by Tualla, Kris
It didn't require a genius to figure out that they now traveled too slowly to reach the towns Brander had marked on his map. Today was the sixteenth day of October. They had journeyed for thirteen days; she thought they would reach Arendal yesterday, and that was allowing two extra days. But they weren't there yet.
How much further was Arendal?
"Forty miles," Niels said softly over his bowl of stew. "Forty miles yet to Arendal..."
Regin wondered if it was her imagination, or did the man look unwell. His cheeks were an unhealthy red and his eyelids drooped. She looked at Marthe. The maid's brows lowered and her lips were pressed in a decidedly determined manner.
"Is anything amiss?" Regin asked him.
"I'm fine," Niels growled. He stood and abandoned his breakfast, pushing through the tavern's door and disappearing in a steamy cloud of expletives.
Brander watched him go. Then he bounced an evaluative glance from Marthe to Regin and back to Marthe.
Regin tapped his arm, drawing his intensity back to her. "Is he well?"
Brander tapped his temple with his middle finger.
I don't know.
*****
The overnight freeze made the road a bit easier to manage since the wheels weren't caking with mud. Niels drove again and Brander didn't argue with his cousin. Something was definitely wrong with the man, but Hansen stubbornness coursed through his valet's veins even if it was through a daughter's line, not a son's. Niels shrugged away all inquiries and stared sullenly ahead.
Lady Kildahl chose to walk and gave Marthe the chance to ride first. While Brander was surprised, he was nonetheless pleased to have her company. Especially after the night he spent by her side.
He laid down beside Lady Kildahl as soon as she snapped at them and flopped onto the floor. He didn't want Niels to take that spot -- nor Marthe should she, in some misguided fit of loyalty, try to protect her mistress's reputation. Brander didn't press himself to the widow, but when she snuggled against him in her sleep, he smiled. Her hand rested on his hip and her knees tucked behind his. Her warmth combined with his and he knew they both reaped the benefits.
He couldn't remember experiencing a more contented slumber. When she turned away from him in the middle of the night, he rolled as well and snuggled against her in turn. His bladder protested, but he refused to leave the bliss of her side for something as trivial as a piss.
She was quiet this morning in spite of the first sunshine they had seen in days. Her head was down and she stepped with care over the deep wheel ruts of frozen mud that jostled the carriage before them. He wondered what weighed so heavily on her mind, but didn't deign to ask. If she asked him questions in return, he might have need to lie to her. Normally, he accepted that part of his trade; but with Lady Kildahl it ate away at him.
They had been walking about three hours when the carriage slowed to a stop. Brander walked forward, assuming Niels wanted him to drive, but his cousin lay slumped on his side and the reins had fallen from his hands.
Brander clapped his hands hard and fast to draw the women's attention. Then he climbed up to Niels. When he gripped Niels' cloak he felt the heat. His valet was burning hot.
Marthe was beside him in an instant. "Get him down!"
She turned her head away and Brander missed her next words. He struggled to get Niels over his shoulder -- the man was nearly his own size -- and then he backed down slowly to the ground. He carried Niels to the carriage door and saw that Lady Kildahl had re-formed the bundles into a bed, half the width of the coach. With her help, he managed to lay Niels across it.
Marthe shoved him aside and clambered in. While he watched through the door, the women began to pull away his cousin's clothes, searching for the source of his fever.
Brander smelled it before they found it.
Niels' right shoulder was swollen and streaked with red. Puss oozed from two curved sets of cuts -- Brander guessed one of the horses bit him in the mudslide melee. The wound was obviously infected and should have been treated when it happened.
Why didn't he say anything?
Marthe sat back on her heels, fists on her hips. Lady Kildahl watched her and nodded. Then she turned to him as she climbed out of the conveyance.
"We'll need a fire. And water. The wound needs to be cleaned and the infection cut away," she said. "Do you have any akevitt?"
