“Will you have some wine with me?” he asked pleasantly enough.
Brenna hesitated, wondering at his mood. It was the first time he had offered her wine. She recalled him saying once that slaves were not allowed it.
“Yea, I will drink with you.”
She curled up against the armrest on the divan while he filled two chalices from a wineskin. A single candle lit the room and cast a flickering, dim light, but Brenna could see Garrick clearly. He did not appear drunk as she first suspected. He had changed from the clothes he wore earlier to dark-green trousers with soft-skinned boots trimmed in white fur. His short robe was of white silk, with green thread shot through the hem and the long sleeves. On his chest rested a gold medallion with a single large emerald in the center, instead of the engraved silver medallion he usually wore. He looked terribly handsome this night, and Brenna found it hard to take her eyes from him.
Garrick brought her a chalice. She took only a small sip of the bittersweet liquid, savoring the taste, then held the vessel in her lap as she watched him move to light a fire in the hearth. She had forgotten how chilly it was, forgotten everything except Garrick’s presence.
The fire caught, and added more light to the room. Garrick picked up his wine and joined Brenna on the divan. He leaned back against the wall and raised one leg, on which he rested his arm, then took a long draught of wine.
Brenna was so nervous waiting for Garrick to make some kind of move that her hands would have trembled if she were not gripping the chalice so tightly in her lap.
“The wine is not to your liking?”
She started when he spoke, then looked guiltily at him. “Nay—I mean, ’tis fine.”
He grinned at her knowingly. “If you have it in mind to delay me with the excuse you have not finished your wine, ’twill not work. Still, I am not in a hurry, mistress, so relax and drink your wine. You may have more when you finish.”
Brenna took his advice and downed the intoxicating liquid, hoping it would steady her nerves. Yet she could not relax, even as the wine warmed her blood.
Finally she leaned back, beginning to feel the effects of the wine. “If you were to die, Garrick, what would happen to me?”
He looked at her with amusement. “Are you contemplating foul play?”
“Nay, I fight fairly. But suppose you did not return from one of your hunting trips?”
Garrick sighed and stared thoughtfully at the chalice in his hand. “Since I have no bastards nor a wife, all that I own will fall to my father. That should please you, Brenna,” he added dryly.
Brenna knew what he meant, but she could not let him see that. “Why should that please me? I hate your father even more than you.”
“Would you still hate him if he set you free? That is his wish,” Garrick said in annoyance. “He regrets now that he gave you to me.”
Brenna finished her wine and looked at Garrick seriously. “Then give me back or sell me to him.”
Garrick picked up a lock of her hair from her shoulder and twirled it slowly around his finger. “And what would you do for me, sweet Brenna, if I agreed?”
She stared at him in surprise. What price freedom? “Anything,” she breathed.
“You would make love to me?”
She did not hesitate. “Yea, even that.”
Garrick set his wine down and pulled her onto his lap, supporting her back with his arm. He grinned down at her before he buried his head in the hollow of her neck. His lips felt like a searing brand, and she moaned softly until his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that demanded more than a mere response.
Brenna dropped her empty chalice on the floor and gripped Garrick’s head, pulling him even closer. She was lost to him. She did not know if it was for freedom or for herself, and she didn’t care. She wanted him.
Brenna protested when Garrick moved her and stood up, but smiled when she saw him begin to remove his clothing. She stretched languidly, contentedly, before she got up to do the same. On her feet she swayed dizzily, then giggled.
“Too much of your precious wine, I think.”
Garrick said nothing, but smiled at her and helped her out of her shift, then lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. He set her down gently, and laid by her side. Then she felt his hands on her, surprisingly tender for one so powerfully strong. He caressed her intimately, his fingers doing strange and wonderful things to her.
“You can be as sweet as honey when you want to,” Garrick said huskily, his lips brushing against hers.
“As can you,” she murmured, running her fingers through his wavy hair.
