Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 4

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Either you wed with me two days hence or you die a pauper.”

  Della understood instinctively that the man before her wasn’t lying. He would ruin her if she refused him, and not only her. There were a lot of people living in Strathfeld Castle and the surrounding lands, a lot of people who depended on her—Saxon people. No matter what she felt, she couldn’t be selfish. Lifting her chin as she stood on the other side of the bed, she wasn’t willing to be humbled by his threats. “Yea, I will marry you then, but heed my words. It will be rape the night of the wedding and every night thereafter you seek your husband rights. I will never lie with you of my own free will and I will fight you every time you try to take me. My body will not bear you a child. I will seek the help of the midwife if it becomes necessary. If it’s happiness you are seeking, it will not be at my hand.”

  “And you heed me, lady bride. I will tolerate your bad temper no longer. You will treat me with the respect due your lord husband, both in public and private.” Brant moved around the bed and stalked toward her. He backed her against the stone wall and placed his hands on either side of her head. His chest rose and fell in aggravation. “And if you ever try to rid your body of my child, I will be rid of you in the same manner. Only I will not be as kind, for it will be a painfully drawn out death. Do you understand?”

  Della nodded, breathing heavily at his nearness—partly because she’d never been studied as intently by a man and partly because she found herself enjoying his perusal. His heady scent engulfed her senses as she tried to back away from him, tried to bury her body in the unforgiving stone. He smelled of sweat and horses, of mint and the earth, not at all unpleasant like she’d first insinuated.

  “Do not,” she whispered, afraid that he might ravish her to prove his power over her.

  Brant threw back his head in mocking laughter. He glanced down at her breasts and licked his lips as if wanting desperately to taste them.

  “What?” she demanded as her cheeks colored with hot embarrassment. She pushed against his chest. He didn’t budge. “Why are you staring?”

  “I have never raped a woman and I never will. Women come freely to my bed, as will you given time. I will make you plead me for my favors.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. His warm breath covered her neck and her chest. Her eyes strayed to his lips. She smelled the mead on his breath, and saw the hard texture of his firm mouth under the whiskers. “I will touch you in passion until you beg for my embrace, nay, the very length of my sword thrusting within you. And when you carry my heir, you will birth him and you will be a mother to him.”

  “Perversion,” Della swore, even as she shivered at the hidden promise in his voice. It was clear he meant what he said. She’d heard of such carnal pleasure whispered by the maids of the keep, but she’d also seen firsthand how unpleasant the mating act could be for a woman. In her mind, the pain outweighed the pleasure tenfold.

  Then why did she keep looking at his lips? Della self-consciously licked the side of her mouth as she glanced up into his piercing eyes. She wondered what his lips would feel like against hers. Her body’s response to him defied the logic she knew to be true.

  This is one of your pagan curses you are casting over me!

  Della realized her hand lay motionless on his chest above the steady beating of his heart and she hastily snapped it back. Clenching it into a fist to resist touching him again, she couldn’t erase the feel of his heartbeat on her palm. He was so close, so real. She lifted her chin, stubbornly refusing to rise to his taunting. A small smile formed on his lips.

  “Yea, I will not consummate the marriage until you beg me.” His sensual whisper held untold promises. He tilted his head so his parted lips settled by the curve of her neck, not touching her save for his breath falling hot and heavy against her flesh. “And when I am done touching the full span of your person, beg me you will.”

  “I will never beg for you.” Her words had lost a bit of their chill.

  “Nay?” Brant asked against her throat.

  Della shook her head. She felt the brief shift of his mouth, as if he smiled, but he didn’t move his head. With his forefinger, he touched her neck, lightly massaging over her pulse several times. When her heart quickened in response, he slowly moved the finger over her collarbone.

  “Mayhap you are mistaken. Your skin is as soft as I’ve imagined it to be and warm. You are not the icy maiden people whisper about, are you?”

