Dangerous Talents (24 page)

Though nonplused by her unexpected popularity, Cele had not forgotten what she’d meant to say to Ragni after parting from Father Wirmund, and her temper sparked to life. She stopped him as they came to their chairs. “How could you tease me that way?”

It was Ragni’s turn to look perplexed. “What do you mean?”

Cele’s temper flared hotter.
Is every man a jerk
? “You flirted outrageously with me all night! And you’re a priest!”

Ragni almost sputtered. “You’re a lovely woman. This could hardly be the first time a man has flirted with you.”

“It’s the first time
a priest
has flirted with me!” Cele said in a sharp whisper.

“My priesthood could hardly be a surprise to you. I wear the sign of my office clearly.” Ragni touched the purple bag lying on his chest. “And what objection do you have to priests?” He looked sharply at her, lifting one eyebrow in the same manner as his father and brother.

“I don’t object to priests in general. Just to those who flirt when they’re supposed to be celibate.”

“Celibate!” Ragni spoke too loudly and a nearby couple turned to look. He lowered his voice again. “Where did you get such an appalling idea?”

Several awkward seconds ticked by as Ragni’s words sank in. Cele felt her face redden as understanding blossomed and her anger turned to embarrassment. She’d assumed too much—again. She should have known, with everyone talking about Odin and Freyr and Thor, that he wasn’t a
Catholic
priest. “Priests in my world have to be celibate,” she said in a small voice. She remembered suddenly that there were Anglican and Episcopalian priests, in addition to Catholics. “Most of them, anyway.”

“How unnatural! Baldur doesn’t require his priests to be celibate. He’s married himself. None of the honest pleasures of life are denied to us, Celia.” His voice softened. “Not flirtation, nor what often follows.” Ragni gently touched her upper arm again.

She shifted slightly away. She understood the situation better now, but the pleasure had gone from his touch. “I’m sorry I misjudged you.”
I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. At least I didn’t accuse him of attempted rape like I did Dahleven
. “You’d better go talk with Father Wirmund, before you get into any more trouble.”

Ragni’s expression was disappointed but resigned as he left her sitting next to Aenid. Ingirid and Jon were dancing. Jon moved with surprising agility. Cele could hardly believe he was the same man who had seemed well on his way to drunkenness.

“Lord Jon is quite a dancer,” Cele commented to Aenid.

“Father’s Talent is Grace,” Aenid answered. “I think Mother fell in love with him on the dance floor.”

Cele took a deep breath, relieved that in her ignorance she hadn’t commented on Jon’s drinking to his daughter. She made a mental note of the danger. She didn’t understand anything here. Not the people, the customs, nor the relationships. She couldn’t assume anything.

A hope burst to the surface of her mind, like an iridescent bubble. Maybe she had assumed too much about Dahleven. Maybe she had misinterpreted what she’d seen. Maybe Dahleven wasn’t married, and he’d been free to kiss her after all.

But the hug
?
The baby
?
The three of them looked so natural together
. Cele pushed the painful thought out of her mind. What did it matter? She was going home, as quickly as possible. Dahleven’s marital status wasn’t important.

Suddenly, as if summoned by her thoughts, she saw the strawberry-blonde that Dahleven had embraced twirling among the other dancers. Cele’s breath caught. She was lovely. How could Dahleven cheat on her?

But Cele had learned her lesson, she wouldn’t assume. She leaned close to Dahleven’s niece and casually asked, “Who is that?”

“Who?”

Cele had to wait till the dance brought the woman back in sight. “There. That pretty woman in the green dress.”

“Oh, her.” Aenid said. “That’s my aunt, Kaidlin.”

Aunt Kaidlin. Uncle Dahleven
. She hadn’t been wrong.

Cele hated the way the bubble of hope turned into a stone and dropped into her belly. How could a foolish hope grow so out of control in just a moment?

“I need to get some air.” Cele rose and headed for the door.

A petite young blonde with lots of curves intercepted her. “Welcome to Quartzholm, Lady Celia. I guess you’ve met the rest of the family by now.” She glanced at Aenid across the room, then back to Cele. “I’m sorry Ragni didn’t bother to introduce us. I’m Angrim.”

Cele didn’t want to endure another introduction and chat politely with another stranger. She couldn’t help herself; she looked longingly at the door.