“My Celtic beauty,” he murmured, running a hand up over her belly. His lips descended to her breasts. The sensations tingling through her made her weak, but still she tried to resist him, though feebly. When she brought her knees up, he stilled them with one leg. When her nails dug into his shoulders, he withstood the pain and instead of securing her hands, he kissed her, a wildly savage kiss that seemed to suck away the last remnants of her will and blot all else from her mind.
All that mattered was Garrick, his kiss, his hands caressing her urgently, his body as it pressed closer, on top of her now, his warm, throbbing member probing for an entrance, finding it at last, and then that first exquisite thrust, which drove Brenna to distraction.
She called out his name again and again as he moved in her, holding him to her as if she would mold his body forever to hers. She kissed his neck, his cheek, his lips, with wild abandon. Then all sensation gathered into her lower region, closing around his swollen member with his final deep thrust. A moment later, she felt a delicious throbbing of her own.
Having reached the heights of pleasure, Brenna succumbed immediately to the effects of the wine and lovemaking. She slept, not even stirring when Garrick rolled away from her to fetch a cover. Then he lay beside her on his belly. Propping himself up on his elbows, he watched her for a long while as she slept, his expression unusually tender. Finally he threw an arm over her possessively and fell fast asleep himself.
The noise of a fight woke Brenna from a sound sleep. Seeing that she was alone, she jumped out of bed and grabbed the first thing at hand, Garrick’s white silk robe, and donned it even as she ran from the room. The robe barely reached her knees, but she was not concerned with her appearance.
At the bottom of the stairs, she hid in the shadows and observed the scene in the hall with growing alarm. Both long tables were turned over; benches were broken into pieces. The large cauldrons of mead had spilled onto the floor along with the remains of a morning meal.
Brenna’s eyes scanned the room frantically. Several men were lying unconscious or dead on the floor. Some were fighting fist to fist, others with sword or axe. How in heaven’s name could a brawl like this happen so early in the day? And where, dear Lord, was Garrick?
Quickly her eyes searched further until they lighted on Hugh, sitting on a bench against the wall. He was holding a swollen jaw with one hand, yet chuckling with a companion on the floor. Brenna looked down and gasped. Garrick was sprawled on the floor, with one arm resting on the bench. Her eyes saw nothing but the bright red blood splattered all over his fawn-colored tunic and trousers.
In a moment of anxiety, Brenna forget everything else and ran to Garrick. He had been laughing over something Hugh had said, but when Brenna reached him and knelt by his side, the laughter died. He turned to her in astonishment, and then anger took hold and his furious glare made her flinch.
“Have you no shame, woman?” he asked her harshly, grabbing her arm in a painful grip. “What is the meaning of this?”
She had no idea what he was talking about. “You are hurt.”
“Nay!” he growled. “But were I dying ’twould not be cause for you to come before these men dressed as you are. Leave here before bloodlust turns to pure lust!”
She glanced nervously about her and saw that many had stopped fighting and were staring at her. With her unbound hair flowing about her shoulders in disarray, and the deep V of the
robe nearly exposing her breasts, she presented a very tempting picture.
“I did not think, Garrick” she murmured, her face reddening. “I wanted only to help you.”
“You never think, mistress!” he said cruelly, shoving her away from him. “Now get from this hall!”
Brenna bit her lip to still the trembling of it. She felt a knot swell in her throat and nearly choke her, and tears glistened in her eyes. She ran quickly from the hall before the tears fell and she was further shamed.
She would not think of last night. Brenna ran into the sewing room and slammed the door shut, then fell on the pile of furs and gave way to a torrent of tears. But after a few moments she wiped viciously at her eyes.
“I never cried,” she hissed aloud, “until I met him! No more tears will I shed for any reason. If he can abuse me like that when I only wanted to help him, the devil take him! I will not be here for it to happen again!”
Brenna dug into the furs and pulled out the sack she had hidden there just last night. She had not dreamed she would need her stolen articles this soon, but neither had she imagined Garrick could be so heartless.
