My move stands,” he said, more determined than ever to best her.

  “Suit yourself.” She dropped one of her pieces onto a square that did absolutely nothing to protect her king. She had lost the game already but did not see it.

  George grinned at her, and slid one of his attacking pieces toward her king.

  Rika arched a brow. “Careful.”

  He laughed, savoring his triumph over her, but three moves later the smile slid from his face.

  “Raichi!” she cried, and stood. “You’ve lost, Scotsman.”

  “But—” George stared at the board, incredulous. How the devil had she done it? A few of the men who watched them laughed.

  “Perhaps you should go back to playing chess.” She sauntered around the table, dragging her finger across the edge of the board. “What was it you said earlier?”

  He ignored her, shaking his head, going over the moves in his mind again.

  Lawmaker’s steady hand lit on his shoulder. “He said that women had not the wit for games of strategy.”

  Damn her! George rubbed a hand over his stubbly beard. Finally he relented and looked her in the eye.

  Rika stood tall, smiling down at him—nay, gloating. His blood boiled.

  “One must conclude,” she said, “that until now the only women he’s known were witless, indeed.”

  George swore under his breath, as she turned her back on him and took a seat by the fire between Erik and Leif.

  “I told you she was an unusual woman.” Lawmaker settled onto the seat she’d vacated. “Come,” he said, and moved the game pieces back into place. “Let us start again.”

  Chapter Seven

  The weather worsened.

  Rika feared they would never sail. She stood at the window in the small cottage where she and Grant had spent their wedding night, and stared out to sea.

  Gunnar went missing nearly a year ago, and it was months before she’d pieced together the evidence of foul play and Brodir’s involvement. By then, Brodir had installed himself as jarl, and few would listen to her accusations.

  She was alone in this. She and Lawmaker, and the few young warriors who remained loyal to Gunnar. Where was he now? she wondered. In some work camp at Dunnet Head, cold and starving—or dead, mayhap?

  Nay, she refused to believe that. Gunnar was alive. He was young and strong, and nearly as willful as she. Ja, he was alive, and Rika would find him and bring him home.

  She drew a cleansing breath of sea air
, and let the sealskin cover fall back into place over the window. Her bed lay untouched from the previous night. She’d had trouble sleeping ever since she and Grant had…

  Oh, that was days ago now. Why couldn’t she stop thinking of it? At her request, Grant slept in his usual place in the longhouse. She could not bear to be near him at night, and so she slept in the cottage alone, with the door barred—just in case.

  Not that she expected company from Grant. She’d made it clear to him she wanted no dealings with him save what was necessary for his instruction. He’d complied with her wishes all too readily. That was something, at least, they agreed on.

  Her kinsmen seemed to think naught of this arrangement. They’d always thought her unusual, and she’d done little to convince them otherwise. Most accepted Grant readily and didn’t question her motives for wedding him.

  On Fair Isle a woman with no family was free to choose her own mate if the one chosen for her had been gone as long as Brodir had. More often than not, men who went a-Viking never returned.

  All save those in on her plan had no idea Grant would be leaving—and she with him. The truth would come out the day she and Gunnar returned to Fair Isle. Until then, it was her secret, to be shared only with Lawmaker and those loyal to her brother.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Rika drew back the bolt and opened the door cautiously. Ingolf and his men had it out for her, and she’d been careful since the wedding not to be caught alone with him and his cronies.

  Lawmaker’s bright eyes peered at her through the cracked door. “Come,” he said. “There is something afoot I think you’ll wish to see.”

  She didn’t wait for an explanation, just grabbed her cloak, threw it around her shoulders, and followed him into the courtyard.

  “The Scot does battle this morn with all comers.”

  “What?” She grabbed his arm. “Where? With whom?” Thor’s blood, what if he were killed?

  Lawmaker smiled. “Not to worry. Mock battle. Leif and Erik have been instructing him in the use of some of our weapons.”