Angrim looked at her closely. “You’ve had too much excitement for one day, haven’t you? The Feast can be a bit overwhelming.” Angrim took Cele’s arm familiarly. “Let me help you back to your room.”

“Thank you, but—”

“It’s no trouble, my dear. It will give us a chance to become acquainted.” They left the great hall with its music and dancing and turned two corners. The stone walls blocked most of the sounds of celebration. After the noise of the gathering, the quiet seemed surreal. Angrim’s companionable chatter was a welcome distraction from the mess Cele’s thoughts and feelings had become.

“You’re wise to retire early,” Angrim said as they mounted the stairs. “The gathering will only grow more wild as the night goes on. Eventually, the young bucks will challenge each other to a fire-leap until one of them singes his rump. You’re not missing much.”

“They jump across the fire?”

“And they move the starting mark farther away with each round.”

Cele could only stare.

“It wouldn’t be a challenge if it was too easy, now would it? Who’d they impress?” The young blonde giggled.

Angrim turned the subject as she turned another corner. “Your trip through the drylands with Dahleven’s men must have been quite an ordeal.”

Cele didn’t feel like talking. “It was hard.”

“So I would think. Dirty and uncomfortable. And alone with all those men!” Angrim didn’t miss a breath as they climbed another set of stairs.

“Actually, they were all kind, in their own ways. Sorn most of all.” Her heart twinged at the name. Cele was relieved to recognize her own door as they turned onto yet another hall.

“I’m sure. Our Dahleven would never allow an insult to a lady.”

Thinking back to Dahleven’s grim-faced questioning, Cele wasn’t so sure. Then Angrim’s phrasing sank in.
Our Dahleven
? “You know Lord Dahleven well, then? Are you family?”

“Why, I thought you knew.” Angrim smiled coyly. “Dahleven and I have known each other forever. We’re quite
intimately
acquainted.” Her meaning was unmistakable.

Married, with a mistress
. That was clear enough.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Dahleven shrugged, testing the fit of his new blue tunic.
Perfect
. He could draw a weapon if necessary while still looking fine enough as his father’s heir.

He’d returned to Quartzholm with just enough time to bathe and dress before the Council of Jarls, the first meeting of the Althing. He was tired, but at least he didn’t have the throbbing head that some of the Jarls would bring to the meeting. Knut’s betrayal, and the deaths of Sorn, Lindy, and Halsten weighed on him, but they sharpened his focus. Finding Fender and Ghav had eased his concern. Except for Ghav’s leg they were whole, and Falsom and Kep, though wounded, were being well cared for at the crofter’s where Ghav and Fender had left them.

The decision to leave the two behind had clearly been difficult for the healer. Ghav had reassured Dahleven repeatedly that the two had been left in good care. His assurances had seemed as much for his own peace of mind as for Dahleven’s. Ghav had followed his first duty, to help Fender get the information back to Quartzholm, despite inclination and his wounded leg.

I’ll make sure Father knows. Ghav deserves recognition for that difficult choice
. All his men deserved recognition, for that matter. Their scouting mission had proven far more challenging, and deadly, than expected.

Dahleven stretched again, clean for the first time in weeks, and slicked a hand over his still damp hair, braided close to his head. He was as ready as he’d ever be. He faced another challenge now: presenting what they’d learned to the ever-contentious Jarls. Fanlon may have created the Alliance, but its preservation was seldom smooth or simple.

Ragni followed his quick knock through Dahleven’s door. “Greetings! Ready to face the dragons?”

“Someday you’ll wish you had more respect for my privacy, Ragni.”

“If such a day ever arrives, brother, feel free to bolt your door.”

Dahleven rolled his eyes. “Let’s move out. Delay won’t make this any more pleasant.”

Ragni grimaced and went back out the door. He might delight in stinging Dahleven’s dignity, but they were of like mind on the pleasures of politics. Apparently, Ragni didn’t want to dwell on them; his next remark jerked Dahleven’s thoughts in a different direction. “Your little drylands flower was a pleasant companion last night,” he said as they walked shoulder to shoulder down the wide corridor.

Dahleven felt like he’d missed a step, although his stride was smooth. “Oh?”

“Indeed. I quite enjoyed her company. Definitely one of the better assignments Father has given me.”