  Della shivered, unable to move. His lips drove her mad with their teasing, airy caresses. Her heart was so loud she barely heard him and her mind centered over the feathery brush of his finger. It sent a fire coursing through her blood. Maybe he hadn’t even spoken. Maybe she’d imagined it. Her hips shifted toward him of their own accord.

  What was she doing?

  Brant took advantage of her confusion, drawing his finger down the low collar line of her dress. Della arched her chest into him. She couldn’t think, couldn’t fight. His breath continued to fan her throat, making her pulse race out of control, like the thunderous hooves of wild stallions. Short whiskers tickled her flesh, not unpleasant, but a distinct contrast to his soft breath. He spread his palm over the top curves of her breasts. Her nipples peaked and strained against the linen of her gown. He was so close, so warm. She wanted him to explore more of her body. She wanted him to touch her.

  He flicked his tongue over her pulse. At the same time, he delved his hand into the front of her tunic. Moving his fingers over her hardened nipple, he caressed her breast.

  Della arched fully into him and let out a moan of surprise. No one had ever dared to stand so close to her. Never had she been touched so boldly. Her arms had a mind of their own as they moved to rest weakly on his mammoth chest. She felt his hand as if it was everywhere, sliding over her flesh beneath her gown. Clasping her thighs tight, she wondered at the sudden dampness between them.

  Brant’s smile broadened against her throat and she heard his small chuckle of victory. She was too far gone to care. Somehow he managed to lift her breast from her tunic to better cover it with his fiery palm. Della let out a cry as air hit her chest. Hot kisses moved down her throat to sting her collarbone. Licking her skin, he groaned as if reveling in her sweet taste. His beard tickled her and she shivered.

  Her hands twisted in his tunic and she pulled him closer, wanting to feel more of him. He moved his agonizing kisses lower onto her breast. Suddenly her nipple was in his mouth and a burst of light and color lit up her closed eyelids.

  Della ran her fingers into the neckline of his tunic, innocently caressing the muscles she found there. Her hands shook with the force of the new emotions that flooded her. She didn’t understand what was happening to her body, didn’t think she wanted to. All she knew was that she couldn’t speak and she couldn’t beg him to stop.

  Brant released her nipple and pressed his arousal boldly against her center heat. Growling, he lifted her by the butt, forcing her legs to grip his waist. Della gasped at his strength as he held her against the wall of the bedchamber. Through their clothing his hardness ground into her.

  “Methinks you do not find me such the wretched boor now, m’lady,” he said aggressively against her throat. Her lips stung with longing, but he refused to kiss her. “Beg.”

  Della heard the word through a fog. It brought her up short and she stiffened against him in anger. “You miserable toad. Let me down before I scream. How dare you do this to me? I loathe your touch. You have no right to fondle me so.”

  Brant instantly let go and stepped away. Della jerked in surprise, barely catching herself from falling on the floor.

  “Methinks you have already screamed aplenty, lady bride. Or do you forget so quickly what came out of your mouth a moment before.” Brant didn’t wait for her reply before storming angrily out of the chamber.

  Della watched him go, somewhat disturbed by what his words implied. Had she been screaming at his nearness? Had she let him tou
ch her so wantonly? Shivering, she knew he was right. She had acted shamelessly in his arms. The remnants of the flames he’d lit inside her coursed through her limbs and she quickly covered her exposed chest.

  Tears ran over her cheeks. Turning her face into the wall, she pounded the stone with her fist until her skin was bleeding and raw. His whispers had exhilarated her and tormented her at the same time. He represented everything she hated, but she couldn’t stop herself from wondering what his hands had meant with their mysterious promises.

  Curse you, Brant the Thorn, and your pagan ways.

  Brant stormed the halls in disbelief. The mass between his thighs strained, begging for attention. He could still see her clearly, Della’s image burned into his brain to torment him. Several strands of her hair had come loose at his rough handling and fell sensually over the exposed breast. Her skin was the color of fresh cream.

  Temptation raged inside him and it took all his control not to turn around, throw her onto the bed, and take her in his passion. He wasn’t used to denying himself such pleasure, especially when he had every right to take it. Only the look of utter terror on her face had stopped him.

