Ice Maiden

by Debra Lee Brown

  “So he took them in—Rika and Gunnar.”

  “That he did. For love of Fritha, he raised them as if they were his own.”

  George slipped his hand into the pouch tied at his waist and fingered the silver brooch Lawmaker had given him for Rika’s morning gift.

  It’s something I’ve had for years. It was Rika’s mother’s, in fact. It’s time she had it.

  MacInnes stretched and yawned. “’Tis a sad tale, but an enlightening one. I leave it to ye to decide whether to tell it to you wife or nay. With Lawmaker gone…” He brushed a gnarly hand across his eyes. “Och, mayhap ’tis of no import now.”

  George rose with him. “I thank ye. And methinks ’tis of great import.” Although he knew he’d not have time to share the tale with Rika, nor did he wish to. What difference could it possibly make now?

  “I leave ye to it, then,” MacInnes said, and nodded toward the garden. “I’m for bed.”

  George thanked his host and watched as MacInnes ambled down the corridor toward the stairs leading up to his chamber.

  The kitchen fire had died to embers. MacInnes’s small dog lay curled on a rug by the hearth twitching, dreaming. George strained his ears, listening for sounds of men still awake in the great hall. Only snores echoed down the long corridor. All were finally abed.

  All save Rika.

  He paused by the draped window and willed his hand stay put by his side. What purpose was there in disturbing her now? If he were smart he’d get out straight away, under the cover of night—make Wick by the day after tomorrow.

  Two days hence he could sup with his new bride. Wed and bed her and get on with his life.

  His loins tightened at the prospect of such an evening, but ’twas not the promise of Anne Sinclair’s delicate beauty that fired his blood. ’Twas the gritty reality of the woman sitting alone in Tom MacInnes’s dead winter garden.

  Of its own accord, his hand lifted the deerskin window drape. She was still there, shivering in the cold, her cloak wrapped tight about her, her head uncovered and her hair loose, a silver fall of silk in the moon’s eerie light.

  He moved silently to the door and tripped the latch, all the while telling himself he was the biggest of fools.

  She turned and saw him. “Grant.” She smiled at him as if she were surprised to see him. “I thought you to be halfway to Wick by now.”

  What was she, a bloody mind reader? George stepped out into the snow and shivered under her scrutiny.

  “Nay,” he said. “No tonight.”

  Chapter Twelve

  She knew what he intended.

  The primal look in his eyes confirmed it.

  Grant closed the distance between them and pulled Rika to her feet. Had she wished to protest—and she did not—there was not the time.

  He kissed her, hard. As he had that day on the moor, with a fury and a possessiveness that thrilled her. Rika more than allowed it. She wanted it. Burned for it.

  She burned for him.

  How could she?

  Shame and desire warred in bright fusion inside her. How could she want for this manhandling? The thought sickened her, yet her body betrayed her sensibilities, and she gave herself up to his strength, his surety. Heat spread like honey from her woman’s place as his hands moved over her breasts.

  “Come to bed with me,” he breathed against her lips.

  His sweet plea and the memory of their bridal night caused gooseflesh to rise on her skin. Oh, how she wanted him. She grew bold and ran her hands down his back to his buttocks. Grant moaned dreamily in response.

  “Just this once,” he whispered. “One last time. Come to bed.”

  She stiffened in his arms.

  “What’s wrong?” He brushed a lock of hair from off her face and looked into her eyes. “I know ye want it as much as I.”

  She pushed against his chest, but he drew her even closer, if that were possible, and kissed her again despite the litany of protests dying on her lips.

  One last time.

  The short-lived nature of their relationship was driven home to her. Nay, one could not even call what they shared a relationship. ’Twas a bargain. Plain and simple. And made under duress—on both their parts.

  He used her—as all men used women.

  Merely to slake his lust.

  “Stop it,” she whispered halfheartedly as he moved against her, holding her fast so she’d feel the full measure of his desire.

  “I will if ye truly wish it, but ye do not.” He kissed her again, with more urgency, and she was swept up in the haze of her own passion.

