Tatiana March

by Surrender to the Knight

  “No need to bring me bread and cheese,” he called out after her. “I’m not hungry.”

  With a sigh, Olaf retreated into the small guest solar and stretched out on the straw pallet. He would have slept more comfortably in the big feather bed, but something held him back—a sense of needing to respect the boundary that would mark the entry to his new life as the laird of Kilgarren. He didn’t want to spend a night in the laird’s bed until the title and the estate and the woman that went with them were his by law.

  * * *

  When Olaf woke again, the pounding in his head was gone. He got up and hooked aside the fox pelt that covered the narrow window in the stone wall. Through the opening, the first glimmer of dawn provided enough light for him to locate his belongings.

  He might have lost his claim to the Stenholm fortune, but at least he possessed a set of clean clothes. While he changed, the icy air that flooded the room revived him, banishing any remaining traces of sleep, letting his thoughts settle into a clear pattern.

  He’d marry the woman. Of course he would. He wanted her lands, no matter how miserable they might turn out to be. The tour to inspect the estate was a tactical move, a delay to give him time to make a plan for how to survive. He would have to find the right balance between avoiding poisoning and starving to death.

  Expelling a tired sigh, Olaf ran his hands through his tangled locks. He might be a fool to trade the perils of the battlefield for the prospect of death with every morsel he ate, but he was tired of the nomadic life of a landless knight. He stomped his feet into the tall leather boots and set off to find Lady Brenna.

  A new thought rose in his mind as he headed for the ladder. His future would be simpler, and certainly safer, if he managed to convince Lady Brenna that a living husband might serve her better than a dead one. His lips tugged into a wry smile. He’d never sought a woman’s favor before, had never felt the need to, but now the challenge appealed to him.

  The great hall was unoccupied except for a sturdy woman standing beside the long oak table that dominated the room. When she heard his footsteps, she looked up from her chores and studied him. In return, he took her measure. She was in her forties, her features heavy, her skin ruddy. Brown hair on a coiled pleat circled her head. Her linen gown had been patched in so many places it resembled a sharecropper’s field.

  “I’m Martha, the housekeeper.” She went back to lifting pieces of meat to her nose and sniffing each one before dropping them into an iron cauldron in front of her.

  Olaf’s attention strayed to the wooden bowls scattered on the table. They were scraped so clean he couldn’t tell what had been in them, but a faint smell of grain mixed with the sharp odor of smoke that permeated the air. His mouth watered. His stomach gave a loud rumble.

  Martha glanced up. “Porridge,” she said. “There’s none left.” She shrugged, and Olaf sensed a trace of apology in the gesture. “You’ll find Lady Brenna downstairs with the animals,” the robust woman added. “She told us not to bother talking to you until we know that you’ll be staying. Just so that you’re not surprised when the men ignore you.”

  Dismay stirred inside Olaf, but he couldn’t fault the reasoning behind the order. He cast around his mind for something constructive to say. “It must be hard for Lady Brenna to manage the estate alone since her father and brother died.”

  “She managed everything while they lived.” Martha picked up the heavy cauldron and walked to the fireplace, the rigid set of her shoulders indicating that the conversation was over.

  Olaf stored the comment in his mind and headed down to the stables.

  He had one day to win over his reluctant bride, and he was wasting time.

  * * *

  The horse’s hooves clattered on the frozen ground. Lady Brenna leaned against the knight behind her. Their bodies swayed together, his left arm circling her waist beneath the rough woolen cloak that covered them both. At first, she’d been afraid of such proximity, but as she huddled into his warmth, a new sense of safety and comfort enveloped her.

  She could feel the hard wall of his chest behind her, the ripple of muscle on his thighs each time he sent a command to the horse. His scent—leather and man and steel—filled each breath she took. Even without looking at him, images of his haughty features, his green eyes and golden hair, occupied her mind, making her skin tingle and her heart race.

  The arm around her tightened, pulling her closer. “Tell me about your family.”