  Brant sighed in frustration. He couldn’t understand her distaste for him, no matter how hard he tried. He’d hoped things could be cleared between them, but her prejudice was blatant. She judged him by the ancestral blood that ran through his veins and not his merits. It was strange that she had such distaste for his heritage, for many of the Northumbrians were of mixed blood between the Anglo-Saxon and the Norse. Although it was well known she came from an almost purely Anglo-Saxon background, he knew that her own heritage had some Norse blood. Besides, Northumbria belonged to the so-called heathens.

  Though his raging arousal still wanted to debate the fact, Brant didn’t think he could bed her now if he wanted to. He was too angry. But his fury was as passionate as his desire and he felt a strange war begin to wage within his depths. He’d felt her reaction and witnessed her innocent desire. She didn’t understand what her body was doing, just as he knew she couldn’t begin to control its response.

  Brant groaned. He’d acted purely on instinct. His body desired her so much. It just had a hard time deciding whether it desired to ravish her or to throttle her.

  Good thing he hadn’t kissed her lips. He knew if he felt her sweet mouth he would be lost and then Odin help him. His self-control threatened to abandon him as he stopped and looked back, tempted to finish what was started. He forced himself to continue down the stairwell.

  Beg.

  If it had been any other maid, his command would have been met and eagerly so, but she wasn’t just any maid. She was Della the Cold and she was to be his unwilling wife.

  Chapter Three

  “M’lady!”

  The shout of a small boy carried over the loud main hall. Della looked up from where she’d been staring at her trencher to see Rab running across the floor toward the high table. The manor had come together for the morning meal, except for a few servants and guards who were on duty. Hearing a small sound, she glanced at Gunther on her right in distaste. He was licking grease from his fingers. To her left was her father, whom she refused to talk to out of principal, and on the opposite side of him was her intended. Lord Blackwell had chosen not to sit by her and they enjoyed the morning meal in relative hostility. She was relieved to have time to get her emotions under complete control and didn’t want to have a repeat of their last meeting. Stretching her sore, raw hand, she grimaced. She shouldn’t have taken her frustrations out on the wall.

  Rab gasped for breath, his thin shoulders heaving under his worn, brown tunic. Seeing the lower tables filled with soldiers, he skidded to a sudden stop, almost slipping in the rushes. Nervous, he eyed the gathered hall. Most of the knights continued to dine, ignoring the rambunctious lad. Suddenly, his gaze found Della and the boy seemed to relax.

  “Rab, what is it?” Della couldn’t help but give him a fond smile, knowing that he’d come to her in such a panic and not to one of the men. It just proved who the people thought was in charge.

  “Go on, boy, out with it.” Lord Strathfeld’s voice was gruff. Chunks of half-chewed meat flew from his mouth at the command, some of it landing on her trencher. Della stiffened in her chair, gripping the arms for support. The hall quieted and all turned their attention to the boy.

  Rab flinched. “Raiders, ‘long the south section. Two o’ the freeman…”

  Della’s breath caught in her throat, her body instantly weak with worry. She started to stand, instinctively wanting to ready her horse and ride out. Sensing movement at her side, she stayed seated, reminded of who was in her hall. Gunther looked at her thoughtfully. Brant didn’t move as he watched the boy in silence. Her father frowned. If it was only her, she’d have ordered the men to their horses, but with her father home she didn’t have the authority to do so.

  Rab continued, “They’re dead, m’lord. Burned alive!”

  “To the exercise field, tell Roldan to ready the men. Go now, boy!” Lord Strathfeld shot to his feet, the chicken he’d been eating still in his hand.

  Della pushed her food away, no longer hungry as her mind raced with the news. Who had been killed? She knew most of the people who worked the land, if not all.

  “M’lady?” Gunther asked quietly. “Do you know that child?”

  “Yea,” she answered in distraction. “That is Rab, a foundling boy. I let him help around the manor. His mother was killed by raiders years ago, when he was still a babe.”

