Death Blow (9 page)

“The women of Saracen harems are taught such skills.” He rolled them over and pulled the sheet to cover her shoulders.

She rested her chin on hands fisted together in the center of his chest. “You lived with the Saracens?”

“For a few winters to earn my coin.”

His voice had lost the playfulness of earlier. A shadow crossed his face. Nyssa glanced at the candles, but they still burned brightly.

“Are you content, mìlseachd?” He had reverted to the Konáll she first met, his features schooled into stern lines, his mouth grim set.

“Aye.” A sense of foreboding raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

“We must talk of the morrow. Tell me all that has happened since your parents left for Kenneth’s court.”

Blindsided, not expecting such a demand after their sweet intimacy, Nyssa searched for a way out. “I must seek out the bushes, Konáll.”

He tipped her chin and locked their gazes. “Grelod will have left a chamber pot. I will step outside whilst you use it. I will have another vow from you, wife.”

She shook off his touch and gnawed the insides of her cheek to prevent an angry retort. “What now, Viking?”

“I will have your word you will never lie to me.”

* * *

Konáll checked his sleeping wife’s pretty tits as she inhaled and exhaled in an even easy rhythm. Nyssa had lied to him. Every instinct told him so, but wherein was the falsehood?

After he had forced the vow of truth hood from her, she had withdrawn, much the way the mighty sea turtles defended themselves by tucking under a hard shell. E’en after he coaxed more climaxes from her, she had not the same abandon when finding her pleasure.

She was a treasure his wife. A quick mind, a sharp wit, and a passionate nature leashed and locked during the three seasons spent with her uncle, aunt, and cousins. Though she answered his questions, she did so with paucity, giving an aye or a nay where possible, or a one-sentence reply. What he gathered came more from what she didn’t say rather than what she did.

What secret did she guard? And why?

He picked apart the vows she’d uttered. She had refused to promise not to cast him aside. Why? What would she gain if she did? For, if she spoke the truth, she stood to lose her inheritance and her status. He could see no reward for Nyssa in divorcing him. Not that he would allow her to. Nay, she was his, and he would do what needs be to forge an unbreakable bond ’tween them.

A babe. Their babe. Her undying devotion to Mús and to her people told him she would be an exemplary mother, fierce and absolute in her efforts to protect her own child. Aye, their babe would cleave her to his side.

The one vow that mattered least she had kept until her arms ached. A smile tugged at his lips. While she projected the princess warrior, armored, strong, with no hint of frailty, Nyssa had responded to him being in command. She had enjoyed submitting to his lead. ’Twas a discovery he would use to his advantage.

She had promised ne’er to lie to him, but the wording of her oath had given him a warrior’s unease. Why had she vowed to tell him the truth instead of never to lie to him?

She could read and write. This he knew because he had caught her perusing a half-written scroll of Thōrfin’s when he returned to the tent. ’Twas not a missive of any import, but the fact she had looked at it without first securing permission gave him pause.

He had hoped she would find friendship with Grelod, but ’twas not to be. Though he could not be cert, Konáll detected a note of envy when she spoke of Grelod’s long hair and decried her own lack of curves and her “meager titties.” He grinned. She had the most responsive breasts he had ever had the fortune to suckle. Ne’er had he ever had a woman who found her pleasure from him playing with her tits. Thrice.

Aye. His wife was indeed a prize, one he intended to keep. One day she would feel about him the way she did Mús.

Mús. If only the damned lion would tell him all instead of doling out riddles and small morsels of information. The cat had a hidden agenda, Konáll was cert of it. Why had the creature roared with laughter when Konáll demanded the lion remain behind to guard Nyssa during the invasion of Castle Caerleah?

She stirred in his embrace.

Konáll looked down and grinned when she wrinkled her nose, reminding him of the fuzzy, snow-white rabbits he’d first encountered in Mercia. Dawn’s light streaked through the gaps in the tent’s canvas and played a merry dance over her flaxen tresses.

Her hair smelled of lavender and rosemary and glistened like daffodils swaying in sunlight. She had not the milky complexion of courtly women. He liked the contrast between the golden hue of her throat and face and the paler pink of her breasts, belly, and thighs.

Unable to resist the temptation of a budded raspberry nipple, he kissed first one, then the other, and glanced up to find her blinking, thick lashes casting a slight shadow on her cheeks. She wore the dazed glint of the half awake.

“Good morn, wife. I have in mind the perfect way to break our fast.” He slid onto his side and lifted one of her legs over his hip. Grinning when his erection poked at her puss’s lips and her eyes opened wide, he thumbed her nipple until the bud pearled.

She sucked in her breath and clamped a hand over his.

“’Tis not to your liking?” He ran his tongue along the line of her jaw and circled the heel of his palm over her breast.

“Aye. Nay. I am not awake.” She smacked his shoulder.

“You talk in your sleep, oft?” Her nape drew him the way flames attracted fireflies. He nuzzled her neck and inhaled, here she smelled of all things woman, musky and spicy.

“Oh.” She twined her fingers in his hair and urged him closer. “Again.”