Brander nodded. Before they left the little Sundebru tavern he had purchased both dry firewood and a large flask of akevitt in the event he was felled by another migraine.
He sent Lady Kildahl off in search of water while he started a fire. When she returned, he set the water to heating. Marthe came out of the coach. Her expression was grim.
"Lord Olsen, will you heat your knife?" she asked.
He nodded and handed her the flask.
For the next hour, Marthe worked on Niels. She poured as much akevitt into his cousin as the man could swallow. Then she cut away the infected tissue. Brander heated his knife in the blaze until it was hot enough to sear skin. Then he held Niels down while Marthe cauterized the wounds, glad he was deaf and couldn't hear his cousin's red-faced roars of pain.
Niels collapsed afterward, pale and shivering. Marthe put a lavender-scented slave on the burnt skin and wrapped it in torn linen strips. Then she and Lady Kildahl piled clothing on the man as blankets.
Determined and practical, Lady Kildahl bustled about bringing clean water, burning soiled rags and clothing, and attending to any task Marthe required. She didn't recoil from the stench, the mess, nor the menial tasks she was given. Her title and nobility never stopped her from acting a caring and capable woman. She was the sort of woman a man would be proud to call his wife.
Jarl would call his wife.
Damn.
She tapped his arm and the ridiculous idea that she knew his thoughts jolted through his limbs. He forced his focus back to her.
"We'll need to feed him," she said. "Marthe says meat broth is best."
Brander pulled out his wallet and wrote: I'll hunt now. I know I can bring fish if nothing else.
Lady Kildahl's eyes drew all the blue from the sky. "Thank you, Brander."
*****
They only covered ten miles that day. The weather was kind enough not to rain on them, but the night grew cold and biting. Marthe stayed inside the coach with Niels so Regin was forced to bed down beside Brander under the dubious protection of the carriage. At least the fire burned hot.
She couldn't fall asleep, but wiggled constantly in search of a comfortable position. She turned over yet again and faced Brander. The man was wide-eyed and smirking.
"I cannot get comfortable!" she grumbled.
What are you thinking about?
That stopped her. She frowned. "Niels."
Niels will live. Marthe is very good.
"Jarl, then."
His expression shifted from teasing to solemn: Yes.
Regin stared into Brander's eyes. By firelight they were almost colorless, though his stare lost none of its intensity. His hair matched the flames as though he wore a crown of fire.
"Why do you live in a garret?" she asked. "You are educated and intelligent. And you understand how to behave in society..."
Brander hesitated as if he was deciding what to tell her. Then he reached for the wallet he set aside. He pulled out a sheet of paper and a graphite stick.
I did not inherit, he wrote.
"Too many sons?"
He paused: Yes.
She appeared confused. "Was there no place for you?"
I could not go to the army because I cannot hear.
He met her eyes and she nodded. Then he wrote: It stood in the way of the church as well, though I would not have chosen that vocation.
"But at your home? Was there not a position for you there?" she pressed.
Brander's jaw clenched and muscles rippled his journey's beard. The thick stubble glittered like new copper. His eyes searched hers and she felt her soul rise to meet hi
s gaze. When he returned to his paper she realized she was holding her breath.
Young men have quick tempers, he wrote.
"You - you left home because you were angry?" she whispered.
His eyelids fluttered. He drew a breath so large that his chest rose four inches: Yes.
For several minutes they laid still. Regin hoped he would tell her, but she knew she wasn't privy to his reasons. He was simply a man who was hired to see her safely to her new husband. Nothing more. Yet somehow, everything more.
His hand moved again: My father had no confidence in my abilities.
"Because you can't hear..." she completed the sentence.
Yes.
Tears stung Regin's eyes and she bit her lips together. That was so unfair. So horribly unfair.
His life was ruined by his father as much as hers was ruined by her husband. Both of those men stole everything, abandoning those they held power over, leaving them to survive only through the wits God gave them. And the strength born of indignant fury.
