He moved with power and grace — beautiful, potent, thrilling to behold. The word leonine again sprang to mind, as it had yesterday, when her eyes first encountered him. The long lines of his body appeared supple, resilient, yet well defined. Their underlying strength had been forged, she imagined, through years of discipline and rigorous training.
Ailinn gazed on the rich play of muscle through his chest and arms, then drifted her eyes to his handsome features. She noted the ease of his smile and the unmistakable affection contained in his eyes as he looked on the babe and lifted him heavenward.
Ailinn returned her attention to the garment in her hands and began to beat it with the small paddle. His? she wondered of the children, noting they bore him little resemblance, what with their ebony locks and what appeared to be thumb-size impressions in their little chins. He had none, though she thought to have glimpsed dimples in his cheeks.
She whisked a glance to the Dane and back again. Aye, dimples. Creases, really. Deep ones. In each cheek.
Ailinn reversed the cloth and pounded it soundly.
And his eyes . . . she summoned them to mind. His eyes were as blue as the lakes of Killarney, though lighter — brilliant and clear. The children’s were indiscernible at this distance, obviously not the same sparkling shade.
Ailinn rubbed soap into a stain, then stayed her busy hands, startled that anything about the Dane should be of concern to her. She turned the cloth over and took up the paddle again.
Of course the man would have children, she reasoned with herself. Likely he had sired more than these two.
Ailinn stole a sideways glance of his splendid frame. Many more. Indeed, what woman would turn him from her bed?
She plunged the garment into the water and sloshed it around. Withdrawing it, she wrung it hard, then slapped it down on the growing pile of sodden cloths.
As Ailinn reached for another linen, she felt the heat of his eyes upon her. Imagination, she chided herself and dismissed the unsettling feeling. Still, the sensation remained.
Slowly she lifted her gaze and immediately lost herself in a crystal blue sea. Ailinn took a long, difficult swallow, her mouth and throat suddenly gone dry. Several moments passed, an eternity, before she could pull away from his intense regard.
She lowered her eyes — a mistake — for they came to rest upon his flat, tapering waist. Then the narrow strip of cloth fastened low about his hips. Then his long, hard, marvelously sculpted legs.
Ailinn’s heart began to thud high in her chest and sound in her ears.
The vibrations of the wharf-planking alerted her to Thora’s approach. A moment later the Norsewoman barked out some displeasure and gave a jarring shove to her back. Ailinn nearly pitched from the landing, inadvertently toppling a small mound of Thora’s chemises into the water.
Pain seared her scalp as Thora dragged her upright by the hair. Ailinn saw the Dane start forward, thunder in his face. But at the same time she glimpsed Thora’s hand in her edge of vision, drawing back to strike.
“Skallagrim!” Ailinn hurled the name as though it were a weapon.
Thora stayed her hand midair and growled beneath her breath. Releasing Ailinn, she stepped back, lips thinned and nostrils flared. She then jabbed a finger toward the fallen clothes, carping in shrill tones until Ailinn retrieved them from the water.
Satisfied, Thora straightened, smoothed the panels of cloth that overlay the front and back of her gown, then, after casting a glance to the white-haired Dane, returned to her friends.
»«
Anger exploded through Lyting. He started forward as the bearish-looking woman descended upon the maid. Thora Kolsdóttir. He recognized her from yestereve and gained an instant dislike for the woman. In the next moment he halted as the maid called out something and Thora’s arm went rigid. The woman looked ready to chew iron rivets, but she released her hold on the girl.
Lyting rubbed his hand along his jaw. What could the maid have spoken? He watched her pluck the fallen garments from the river. A smile touched his lips and then died as he discovered Thora’s eyes upon him. Incredibly, she tried to draw his interest as she strutted toward the cluster of women, giving a slight pitch to her great hips. In truth, the movement produced more joggle than sway. Meanwhile, her companions whispered and tittered among themselves as their eyes strayed over him.
Lyting felt nauseated. Then his anger boiled afresh. How long had these women been observing him? Had they seen how his gaze fairly consumed the maid? How their eyes had met and wed for that one brief moment? Jealous shrews. Was that the cause of this scene? Did they punish the maid on his account?
