The traitor opened his eyes. They widened. Good. Valbrand rose to his height, pistol trained on the stunned face below him. "Your name, traitor." The man groaned.
Valbrand cocked the pistol. It wasn't necessary to cock it, not with a gun like this one. But cocking it did make such a satisfying sound. "Your name."
The man lifted his head. "Agent … Hans Borger."
"And whom do you serve, Hans Borger?"
Borger groaned again and let his head drop. "My king."
"You lie. I should kill you now." Valbrand gestured with the gun. "Over. To your belly, dog, where you belong."
With another groan, the agent started to roll, sliding one hand down as he did it. Valbrand chuckled and held up the contact device in his left hand. "Looking for this?" The dog's eyes widened—then narrowed in defeat. Valbrand dropped the device to the ground and crushed it under his boot. "Now roll."
Hans Borger obeyed. Swiftly, aware of the danger of temporarily setting the weapon aside, Valbrand took the waiting lengths of cord and bound the agent hand and foot. He tied the gag last, tightly.
Then he picked up the gun and rose again to his feet. "When they find you, tell them that Princess Brit and Prince Eric Greyfell disarmed you with ease. They spared your worthless life, as do I, the Dark Raider. This game that you and your cohorts may have thought almost over has only now begun. It will end in shameful defeat and slow, painful death for all who dared to dream they could bring down the House of Thor."
The dog on the ground grunted behind his gag and struggled fitfully against the cords that bound him. There was blood matting his close-cut pale hair.
Valbrand holstered his weapon. "Would that I had more time. We could speak … in depth. I would show you the many ways I know to make a sharp knife sing. But I fear the dogs you run with will come looking for you soon. So I shall leave you now, to the mercy of the traitors who own you. May they punish you cruelly for your failure, after they laugh in your face when you tell them that the princess you were sent to kill outsmarted you and that you let Eric Greyfell come up behind you without your knowing, armed only with the wrong end of a rifle." He paused, considered, then advised, "Perhaps you shouldn't even mention your conversation with me. So many believe I am only a myth, a story told to children, by firelight, on long winter nights. So if you were to tell them that you spoke with me … hmm. Were I your superior, I might begin to think you mad."
Agent Borger had little constructive to contribute in reply. A gag will do that. He grunted and struggled, a pitiful sight.
Valbrand had said all that needed saying. Grinning behind the mask, he turned and vanished into the trees.
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
« ^ »
Eric, grim-faced and speaking to Brit only when absolutely necessary, kept them on the move for the remainder of the day. They crossed paths with no dangerous animals—on two legs or four. And they made good time.
Still, the long fingers of twilight had slipped down the slopes of the hills when they rode their tired horses out of the trees and onto the hard-packed dirt street of Asta's village. Light glowed, warm and welcoming, from the high-set narrow windows of the longhouses, and Sigrid's oldest boy, Brokk, named after his father, came running out to meet them.
"Grandmother Asta asked me to wait for you." The redheaded, freckle-faced boy, all of eleven, smiled in pride at being granted such a great responsibility. The boy said Asta was tending one of the village women.
"She makes a new baby tonight." The boy beamed. "I've left the fire well tended. And I'm good with the horses. Will you allow me to see to your mounts?"
For the first time since their argument at the lookout point above the wreckage of the plane, Eric smiled. "We would be pleased and grateful to leave our horses in your capable hands."
They dismounted and the boy took both sets of reins.
Eric turned to her, his smile a memory. He spoke curtly. "Take the traitor's rifle and whatever you need from the saddlebags."
She did as he told her, feeling exhausted and heartsick—and aching for the sight of Asta's kind, wrinkled face. It looked like a long, grim night ahead, with Asta gone to another longhouse and Brit alone with Mr. Cheerful.
Brokk said, "There's shepherd's pie waiting in the warming oven. I will see to the horses, then tell Grandmother that you've returned safely. She'll be glad of the news." The boy headed for the horse barn behind Asta's longhouse, leaving the two of them standing in the street.
