Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Read online

  “Yer off to sea, Brant, row back to shore.” Gunther laughed as he patted Brant hard on the back.

  A sharp pain radiated through his body at the friendly gesture, bringing him again to reality. He’d been struck in the lower back a month ago during a small skirmish and the wound still pained him some when disturbed. “Yea, this a good place. Strathfeld’s land will make a good addition to Blackwell Manor. Mayhap we can finally rebuild Blackwell to what it was before my father’s time.”

  “Yea.” Gunther grinned, winking at a passing maid. The girl blushed before hurrying across the empty hall to the kitchen. “It is a good place, this Strathfeld. Do you e’er remember so many pleasing young maids in one stead? If yer new wife does not take to you, you can have many a pick fer a bedmate.”

  Brant laughed in appreciation. He knew well that he could have as many mistresses in the keep as he liked and his new wife couldn’t protest. But he also knew what his unfaithful father’s ways had done to his mother. She’d taken her own life when he was only ten years old. Brant had no desire to flaunt his indiscretions. He secretly wished that he could find some sort of happiness in marriage—even if it wasn’t the fabled love of his people, inn makti murr, the mighty passion.

  Brant shook himself from his deep thoughts and turned to an amused Gunther. “I see much that needs to be done with the fortifications if this place is to continue to be impermeable.”

  “Methought I saw some walls on the east boundary were made of wood. They could be fortified with stone. There are enough rocks lying around to easily do it.” Gunther continued to use the language of their ancestors. A servant came to refill their goblets. Her red hair spiraled out of her head in a disarray of pleasant curls and she had wide green eyes. When Gunther spoke, she stopped, looking at them in confusion. “I do not see why that section was not yet done. Though, it’s said Lord Strathfeld has spent little time here nigh on these last years and that his daughter has managed the keep in his absence.”

  “Lady Della would know little about maintaining a stronghold.” Brant crossed his arms over his chest and stretched his legs before him. The servant didn’t move and he realized she didn’t understand them. He motioned her forward. Without much thought, he easily switched to the Saxon tongue. “Though she does maintain a clean keep.”

  “Nay, m’lord. It’s because of the spirit.” The servant looked at him. “She will come out if the manor is filthy. Have you not heard?”

  Brant smiled at her superstitious ways. “Nay, tell me. Who is she?”

  “The spirit of the Roman lady who lived here when the home was built.”

  “And what does she do?” he asked.

  “She cleans, m’lord,” the servant answered in all seriousness.

  Brant and Gunther laughed.

  “Nay, sweetling, it’s not you we find amusing.” Gunther also switched easily to the Saxon speech as he leaned forward. He touched the young maid gently under the chin. “Methinks you would just let the cleaning spirit work.”

  The maid smiled at Gunther’s charms and swayed back and forth on her feet in girlish shyness. “Nay. It was tried. After a sennight, she tore the manor to bits with her rage and we ne’er tried again fer fear she’d take after us next.”

  Brant chuckled even harder as Gunther nodded in earnestness.

  “It’s a grave thing you reveal to us, sweetling. Perchance, you can tell me more later?” Gunther lowered his voice suggestively. “Mayhap, tonight?”

  “Yea, m’lord.” She curtsied before turning to leave. Gunther let out a belch and pounded himself on the chest. The maidservant glanced back with a small jump, giggling as she scurried off.

  “There has been little need to mind the castle walls. The fighting has been away from here.” Gunther resumed where the conversation had been interrupted.

  “Yea, but it will not always be so.” Brant rubbed the bridge of his nose. Spirits were a serious business. Not that Brant believed in them, but because the people who served him did. “Mayhap our spirit will fix the wall. It appears she has little to do inside.”

  “Yea, and mayhap she’ll get angry at our sloth and tear it down.”

  Brant chuckled and hit his friend hard on the shoulder. “Yea, mayhap.”

  “It appears m’lady does not get much credit fer her work.” Gunther stretched his arms. Seeing a gathering of dust on his sleeve, he patted it from his shoulder with a hard smack. The particles rose into the air and drifted in the narrow rays of sunlight.

