by Tualla, Kris
When the carriage stopped, Marthe flew from the coach. "My lady, what has happened?"
Regin shook her head, both irritated and embarrassed. "Nothing of consequence."
"You have been back here shouting for the better part of an hour!" Marthe chastised. "You woke Niels."
She seized the opportunity to shift the conversation. "How is he?"
The maid looked over her shoulder. "Not well. His fever is still high. Sometimes he says things that make no sense."
"But he'll recover." Regin made it a statement, not a question.
Marthe's chin quivered. "I'm doing all that I know how to do."
Brander loomed in the corner of her vision drawing her unwilling attention. He stared at Marthe and pointed at the coach. Marthe walked toward the carriage door and motioned him to follow. He never even looked at Regin.
"If this is how you treat women, it's no wonder you're alone!" she snipped as she walked to the front of the carriage. She fished the axe out from under the bench seat and went in search of firewood. The large meal they had in the tavern would hold them overnight, but they needed a fire for warmth. The dire realization that she would need to sleep beside Brander again had been niggling at her since she grabbed his coins off the tavern table.
Regin wandered into the forest and dragged fallen logs back. She tried chopping some of the larger ones but soon realized it looked much easier than it was. Especially when a big man like Brander swung the axe.
By her third load the carriage was nestled off the side of the narrow road. The horses had been unharnessed and hobbled. A small fire was burning. And it was too dark for her to go back into the forest alone.
She sat on the log she had dragged to the fire's side and rested the axe by her feet. Flames danced in the deepening night and she stared at their undulating movements. How much farther was it now? How many miles lay between her and her husband? How many more nights spent sleeping beside a man who made her insides melt? A man who knew her worst truths but never looked at her with disdain. A strong man who protected her.
A man she loved.
God help her, she did love him.
"I can't love him," she whispered to the fire. "I am to marry Jarl Hansen. He'll save my home. He'll save my life."
Sparks flew into the icy air, whether to encourage her or shame her she couldn't know. The sound of footsteps turned her around. Brander stood behind her. Solemn, he squinted at her. Or maybe at the fire. But her anger evaporated when she knew he feared for his cousin's life.
She slid sideways on the log and he sat beside her. His long legs stretched to the side of the flames. Then he looked at her: Niels.
Yes?
He is bad.
I know.
Brander's gaze shifted to the flames. Regin laid her cheek against his shoulder and slid her hand down his arm until it reached his hand. His fingers closed over hers. For a while they leaned on each other while the blaze and sparks put on a show.
Regin tilted her head forward. Brander looked down at her. His pupils were huge and black.
"He is not getting worse," she said.
I know.
"Marthe knows what to do."
Yes.
Regin mimicked writing and wiggled her fingers. Brander drew his wallet from his tunic and handed it to her. She pulled out a piece of paper and wrote: I know that Niels is like your arm, that everything you do relies on him. I know that you love him.
Brander nodded.
He is not going to die.
You don't know that.
From somewhere she could not name, the certainty filled her. She smiled a little: Yes I do.
Brander stared at her. His hopeful soul bared itself in his gaze.
Regin could not stand the intimacy of that gaze. It heated her blood and beckoned her near; too near. So she changed the direction of their conversation. "How much farther is Arendal?"
He held up his fingers: Ten or twelve miles.
"Is that all?" A surge of panic tripped her heartbeat. "We'll arrive tomorrow?"
Yes.
Her hands flew to her head. "But I'm a mess! My clothes are covered with mud. I haven't bathed or washed my hair in weeks."
Brander leaned back as if he saw her anew. He shrugged his lack of understanding.
"I'm arriving in a broken carriage with half a team of mismatched horses. My belongings are wrapped in bundles like the meanest of peasants."
Confusion carved the man's face.
"Do you understand?" she cried.
He pulled the wallet from her hand. I understand your words, but I don't understand your meaning, he wrote.
Regin shook her head. "I look like a beggar, not a baroness. What will he think of me?"
Brander made a face. He will see your beauty immediately. And soon after he will discover your intelligence.
Regin blinked up at him. "You think I'm beautiful?"
Yes.
"And intelligent?"
You outsmarted me.
"I did?" She frowned. "How?"
Brander's mouth worked furiously. He waved his hands and started to tuck the wallet away. Obviously he didn't want to say anymore, if indeed he meant the words he wrote.
Regin reached out to stop him. "Don't. Let's keep talking."
He hesitated: Why?
She glanced uneasily toward the carriage. "Our only other choice is to sleep."
*****
Brander deliberately unfolded his wallet and handed it back to Lady Kildahl. He didn't look at her. He knew he should say something to her about the previous night, but he couldn't.
If he said anything, she would have to react. And then he would see the look on her face. The awkwardness, the revulsion. The disgust she obviously felt because here she was sitting in the chill by a fire instead of slipping under the carriage with him. He must have made horrific sounds, even though he tried so hard to keep his mouth closed and his gasps inside.
