Captive Heart (13 page)

“Aye, this is my home.” Mylan threw off his cloak and turned to face her, his frown again becoming his constant expression. “It needs a good cleaning, that I will admit, so you need not think you will insult me by seeing to it at first light.”

Celiese looked about the one long, narrow room again, hoping her poor first impression had been as a result of the flickering fire, but now that the wood burned with a steady glow the place looked no better. “You have brought me here to clean?” Her disappointment was obvious in her luminous green eyes, their color bright with unshed tears. She knew she was not a bride being welcomed into a home filled with love, but still she had hoped for better than this from him.

“To clean and to cook, indeed to perform any task I might assign. For the present you must tend the horses, they are doubtless weary, and so am I. The stable is in the rear. Well, run, I’ll not have such fine animals neglected!”

With an angry glance Celiese left without arguing. She gathered up the reins and spoke softly as she led the two horses around to the small shed that served as the stable. “Mylan says you two deserve care, but what of me? Am I not to be shown even the slight amount of consideration he shows a horse?” Knowing the beasts would not reply, Celiese did her best to see they were cooled down properly and ready to spend a restful night. The shed was dark and she stumbled, bruising her shins cruelly as she missed her step at the door. That pain was the final assault on her spirit, and she burst into tears before realizing with a sudden flash of insight that she should be rejoicing that Mylan had not married Olgrethe as she had feared he would. Sitting up, she brushed away her tears, for why would he have brought her with him if he had not missed her as greatly as she had missed him? As she stood up she tripped again over the hem, of her long gray gown. Gripping it tightly in her hands, she ran around to the front door, gasping for breath as she entered the large room, but all was quiet. Mylan lay sleeping, his deep breathing easy as if he’d fallen sound asleep the moment he’d sprawled across the heap of furs that served as his bed. She tiptoed to his side and slipped her hand under the soft suede of his tunic. His wound was apparently no longer seeping blood, for the linen bandage was still dry, and, satisfied that he was merely exhausted, not unconscious from loss of blood, she ceased to worry about him and looked about for a place where she might rest comfortably herself. Mylan lay at a diagonal, leaving no space for her upon his bed. She was certain that that had been deliberate rudeness on his part, but she was too tired to care. She leaned down to brush his tawny curls with her lips, her kiss a spontaneous gift of the affection she had no desire to hide regardless of the bitterness of his mood. “God bless you, dear husband, may your dreams be sweet.”

As was the custom in a farmhouse, the platform that formed a bench around the interior walls served as seating during the day and as beds during the night. That Mylan had such a splendid mound of furs upon which to sleep was a tribute to his skill as a hunter, but she hoped he would not miss a few so she might make the hard wooden bench at least somewhat more bearable as a bed. After adding more wood to the fire, she gathered a few pelts from his generous supply, then lay down and closed her eyes wearily, for she was as exhausted as he was from the long day. Forcing all fear for the future from her mind, she smiled with a lazy satisfaction. She had never expected to be a farmer’s wife, but now that prospect seemed most rewarding, for as long as Mylan kept her with him she cared not at all where he chose to live.

Chapter Seven

In the pale light of dawn Mylan’s farmhouse was even more disorderly than Celiese had at first imagined. She lay upon her stomach on the wooden bench where she’d slept, her chin propped on her hands as she scanned the room slowly, amazed by the accumulation of clutter that littered the quaint little house. As was the Viking custom, it was sturdily built of tree trunks split into staves and then placed vertically in the ground to form the walls. Although it had been dark when they’d arrived, she knew this late in spring the thatched roof would be covered with a sprinkling of bright wildflowers, and with the cleaning Mylan had suggested she was certain the home could be a charming place. Since the fire that had burned on the hearth when she’d fallen asleep was now no more than ashes, she wondered if Mylan would soon rise to light another to help her prepare breakfast. Glancing over her shoulder where she expected to see him still sleeping, Celiese found only the heap of furs occupying the corner. Suddenly certain she’d been left in an abandoned farmhouse many miles from home, she leapt to her feet and ran out the door, sprinting around to the shed where she found the dapple gray mare she’d ridden with Mylan’s roan stallion, both munching contentedly upon a fresh supply of feed. He had apparently fed and watered the animals before he’d left, but where could he have gone? Anxious to find him she circled the low dwelling, shading her eyes from the rising sun as she searched the surrounding fields for the tall, blond Viking. He was nowhere to be seen.