  “Perchance, she does,” Brant mused, watching the dust settle.

  Gunther lifted an eyebrow and then shrugged his shoulder. Spotting the informative maid across the hall studying him, he winked, giving her his most charming smile.

  Brant had given his temper a moment to cool after his first meeting with Lady Della. Even he had to reluctantly admit that his bride had a charming vivaciousness to her. Most men would not dare to stand up to him in opposition. He liked the idea of a wife who could hold her own. It meant she would be strong enough to last through hard times. Once he won her loyalty, she would make a great ally. Though he would have to do much to curb that wayward tongue of hers in the future, for it was not right for a wife to holler at her husband in front of servants.

  Maybe she was just nervous, or irate that her father hadn’t asked for her consent before the decision was made. Regretfully, there had been no time for such concerns. He had seen many unhappy marriages because a lady wasn’t consulted before the agreement, not that a consultation would have changed anything. But the gesture often assuaged feminine pride. He would just have to make it right by her on the wedding night, prove that he had some sense of good manners.

  He suppressed a groan at the prospect of the coupling. It had been a long time since he was held in the gentle arms of a woman. Sleeping next to an army of men was hardly as pleasant of a diversion.

  “What was that about earlier? Lady Della did not appear taken with you.” Gunther nodded to a serving wench with black hair as she went abovestairs. He shot her a come-hither smile. “Perchance, you have lost yer charm.”

  Brant watched his friend in amusement. Gunther never stayed in one place long without some company to share his bed. Unlike Brant, who preferred to keep a steady mistress.

  “It would appear m’lady has an aversion to Vikings—something to do with the way we smell and sleep out of doors with cattle.” He sat up and finished his cup of mead in several long gulps and then rubbed his eyes in aggravation. They’d been riding all over the countryside for the last several sennights and had yet to have a day of peace and quiet. He’d hoped that would have changed when he finally arrived at Strathfeld. It wasn’t to be. “Yea, she even tried to convince me not to wed with her. She said she carried Stuart of Grayson’s bastard child.”

  Gunther choked on his mead as he gave Brant a horrified look. “Gods Bones! She did not say that. What if it is so?”

  “I do not think it is,” he answered softly. “Besides, I have ordered her checked by the midwife.”

  “You didn’t!” Gunther’s laugh echoed in the hall as he pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “Methinks the Lady Della will not take kindly to that.”

  “She left me little choice in the matter. Though, I have yet to tell her father.” Brant let a small smile lift the corner of his mouth. Lord Strathfeld had informed him that his daughter wished to be married to Sir Stuart, but she hadn’t seen him nigh on the last five years. It was too long of a time to be carrying a man’s babe. Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing how many people she’d told her lie to. This was the only way to ensure Della’s reputation and his own.

  “What are you going to do about her aversion?” Gunther’s laughter subsided for a moment as he took a quick drink.

  Brant re-crossed his ankles and adjusted his arms over his chest. “It’s already done.”

  “What?” Gunther’s eyes narrowed in anticipation.

  “I told Lord Strathfeld my ancestors demanded I have a traditional
Viking wedding. He didn’t care either way, just so it was done.”

  “You didn’t.” Gunther laughed louder, unable to believe the audacity of his friend. “I don’t believe you. How traditional?”

  “My friend, it is my wedding day. We are going to do it right.” Brant grinned as he imagined the look on his intended’s pretty face as he made her drink from their kasa filled with mead and goat’s blood. He wondered if his dainty bride would refuse and then he thought of the many pleasurable ways he could punish her.

  “No one has used the traditional ceremonies nigh on the past hundred years.”

  “Nay, there are a few tribes to the far north,” Brant answered. “Besides, the Saxons don’t know that.”

  “Well, m’lord, it would seem someone has just informed yer bride of the change in nuptial plans.” Gunther looked to the stairwell in feigned concern as he settled more deeply into his seat. It was apparent he had no intention of missing the upcoming fray.

