“I know I’m not the prettiest sight right now.”
“No. You . . .”
“Potlicker . . .”
Ari.
“Potlicker . . . Listen . . .”
Listen? When his breath whispered against her lips and he felt he was drowning in these turquoise eyes of hers?
“Potlicker, I need you to do what I say.”
Sin’s wrist jerked, blood tingling into his fingers as the belt came free. He had wondered, hadn’t he, about Ari’s role in this? Had he come to his senses? And if so, did it mean he wasn’t going to get to kiss this perfectly beautiful sea witch?
“There isn’t much time.”
Was that why Ari slipped the knife into his hand? After nearly breaking his nose? “I’m going to take her over there into the next cove—”
“Really?” Sin jerked his head around. Pardon him for being less than enthralled by the prospect, but if anyone wanted to take her into the next cove, if anyone wanted to take her, it was him. She was his, wasn’t she?
Ari wrinkled his eyes against the sun. “Then I’m going to let her go.”
Pardon him again, maybe it was the fact he’d been so closely tied to her and his body had responded in the most treacherous way, his mind too, that neither could stop doing so. “You’re what?”
“She’ll have a few minutes while we . . . you know.”
“I know? And where am I while this happens? Standing looking pretty up this end of the beach?”
“Drottin . . .”
He shook his head. No. He wasn’t for listening to this. If she wanted to, that was her affair. Her affair to do whatever she wanted. He knew exactly what he was going to do here and it certainly wasn’t this.
“Well, that would be hard, Potlicker. I accept that. But with your hands free you can . . . well, you can . . . Look, she sunk the Raven, it’s the best I can do.”
“Do you think so?”
“Drottin . . .”
“Will you be quiet?” He glared over his shoulder at her. “If this is about Ragmoose and Gunkel, then what’s wrong with you, me and Malice here, beating them? You never thought of that, did you?”
Ari wouldn’t. Strategy wasn’t exactly his strong point but they would have a chance, a fighting chance—maybe not of getting out of this, that was in the lap of the gods—but pulling together, overcoming Ragmoose and Gunkel and establishing some kind of carefully placed encampment on this beach. Jorvik, Dyflin, were the last places on earth he desired to land. Wanted any of them to land.
“Drottin . . .”
“Get behind me, Malice. I just need Ari on my side. Seeing sense, the same as always.”
“Potlicker . . . I know. But . . .”
A stray raindrop dropped on his head. Troll’s teeth, don’t tell him Ari was going to argue about this? The perfect sense of his plan? “What?”
“I think you should take a look.”
Take a look? What at? He didn’t want to. In fact he might say it was the last thing he wanted. As with many things in his life right now, he wasn’t getting the choice. He swung his gaze over behind him. He wasn’t getting the choice to like what he saw either.
Survivors from the Raven. All armed. All striding across the sand towards them.
At least give us a turn of the witch before we throw her in the sea. Malice might not want to think she heard that but were this simply a social call, Sin Gudrunsson would hardly be dragging that dagger across the sand, would he? Giving his most withering glare either.
“Drottin . . . I . . .”
“Yes, I know, Malice. You need only kiss me. But that’s not going to happen right now is it?”
“Sin.” The one at the front— she didn’t know his name, only that like the rest he was armed to the few teeth he possessed—flung out his arm to hold his sodden companions back. “Some of us think, seeing as we’re stranded here she should go ‘round. But the others . . . Seeing as she sank the Raven . . . Well, they think she should just be thrown in the sea. Either way you’ve only got to look at her to know she’s trouble that don’t belong. It’s that simple. So hand her over now and let’s be done with this.”
Her? You only had to look at to know was trouble?
How Malice stood up she knew exactly. Beside her Ari fidgeted uncomfortably with his tunic front.
“It wouldn’t have happened if you’d just thrown her overboard, Potlicker. Beaten her. As for not handing her around I understand that, but what’s the problem when Snotra says— All right, she says—”
Sin Gudrunsson’s shoulders rose to match her own. His eyelids probably did too but his head was bent so she couldn’t see for the hair fanning his face.
“You leave Snotra out of this. Whatever she says, she lies. Malice is mine. My woman. And I’m not giving her up to anyone.”
His woman? She fought the primitive thrill in her blood. Tried to. Her hesitation a second ago had already cost her every inch she possessed. Of course she hadn’t known this mob were going to turn up from nowhere or she’d have kissed him and been done with it, instead of letting him take shelter in her heart, when she’d no tent to erect there.
“Well?” He straightened, flicked the hair back from his forehead. “I’m not giving you anything when I paid gold for her. That’s my line in the sand. Step over it, any one of you horses’ appendages and I won’t just slit your mouths straight off your rat faces. I’ll feed them to the pigs. See if the old sow thinks her sons are as tasty as she is. I’ll also be having compensation under the law.”
Malice’s scalp danced with fright. It was all very fine talking about lines, the law too for that matter. What if this bunch of maggot-ridden fleas rushed them all at once? There wasn’t any law here that she could see. And even if there was, how helpful had the law ever been to her? She had two choices here. Run. And run harder. Kiss him and pray she landed back at Haggersly Hall was not a choice. That was a last resort. She didn’t pray. A pity.