After a moment, not even sparing her a glance, Eric turned for the house. Reluctantly Brit trailed after, feeling like a very bad child and resenting it—a lot.
* * *
Inside, Brit went straight to her sleeping bench and dropped her things on her bed furs. She still had the rifle.
"Give it here," Eric grumbled. She handed it over, and he put it, along with his own rifle and the shotgun, in the rack above the door.
She took off her coat, hung it on a peg and then went to put her things away.
They shared a truly toxic silence as they washed their hands and faces and got out the pie, set a simple table and sat down to eat. She stolidly chewed and swallowed and avoided Eric's eyes—which wasn't difficult. He didn't show any eagerness to look at her, either.
It was really bad. She wished she could do something, say something, to try to get him to… What?
Forgive her for being right about her admittedly wild plan that had given them the first piece of solid information as to who might be behind the plot to kill her?
And maybe, while he was forgiving her, he could stop being mad at her because she stepped in before he could slit a man's throat?
The problem was, the longer he scowled and growled, the more she started thinking that she was getting pretty mad herself. Okay, she was an action junkie. She didn't like to sit around, considering all the angles, when something could be done.
Her plan had been far from well thought out. But damn it, it had worked, hadn't it?
She sent him an angry glance. He glared back at her.
They ate the rest of the food, cleared off and washed the heavy plates. By then she was certain that if she stayed cooped up with him much longer, there would be yelling and throwing of plates.
"I'm going over to bathhouse," she announced into the awful, furious silence. "I'll be back in an hour or so."
"I'll go with you."
"No. I'll go alone. I don't need you to—"
"I'd like a bath myself." He said it flatly. The look in his eyes said he'd also like to grab her and shake her till she pleaded for mercy and never again dared to have a plan of her own.
"Fine. Whatever. It's a free country—more or less."
They gathered what they needed and went out into the night.
* * *
In the bathhouse, Brit took off her clothes and her bandage and indulged in a shamefully long, hot shower. Her wound was healed enough by then that she could handle bandaging it herself. And she did, with gauze and tape, before she put on clean clothes, her lightest long underwear first. The underwear was made of silk, but it was still your basic long Johns design, a long-sleeved T-shirt and super-lightweight knit bottoms. Over the long Johns, she pulled on a sweater and jeans. Bedtime was coming, so she dispensed with a bra.
She emerged into the night again, hoping she had taken long enough that Eric would have already gone back. The short walk to the longhouse would have been much more pleasant without him scowling at her side.
But no. There he was, waiting, his face a bleak mask. He saw her and he turned without a word and headed up the street.
Oh, boy, wasn't this fun? She hung back, walking slowly, hoping he would charge on ahead and leave her, for a few precious moments anyway, alone.
He didn't. When he realized she wasn't hustling to catch up with him, he stopped and glared back at her. "Are you coming?" In spite of the question mark at the end, it was an impatient command.
She pressed her lips together—hard�
�to keep something loud and shrill from getting out. And then she picked up her pace.
Back in the longhouse, it was more of the same. Silence and total avoidance of anything resembling eye contact.
The night might be young, but it showed no likelihood of turning the least bit enjoyable. And the day had been long. And tomorrow, she was going to have to figure out how she'd get out of the Vildelund and back to Isenhalla. Maybe Eric would contact her father and have him send some small aircraft to pick her up.
Or maybe she'd have to head for the Black Mountains. The high, snow-capped range about twenty miles due south of the village stood between the Vildelund and the more civilized world on the other side.
Whatever. One way or another, she was out of here tomorrow. Jorund had to be dealt with. And she wanted to have a long heart-to-heart with her father. It was about time somebody told the king what the hell was going on.
She brushed her teeth and went to her sleeping bench, took off the top layer of clothes and climbed beneath the furs wearing her socks and her long Johns. With so much hostility thickening the air, it took a while to get to sleep.