He tilted his head back and evaluated the sky. Low clouds were thickening above them. That meant a warmer night, less chance of a freeze. That was helpful. It might be she wouldn't need to lie so close to him.
She tapped his arm. He looked down at the paper.
What kind of investigations do you do most of the time?
That was unexpected. Relieved, he wrote: Creditors hire me to recover debts. Sometimes I follow husbands or wives. My solicitor's brother was trying to kill him and blame it on the wife.
Her eyes widened. "Truly? How did you discover that?"
I was a monk praying for the man in his room. For days.
"And you saw?" Her expression was pure astonishment.
He nodded.
"What about the opium poisonings?"
I stumbled upon the first one.
She tilted her head. "And you figured it out?"
Yes.
Lady Kildahl's features softened into blatant adoration. "You're a very impressive man, Brander."
Why did those words tingle through his veins like lightning? Because he never heard them before from a woman? More to the point, because this woman was the one to say them. He wanted her to say them again, so he pretended he didn't understand.
She faced him and gestured as she spoke. "You. Are an impressive. Man."
And you are a very impressive woman.
She recoiled and stared at him like he was insane. "Why would you say that?"
You are in a situation that you did not cause. But you are facing it with strength. You are not afraid.
She shook her head. "Oh, yes I am. I'm very much afraid."
Why?
She blinked slowly and gazed into his eyes. He was shocked by the dark blue of her fear.
"I'm marrying a stranger. I have no knowledge of what sort of man he is. I don't even know how old he is! He could be worse than Thorlak in behavior. Only with more money."
Brander hesitated, then: He is twenty-nine.
"You know that? How?" She looked puzzled, yet hopeful.
&nbs
p; When he hired me, he said a little about himself. I should have told you sooner.
"What else?" She grabbed his arm. "What else do you know?"
What else did he know was not the question; what else might he tell her was.
He is the oldest son at Hansen Hall. The oldest son living at Hansen Hall, he amended in his mind. I don't believe he has ever been married. He has a fine reputation. He is not worse than Thorlak. Unless his personality had altered more than Brander could imagine.
"Educated, of course," she added.
Yes. And well.
"Do you know what he looks like?" she pleaded.
Brander hesitated again. A man's physique might change quite a lot in eight years: No.
She sat back, resigned. "Of course. You only know of him through correspondence."
He didn't answer. There were too many lies already.
"It seems that the paths of both of our lives have been determined by others," she observed. She poked the fire with a stick sending sparks pirouetting into the night.
Yes.
They sat without words for a while. Brander got up and added a log to the blaze. Then he went to see how Niels and Marthe fared. His valet was asleep; his breaths steamed the air over his face in regular puffs. Shallow, but regular.
He sat watch while Marthe stretched her legs. While she was gone he prayed for Niels, pleading for God to heal him. Brander wasn't a monk in truth, but his faith was real enough. And he knew that God knew how much his cousin meant to him. It wasn't only that Niels thoroughly understood him, Brander loved the man like a brother. More than a brother, in truth. Niels had remained faithfully at his side even when his own brothers abandoned him.
Or had he abandoned his brothers?
That startling thought jarred his thoughts. Might he be the one that was wrong? He walked out without a word to any of them. And he stayed away. He had not sent one letter home in eight years. They didn't even know if he was alive.
Marthe reappeared and Brander nodded his good night. He was glad to be interrupted in his dismal contemplation. None of his speculation mattered because he was about to find out the truth. It wasn't only Lady Kildahl who had reason to be nervous about tomorrow's arrival at Hansen Hall.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Regin watched Brander disappear around the carriage. His tall frame moved gracefully, his muscles bunching and lengthening. He was so strong. Like a blond wolf.
And just as dangerous.
Last night she was engulfed by his masculinity. It washed over her and pulled her like a rushing tide. She had no desire to resist, but allowed it to sweep her into its pleasurable swirl. His kiss churned in her chest and his touch caused a flood of her own. The reason she asked him to stay by the fire and talk this evening was that she had no reserves left to deny him. If he kissed her again, she would give him anything he wanted and ask nothing in return.
Marthe came out of the carriage and stepped into the forest. After a pace she approached the fire.
"How is Niels?" Regin asked.
"Unchanged," the maid answered. She sat on the log in the spot Brander deserted.
Regin took her hand. "Then he doesn't grow worse. I'm certain he'll recover."
"I hope so," Marthe whispered.
"Do you love him?"
The woman's eyes widened and she looked horrified. "Why do you ask that?"
"So you do."
"God help me," she moaned. "It's hopeless, my lady."
"I could release you," Regin offered, though the thought sat like a stone in her belly.
"How could I leave you alone with all those strangers?" she demanded. "And besides that, Niels can't support a wife. He only has the stipend that Lord Olsen pays him."
"Has he said anything to you?" Regin asked.
Marthe faced the fire. "No."
"You know nothing of his heart?"
A softer, "No."
Regin lifted her maid's hand and kissed the back of it. "We are a pair, are we not? Do you think either of us will find love?"