His choler rose another degree as the women continued to devour him with covetous eyes. If ‘twas a closer look they desired, then they would have it, along with a blistering piece of his mind.
He began to take a forward step, but the children chose that very moment to wrap themselves about his legs.
“Look, Uncle. Ketil.” Richard waved toward the wharf.
“Ketil,” chimed Kylan.
Lyting reined his impulses, remembering the lads. He hauled his eyes from the women and sliced a glance along the pier. There, he spied Ketil examining a length of line. Nearby stood Skallagrim — watching, solemn-faced.
Lyting stilled as he and the chieftain regarded each other across the distance. Skallagrim raised his bearded chin, then shifted his gaze to the maid and then to his sister, Thora.
“Up, Uncle.” Kylan pulled at Lyting’s thigh and hip in an attempt to scramble upward. Richard likewise began to scale his uncle’s other leg.
Stifling the fire that yet burned within, Lyting looked down on the round little heads and allowed his smile to return. He tousled their ebony locks, then lifted them, one to each hip.
Again, the boys called out and waved at Ketil until they captured his attention. Ketil’s teeth gleamed through his blaze of beard, and he lifted his hand in acknowledgment.
Lyting nodded a greeting to Ketil as well, his arms occupied with the two lively pups. Still distracted, he deflected his gaze back toward the maiden.
‘Twould seem that Skallagrim watched over his prize captive as closely as he, himself, did. Likely, the chieftain was not the sort of man who would welcome interference with that which he held as his own — slave or sister.
Lyting stabbed a look at the women, yet debating whether or not to confront them with his displeasure. A muscle flexed along his jaw. Teeth clamped tight, he vented a breath. For the moment he would resist the temptation — as long as they left the maid undisturbed.
He glanced once more to the auburn-haired beauty, resolving to remain here for the time, near at hand, and enjoy sporting with young Richard and Kylan.
As his humor flowed slowly back, Lyting sank down into the coolness of the water, drawing the boys with him. Their gasps quickly dissolved to laughter as he squiggled his fingers over their soft bellies and flashed them an openhearted smile.
»«
Ketil watched with gladsome approval at the cheery little scene. ‘Twas good to see Lyting relaxing with the mites. He loved children and should have a hall filled with his own. But with his mind set on shutting himself within the sterile walls of Corbie, Rurik and Brienne’s children would be the only ones Lyting would ever enjoy.
A shame, Ketil sighed as he examined the line of seal-hide for imperfections and tested its strength. The Good Lord saved Lyting from the brink of death, well and true. But that did not necessarily mean that He spared him apurpose for Corbie. Lyting thought in that vein, however, and it seemed naught could dissuade him.
Ketil chuckled at Richard’s antics and waved again. He caught the twinkle in Lyting’s eye as he scooped up the boy and dangled him upside down.
“You sailed with that man?” a roughened voice sounded off to his left.
Ketil turned and took measure of the weathered sea-warrior who stood several arm’s lengths away. He possessed as brambly a mane of hair and beard as himself and stood nearly as tall.<
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“Já,” Ketil answered with a shadow of caution. “We arrived yestermorn from Normandy.”
The man seemed to consider this for a moment, then his eye ranged to Lyting. “Your friend tried to buy a slave of mine.” He nodded toward a maid who labored over her wash at the end of the wharf. A maid of exceptional beauty.
Ketil lifted a brow in utter surprise. He had heard of the incident from Aleth and Brienne. But they made no mention that the maid Lyting sought to free was one so fair.
Ketil tugged at his beard, a smile spreading beneath the fiery thicket. ‘Twas a good sign. Mayhap, his badgerings and advisements would bear fruit after all.
Ketil smoothed his mustache and shrugged casually. “I imagine that one draws many an eye.”
“Já, that she does. But your friend seemed more intent than most.” The man looked again to Lyting and considered him with a hard stare. “Normandy, eh? Has your pale-haired friend a name?”
Ketil bent an eye over the sea-warrior, gauging how he should respond. “Lyting Atlison, blood-nephew to Duke Rollo himself and brother to the Baron de Valsemé. We sail under the baron’s banner. And you?”
