by Tualla, Kris
When his very being shattered into bits, he felt that he made sounds: loud, rough, and odd. Humiliated, he was certain she would be repulsed. He pulled away from her and reached for his clothes. As he stumbled into them -- refusing to look at her and see her words of recrimination -- she seized his arm. He turned without meaning to.
Though she looked at him strangely, she pulled him into the softest, sweetest kiss he could imagine. He had died and gone to Valhalla.
Tonight however, he would forgo the possibility. He motioned to the inn's keeper and indicated that he wanted a room for the night. The man nodded, accepted the appropriate coinage, and went to talk to the serving girl.
She came back to his table and leaned toward him, her rippling breasts threatening to spill onto the table and drown them both. It was time to dissuade her with the one tool that always succeeded.
I cannot hear, he motioned.
She stilled and blinked. "What?"
I. Can. Not. Hear.
"Deaf? Are you a dummy?"
It stung, but he nodded.
She straightened slowly and her gaze raked over him. She seemed to be pondering his various abilities and their corresponding physical assets. "Can you understand me?"
Brander pointed at his eyes and his lips, then her lips. He nodded.
She stepped back, frowning. "Are you a magician?"
Brandon shook his head, his grin tugging the corners of his mouth.
"I must... I mean..." She whirled and hurried away from him. Just as he expected.
Upstairs in the darkened room, Brander sat in a chair by the door. With the portal wedged open he could see the stairs should anyone leave, and light should anyone arrive. Again, he waited.
Patience was not a skill that came in any way easily to him. When he first arrived in Christiania he lost several opportunities by acting too quickly. Revealing his presence prematurely. Stumbling into a transaction before it was completed. But now -- though his thoughts sailed ahead and his muscles prodded him to leap -- Brander held still. Like a winter wolf waiting for the right moment to spring.
Without the distraction of sound he saw more than most men; a fact that was repeatedly proven in his investigations. He was often astonished by what details others didn't see, what movements they missed. Or what unguarded expressions went unnoticed while revealing its bearer's true nature. His deafness had oddly equipped him for this adopted trade. And he was very, very good at it.
Enough.
The time for action had come.
Brander stepped into the hall, his soft leather boots soundless, and opened one of the doors. By the light of the arctic summer sky glowing in the window, he saw a rotund man sleeping on his back, alone in the bed. He closed that door and moved to the next. That room was empty.
Three doors remained: his own, the tavern keeper's and what must be Skogen's. He turned the handle slowly. No vibrations betrayed him. What he found was not a surprise, but that did not make the scene any more pleasant. His jaw tightened and he pressed down his anger.
Skogen and the other man were sprawled on the bed head by toe, with the nude woman draped across them. Her tousled hair veiled Skogen's thighs and her calves framed the other man's genitals. He was completely disrobed; Skogen was naked below his shirt.
And what thought had he given his wife?
Brander was never going to marry. But if he did, he knew he would remain faithful. It wasn't in his character to go against his word. His vow was as immovable as the mountains that formed Norway's majestic profile.
He tiptoed to the bed and set himself to the noxious task of smelling Skogen's breath. He peered into the man's sagging mouth to confirm what his nostrils whispered.
Opium.
Skogen stirred and his lips moved indecipherably. Brander stepped back and stilled. With eyes closed, Skogen's hand groped for his stiffening yard. He rubbed it a little, and then melted back into sleep. His hand fell away and his member drooped.
Brander twitched a grin. If the reprobate was having an erotic opium dream, it wasn't doing him any good.
Another detail pulled his attention. The other man had open sores on his phallus: he was poxed. Damn. He would have left his mark in the whore, and now Skogen was tainted. If he wasn't already.
Again the thought bounced through his skull: what about his wife?
Rage fired through his frame and Brander leaned close to examine Skogen. There weren't any visible sores on his shriveled manhood. Yet. Even so, he wanted to kill the sot. His fingers clenched around an imagined hilt, and he felt the heavy heat of the steel blade tucked inside his boot. One quick slice. Leave the knife in the other man's hand.