  Brant followed his friend’s gaze. Not surprisingly, there was his bride storming across the main hall in their direction. Even in her wintry fury she was lovely. Rushes were kicked up in her rage and the dark-haired servant quickly moved behind her to smooth them down once more. He nodded his approval of their quick attention to detail. It said much of how his future wife ran the keep.

  Or the spirit.

  He knew the moment her gaze alighted on him and felt the chill of her icy stare from across the room. Suddenly he frowned, disapproving of her second public display of anger.

  “Lord Blackwell,” Della fumed at him from below as she made her way up to the high table. Once on the raised platform, she placed the palms of her hands squarely on the table to stare him down. Brant smiled and moved as if to look down her bodice. Della gasped and straightened. Her hands flew to cover what little cleavage showed before fisting stiffly at her sides. He shot her a devilish smile. Her face tightened until it looked as if she might crack. “May I have a word with you?”

  Brant studied her for a second, pretending to ponder his answer. She was an enchanting creature despite the constant icy restraint on her face. Her eyes were the color of prized Viking amber and hair was of the lightest spun gold. Earlier the locks had fallen freely to her waist in waves of pleasing softness, but now she had it bundled tightly to the back of her head and held into place with a circlet of gold chains. He had a feeling it was to keep him from fondling it again.

  She grabbed a fistful of her long blue dress at the waist and held it in her clenched hand. Her foot tapped as she waited impatiently for his answer. He tried not to let his amusement show. Finally, he nodded once to grant her permission.

  Della took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “Perchance I may have a word with you in private, m’lord?”

  Brant hid his delight at her mocking restraint, again pretending to mull her request over in his mind. “Nay.”

  Her jaw dropped and her eyes rounded in bewilderment. It was clear she was rarely refused anything. Bristling as Gunther laughed, she shot a deadly look to his friend. To her credit, it quieted the man’s laugh to a chuckle. She turned her thorns to him once more.

  Brant realized only he could detect the small changes in her emotions. To anyone else in the hall she would appear cool and calm. He watched her mounting fury and wondered how far he could push her before she exploded. Would her passions be as easy to rise between the bed linens? He found it peculiar that he wanted to demand control from her a moment before and now he couldn’t seem to stop himself from provoking her anger.

  She wasn’t as frigid as she would lead him to believe. There was a wealth of passion in her, just waiting to be released. Perhaps, when he showed her the pleasure of the marriage bed, she wouldn’t be so adverse to his presence. Brant suppressed a grin. She might even beg for it.

  Della glared at the obstinate man, despising his highhanded treatment of her and thought, You are not Ealdorman of Strathfeld yet, Brant the Thorn, you Viking barbarian! This is still my father’s keep.

  “Must I insist?” She clenched her teeth.

  “Insist all you like, but the answer is nay. I am content where I am.” He looked obnoxiously smug. She watched as he lifted a lazy hand to his beard to scratch at his chin.

  I’ll bet he is infested with fleas, she thought in dismay, and I will have to clean the rushes daily because of it.

  She raised her chin and her voice, not caring that Gunther was there to witness. “Very well, I refuse to marry you. I’d rather live my life as a pauper, scrubbing the garderobes. I care not for you or your pagan customs. Is this clear enough for you?”

  Brant snarled. He shot to his feet, slamming his palm flat onto the high table. “Methinks it’s about time I had a talk with my lady bride.”

  Her jaw dropped as she took a hasty step back. She placed her hands defiantly on her hips and didn’t look away. But, even so, she knew she had talked too out of turn. His dark fury poured from every movement. She cursed herself for again daring to step too close to the flame. He stalked around the table until he was well upon her. His fists were hard balls at his sides, attesting to his ire. Without pause, he grabbed her about the waist and threw her easily over his shoulder.