The man rolled an eye to Ketil. “Skallagrim, master of the Wind Raven. I sail under my own banner.” Unexpectedly one side of his mouth drew into the semblance of a smile, then faded. His attention returned to Lyting.
“Best advise Atlison to take a long, cold swim. His desire for my slave is obvious, but the maid is not for purchase. He’ll have to find another to bed.”
“Him?” Ketil fairly choked, though the thought of Lyting “in lust” was wondrously heartening.
Again, a faint knell of caution sounded somewhere in Ketil’s brain, and he felt a compelling need to put Skallagrim’s concerns to rest. He hoped Lyting would understand the necessity to depict matters as he must to their Odin-worshipping kinsman.
“Nei, there be naught to glean in his interest,” Ketil avowed. “Those Franks have turned him into a knee-bending Christian. He seeks a monkish life on our return to Normandy. ‘Twas not for himself but for the baronne that he sought to acquire the maid. She is a softhearted woman, a Frank.”
Skallagrim looked to Ketil skeptically. “Odd that she would choose a slave of such beauty to tempt her husband.”
Ketil huffed into his beard. Obviously Skallagrim had not seen the Lady Brienne nor heard the saga of hers and Rurik’s joining. Their tale of love was the sort skalds remembered in verse and celebrated in the halls.
“Nei. I did not mean that the baronne selected the maid. She left the matter of purchase to Lyting. He is after all, a full-blooded son of Danmark. Understandably, he chose the most beautiful.”
To Ketil’s surprise, Skallagrim cracked a smile.
“I imagine the baron would have been appreciative of that, had he succeeded!”
Ketil remained silent as the chieftain cast a suspect eye to Lyting.
“He seeks to be a monk, you say? I have heard that the Christians’ beliefs can unman a warrior. But he does not look unmanned from here.”
“Lyting honors the vows he seeks to embrace, even now,” Ketil maintained staunchly but truthfully. “He suffers as any man who denies his body. He finds his relief as you suggest, by taking frequent swims in cold lakes.”
The tension seemed to seep out of Skallagrim’s shoulders and limbs. His smile reappeared, then mellowed as he shook his head. “ ‘Tis unfathomable, this priest-class’ devotion to celibacy that the Christians so revere.”
Ketil found no response as his thoughts went to Aleth. To his mind, the fairest and most enjoyable achievement of Divine creation was Woman, and she God fashioned expressly for Man.
“At least your friend will enjoy the riches of the church without the need to first plunder them!” Skallagrim grinned.
Ketil gave a brief nod and matched his smile as though to agree. He hoped Lyting would move with care about Skallagrim and the beautiful slavegirl. A misstep could prove fateful.
»«
Ailinn rose to her feet, slipping a last glance to the Dane as she took up the dense weight of wet linens. Their eyes brushed for the barest of moments before she turned and followed Thora back along the wharf.
The vision of the bright-haired warrior continued to play in her mind as she and Thora retraced their earlier steps, turning down one lane, then another. Suddenly they came upon a gathering — mostly Arabs and Northmen — crowded about something of interest. In their midst Ailinn spied the maids of Clonmel, displayed before all as common slaves, proffered for a bit of coin. ‘Twas then that her gaze fell on Lia.
“Ní hea!” Ailinn lurched forward, her shackles trammeling her step. Their eyes found each other’s just as Thora cuffed Ailinn alongside the back of her head, where marks would be hidden beneath the hair.
Ailinn bent beneath the blow, clutching the sodden laundry to her side. She tasted the sharp, bitter hatred that filled her soul. Hatred for all that was Norse.
Slowly she straightened and cleaved Thora with such a look of vehemence and utter loathing that the Norsewoman drew back a pace.
Ailinn’s eyes then sought Lia’s once more. Their gazes met and held across an ocean of pain in one last farewell.
As she forced her steps on to follow Thora, Ailinn’s heart splinter into a thousand pieces.
Woodenly she trailed Thora’s steps back to the house. As she approached the portal, she observed Hakon within the fenced side yard, his back facing her.
Unclad to the waist, he peered into a small disk of polished metal, nailed to a sapling, and scraped away the growth that covered his jaw. Though Hakon appeared unconcerned with the women’s arrival, Ailinn saw that he watched her in his mirror as she moved toward the door and entered the dwelling.