So easy.
So very easy.
Willing himself away, he left the room and then the inn. Confirmation of Skogen's opium addiction and sexual escapades were enough horror for tonight. He needed to confer with Niels and discover who sold the immoral oaf the opium to begin with.
His heartbeat hitched. He also needed to write to Lady Skogen. He must warn her away from her husband's bed, if it wasn't already too late.
Chapter Six
Kildahlshus
Hamar
July 14, 1720
Dear Lady Skogen,
Please forgive the unusual familiarity with which I must speak to you in this letter, but the situation which I was unfortunate -- or fortunate, perhaps -- to discover requires that I do so.
Please, my lady, quit your husband's bed immediately. I have irrefutable evidence that he has been exposed to the pox, also called the French disease.
I cannot tell you if the occasion I witnessed was his first exposure. But I pray that it was, and that your health is preserved.
Again, I ask your forgiveness for broaching such a delicate subject. I will write to you soon, as my investigation on your behalf continues.
Your faithful servant,
Lord Olaf Olsen
Regin's hands shook so hard she dropped the letter.
"My lady?" Marthe grasped her elbow.
She turned to face her maid. "When did I last share Thorlak's bed?" she demanded.
Confusion carved Marthe's countenance. "What?"
"When!" Regin shouted.
"I-I believe it was Christmas, was it not?" Marthe paled.
"No! I remember had my menses this Christmas past and stained my nicest gown..." Realization pulled her up short. "Was it the Christmas before that?"
Marthe frowned. "Has it truly been that long?"
"Thorlak has only been home twice since January," she touched her cheek and looked away from Marthe's sympathetic eyes. "And I didn't lay with him either time."
Regin closed her eyes and tried to envision Thorlak's last visit to her bedchamber. It was white. It was snowing. He was kind to her, then. He knocked on her door and brought a pitcher of warmed mead and two goblets. Silver ones.
Back when she still owned silver ones.
He said that the Christian sentiments expressed in church made him feel especially kindly toward her. His words were already slurred, and he drank heavily in her chamber. His seduction was rushed and made clumsy by the drink. But she took comfort in her husband's unexpected presence and in his attention, of late so often withheld and squandered elsewhere.
He slept in her bed the entire night. He slept in her bed for the last time.
"A year and a half," she whispered. Relief flushed her veins and stole strength from her knees; she collapsed onto a chair.
After a year and a half, the sores would be obvious enough that Lord Olsen would not wonder if what he witnessed was Thorlak's 'first exposure.'
Oh my Lord. Did he see Thorlak unclothed?
"My lady, what is it?" Marthe pushed.
Regin looked at the woman she forgot was in the room. "He hasn't been in my bed for well over a year..."
"Does Lord Olsen need to know that?" she asked, shocked.
Regin held up one hand. She retrieved the letter from the floor. Determined to remain calm, she
read Lord Olsen's letter aloud to her maid.
Marthe's adoration for Regin shimmered in her eyes, as did her sympathies. "Oh, my..."
"Indeed." Regin stared at the inked words. They seemed to swim around the page. A scent she didn't recognize drifted upward, so she lifted the paper and sniffed it. It smelled spicy, like cloves and cedar. Masculine and clean. She closed her eyes. Maybe that was Lord Olsen's scent.
She made a decision; one that had been waiting for her. She stood abruptly and dropped the letter on her desk.
"Pack us for a journey, Marthe. Hauk, too."
The maid straightened. "Of course. Where are we going?"
"Christiania."
Fear flickered over Marthe's features. "Are we searching for Lord Skogen?"
"No." Regin lifted her chin. She shrugged off the weights of waiting, indecision and uncertainty. Thus unburdened, she felt she might begin to float off the floor. "We are going to see a solicitor."
"About the estate, then," Marthe nodded.
"Yes, in a manner of speaking." Regin looked around her room, seeing it anew. "I am going to procure a divorce."