She dressed slowly in her own fine clothes, reveling in the feel of the rich black velvet against her skin. Donned in her male apparel, her hurt pride healed somewhat. Her confidence was restored, and she felt as if she could accomplish anything. She stuck the sword through her belt and stuffed her sack with extra furs and leather straps to make leggings and coverings for her hands later on. Then she went into Garrick’s room and took the extra blanket from his bed.
Wearing her cape to conceal her apparel, she made her way to the upstairs door but nearly tripped over Dog, who was sleeping there. Brenna knelt and tickled the shepherd’s ears.
“Did he banish you from the hall also?” The animal licked her hand. “Never mind, old friend. Have you been out yet this morn?”
She opened the door and Dog followed her out into the crisp late-morning air. She was learning to judge the time of day by the stars. Strange to call it morning when the sky was so dark. Perhaps on the tip of southern Norway, the sun was lighting the land, but up here, further north, the sun only teased the horizon near midday, turning the sky a dusky blue.
Brenna slowly approached the open door to the cooking area, but Dog charged right in to scavenge for food. When Brenna saw that only Maudya was at the table, chopping onions for a soup, she came halfway into the room.
“Have you a loaf of bread I can take with me?”
Maudya looked up in surprise. “Aye, but where are you off to? There is much work to be done. They made a fine mess earlier that needs cleaning.”
Brenna could hear laughter from the hall. “So the brawling is over? What was the cause, do you know?”
“’Twas Garrick himself,” Maudya replied with a shake of her head. “Janie was there and said Bayard made some remark that Garrick did not like. The master attacked Bayard like a wild boar, and ’twas the excuse for all hell to break loose. Everyone joined in.”
“Bayard and Garrick are now enemies then?”
“Nay, Garrick made amends. ’Tis the way with a friendly brawl.”
“Humph! What was it Bayard said to rile Garrick? Did Janie say?”
“Nay.” Maudya sighed, smoothing troublesome hair away with the back of her hand.
“Did you have a rough night of it?” Brenna asked sympathetically.
Maudya grinned. “’Twas not so bad.”
“And Janie?”
“She was lucky this time. Perrin took her away and no one was the wiser.”
Brenna could not understand Perrin. Garrick was supposed to be his closest friend, yet Perrin was afraid to approach him on a matter so important as Janie. Was Garrick really so forbidding, even to his friends?
“Well, have you a loaf of bread to spare, Maudya? I’m famished, but I feel like riding for a while to ease my pain first.”
“What pain?”
“You did not hear Garrick upbraid me harshly in front of all his friends?”
Maudya looked shocked. “He did that to you?”
“He did.”
Maudya clucked. She got a fresh loaf from the fire and wrapped it in a clean cloth. “You go ahead then, lass.”
“If Garrick asks for me, do not tell him how his words have wounded me. Just say I felt like a brisk ride and will be back shortly.”
“As you wish, Brenna. But if you ask me, he should know.”
A grin curled Brenna’s lips as she headed for the stables. Maudya would tell Garrick everything she had said, for Maudya was that way. He would assume hurt pride was keeping her from the hall so long. Later, when he finally realized she had run away, he would think his harsh words were the reason for it.
But that was only the half of it, Brenna admitted truthfully. She could no longer trust herself to be near Garrick, not after last night. In his hands she turned to clay, to be molded anyway he wished. His kiss drove away her resistance, her will. She could not tolerate that. She was a woman accustomed to having complete control over her reactions. Yet when Garrick touched her she became a puppet. She had to get away from him—far, far away.
Erin was not in the front of the stable when she entered and went straight to Willow. She saddled the mare quickly, praying Erin was sleeping or absent. She did not like lying to Maudya, but to Erin it would be even worse, for she had come to care for the old man a great deal. Fortunately, he was not about.
Brenna took two large sacks of oats for Willow and tied them across the mare’s flanks, then filled four water skins from the water bin. She was ready.
She urged Willow down the path behind the stable, but stopped when Dog came running after her, yelping and raising an alarming commotion.