  Brenna raised her voice to carry over the blustery wind. “My mother was from France. She went back when I was six. She was cloistered and helped the nuns who nursed the sick. A few years later, we got word that she’d died of a fever.”

  “And your father?” the knight asked. “How did he die?”

  Brenna hesitated. Pain arrowed through her as she recalled how her father’s mind had fractured in the loneliness without his wife. He’d become a rambling ghost, lost between this world and the next. They’d contrived to keep his condition secret, and she couldn’t betray his honor now by telling the truth—that he had chosen to plunge to his death.

  “My father died in a landslide five years ago.” Brenna let out a sigh. How many lies would she have to tell before they finished their tour of Kilgarren? “He rode too close to the edge on the ocean cliffs, and the earth gave way, taking him and his horse.”

  “And your brother?”

  “He died last April. Something ruptured in his gut.”

  A wave of bitterness washed over Brenna. Cedric had been sick for years, but they had succeeded in hiding the truth. He’d worn thick clothing to cover up the growth that made his stomach swell like that of a pregnant woman, and he’d pretended to be lazy, more interested in dozing by the fireside than seeing to his duties as the laird.

  If the king had learned that Cedric was barely more than a living corpse, Brenna would have been forced to marry Laird Erskine at once. Her brother had fought to prolong his life, giving her enough time to persuade the king to offer her a choice of suitors. She’d watched in helpless grief as pain racked Cedric’s body, but the two years he’d lived in constant agony had given her the strength and courage to run the estate alone.

  “People say you were pleased to see your brother die.”

  Brenna flinched. The painful memories had sucked her in, and she’d forgotten about the knight’s probing questions. “Yes,” she admitted, startled into telling the truth. The end had been a relief, for no one should suffer the way Cedric had in his final months.

  The knight spoke in a low voice, pressing his mouth so close to her ear that she felt the warmth of his breath on her skin. “I have no intention of dying.”

  A shiver rippled over Brenna. There seemed to be a warning in his words, a warning that she failed to understand. Olaf Stenholm’s whole demeanor conveyed a subtle threat, and yet instead of fear, a longing filled her mind.

  What would it be like to have a strong, capable man by her side? To share her burdens with a husband who was an ally, not an enemy? What would it be like, not to worry about each tomorrow, not to fear every time the ground shook beneath the hooves of an arriving rider, in case he’d come to wrest Kilgarren from her?

  She leaned back into the alluring strength of Olaf Stenholm. His heat flowed into her, stirring feminine sensations she’d ignored all her life, had tried to forget even existed. Don’t, Brenna told herself. Don’t let yourself be drawn in by foolish dreams that will never be. Don’t wish to rely on someone else, when all your life you’ve been forced to rely on yourself.

  But the dream kept whispering through her mind.

  Chapter Three

  Olaf propped his back against the boulder that sheltered them from the icy wind and watched Lady Brenna uncover two chunks of bread and two wedges of cheese from the parcel of linen cloth she’d carried in a leather pouch slung over he
r shoulder.

  For an instant, his attention drifted to the land around them.

  It might be a godforsaken wilderness, but it had possibilities.

  In places, the grass grew thick enough for cattle to feed on it. Flocks of grouse had flown up from the brush with an alarmed clatter as they rode by. There was peat for burning, and where snow covered the ground, he’d spotted tracks of hare and elk and fox.

  Lady Brenna had told him that a fire in the autumn had destroyed the cottages outside the castle. That was why the villagers were living in dugouts. The place hadn’t always been quite so abysmal. With skill and patience, it could be built up again, made into a strong estate.

  “I’m afraid it’s not much for lunch,” Lady Brenna said as she handed him a piece of bread and cheese. They were twice the size of the ones she’d kept for herself. Different enough not to be mixed up, in case one of them contained an extra ingredient.