Lunde Boarding House
Christiania
July 17, 1720
Lord Olsen,
The answers you require are, to put it plainly, quite intimate in nature. I considered not complying...
Brander read Lady Skogen's detailed confession several times, unable to prevent himself from feeling her pain. And he clearly heard her humiliation.
Here was a woman of good ancestry and honest intentions. A woman who married what appeared to be a suitable prospect at the suggestion of her family. She went into the marriage a hopeful young woman, ignorant of where her husband's fondness for games might lead him and leave her.
On the one hand, Brander understood the undeniable lure of winning. Winning money, winning women, winning respect. All were seductive goals. Respect was his own personal demon, and he chased it endlessly. But he didn't do so at the sacrifice of his life.
That was a lie.
He folded the letter and tapped it against his lips. The scent of lemons wafted from it. He thought about Lady Skogen and her lemon-scented -- soap? -- and tried to hush the conviction shouting in his soul.
When he reached Christiania eight years ago at the age of twenty-three he had only one goal: to show his father he deserved his patriarch's respect. That his inability to hear was overridden by his intelligence and his desire. That he should have been the heir.
He pushed Niels every day to get them closer to that goal. He accepted any challenge and every task. And he completed them well. Now he had enough money saved to buy up Skogen's markers. Soon he could claim Kildahlshus as his own.
And then have to decide what to do about the unfortunate Lady Skogen.
But sacrifice? What had he sacrificed?
Nothing.
Except... for eight years he lived at the top of three flights of stairs in a small boarding house room. He hadn't seen his father or brothers for all that time. He only had Niels for companionship.
And he decided to never marry. What woman wanted a husband who couldn't whisper seduction to her in the dark? Or hear her heart's deepest desires expressed in bed? Or who made horrid, frightening sounds in the midst of their marital consummation? So it followed that he would never have children. His later years would be spent at his own estate, alone.
And because his cousin had been his constant companion since the age of seven -- when the two boys became inseparable by necessity -- he had committed Niels to the same fate.
But Niels had benefits as well, he argued with himself.
His cousin was taught to read and write alongside him. Coming from a poorer branch of his father's family, he never would have had such opportunity otherwise. He lived very well at Hansen Hall in Arendal. He enjoyed all the advantages of a noble family. And Brander treated him like an equal, not a servant. That counted for something, didn't it?
Brander unfolded the letter and read it one more time. Unlike himself, Lady Skogen was in a situation she hadn't anticipated and didn't choose. He had to confess, he was quite drawn to her. She was well-spoken and kind, even when detailing her husband's sins. But she also had an underlying strength that he doubted she was aware of. Even though her future was threatened, she hadn't given up. She was still fighting. Still hoping. He wanted to meet her.
But for what purpose?
Brander's head jerked up when Niels swung his door open.
"Are you ready?"
Brander nodded and refolded the letter, catching another whiff of lemon. He laid it on his desk and stood to face Niels.
"Do you have the money?" Niels asked.
He nodded and patted his tunic: Let's go.
*****
"Welcome, Madam. Please be seated." The solicitor was pale and appeared to have recently been ill. His clothes, though well-made, hung off his shoulders. But his smile seemed sincere. A younger man carried in a cup of tea and some very rich-looking pastries. Obviously he was trying to thicken his employer's frame.
"Would you care for refreshments, Madam? Tea?" he offered.
"No, thank you." Regin hadn't even broken the fast that morning because she doubted anything would stay put in her stomach. Nervousness over her mission was combined with fear of accidentally crossing Thorlak's path. Yester eve those concerns kept her wakeful until nearly dawn.
The solicitor shooed his assistant from the room. "I'll eat it all. No need to hover like a hen!" Taking a large bite of a tart to prove his intent, he waited for the door to click closed. Swallowing with a sip of tea, he turned to Regin. "And how might I be of service?"
"Mister Gulbrandsen, I have come to engage you in a legal matter."
"Of course."
"I wish to divorce my husband."