The landscape was a serene one, the fertile land flat, while nearby a stream ran with inviting swiftness beneath a thick stand of linden trees whose branches were topped with the new growth of spring. While not so immense an estate as the one owned by Raktor or Aldred, the farm appeared to be a prosperous one, and Celiese’s mood grew more optimistic as she continued to survey her new home. When after a few minutes’ time Mylan had still not appeared, she walked to the stream. Knowing she was quite alone, she slipped off the coarse woolen garment, then Olgrethe’s blue gown. The chill of the water brought a bright blush to her cheeks, and she made haste to complete her grooming before her fair skin took on the same pale blue as the sky. Donning only the silk gown, she carried the gray one back to the house to search for a pail so she might carry water to begin the cleaning.

It was late afternoon when Mylan returned, limping badly. He carried two rabbits slung over his shoulder as the only evidence of his day’s efforts. He hesitated at the door, clearly dismayed at the sight of the tidy household Celiese had managed to create in less than one day’s time. That she had obeyed a command he’d issued in such an offhand manner the night before amazed him, as everybody knew that slaves were completely devoid of such initiative. “I did not expect, I mean, you need not have—” He caught himself then—an order given should be obeyed, still, she had caught him off guard, and he was more confused than pleased by her unexpected willingness to clean his house.

Celiese approached the handsome man with an enchanting smile. “I have always preferred order to chaos, Mylan. Your house did not present too great a challenge for me.”

Ignoring her friendly greeting, Mylan strode through the door, then tossed the limp animals upon the table. “I suppose this is the best you could do.” He commented gruffly. “In time you will learn how I want my house kept.”

Celiese’s pretty smile of welcome vanished instantly at that rebuke, for she was shocked that he thought there was something she’d neglected to do. “I put fresh straw on the floor, shook out the furs of your bed, cleaned all your cooking implements, dusted all the furnishings—what more should I have done?”

Mylan turned away. His home was spotless, but he’d pay her no compliments that day or any other. “The fire has gone out. I expect my supper to be ready when I come home. Do not be so careless ever again.”

Gesturing helplessly, Celiese explained, “It was out when I awoke. How did you start a fire so quickly last night? I have no idea how to do it.” She’d worked so hard to please him and as usual had failed, but she knew the fact that the fire had gone out was not her fault and resisted assuming the blame for it. “I did bring in more wood,” she offered quickly, hoping that might put him in a more agreeable mood.

Drawing a small leather pouch from his belt, Mylan removed a flint and bent down over the pile of kindling she’d laid. In a matter of seconds he’d ignited the dry wood and stood up to back away.

“How do you expect me to light a fire if you carry the flint with you?” Celiese asked indignantly.

Mylan drew himself up in a slow, menacing stretch, towering above Celiese as he regarded her with a contempt-filled gaze. “Just see that this fire is properly tended, so that it does not have to be relit! Now, show me what you can prepare out of the rabbits. I have not eaten all day and am hungry.”

“Cook those?” Celiese glanced at the small furry animals lying upon the table. “I have never cooked any meal, Mylan. I have no idea how to prepare those little beasts so that they will be tasty.”

Shaking his head sadly, Mylan continued to scold her. “Then it is time you learned. I have no need for a maid here; your housekeeping is barely adequate, and if you cannot prepare edible meals then—” He broke off in mid-sentence, and when no truly horrible threat came to his mind he gestured broadly, “Then we shall starve!”