  “Grant, nay,” she breathed. ’Twas madness. She must not succumb. She must stay focused.

  “Tell me ye want me,” he groaned, his hands moving lower.

  “Nay, nay.” She broke the kiss and shook her head. Oh God, why wouldn’t he stop? They stood in the snow on a dead chill night, yet all she felt was his heat—and her own.

  She was dangerously close to giving in.

  Mayhap she should?

  Her submission to his animal lusts might serve to hold him to their bargain—might keep him with her long enough for her to claim her dowry.

  She kissed him back, and let her arms slip around his neck.

  “Aye, that’s it.” He backed her toward the open kitchen door.

  Any moment she was certain he’d sweep her from her feet, bear her down the corridor and into their chamber. He’d lay her back on the eiderdown pillows and strip away her brother’s clothes, revealing the woman he knew she was.

  She should let him. To gain the dowry.

  Ja, for Gunnar’s sake.

  A twisted sort of horror gripped her, and she went rigid in Grant’s arms. He drew back and looked at her through slitted eyes glazed with desire.

  The veracity of her own feelings struck her like a blast of wind off the sea.

  Her eagerness to bed him had naught to do with her brother’s plight—not by any stretch of her imagination, no matter how much she wished it so. Nay, her willingness had everything to do with her own needs. Needs far past desire.

  She wanted him—so very much. His strength fueled her own. His confidence sparked hers to dizzying heights. She needed him, and the truth of it frightened her.

  “I…I must go,” she said, and pushed him away.

  “Rika—”

  “Say no more, for I tire of your lies.” Oh, but she could listen to them all night. She turned and ran through the kitchen and down the long corridor toward her bedchamber.

  Grant’s footfalls sounded behind her. Just a few more steps. She skidded into the chamber, slammed the door behind her and threw the bolt.

  She exhaled, her heart pounding an erratic rhythm in her chest. Grant’s whispered pleas sounded through the heavy timber door.

  Rika put her hands to her ears, and ignored them.

  George slammed the wall with his fist.

  Was he mad? Aye, he was, and ’twas her fault. She tempted him beyond all reason. Stirred his blood to boiling. Befuddled him entirely.

  “Idiot,” he breathed, and slid down the cool surface of the wall outside her chamber to the rush-strewn floor.

  All was quiet, save for the pounding of his heart. He drew a breath and closed his eyes.

  “Vixen.”

  Never had a woman so addled his thinking, or distracted him so easily from his purpose. She was dangerous, and he was a fool. He banged his head backward against the wall, hammering the message into his thick head.

  He was a laird, charged with grave responsibilities to clan and king, to his betrothed and her family. How he ever allowed himself to get caught up in this ludicrous scheme was beyond comprehension.

  ’Twas Rika’s fault. Hers alone.

  Their heathen marriage was a blasphemy—one the church could ne’er forgive. She’d corrupted his sense of order, his perceptions of right and wrong. She was boorish and brash, and completely unskilled in the feminine arts.

  He should loath her, despise her. Feel rev
ulsion at her artless kisses and cringe at the solid length of her body pressed to his.

  “God help me.” He felt just the opposite. His desire for her was rich, all consuming.

  The madness would end here. He must crush it. Drive it out.

  George pushed himself to his feet, nodding his commitment. His eyes burned and his head throbbed. God’s truth, he was dead tired. He hadn’t slept in days.

  MacInnes and his men were likely all abed. ’Twould be easy to slip away. Aye, but was it wise? He had a two-day ride ahead of him, over terrain he did not know. Should he set out in the dead of night he could lose his way.

  Nay, there was little point in it now. Tomorrow was soon enough, after a decent night’s sleep. He’d wait until they were well away from MacInnes’s demesne.

  Not one of them—Rika, Ottar, or the other two lads—could ride a horse. They had probably ne’er seen a proper mount until this afternoon in MacInnes’s stable. ’Twould be child’s play to outrun them on the road.

  You gave your word.

  Rika’s words and Lawmaker’s calm visage haunted him. Aye, he’d agreed to their bargain, but under duress. His consent had been snared by trickery and coercion. None that he knew—in his own world—would fault him for breaking his word.