"I hold out hope for you, my lady. Lord Jarl Hansen may yet prove to be the love of your life," she answered.
"That he might," Regin said with absolutely no conviction whatsoever.
Marthe stood. "Sleep well."
There was little chance of that. "And you, Marthe."
Regin stared into the fire. The night wasn't as biting as the night before, but she felt its damp tendrils twining beneath her cloak. At least there was no wind.
Brander stepped into the edge of her vision, but she didn't turn to him. He prodded the fire and added more wood. He shifted the fresh timber closer to the carriage, easier to reach. Then he sat beside her.
I'm going to sleep, he gestured. But he didn't move.
Yes. She didn't move either.
Good night.
She looked up at him. That was her undoing.
His eyes undulated from green to blue to gray and back to green. Flames beckoned, reflected in the black centers of his irises. The bristle of his beard glimmered golden and orange like the fire. Curves of copper framed his cheeks and curled against his throat. His beauty robbed her breath.
"Good night, Brander," she whispered.
His hand drifted upward. One finger ran along her forehead, down her temple, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Shivers ran down her neck and circled her breasts. He stood and held out his hand.
She took it. He pulled her to her feet.
They slithered under the carriage in a very undignified crawl. Brander pushed her closest to the fire. She curled on her side facing the blaze and snugged her cloak around her. He stretched out behind her, blazing in his proximity. His arm draped over her hip. He sighed and his warm breath pooled in her hair causing more shivers.
Regin turned her head toward her shoulder. His arm tensed and tilted her hip back. She allowed her body to follow and rolled onto her back. She stared up at Brander who, propped on an elbow, hovered above her.
"Why?" she murmured.
He used gestures she understood: I am filled with you.
"Filled with me?"
My mind. My thoughts.
"Oh," she murmured.
A frown flickered over his brow and he touched her lips: Don't say no.
She shook her head a little. "I didn't say no..."
One corner of his mouth lifted and his eyes burned into hers: Good.
He leaned down and his lips brushed over hers. Then he pulled away. The blatant desire on his face melted any resistance she had as if it were beeswax in a flame. She tilted her chin upward. His lips brushed hers again, slowly this time.
She gripped his cloak. "Brand..."
He traced her mouth with a fingertip: Beautiful.
"Kiss me..."
Why?
"I am filled with you, too."
He lowered over her. The press of his lips tingled through her and coalesced as a ball of heat in her groin. She kissed him back and invaded his mouth with her tongue before he completely dominated hers. His hand peeled away the upper layers of her clothing. As each bit of her was uncovered he kissed her throat, the curve of her neck, the hollow between her collarbones, the swell of her bosom.
He pushed her shift down and freed one breast from her bodice into the puckering winter air. He attended it well, warming it with his mouth and the steam of his breath. She buried her fingers in his hair and encouraged his ministrations. It was a shame he couldn't hear the little moans that escaped her best efforts at silence.
Brander's hand began to wiggle under her waistband and crawl toward her cunny. Her linen shift still shrouded her, but he managed to snuggle into the folds of her even so. His fingers played her like a harpsichord through the thin fabric, and his touch sent a symphony of sensations through her core.
Regin arched her back and gasped, the icy intake of air an incongruous shock to her body. Her fingers scrabbled at Brander's clothing, trying to pull him into her as she lost herself in the ether of her pinnacle.
Only two feet below the floor of the carriage, she faintly remembered not to allow incriminating gasps or cries. She was panting when the world around her solidified once again.
She opened her thighs and Brander settled against her as he had the night before. She thrust her hips into him as if she was truly loving him. Layers of fabric still separated their bodies, but they were linked nonetheless. Their tongues entwined, their breath came in cloudy blasts. Pressed hard together, they became one in thought, in purpose, in pleasure.
Brander pounded her with his rigidity and invaded her with his tongue until his own spasms twisted through him. He grunted repeatedly and coughed a rough moan. Before he could slide away, Regin pulled his face to hers. She kissed him slowly and with as much tenderness as she was capable of.
He jerked his head back and stared at her with eyes so wide and dark that she was lost in them. Lost in his obvious fear.
"What is it?" she cried softly.
His hand moved in gestures she didn't know. She shook her head and shrugged. He waved his hand, dismissing her question. Then he rolled onto his back and faced the bottom of the carriage that hovered so close above them.
Regin squeezed on top of him and gripped his cheeks between her hands. "We didn't swive."
He rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Her traitorous chin quivered. "Was it that bad?"
No! No! Brander wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight to his chest. He stroked her hair. He rubbed her back through her cloak. She heard his heart pounding under her ear. She relaxed in his solid warmth and the safety of his embrace.
He held her until she dozed. Her last waking thought was that whatever upset him must remain his secret.
October 18, 1720
Brander awoke with Lady Kildahl tucked inside his cloak, though he didn't remember encasing her there. His back was cold, but their shared heat on the front half of his body made up for it. He nuzzled his icy nose into her hair and exhaled; the trapped heat thawed his face.