She glanced at the line crisscrossing the sand. “Wait.” The oddest compulsion swept from the toes she curled on nothing, not even a pebble, to the ends of her hair, that bird’s nest she’d hacked several weeks ago, now being tugged by the wind. Was she really going to leave him to take another beating? Regardless of his myriad of faults?
“Malice . . .”
No. What she was going to do was gather her skirts above her knees and, ignoring his inability to shut his mouth, scramble onto the slippery rock, the miracle being she managed to stand upright. A miracle if she discounted the fact the rock was there at all. Quite reasonably flat surfaced at that when she was barefoot.
“No, Drottin. I am a witch. I confess it.” What was this but something she’d done a hundred times before? “A sea witch.”
“Malice . . .”
“But I did not sink the Raven. The Raven is still afloat.”
“Still afloat?” Ragmoose’s face twisted with disbelief. “How’s that when I saw her head snap in two?”
All right. Maybe not. Maybe she had been peremptory in saying so.
“Like I’m going to snap this lying maggot slut’s if she doesn’t shut up.”
Her eyes widened. He was, wasn’t he? But it was nothing new to her. To have her wrists seized neither. When she thought about Cyril firing arrows at her head, when she thought of being taunted with the threat of live mice being dropped down the front of her dress. It was only something she could do. Sin Gudrunsson? Her? Or them? She had already determined it would not be them.
She stiffened. “I am not a lying, maggot slut. I am the one with the power to call upon the Reindeer to return for you all. It is there on the distant horizon.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Because you anger the sea gods.” She yanked her hands free. “How do you thin
k I appeared on your ship? Do you really think it was by accident? Well? In the middle of that storm? That the sea gods never sent me there to save you?”
“Malice . . .”
“No, Drottin, I will speak.” She faced him, but not before she heard him curse beneath his breath. Ari too. How much more difficult would this be if they didn’t let her speak though? It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what she was doing. “You know yourself from what I have told you I am no ordinary woman.” Well, she wasn’t. Or she wouldn’t be here at all. “And I was sent. I was sent that night but you . . . beat me.”
“Beat her?” Dissent swept like wildfire through the crowd. “Faen take you, Sin Gudrunsson.”
“Short wit drinker of sheep’s piss.”
“Kill the bow-legged bastard!”
“Cleave him in two.”
“No. No.” She held up her hands. My God, all she was doing was trying to help.
If they set about him and killed him, with their axes and things, she’d be stuck for good in this Godforsaken time with a load of savages. She ran her tongue over her lips. “Because there were those here who demanded it. You. And you. And you.”
“Potlicker.” The look Ari shot him from beneath his lowered eyelashes was bordering on admiration. “She’s good.”
She passed her tongue back over her lips. A splodge of rain dripped on her head. Despite the oppressive heat the sky had darkened. Any second now the heavens were going to open. Could she use that fact when the men were superstitious enough to believe her? The alternative did not bear thinking. And, it would none of it have been necessary if Sin Gudrunsson did not set such store in himself. Damn him. Damn him to hell.
“So the gods sank the Raven because you did not believe. They will sink the Reindeer too if you do not let me be. They will send another storm.”
“Out of the way. I’ve had more than enough of this cow’s piss.”
Did the heavens hear her? Ragmoose’s elbows thudded into the men on either side of him. The breath didn’t just leave her body. Her feet left the ground as he grasped her. There it was, the merciful splitter, splatter of raindrops. Smiting the sand, darkening it, battering her head as thoroughly as if someone up in the seamless silver sky had snapped a pump handle down and now everything was washed by the flow.
She jerked her head up, dragging a breath. The sea that careered beneath her, even the briny smell retreated. Hands tugged her skirt, her legs. She might have been a goddess, the reverence with which she was set back on the rock, her gown, her hair, clinging to her skin in the downpour.
My God, Sin wasn’t jealous, was he? She had thought he’d be pleased. She had thought he’d be relieved. In one bold stroke she had cemented her position here. His too. Even if it was only until she had the opportunity to kiss him.
But he didn’t make any move towards her, nor did his look say he would. And in that second she wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
Chapter 13
Good? Dragging his face from the stinging brine the word nearly burst his brain. He belonged to Snotra. So this wasn’t just bad. It was a nightmare. How could he be in this mess? Him, who had his hopes, his dreams, his guiding star in life. If only he’d stuck to them Just . . . just been grateful when Snotra came back to him, instead of stupidly letting himself feel third best. He would do anything to drive away the knowledge that when it came to witches, this one had sailed right in and taken up residence in his heart. A lying, marriage-wrecking trollop he couldn’t quite dismiss.
When it was clear as the crystal cool water he scythed through she wasn’t just good, hadn’t just dismissed him, she’d amply demonstrated to each and every man on the shore, men who took orders from him, she didn’t need him looking out for her. Did anyone? How wonderful to always be second best. Rotten in bed too. As for this if she kissed him, she vanished stuff. What was that? If not a lie bigger than Valhalla.