Dahleven’s temper warmed. Why had Father put Ragni on the task? He knew what his younger son was like. Ragni was a charmer, always had been. How far and how hard had he pursued Lady Celia? She was vulnerable now, so soon after Sorn’s death. Though she’d known his sworn brother only a day, love could take a woman like that, and he didn’t want to see her hurt by Ragni’s dalliance.
She wears Sorn’s bracelet, for Freya’s sake
! How could his brother trespass on so fresh a grief?

A stab of guilt cooled his temper and tightened his shoulders. He’d kissed her himself, and it hadn’t been a brotherly kiss. Far from it. A different kind of heat warmed him as his memory of that embrace tightened more than his shoulders.

“Speak, and she appears.” Ragni indicated a figure at the end of the hall.

Lady Celia walked toward them, accompanied by Thora. His imagination hadn’t prepared Dahleven for the sight of her in proper clothing. A gauzy viridian dress skimmed her body, draping gracefully to the floor under a darker green over-tunic nearly as long as the dress. With each step, the delicate fabric of the dress clung to her long muscular legs, their movement visible and tantalizing through the open front of the tunic. Even from this distance, Dahleven could see how the verdant colors of her clothing intensified the shade of her eyes. They were vivid, like the first bright meadow-grass of spring, and they flashed sparks as she recognized him.

“Lady Celia,” Ragni said as they came together, “what a pleasure to see you again.” He didn’t touch her, but his posture suggested familiarity.

Dahleven wanted to step between them, but had no reason to.

“I trust you are well? Your early departure concerned me.” Ragni’s tone implied he had a right to ask.

Lady Celia flicked a brief glance at Dahleven, then smiled at Ragni. “I felt a little overwhelmed. It was rude for me to leave like that. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. Such Feasts can indeed be over stimulating. I regret my time is spoken for at present, but I hope I may call on you again.”

Dahleven’s annoyance grew as Lady Celia smiled up into his brother’s eyes and answered, “Please do.”

Ragni bowed deeper than required by courtesy. “Lady Celia.”

“Lord Ragnar. Or should I say,
Father
Ragnar?”

“Ah.” Ragni lifted a warning finger. “Just Ragni.” He delicately touched her bare arm above the elbow.

Dahleven’s hand shot out and grasped Ragni’s wrist. Ragni had no right to be so publicly intimate, and he doubted Lady Celia understood what Ragni was doing. A man touched an unmarried woman in the place where she’d wear the marriage bands as a confirmation of intimacy—or as an invitation. She permitted it, welcomed it, only if she agreed.

It was then he realized that Celia wore Sorn’s cuff on her forearm now, rather than in the place of a betrothal band, as she had done before. Had he misunderstood her feelings for Sorn? Then he remembered her tears. No, her grief had been genuine.

Ragni and Lady Celia looked at him in surprise, and he released Ragni’s wrist. “We’re late. We must go.” It sounded stiff even to his own ears, but he was angry enough he didn’t care.

Without missing a step, Ragni smoothly took his leave a second time.

Dahleven bowed the appropriate degree. “Lady Celia.”

She threw a glance sharp as shards of emerald at him and continued down the hall without speaking.

Ragni looked at him with wide eyes. “However did you earn such high regard from the lady, brother?”

Dahleven didn’t answer for a moment. His desire to plant a fist in his brother’s face warred with the impulse to kick himself. Was Ragni’s behavior any worse than his own? He strode onward. Ragni kept pace.

The memory of Celia’s glare cut like slivers of deep-winter ice. He’d brought this on himself. He’d given in to impulse and kissed her. She might have enjoyed it at the time, he was sure she had, but now, in clear reflection, she obviously resented his presumption. As well she might.

Dahleven cast a dark look at his brother. Ragni had always been smooth and glib and charming with women.
He
, no doubt, had said and done all the right things at the right time. He would slip into her regard without her notice, until one day she’d awaken and find herself in love with him.
He
would never blunder by pushing too far, too soon.

“Easy, brother. I’m not the one who cut you cold, nor did I speak against you last night. Indeed, I sang your praises as a fine warrior—when your name came up.” Ragni looked closer at his face, and Dahleven wished his younger brother weren’t so perceptive, or so Talented. Then Ragni dropped the false mockery and became the brother he trusted again. “What happened, Dahl?”