Brander's anguish infused her and mingled with her own. "Why do the people we love hurt us so much?" she cried.
He wiped her cheek with a long finger; she didn't know the tears had spilled. Then he wiped her other cheek. His eyes followed his fingers and didn't meet hers. His tender stroke released her pain and she cried in earnest -- as much for him as for herself.
Regin took hold of Brander's hand to stop him from touching her. He was stirring feelings inside of her that she couldn't fight. Her heart was beating too hard and too fast. Her belly quivered, low and tingling. The long neglected juncture of her thighs heated. She stared at his beautiful face until his eyes lifted again to hers.
She meant to say no. She drew a breath. She licked her lips and they rounded to form the word.
They never had the chance.
Brander's mouth met hers softly. His eyes were still open, questioning. Regin lifted a shaking hand to his cheek. The sharp points of his beard pricked at first, then bent and lay like smooth sheaves under the pressure of her palm. Her hand slid around his head, fingers tangling in his curling fire-crown hair. She closed her eyes and kissed him with too much hunger, too much desire. But she couldn't stop herself.
He rolled over her and kissed her with more intent than any man ever had. His tongue plundered her mouth and then she plundered his in return. Her hands slipped inside his cloak, found the edge of his tunic, the hem of his shirt, the chilled skin underneath. She ran her palm up his chest just to feel the masculine power contained in his huge frame.
Cold fingers moved up her back -- he had found the gap between skirt and bodice, but her shift was immobile. His hand moved around and massaged her breast through the shift's linen. His lips moved down her throat and nuzzled beneath fabric to the upper swell of her bosom while his thumb roused her nipple.
Regin arched her back, her body asking for more. She remembered not to make any sound when Brander's knees pressed between hers. Through the layers of fabric she felt him, hard as the tree trunks around them and nearly as large. She pushed her hips forward. The sweet ache of need made her feel careless and wanton.
Brander moved against her as if he was swiving her. She shifted her grip to his hips and spread her legs under her skirt so his pressure would be accurately placed. She was completely taken over. No longer Lady Regin, Baroness of Hamar, but simply a maid lying with a man she loved.
All of her trials faded. All of her worries dissipated. It didn't matter that they were entangled on the frozen ground under a carriage. Nor that they were fully clothed in layers of wool and fur and linen. Not a word of endearment had -- or ever could -- pass between them.
All she knew was this tall, beautiful, intelligent, capable and strong protector was making urgent love to her.
She peaked first. Lips pressed tight against escaping sound, she pulled him as close to her as their barriers would permit. She squirmed under him, pushed into him. She felt him begin to pulse against her and his breath came in short gasping grunts. Then he melted over her, panting.
When he tried to move away, she wouldn't let him. She buried her head under his chin and wrapped his arms around her. If she saw his face now, it would break her heart. Tomorrow she would face him and their impossibly disparate futures. But not now. Not yet.
She fell asleep in his arms.
Chapter Twenty-Three
October 17, 1720
A layer of frost covered the world and inched under the carriage. Brander eased away from Lady Kildahl and made his water several yards away in the woods. In the icy blue predawn, humiliation washed through him and warmed him from hair to boot.
Thor's thunder, he was a fool. More than a fool -- he cuckolded his brother.
Well, in a manner of speaking.
His fists clenched and he stomped further from the carriage. What came over him? He had never acted so stupidly in the eight years since he left Arendal. He always closed his heart to women. And he never gave his body to anyone whom he hadn't paid.
But something about the widow broke his defenses. Not only broke them, but smashed through them like a siege engine. When she asked him why 'the people we love hurt us' he knew that she knew. It was her struggle not to cry that finally pierced his armor. He wiped her tears without thinking about it.
If only she hadn't taken his hand in hers. He felt the calluses of her labors, physical representatives of her willingness to put pride aside and do what was needful. He wondered if he was as strong as she.
Could he put pride aside and do what was needful?