  His mind made up, he slipped down the corridor and into the great hall where a dozen men slept on furs and plaids scattered about the floor near the hearth. The peat fire burned low.

  George spotted an extra fur and, snaking his way through the snoring pack, collapsed onto it and sighed. His eyes drifted shut. He willed the tension drain from his exhausted body.

  On the morrow he would leave her.

  Nothing she could do or say would stop him.

  MacInnes’s wife roused Rika early from her bed. Had she slept at all? Nay, she’d tossed and turned under the spell of disturbing dreams. Nightmares, really, about her father and Brodir—and him.

  Grant.

  Her feelings for the Scot contradicted every truth, every conviction she held about men. He was dangerous, clever, and must not be trusted.

  Rika snorted. She was the one who could not be trusted. Last night had proved the point. She yielded to his seduction as easily as a smitten maid succumbs to an ardent suitor. Fool. She’d take care to ne’er be caught alone with him again.

  Rika dressed quickly, nibbled at the bread and salted fish Mistress MacInnes had left her, and started for the stable. Rounding the corner from the main corridor into the kitchen, she slammed into—

  “Thor’s blood!” Grant. “Watch where you’re going.”

  “Och, sorry.”

  She tried to sidestep him, and he her, and again they collided. Heat flushed her face.

  “Uh, your pardon,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

  “No matter.” She brushed past him, flustered, and did not stop until she was outside. The wind hit her like a bracing slap. She sucked in a breath and tried to compose herself.

  Her mind was made up. Her resolve steel.

  “Rika!” Ottar’s voice carried from the stable’s entrance.

  She waved at him as he stood with Erik and Leif just inside the timber doors near five saddled mounts who would bear them to her father’s estate.

  “They are positively huge,” she said, as she approached the steeds, her eyes widening in wonder.

  “Fair enormous.” Leif slapped one of them, a roan, affectionately on the rump.

  “Where’s Grant?” Erik said. “The day is clear, but the journey will likely be rough.” He eyed their mounts nervously. “We should be off.”

  “There he is now.” Ottar pointed across the courtyard.

  Grant and MacInnes walked slowly from the house, deep in conversation. Halfway to the stable MacInnes placed a beefy hand on Grant’s shoulder, stopping him. They leaned in close, whispering so that none might hear.

  Rika bristled. What on earth were they talking about? Just as her patience ran out, the two clasped hands, then moved quickly to join her and the youths.

  Grant helped her to mount the smallest of the steeds—a white mare. Her brother’s garments seemed a good choice, after all. She could not imagine riding in a gown. Gunnar’s sword hung in the scabbard positioned by her thigh, his hauberk and helm hidden away in a sack tied behind her saddle.

  Soon, dear brother, very soon.

  Rika settled atop the fidgeting beast and smiled. “’Tis surprisingly comfortable.”

  Grant handed her the reins. “We’ll see how comfortable ye are after a day’s hard ride across the moor.”

  She ignored him, and he turned to assist the youths. Leif and Erik mounted awkwardly and looked none too sure of themselves as they took up their reins. Ottar surprised them all by vaulting onto his gelding’s back and maneuvering the beast out into the courtyard, as if he’d ridden all his life.

  “Good man,” Grant said, and nodded. He leaped easily onto the back of his own mount, a great chestnut steed whose size and musculature were well matched to the Scot’s own powerful build.

  Rika followed him out into the courtyard, pleased by the mare’s easy response to her direction.

  “D’ye know how fortunate we are?” he said to her. “Steeds this fine are rare, and worth more than ye can fathom.”

  She was just beginning to realize that.

  MacInnes slapped Grant’s chestnut gelding on the rump.

  The horse took off but Grant jerked him to a halt. “Will ye no reconsider, MacInnes?”

  Rika frowned. Reconsider what?

  “I thank ye, nay,” MacInnes said. “Rollo and I dinna get along.”