  Gunther furrowed his brows, but said no more.

  Sensing Brant’s hot gaze on her, she turned to him. His attention made her nervous and she resented that he could unsettle her with just a look. The man was a stranger and yet his face was burned into her thoughts. All night, as she sat awake staring into a fire that reminded her of the red in his hair, she’d tried to think of ways to end the betrothment without hurting her people. She’d come up with nothing.

  Brant was the first to look away. Lifting his cup, he drank the remainder of his ale and set the empty goblet on the table. Standing, he said, “Gunther, I will ready twelve men to ride with Lord Strathfeld. You stay here, lest you are needed. It is unwise to leave the manor unguarded.”

  Lord Strathfeld nodded as he dropped the chicken. “I am sorry to tell you, but this happens quite often. You might as well see the worst of it. Besides, the ride will give me a chance to show you the extent of the south portion of Strathfeld land.”

  “Nay, father,” Della interrupted with false pleasantness. “The raids only started again since you made known your intent to betroth me to Lord Blackwell. Edwyn and I had the raids under control. Aside of petty thievery, such things only occur once a year, and always during winter when traveling bands of rovers raid for food, not lives.”

  Lord Strathfeld grumbled under his breath about meddling women, but said nothing. He turned toward the door leading to the bailey yard. “I will meet you and your men at the stone bridge outside the gate, Lord Blackwell.”

  Her intended waited until the ealdorman was well from earshot. Then, turning slowly, he scowled. Della forced herself to meet his hard expression.

  “Would you like to explain that comment, m’lady?” Brant’s fists were tight at his sides.

  “There is naught to explain, m’lord. It’s just an observation that someone is not pleased with our match.” She gave him an innocent look and his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Or that someone wants to make the match appear more necessary than it is.”

  “Methinks m’lady would do well to watch her tongue,” Brant warned, “lest I be tempted to watch it for her.”

  She snapped her mouth shut, but her eyes shot icy thorns in his direction.

  “Gunther, stay close in the event your services are needed,” Brant ordered, “and keep Lady Della company. Make sure she stays out of mischief.”

  It is not I who needs the watching, you miserable boor.

  Della clenched her teeth, but
said nothing. She hated to admit that even now she wanted to touch him. The fact only served to enrage her more.

  Gunther nodded. It was obvious he didn’t look forward to the task of playing nursemaid to a sharp-tongued woman. Brant stormed off, following her father out into the bailey.

  “M’lady, if I may offer some advice?” Gunther asked.

  Della turned her icy stare to him. “Yea?”

  “It’s not wise of you to be too public in yer dislike of my lord. He is a generous man, but methinks you test yer limits too boldly.” Gunther smiled at her. “It would be too bad if he were to make public his example of you.”

  “And if I may?” Della smiled back. She tried to stay angry, but couldn’t in light of Gunther’s puerile charm. The man had a way about him, even if he was part Norse. By the look of him, he had some Anglo-Saxon blood in him as well.

  “Yea, m’lady.” Gunther nodded in mock seriousness.

  “It’s not wise of you to take the attentions of too many maids at once. They are not likely to enjoy the competing. Methinks you test your limits too boldly.”

  Gunther’s eyes rounded in obvious surprise at her astuteness and he laughed. “Yea, m’lady, mayhap you are right.”

  * * * * *

  Della spent the day showing Gunther the grounds and introducing him to the people who worked them. As the soon-to-be seneschal, he needed to know how things were expected to run. She didn’t want Lord Blackwell to think he could change their highly effective system once he was ealdorman. Della had worked too many hours to perfect it.

  Besides, to her delight, she found out that Gunther was indeed only half Viking. His other half was Welsh and not at all offensive. She turned to smile at him as they passed the blacksmith’s workshop.

  “Old Alston has been blacksmith here since before I was born.” She nodded to the man who turned a brilliant piece of metal over the hot coals. His hands were deftly precise, even in leather gloves. Behind him a large stove burned, making a wave of intense heat come from the half-enclosed building.