He knew she meant to say no to him. Decades of lip-reading made him an expert. But she hadn't yet drawn the breath to make the sound. He kissed her before she could. His pulse throbbed in his ears -- the only sort of 'sound' he could hear -- and lip-to-lip he watched for her response. When her fingers moved into his hair, he knew she was his.
No! Not his! Damn.
His climax was unexpected and terrifying. Did he make noise? Was he repulsive? He tried to read her reaction but she wouldn't even look at him. He knew she experienced her own pleasure, so it couldn't be that. She only tucked against him for warmth and went to sleep.
He lay awake for a long time after that.
*****
Brander pushed them hard that day, driving the horses as he walked beside them. Niels remained abed and fevered. The women planned to take turns riding in the coach and tending him, though Marthe was by his cousin's side for all but perhaps one hour.
Lady Kildahl's manner was subdued. She gripped a halter and walked on the opposite side of the team. He couldn't see her mouth so they couldn't converse. That was fine with him. He hadn't a clue what he might say to her.
They reached Tvedestrand in mid-afternoon. The village had one inn, but from the looks and smell of it they would be better off sleeping outside. Brander didn't even ask about rooms, but stopped at the singular tavern. He made certain that his party was very well fed, including broth for Niels who still languished in the carriage, then -- through Lady Kildahl -- inquired about lodging.
"Tvedestrand has an inn," the tavern keeper said. "It's located--"
"We have visited the inn, sir. I am afraid we found the accommodations there to be, um, unavailable," Lady Kildahl countered.
"Oh? Oh. Well." The man patted his ample belly and looked around as if to find a reason. "The thing is... If I were to let you... That is, the innkeeper can be a stubborn sort of fellow, you see."
Brander dropped coins on the table. The man swallowed and looked up, clearly torn. "His son is to marry my daughter," he pleaded.
More coins tumbled from his hand.
The tavern keeper paled. "Sir, I beg you. Do not ask this of me. Tvedestrand is a small village with few prospects."
Lady Kildahl picked up the coins and pressed them back into Brander's hand with a stern glance. She whirled and exited the tavern leaving him no other choice but to follow.
He caught up to her easily and reached for her shoulder
but she rounded on him before he touched her.
What? she motioned angrily.
What are you doing? he motioned back with equal vigor.
You put him in a bad... "Position!" she blurted. "He cannot accept us without offending his daughter's future father-in-law!"
He wants the coin!
Her shoulders sagged. "He wants his daughter's security more."
Then he is a fool.
She blinked, and then motioned: I don't understand.
He gestured and formed the word clearly with his lips: Fool.
Lady Kildahl backed away. She pointed a stiff finger at him: You are the fool.
Fury born of a day spent contemplating his precise foolishness exploded in his chest. His chin jutted and his elbows waved around him: I know!
He strode to the head of the carriage and yanked the mare's halter. The little horse tossed her head in protest but stepped forward leading her partner. The carriage began to roll forward. He didn't look back to see if Lady Kildahl followed. Part of him hoped she wouldn't, while every bit of him knew she would.
Brander walked for two or three miles before his rage boiled down to a mere simmer. The sun was lowering and the air grew colder. Overhead clouds gathered and smelled of snow. It appeared to be one more foolish choice for this day to leave the village behind and spend another night by the road. He guessed the amount of daylight left by the yellow glow in the hazy southwestern sky. It was time to stop if he hoped to make a safe camp of it.
*****
Regin stomped behind the carriage, shouting her frustration. "You are an idiot, sir, if you believe a man would risk his daughter's prospects! Not for a single night of housing strangers who are passing through the village! Unless, perhaps, you planned to pay a decade's income for one miserly night spent on the floor? Oh! You are such a fool!"
She stayed out of Brander's sight so there was no chance he might see her and discern what she was saying. "That man had scruples! Do you know of scruples? You claim to be a discreet gentleman. What is it you truly hide? You won't answer questions! You have a hundred faces you wear! Who can trust the likes of you?"