  Now this was truly strange. Grant must have asked MacInnes to accompany them. This business with the horses bred more trust than she’d realized. Truth be told, she had thought to ask MacInnes to go with them herself. She would need all the friends around her she could muster in Rollo’s cold presence.

  “We shall not forget your kindness,” she said. MacInnes’s wife joined her husband in the courtyard, and for a moment Rika held her gaze.

  MacInnes took Rika’s hand in his. “There is naught we would no do for the daughter of Lawmaker’s heart.”

  What an odd thing for him to say. A hollow pain welled inside her. She nodded at the two of them, squeezed MacInnes’s rough hand, then let go.

  Grant led them from the courtyard, snow crunching under the chestnut’s hooves.

  “Godspeed,” MacInnes called after them. His breath frosted his beard. “And dinna worry about the ship. ’Twill be well cared for in your absence. We’ll expect ye back in a sennight—a fortnight at most. After that, I canna promise that I willna come a-lookin’ for ye.”

  Rika looked back and waved. A small part of her did not want to leave.

  Grant urged the chestnut into a trot. Rika and the youths followed, bouncing along in their saddles. Already her rump grew sore.

  Two hours later Grant paused at the crest of a long ridge. It was about time they stopped to re—

  “Thor’s blood, what’s that?” Rika’s eyes widened.

  “What? Down there, ye mean?” Grant nodded toward the lush sea of greenery below them. “’Tis naught but a small wood. Why?”

  She could not take her eyes from it. “It’s…nothing like I imagined.” A dusting of snow clung to the treetops like icing on a honey cake. “It’s…lovely.”

  He looked at her strangely for a moment, then said, “Ah, right. Ye’ve no seen trees like this.”

  “We’ve not seen trees at all,” Ottar said, gaping at the forest.

  Grant shivered and waved them forward. “Come on then.”

  Rika’s mount picked her way carefully down the rocky, snow covered hillside. Leif and Erik followed, whining about the cold, their sore behinds and the poor footing. Ottar let out a whoop, then spurred his gelding ahead to keep pace with Grant. The youth had taken to riding as she once had to sailing.

  A vision of Lawmaker slipping over the side of the byrthing flashed briefly, hideously, in her mind. She pushed the
memory away and focused her thoughts on what lay ahead.

  Grant had been acting fair strange since they’d left MacInnes’s house that morn. He was more than aloof. His manner was stone cold, his eyes hard and calculating. Something was afoot. She read it in his face each time he stopped to study the landscape and gaze at the chart MacInnes had given them.

  She felt it each time he looked at her.

  Rika bade Erik and Leif draw their mounts up even with hers. “Do you notice how strange he seems today?” she said, and nodded ahead toward Grant.

  Erik frowned. “Nay, why? What are you thinking?”

  “She’s thinking he may bolt,” Leif said.

  Rika strained her eyes, trying to keep Grant and Ottar in sight as they disappeared into the wood.

  “But you have a bargain,” Erik said.

  “Methinks he intends not to keep it.” Rika goaded the mare faster and, a minute later, snaked her way into the cover of the trees. There they were, just ahead. Thank God. She realized her heart had been pounding.

  Last night she’d resigned herself to the fact that Grant would likely not honor their agreement—and under the warmth of MacInnes’s roof it had been easy not to care. But today, bobbing along on the backs of strange animals in a foreign land, her confidence wavered.

  “It’s a faeryland!” Ottar grinned and waved her toward them.

  Their new surroundings snapped her from her thoughts. It was rather like a faeryland. Sun bled through the emerald canopy above them and lit up the snow, drifted high against the marbled trunks of strange trees. Rika exhaled and watched her breath fog the chill air.

  “I don’t like it,” Leif said. “It’s too…”

  “Closed in,” Erik finished.

  They were right. The wood was so dense it seemed almost claustrophobic. It would be difficult to maneuver their steeds with any kind of speed, should the need arise. Rika had the unsettling feeling that it would.

  She glanced at Grant and caught him staring at her. He quickly looked away.

  “Which way?” she said.

  “West.” Grant urged his mount forward, and they followed, single file, weaving through the trees.