Gulbrandsen's eyebrows lifted. "And who is your husband?"
"Lord Thorlak Skogen, Baron of Hamar."
The eyebrows blew high enough to create a rainbow of creases in his pale forehead. "And you are--"
She shot with all her arrows. "Lady Regin Kildahl Skogen of Kildahlshus, and Baroness of Hamar."
"My pleasure, Lady Skogen." He leaned back in his chair, measuring her with his gaze. "I would guess by its name that Kildahlshus is your ancestral estate. Did you bring it into the marriage?"
"I did." She pinned his rheumy eyes with hers. "And I intend to take it out."
Gulbrandsen's lips wiggled a little. He stilled them with another sip from the steaming cup.
"Every divorce requires legitimate grounds..." he posited.
Regin tried to look hurt without allowing herself to fall over that edge into her true devastation. "My husband was unfaithful."
Gulbrandsen snorted. "Lady Skogen. I am sorry to say that you would be hard pressed to find a gentleman who wasn't."
"But--" In the face of such odd logic, she lost her words.
He struggled to straighten in his seat. "I'm afraid that -- while reprehensible -- a nobleman's infidelity is hardly shocking enough for any court to rule in your favor. Setting such a precedent could destroy the landscape of gentle society."
"But he's destroying my life!"
"How? Besides the infidelity, of course."
Regin drew a deep breath. "He has sold or lost all of our valuables. Creditors have already visited the estate."
"If the estate is already entailed, a divorce won't satisfy those liens," Gulbrandsen said gently.
"But it will prevent him from making new liens, won't it?" she pleaded.
"Yes... But you would be responsible for paying back the markers yourself if you hope to keep the land."
"Oh. Of course. But..." she lifted her chin. "Stopping a boat from leaking is the first step before bailing out the water. True?"
He smiled a little. "True."
Regin clenched her jaw. There was another option and she was desperate enough to use it. "Actually, I was the unfaithful one."
Gulbrandsen shook his head a little. "M
y dear lady..."
"It's true." She increased her momentum. "I took a lover."
After a narrowed-eyed pause he asked, "Does your husband know?"
She squirmed a little and tried to make it appear that she was simply adjusting her stance in the chair. "No. Not yet. He will when you tell him we are divorcing."
"I see."
The solicitor finished his tea and ate the last pastry on his plate. He brushed his hands together and wiped them on a napkin. Steepling his fingers, he considered her over their point.
"Infidelity of the wife might be considered legitimate grounds. But the husband needs to begin the proceedings."
"Does it truly matter who begins it? If I tell him I was unfaithful, he'll have to divorce me," Regin objected. This was much harder than she thought it would be. Hope was dribbling out of her like sand in a glass.
Gulbrandsen shrugged. "He might. Whom did you take to your bed, if I might ask?"
Regin frowned. "Do you require a name?"
"It is somewhat helpful when establishing credibility," he replied dryly.
A name? She hadn't time to think of one in the last few moments.
"Lady Skogen?"
"Olsen," she blurted. "Lord Olaf Olsen."
Gulbrandsen blinked. "Lord Olaf Olsen," he repeated. "This is the man you have bedded?"
Regin nodded firmly. "Y-yes. Olaf. Olsen. Him."
"Hmph. All right, then." He pushed himself to stand with some difficulty. "I'll begin working on the case. Please inform my assistant where I may contact you."
"Thank you, Mister Gulbrandsen." Regin stood as well. "I hope you understand how important this is to me."
"I will do what I can, my lady."
While he escorted her to the door, Regin wanted to say more, but there wasn't time to explain how badly her marriage had turned. How her future depended on getting away from Thorlak Skogen. And soon.
Mister Gulbrandsen opened the office door. Regin's eyes moved up the very tall frame of the man waiting on the other side. Muscled thighs. Broad shoulders. Strong jaw and sculpted cheeks. Wavy golden hair. Wide eyes of indeterminate color boring into hers with an intensity that stopped her breath.