  Olaf tried to ignore the hunger gnawing in his gut. He pushed his shoulders away from the boulder and took a step forward, towering over Lady Brenna—crowding her on purpose, testing her reaction, searching for any signs of treachery.

  “You’ve given me the bigger portion,” he pointed out.

  “You’re the guest. And you had no breakfast. And...” She stood her ground and gave a small, nervous shrug. “You’re a man, and men have greater appetites.”

  He raked a glance over her frowning face. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind. Her dark eyes shone with pride of ownership over the lands they had toured. The straight dark brows and square chin gave her a bold look that hinted at hidden passions.

  “What do you know about men and their appetites?” Olaf asked softly.

  “More than I would like,” Lady Brenna replied, her manner stiff.

  Startled, Olaf eased back, giving her space. He’d saddled Thor for their tour, telling her that horseback would allow them to see more of the estate than walking. All morning her nearness had teased his senses. He’d had to exert his will to keep his hands from roaming over her lithe curves, and now he was glad that he had. There had been bitterness in her voice, scorn of men who tried to take what wasn’t theirs.

  And Lady Brenna wasn’t his. Yet.

  He pulled a dagger from his belt and cut a small sliver from the piece of cheese. “We’ll share each bite,” he informed her. He skewered the morsel with the tip of his dagger and lifted it to her mouth. “Take one half.”

  Her eyes flickered up at him, full of surprise, but she obeyed. Opening her mouth, Lady Brenna craned forward. Slowly, her plump lips closed around the piece of cheese. Just as slowly, she pulled back and chewed and swallowed, as wary as an animal in a trap.

  Nourishment. Finally. Olaf wolfed down his share, cut another piece and offered it to Lady Brenna. He couldn’t resist holding the tip of the dagger a fraction too far, forcing her to reach forward with pursed lips. Soft and pink, her mouth captured each bite.

  Olaf no longer felt the cold. Heat was gathering inside him, rolling in tingling waves over his body. Lady Brenna’s eyes, as dark as night, met his. A flush stained her cheeks. Her lips trembled, and then, as if the tension of the moment had become too much for her, her lashes fluttered down, breaking the spell between them.

  “Tell me about the other suitors,” Olaf said.

  Lady Brenna made a sour grimace. “Laird Erskine is a neighbor. He’s always coveted Kilgarren. When my brother died, Erskine took it for granted that I would be forced to marry him. He was furious when the king agreed to let me have a choice.”

  “And the other one?”

  “My brother spent two years studying in Inverness. Andrew Campbell was his tutor. He is old, with poor eyesight from years of reading, but he agreed to save me from Erskine, in case the third suitor turned out not to be acceptable.”

  Irritation niggled inside Olaf. He tried to tell himself it was his gut protesting, unused to food after two days of fasting, but he knew better. “So, I had little to defeat?” His voice was sour. “My rivals were a man you hate and an aging scholar unsuited to the role of a laird?”

  Lady Brenna stared down at the huge boots on her feet.

  It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. Olaf caught her chin with the edge of his hand and tilted up her face so he could study her expression. He’d removed his gauntlets to deal with the food, and her skin felt warm against his freezing fingers.

  “Tell me,” he pressed. “Am I nothing but the best of a bad choice?”

  Eyes downcast, she whispered, “You are...eminently suitable.”

  Satisfied, Olaf withdrew his hand.

  Lady Brenna squared her shoulders. The dreamy expression on her face crumpled into a frown. “And I guess I should tell you that Erskine didn’t take well to being thwarted. He threatened to seek permission from the king to lay siege to Kilgarren. You’ve won yourself nothing but poverty and hardship and battle.”

  “And something more,” Olaf replied.

  “What?” Lady Brenna asked.

  “You.”

  Her startled intake of breath dew a chuckle from him, but his amusement was tempered with dismay. What did she think he would do? Beat her to bruises every night? Stifle her spirit, silence her voice, ignore her needs? Concern rising inside him, Olaf studied the alarmed expression of his bride-to-be. Could it be that she was simply frightened to meet the normal needs of a man?