But she was tired. Her bed might be hard, but she'd grown used to it by then. And the furs felt so soft and comforting around her…
* * *
Eric waited until he was certain she slept. Then he pulled on his coat and grabbed his boots and slipped out the door, pausing at the stoop to put the boots on.
In the trees behind the horse paddock, Valbrand waited, a darker shadow among shadows. His rare black Gullandrian gelding was hobbled a few feet away, nosing and nibbling the cold ground.
"The traitor?" Eric asked.
"He lives. I left him bound and gagged and awaiting the tender mercies of the others."
"The one higher on the hillside?"
"I did the same for him."
"Did you get anything from either of them?"
"There was no opportunity to ask questions of the one up on the hill. I took his rifle and his pistol."
"And the other?"
"His name. Agent Hans Borger. I regret there was no time to learn more."
"At least we know now that our suspicions concerning the infiltration of the NIB have merit."
"Thanks to the clever actions of my irrepressible little sister."
Eric heard the rare smile in Valbrand's voice and didn't like it—not now, not on this subject. "Can't you see that the woman rushes headlong toward her own death at every opportunity? She is suicidal in her heedlessness."
"She looked quite healthy to me when you led her away."
"Yes, she came away unharmed. This time." Eric stuck his fists in the pockets of his coat. "She leaves tomorrow for the south."
"Your choice—or hers?"
"She has said she will go. It is probably, at this point, the only issue on which we agree."
"What of your marriage?"
"What of it? She refuses me at every turn."
"Perhaps you give her reason to refuse you?"
An angry rejoinder rose in his throat. He swallowed it. "I only want to keep her safe."
"Even I can see she's not a woman who seeks safety. Perhaps if you wish finally to claim her, you will have to take her as she is."
Eric glared straight-on into the dark eyes behind the mask. "Do you lecture me now, my friend?"
"I but offer … an objective view."
An objective view. Now, there was an irony. Valbrand was supposed to be the leader. Providing an objective view had always been Eric's responsibility. He grumbled, "I am in no mood to take what you offer with any grace."
"As you wish." The black horse tossed his fine head and snorted. Valbrand spoke to the animal softly, "Easy, Starkavin. All is well." Then he turned to Eric again. "By what route will she return to the palace?"
"We've yet to speak of that."
"Whichever way she goes, there will be danger."
"Must you remind me?"
"When danger is inevitable—why not make use of it?"
An owl hooted, somewhere in the dark. Overhead, beyond the trees, the quarter moon dangled from a star. The night was cloudless and very still.
Eric asked, "What are you getting at?"
Valbrand moved closer and pitched his voice to a whisper. "Why not guide our enemies to waylay us on our terms?"
* * *
Brit was sitting at the table in her long Johns and heavy socks, one of Asta's knitted shawls thrown across her shoulders, when Eric came sneaking through the door, his boots in his hands.
She had a pretty good idea where he'd been: out to meet Valbrand. But she wasn't going to challenge him about it. She was a little sick of challenges at the moment, thank you.
He said, "What are doing out of bed?" The question was pure challenge. Of course.
What business is it of yours? she thought. She stared at the lamp she'd lighted. It sat on the table before her, giving off a warm golden glow that didn't comfort her in the least. "I woke up. I was alone. For the first time since late this morning, there was no one here to glare or bark at me." She looked at Eric. "I found it kind of … pleasant. I decided to get up and enjoy the peace and quiet." Sadly, she hadn't enjoyed the absence of hostility as much as she'd hoped to. She'd started thinking about Jorund and what a complete idiot she'd been on that score. Yeah—duh. Sure, an NIB special agent had just been longing to be her friend…
Eric shrugged. He turned to hang his jacket on a peg and set his boots beside the door. When he faced her again, it was only to say, "I bid you good-night, then."