Thora had no sooner set her to a task than Hakon appeared on the threshold and stepped inside. He paused by the barrel of ale that sat near the entry and took a hollowed gourd from the wall. Ladling up a portion of the golden liquid, he drank it slowly, his eyes passing over her where she knelt by the hearth. Draining the last of the beverage, he returned the dipper to its peg, wiped his mouth, and departed without a word.
Unease settled in Ailinn’s bone. She strove to force Hakon from her mind as she coaxed the embers to life. Thora lingered by the door a moment longer, gazing after Hakon’s back. Her eyes then drew to Ailinn.
Thora moved to a weathered trunk that sat along the wall. Opening it, she withdrew a stout chain, several arms’ lengths in measure, and a heavy lock. Her expression lightened as she started toward Ailinn.
With a grunt, Thora half-bent, half-squatted to remove the linkage that bound Ailinn’s ankles. She then reshackled Ailinn’s left leg with the second, much longer piece of chain. Rising, Thora proceeded to wrap the end about the carved, timbered post opposite the hearth and secure it with the lock.
Ailinn remained motionless as Thora sought her mantle and advanced toward the door. On a parting thought, Thora turned back, grabbed up an abandoned distaff bearing a fluffy knob of wool, and returned to Ailinn long enough to thrust it into her hands. She then snatched up a shallow basket — one Ailinn recognized from yestereve as having held the supper’s fish — and quit the house. Thora’s voice sounded outside as she presumably informed Hakon of her departure.
The moment drew out. Stillness descended upon the house. Silence.
Ailinn sank beside the hearth, alert, observant, her ears strained for the slightest sound. She fingered the wool, then absently began to twist the fibers to begin a thread as she glanced about the empty hall. Abruptly Ailinn stayed her hands and dropped her gaze. Thora had provided her no spindle. The Norsewoman never intended that she should work the wool.
Just then the room darkened as though the sun had escaped behind the clouds and had been momentarily blotted out. Fine hairs raised along the back of Ailinn’s neck. Her gaze drew to the door to behold Hakon framed within its portal.
Ailinn ceased to breathe. Hakon’s eyes smoldered deep in their sockets, two burn
ing coals. She prayed he had come for naught but the ale and would quickly slake his thirst and be gone. Her hopes withered as Hakon stepped inside and passed the barrel, sparing it no interest.
He came to a halt. Tunic in hand, he wiped the sweat from his bare chest, then threw it to the side-floor. Eyes never leaving her, he continued forward.
Ailinn rose on watery legs as Hakon uttered something in his Norse tongue and closed the distance.
“I do not understand.” Her grip tightened around the distaff, and she edged -backward.
Again Hakon spoke, these words different, though as incomprehensible as the first.
“N’ on digná tu. I do not understand. Leave me be!”
The ankle cuff bit into her flesh as the chain jarred to its end and held fast. Still, she strove to draw back, straining against the bonds, her leg and the linkage stretched tight.
Hakon bridged the narrow space in an easy stride and clamped iron fingers about her arms. Terror sheared through Ailinn as he hauled her against his rock-hard chest. Frantically she thrashed and pitched within his hold but gained no advantage. A slim hope glimmered — a single word. Yet, as the name of her grizzled protector rose in her throat and reached her lips, it was crushed beneath Hakon’s bruising mouth.
Ailinn cried against the assault, her pleas stifled beneath his ravaging kiss. Desperate, she angled the distaff and stabbed for his side.
Hakon snarled and wrenched back as the stick caught him low across the waist. Knocking the piece from her hands, he thrust Ailinn to the floor, then dropped to cover her. But she rolled from under him and clambered to gain the side-floor. Hakon aided her efforts as he grasped her about the waist and tossed her up onto fur throws.
Pain tore at Ailinn’s leg as the chain jolted against its limits once more. In the skip of a heartbeat Hakon flung himself atop her. Pinning her arms, he pressed her into the pelts. She felt the hard length of his ravenous passion as he ground his hips against her.
Yanking at the folds of her skirt, he bared her leg and swept his roughened hand upward over thigh and hip to capture her buttock. Forcing her against him, Hakon seized her lips in a brutal kiss.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 6