  * * *

  Twilight was falling when they returned to the castle. Brenna left the knight in the stables to look after his magnificent horse and hurried up the ladder to the laird’s chamber. Her hands shook as she leaned against the canopied bed and crouched down to pull off her big leather boots.

  All her life, she’d had to bear burdens that were too heavy. Even as a child, she’d been forced to be mature beyond her years. Now, fear and hope collided in her mind.

  You, he’d said. I’ve won you.

  Not only did she have to hand over her lands to a husband, but she would have to let him do whatever he wished with her, and she would be expected to enjoy the act, or at least do a good job of pretending that she did. She would be expected to comply. To obey. To respect. To succumb to someone else’s command.

  The idea filled her with a hot flare of rebellion, and yet she feared she’d been a fool to reveal Erskine’s threats to the golden knight. He might refuse to marry her now. Why would he want to stay, risking his life for lands he had no bond with and a wife who had made her lack of welcome clear?

  If he rejected her, she’d have to marry Erskine, and everyone at Kilgarren would blame her for subjecting them to a cruel master. She could already imagine their probing questions, their snide comments about how little feminine appeal she possessed if Stenholm decided to ride away instead of staying to wed her.

  Fragments of thoughts churned around in her head.

  A wife who had made her lack of welcome clear.

  How little feminine appeal she possessed.

  Since yesterday, the knight’s handsome features and lean body had stubbornly clogged up her vision, even when she closed her eyes. Especially when she closed her eyes. She recalled how he had stared at her when she first took off her helm and hauberk. Perhaps her image disturbed him in the same way. Perhaps she did have some weapons to use. She’d never practiced feminine tricks, had never had reason to learn, but how difficult could it be to lure a man with physical appeal, to show a bit of wifely welcome?

  A shiver ran over Brenna as she knew what she had to do.

  * * *

  After he finished taking care of Thor, Olaf climbed up the ladder to the top floor. During the hour he’d remained in the stables, rubbing down and feeding his horse, he’d heard Lady Brenna descend to the great hall and hold a rushed conversation with Martha. There had been a clatter of pots and pans, and several more hurried ascents and descents
between the kitchen and the laird’s chamber.

  Wondering what Lady Brenna was plotting, Olaf emerged out of the hatch on the top floor—and almost tumbled back down the ladder. Before him stood a creature that could have jumped out of every heated, masculine dream he’d ever had. She wore a frothing gown in red velvet, and the flickering flame of the candle she carried in one hand illuminated the white curve of her breasts above the low bodice. Glossy, midnight-black curls cascaded down to her waist. Light and shadow danced over her features, adding a touch of mystery to the exotic beauty.

  “Come.” Lady Brenna spoke in a low, husky voice.

  His will no longer his own, Olaf followed her into the laird’s chamber.

  A fire crackled in the chimney. On the table stood two trenchers filled with meat, a pair of tankards of ale, and a solitary silver goblet of wine.

  Lady Brenna bent to pick up a sheet of parchment from one of the low stools by the table and held it up for him. “Are you ready to sign the marriage contract now?”

  His brain screamed for caution but his body ignored the warning. His thoughts had been a heaving mass of need since lunchtime, when he’d watched Lady Brenna close her lips around each dainty bite of bread and cheese. Defying death didn’t seem too high a price for the right to touch her, to bed her, and claim her as his.

  Not moving closer to the fire for a better light, not even pretending to read the lines of text that swam in his vision, Olaf accepted the quill, supported the parchment with his left hand spread flat beneath it, wrote his name and passed the signed contract back to her without a single word.

  Lady Brenna studied his signature carefully. Then she folded the contract, tucked it into a slim leather satchel, and went to store it in an oak chest by the far wall, struggling to raise the heavy lid and lowering it again with a clunk that echoed around the room. When she came back to him, her nervous hands were tugging at the fur trimming that edged the wide sleeves of her gown.