It came to her on a wave of frustrated misery that this was impossible. It really had to stop. "Eric…"
He paused a few feet from her—on his way to his sleeping bench. "What is it now?"
Her irritation spiked again. Oh, why even bother to try to get through to him?
Because I care for him—a whole lot—and I can't stand to leave it like this.
She gathered the warm shawl a little closer around her, seeking a comfort she didn't find. "Look. Can we just get past this? I'm leaving tomorrow. We've been … friends, haven't we? Friends shouldn't part in anger."
His gray-green gaze swept over her, burning where it touched. "We are much more than friends. And you know it. Why will you constantly insist on belittling the bond between us?"
She wanted to shout at him—and she held it back; to reach out to him—but he wouldn't like it.
Stifled at every turn, she couldn't sit still. She stood from the end of the bench. He backed up a step, as if he thought she might dare to put her hands on him.
And really, the voice of fairness whispered in her ear, why wouldn't he think it? She'd grabbed him twice today, both times when the last thing he wanted was her touching him.
She bit her lip and went to the stove. Behind the window in the stove door, she could see the red flames licking. She stared into them, gathering calm about her like the shawl around her shoulders, thinking that this was for sure a first: Brit Thorson, striving for calm and reason.
Wouldn't Liv and Elli have a great big fat laugh? And her mother? Ingrid would never believe it. She turned to him again and spoke slowly, choosing each word with care. "I don't belittle what's between us. I swear I don't. I do think of you as a friend and I think it's important—to be friends with a man who … I care for so much."
His face remained set against her, but his gaze ran over her, furious—and hungry. She knew he wanted to shout rude things at her. And that he also wanted to do things—sexual things—the kind of things a man like Eric would never do to someone who was only a friend.
And she? All right, yes. She wanted him to do those things. With all of her yearning body.
And every beat of her aching heart.
But first there was what had to be said. She pleaded, "Look. Just say it, will you? Whatever you want to say to me, just do it, just get it out."
"You are serious?"
"As a bullet through the heart."
"You won't like it."
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"I don't expect to like it. I just think it's what you have to say … and what I've got to stand here and take."
It must have made sense to him. He laid it on her, his voice low and deep, his tone as intense as the hunger in his eyes. "I fear for you—fear you see this trouble before us as some kind of tempting, risky game. I begin to think that there is but one thing that you do with slow care, and that is eat those bright candies you love. I close my eyes—and I see you dead, your pretty neck slit for some chance you just had to take. You are … never cautious. You fling yourself, all unwary, at the next test, the next confrontation with deadly forces. I cannot be forever looking out for you—and yet I'm terrified to leave you alone. By Thor's mighty hammer, who can say what trouble you'll get into next? I find I don't want to know, don't want to be there when the price of your heedlessness is finally your life."
He fell silent. The room seemed to echo with his words. Calm, she reminded herself. Calm and reason. And honesty.
"Eric, I'm so sorry I scared you. At this moment I can almost regret that I am who I am, that the time will come when I'll scare you again. But, Eric, what I did today that you hated so much—it worked. And it needed to be done. And I'd do it again, in the same circumstances."
With a low oath, he turned from her. She thought for a minute he would keep going, that he'd grab his boots and his coat and stalk back out the door.
But he didn't. He stopped in midstride—and whirled on her again. "You don't realize, you refuse to understand the magnitude of what lies before us. The danger has only begun. That traitor you forced me to spare today could be the one who kills you in the end."
"Yes," she said softly, "he could."
"Then why in Odin's name didn't you let me cut his throat?"
"Because we didn't have to. Because he was already out cold." She ached to touch him. But she wasn't going to make that particular mistake again—not until he wanted her touch. She fisted her hands at her sides. "Eric, you just can't do it—can't protect me from every threat. And it's not what I want from you. It's not … what I need. If we're ever going to really be together, you and me, you're going to have to learn to take me as I am."
The Marriage Medallion Page 15