  “Oomph.” Della felt the wind rush from her lungs as she landed hard against him. He then leapt from the platform like a raging beast to the main hall floor. Della screamed and clutched at his back for support. Much to her amazement, he didn’t drop her. His feet found easy footing in the rushes. Screaming, she demanded, “Let go of me, you oaf. How dare you treat me like this? I am Lady Della of Strathfeld. I am a lady!”

  Brant’s arm blazed a liquid heat into her stomach as he adjusted her on his shoulder. Della dangled helplessly over his back, pressed intimately against the heat of his body. Her waist fit next to his thick neck and he held her steady with one arm wrapped around her upper thighs. Della didn’t move, noting in astonishment how gracefully he walked for a man of his size. Then, hearing Gunther’s hearty laughter, she came to her senses. She pushed her arms on his back and wielded herself up with a cry of fury.

  Brant grunted like he was in pain as she hit him. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and grabbed her butt with his free hand. Giving her cheek a hard squeeze, he warned, “Hold! Or I will likely drop you on your hard head.”

  Della instantly let her arms fall and did as he commanded. A strangely devious and unfamiliar response started in her stomach at his arrogant handling and she felt the familiar way in which his hand caressed her backside. For a moment, the touch mystified her into silence. The heat of his grip sent scorching waves of fire through the two layers of linen she wore.

  Della stiffened as she realized he was carrying her to the bedchambers. Tears instantly came to her eyes and she began to shake. The weight of his hand deepened on her sensitive bottom. Her thighs tightened and she became hot as an unusual throbbing started in her core. She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing to run as soon as she was let down, and prayed her quivering legs would carry her.

  He moved his hand from her backside to push open his chamber door. Then, with a hard jerk, he kicked it shut behind him. The door vibrated with a decisive thud. He carried her across the chamber and effortlessly tossed her onto the feather mattress. Standing over her, he crossed his arms to make an impenetrable barrier with his body. His eyes silently dared her to run.

  Della shivered. Hurrying to her hands and knees, she backed away from her potential ravisher. She dashed the shameful tears that slipped from her eyes. Brant watched her edge to the side of the bed, a look of hot passion on his face.

  “You are naught more than a dishonorable barbarian,” she yelled, terrified by the animalistic way he looked at her. It was like a starving man watching a loaf of bread.

  “And you are a spoiled shrew,” he fired back.

  “Miserable lout!”

  “Aggravating wench!”

  “Heathen!”

  “Battle-axe!”

  “Wretched boor!”

/>   “Enchantress.” He softened his tone and smiled when her mouth dropped open with no reply. “So, there is a way to silence your foolish tongue. I could quickly show you more effective ways to draw a compliment from your lord husband.”

  Enchantress? Della swallowed uncomfortably. No one had ever said such a thing about her, at least not to her face. She cursed herself for the pleasure she felt at the compliment. “You are not my husband.”

  “Yea, not yet, but I will be soon enough. There are a few things we need to get straight between us if this is to be a happy marriage.”

  She eyed his devilish looks. He still wore the same long tunic he had been wearing earlier, only he had removed the chain mail. His clothes were threadbare and bewailed a want for a woman’s touch. They lacked fine embroidery at the edges and the material was old, not at all fit for a leader of men and the future Ealdorman of Strathfeld. She wondered why the poor quality of his clothing didn’t bother her as much as it should. Or why she suddenly felt compelled to rip the tunic from his chest to see what was hidden beneath.

  “If it is happiness you seek, m’lord, mayhap you should seek another wife. It’s not too late.” Her low whisper sounded ominous. “For you will not find happiness with me.”

  He studied her for a long time. Then, as if trying to be reasonable, he said, “Mayhap, you judge our marriage too harshly and out of turn.”

  “Nay.” She reached to pull at the material that hung from the top canopy of the bed and entangled her foot. “It is you who judge me out of turn. I refuse to be married to a Viking. The whole race of you murderous heathen barbarians can rot. Call me a traitor. Do whatever it is you do, but I’d rather hang than—”

  “I am afraid, m’lady, you have no choice in the matter, for it is out of your hands. You will be Lady Blackwell or you will suffer—”