“Go back!” she snapped at him, fearing he had alerted someone. “Go on, Dog.”
She rode on, but still he followed. “Go back, I say! You cannot come with me.” He bent his head curiously and wagged his tail. Brenna sighed. “Very well, if you are set on adventure, come along. We three will make a strange trio. A dog, a horse, and a runaway slave.”
She raced out into the open field, with Dog trailing close behind. She had no idea where she was going, but she was free, and answerable to no one.
Brenna stopped at the edge of the forest and looked back at the stone house on the cliff. “Farewell, Garrick Haardrad of Norway—Garrick the Hardhearted. I will remember you, no doubt forever.”
Again she felt that choking lump in her throat. “You should be happy, Brenna,” she chided herself aloud. “You are free now.”
The coast could offer her little game, and she knew nothing of fishing. The south, which was the most desirable direction, was cut off by the fjord. The east, which she would have preferred, was where Garrick would search for her, for he would never dream she would go north, where the winds would blow even colder than here. So north it was.
“Can we survive up there till spring, Dog? By then I will have many furs and we can find another settlement near water. We will buy passage on a ship bound for home, or at least away from your homeland. What do you think?”
He regarded her solemnly.
“Aye, I think we can do it. Or die trying—there is no other way,” she answered herself.
Garrick mounted the stairs just as Maudya was coming down. “Where is Brenna?” he barked at her. “If she has turned stubborn because of this morn, I will take a switch to her.”
Maudya blanched at his anger. “I was just coming to find you, Master Garrick. She has not returned yet. She has been gone all afternoon, and I fear some—”
“Gone where?” he interrupted her, his eyes narrowing.
Maudya became all flustered and started weeping. “She said she was going riding—to ease her pain—because of the way you chastised her this morn.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“I was not supposed to tell you, but only to say that she felt like riding for a while, and would soon return. She has not, and I fear some harm may
have come to her.”
“What harm?”
“The Borgsens slaughtered a dog while you were away. Some of us feel that soon they will tire of killing animals and the slaves will be next.”
“What is it, Garrick?” Anselm asked from the foot of the stairs.
Garrick joined him, his brows knitted together. “The girl says Brenna has been gone since morn, riding on that horse you gave her, no doubt.”
“She is pleased with the gift, then?”
“Pleased, aye. Pleased enough not to return. Maudya thinks the Borgsens may have done her harm.”
“Nay, I know Latham Borgsen too well. He would not resort to such foul play. I would stake my life on it.”
“I agree, which can only mean Brenna has run away,” Garrick said acidly. “You give her to me, then you give her the means to escape me.”
“You cannot blame me for this, Garrick,” Anselm returned angrily. “You forget I was in the hall this morn. I do not know what you said to the girl, but I recognized your tone. You were overly harsh, I think.”
Garrick stared furiously at his father. “You saw how she was dressed! She came into the hall nearly naked. And ’twas intentional, I’ll wager. She is the tease her sister claimed. She would have every man besotted by her.”
“I saw none of that, only the concern in her eyes for you. And how do you greet her? With naught but anger. You have much to learn of women, son. ’Tis no wonder she ran away from you.”
Garrick stiffened at his father’s words. “You act as if you care more for the girl than you do me. Is this so?”
“Nay, but I understand her better than you.”
“I have no doubt of that, for I understand her not at all.”
Anselm chuckled. “I will help you find her.”
“Nay, this I will do myself,” Garrick replied adamantly.
“She needs a lesson taught that she will not soon forget.”
“Garrick!”
“Do not interfere, father. You washed your hands of Brenna when you gave her to me.”
Anselm sighed, staring after Garrick’s retreating back. He had been amused this morn when Garrick had taken exception to Bayard’s jesting remark about Brenna, saying she had changed too quickly from a wildcat to a purring kitten and that it could only be a ruse. ’Twas obvious Garrick did not like that possibility, even though it was said in jest.
Fires of Winter Page 20