Hill. Rocks. Trees. Sights familiar to him as breathing, even if he’d never been here before today. He dug his face back into the water. Into the wavering, foaming reflection of the hill. The rain had stopped and it was preferable agony to what ate his heart.
Snotra was familiar too. Already it was bad enough he’d found his way between that baggage’s legs. Damned nice it was too. But damned nice was something he was going to forget all about.
It wasn’t as if she exactly thought anything of him that way. Lack of finesse? Well, maybe if she didn’t keep getting him so fired up, he’d have more. In fact he generally did but these damned eyes of hers, turquoise pools beneath such finely winged brows, made his balls itch. He could drown in these pools. This didn’t just have to stop. It was unpardonable to let this continue. Contrary to everything he’d ever promised himself about marriage. To Snotra in particular.
Water cascaded as he dragged his face from the waves. So long as Snotra never found out—and who was going to tell her—it would be all right. He utterly refused to put any belief about kissing to the test.
He just needed to stay here a while longer, before putting the belief about everything being all right to the same test.
Climbing up the grassy slope that led away from the beach was going to be far harder than it looked. Malice’s feet were bare and her skirt clung rightly to her legs. Climbing Scafell Pike without blinking was probably easier. She sighed and glanced over her shoulder. It was early evening, the sky had settled and the air was laced with the smell of fish roasting on forked sticks. The crackle of various fires and laughter drifted on the sea breeze. She could just as easily turn back but she needed to find him.
Now there were so many Vikings, fully armed and any raiding ship would be foolish to do more than return them home. The men seemed . . . taken in by her were the words she was looking for. One had even brought her a fish. Putting aside the fact there may have been no method in it, putting aside the fact there may have been method galore, it didn’t detract from the fact these men were raiders.
She’d no idea where the Reindeer was, or whether it was going to come back for them. What choice did she have but to draw out Sin Gudrunsson and pray things worked this time. First she’d have to find him. To do that she’d have to set her feet, her bare feet on the rocky boulders, on these tufts of grass and bracken. Only think what the stones and bracken would do to them? How the thick blades of grass sprouting along the shoreline would cut her soles to ribbons. But man wouldn’t come down the mountain, what else could she do but climb up to him. A huffing Viking. How difficult was that?
She set one foot down gingerly, in some kind of squelchy black mess, flies instantly buzzed from. The thought of what it might be brought a tear to her eyes. If only she could have found her shoes but then would she want them ruined? She pushed the hair back from her face and took another step. Where she was going to put her foot down—that slithery clump of seaweed, or that glinting pool of worms—was surely going to be a triumph of optimism over hope. Optimism that she didn’t slide onto her backside and hope that if she did no-one would see her. But she must do it. Must take another step too.
Reaching the top of the slope, she let go of the tree trunk she was clinging to. What was it about slopes that the dip on the other side of them was always steeper than the one she’d just climbed? So steep, she toppled several feet before she could stop herself. Through the trees, silver sparkles hovered, shimmering like glittering dragonflies in the cool air. From them came the faintest sound of splashing. She unpeeled herself from the tree trunk and swiped the piece of foliage tangled in her hair aside. Her jaw dropped open. Dear God, she didn’t want to think it but there was no denying butterflies spun in her stomach.
They spun in her lungs too. For a moment she forgot to breath. When she did it was in a gulp.
That time in the bath house, last night, that time in his bed, she hadn’t really looked at him, all of him, had she? At the sheer power
of that sculpted chest, the angular beauty of his narrow waist. He may have possessed her but now she saw how, as he waded through the waves, scooping water on his head.
She fell against the slender tree in her path, her breath locking tighter as if someone turned a key trapping it in the furthest corner of her lungs. Now. Run. Stumble. Fall. Anything. Just get out of here. Kissing him to get back to London had nothing to do with it.
His sheer masculine beauty made her lips part. Longing swept melting her knees. He raised his head, the blue eyes skimming the sky, the dappled sun casting a silver sheen over his gilt coloured hair. And what she wanted in that instant was as simple as breathing.
He glanced up, his gaze skimming the line of trees above her. Was it any wonder, the way she’d screeched, falling down the slope? She ducked. If she was a man caught like this in roles that were reversed, it would not be so bad. But what overcame her in that second swept that thought away. The distance she had tried to set this morning had been for one reason and one reason only. He made her feel like a woman. He actually believed—God alone knew what sacks of potatoes he’d lain with—she was skilled, when all that was, was her body’s honest response to him.
Responding as she did, she also knew that earlier his silver blue eyes wouldn’t admit one thing. The connection she swore she was not alone in feeling. The thought made her heart ache as well as pound. Was she mad?
If she stayed now, she risked ending back in London, when London was what she’d come to find. She turned, struck the tree trunk and slithered several feet through the bracken.
“Malice . . .”
“I . . . just . . . .”
THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN Page 22