“We’ll not starve!” Celiese laughed at his stricken expression, not caring if the sound of her merriment provoked him further. “How have you managed to survive these last two years? Show me how you have prepared rabbits yourself, and I will watch carefully so I might do it the next time. Won’t you please show me?” she coaxed with an infectiously pleasant smile and bright glimmer in her sparkling green eyes.

Mylan pulled a razor-sharp dagger from his belt and with a few swift strokes skinned and dressed the rabbits. Cutting the carcasses into quarters, he offered scant advice. “Fill the iron kettle with water from the stream. There are onions and other vegetables in the garden, add them when the meat is tender. Since you did not have the water boiling it will be a long while until supper.”

“Since I didn’t know where you’d gone, or when you might return, how was I supposed to know you’d gone hunting and would expect the stew made before you’d arrived home with the meat?” His demands made no sense at all to her, but rather than argue she grabbed up the pail and ran to the stream to fetch the water.

Angered by the sharpness of her wit, Mylan jabbed his dagger into the table top with a vicious thrust before going out to check his horses. When he found both had been expertly groomed, their stalls cleaned, and their feed and water replenished, he swore under his breath “Where does that woman find such energy?” He leaned back against the rough wall of the shed and held his side, for it ached badly and he knew the dressing needed changing. Closing his eyes he breathed deeply, trying to force away the pain with the power of his thoughts, but his confrontation with Celiese had provided such a distraction he could concentrate on nothing but her delightful image, and he was soon certain his decision to bring her along to the farm with him had been the wrong one.

When Celiese had the preparations for their evening meal well underway according to Mylan’s directions, she began to wonder if he’d bother to return to eat it. She looked about the one-room abode; searching for the flaws he’d noticed so readily, but she could detect none. Everything was in its place, all spotlessly clean and shining from her labors. Too nervous to rest, she waited at the door for a while, then went outside to look for her reluctant companion. He was still leaning against the shed where he’d stopped to rest, his face set in a mask of undisguised disgust and she waited for a moment for him to notice her. When he did not, she spoke softly. “The horses are not in need of more care, are they? It is difficult to perform any task in that small stable after the sun sets, but I have the time now if—”

“What?” Mylan stood up too abruptly, then winced as the wound in his side caused him a new burst of pain. Unable to catch his breath, he could say no more and feared Celiese would think him a fool for not having heard her question.

Frightened he might be ill, Celiese lowered her voice to a sympathetic whisper. “You have done far too much today, Mylan. Do not exert yourself needlessly. Please come inside and I will see to your comfort as best I can.” Another of her many failings, she realized, for she knew nothing of brewing remedies from herbs, but perhaps he might be able to prescribe something she could prepare for him.

Mylan offered no resistance to her suggestion, and when her arm encircled his waist he walked slowly back inside where he sank down into a chair at the table before pulling his tunic off over his head. “I am none too clean, but I’ll not risk opening the wound again by bathing.”

“That is wise, but I can help you to wash,” Celiese offered agreeably without realizing what exquisite torture it would be to touch him. His skin was deeply tanned, golden-brown and warm beneath her fingertips. She had to force herself to concentrate upon the blood-soaked bandage at his waist rather than on his lean, muscular body, which reminded her far too vividly of the night she’d spent in his arms. Concerned, she scolded him softly, “You must have been bleeding all day, you never should have gone hunting.”

Mylan sighed wearily, feeling no need for her advice. “It is a slight injury, and we must have food to survive.”

Celiese worked quickly to pull away the matted layers of cloth that covered the deep wound as she replied, “I can hunt for us, my father taught me how, and I’ve not forgotten his lessons.”

“Why would Raktor teach you such things, when he has sons aplenty?” Mylan asked skeptically.

“He didn’t, but he is not my father, in case you have forgotten,” Celiese pointed out quickly. “Tomorrow you must simply rest, and I will kill a wild hen or two for our supper.”

Snorting derisively, Mylan exclaimed, “I’d rather eat porridge!”

“Would it offend your pride so greatly to eat food I’d provided?” Celiese stepped back, insulted that her offer of assistance had been so rudely refused.