Eager to oblige, he feathered open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder blade, worked his way down to her cleavage, cupped her breasts, and tongued the serpent birthmark. In the growing light, the curved snake appeared to shimmer and glow and the hue appeared more rose than brown. His pecker jerked and twitched. Ne’er had a mark fueled his lust to such heights, he feared spilling his seed like a green boy.

“Raspberries,” he muttered pulling back to stare at her peaked nipples. “And a wicked serpent.”

She tugged on his scalp and a sharp sting doused his desire daze.

“What?” he growled unable to shake his focus from her mouth-watering buds.

“You are offended by the mark this morn?” Her voice wavered on the last three words and the hint of hurt in her tone penetrated his fogged mind.

Their stares met, he shook his head. “Nay. I am drunk on the notion of these raspberries suckling our babe. I am overfond of raspberries and cream.”

All the color left her face. Konáll stifled a wince. Mayhap ’twas not wise to let her know the idea of drinking from her breast fired his stones. Seeking to reassure her, he crooned, “Ne’er think I find your breasts meager. They are mounds to match the sirens’ call, and these sweet nipples are the color of the ripest, sweetest raspberries. I cannot get enough of them.”

With that he set to proving his words by latching onto one fat peak and sucking like a man about to perish from thirst. He rolled over, needing to be able to view her bounty at his leisure, though the fever blasting through him had his actions hurried, greedy, desperate. Nudging her legs wide, he settled on top of her, fitting his cock to the juncture of her thighs.

Moving from one breast to the other, he plucked, rolled, pinched, laved, bit, licked until the serpent glowed red and rosy and her nipples were swollen and puckered. She made intoxicating little noises, equal parts moan, whimper, and squeal.

He discovered she called out his name when he nipped the underside of her mound. Held him fast to her when he used his tongue and sucked simultaneously. And when he tugged both engorged buds at the same time, she stiffened, lifted off the straw and came apart right before his eyes. He could not get enough of watching her face as she climaxed, eyes glazed, head tossing, mouth open as she keened her pleasure.

His testicles blistered with fullness, his cock stung with the need for release. Knowing he could hold back no longer, he grasped her knees, threw her legs o’er his shoulders, and drove home. The climax roared up from his toes, erupted across his groin, and he spewed his seed in short, violent bursts.

She milked him dry, her puss snatching at his cock, wringing every last drop from him. His arms jerked with the effort of holding his body up. Though the morn held an icy chill and the fire had long died, sweat beaded his temples and trailed down his neck.

’Twould be bliss to break each dawn with Nyssa. His gaze roved o’er her face, and he soaked in the signs of her contentment, the sultry half smile, her dreamy eyes, the flush of color staining her cheeks. The sounds of a camp awakening reached his ears. Pots banged, men called to each other, and axes chopped wood.

Nyssa’s eyelids drooped and her breathing hitched before settling into a regular rhythm. He smiled, the foolish, sotted smile of a cock-proud lout who had swived his woman well. For long moments he scrutinized every detail of each of her features. A tiny scar marred the line of one brow, her soot-smudged lashes flickered now and then, and the high curve of her cheeks together with the squareness of her stubborn chin, gave her a regal air. When she let out a long sigh and her muscles slackened, he withdrew from her delicious sheath. He tucked a blanket around her shoulders and under her heels, then searched for the sheet Grelod had placed in the far corner of the tent. Konáll grabbed the eating knife from the now empty tray, sliced the underside of his wrist, and mopped the blood with the white linen.

The small wound stopped bleeding quickly. Working in silence he dressed and then donned his black vambraces using his teeth to tie the knot on the left cuff. The dark leather ran from his wrists to just below his elbows and concealed the slight cut.

Konáll found vellum in Thōrfin’s trunk, along with nibs, a feather, and a vial of ink. He scrawled a note ordering Nyssa to remain in the tent. After placing the note on a low table, he snatched the sheet and exited the tent.

Chapter Seven

Nyssa fiddled with the pleats on her wedding cyrtel. Konáll had ordered her to remain in the tent until he returned from practicing his swordplay with Dráddør, but she had no intention of sitting around when ’twas so much to be done. She had not expected he would post guards, but he had. Four warriors straddled the path leading down to the camp. Since ’twas the only way off the cliff, she decided to brazen it out.

Head held high, she sailed out of the tent keeping her pace slow and even. Three of her guards stood near the lone tree bordering the trail, she could not locate the other man. One of them caught sight of her, straightened, and alerted his companions.

“Good morn,” she called out and pasted a wide smile on her face. “Which of you accompanies me to Queen Grelod’s tent?”

The three men exchanged puzzled glances.

“I am already late and the queen is cert to be displeased at my tardiness.”

“Lord Konáll ne’er said anything about you visiting the queen.” The oldest of the men, a swarthy fellow who stood a head taller than Nyssa and had blue lines carved on both cheeks, squinted at her.

“Queen Grelod ordered me to report to her at the crack of dawn. ’Tis well past that now.” She folded her hands together and met his stare.

For a moment, she thought he meant to refuse her, but he averted his gaze and snuffed out a breath. “I am Pálli, Lady Nyssa, and Lord Konáll has charged me with your safety. We will all escort you to the queen.”

“My thanks. Pray set a brisk pace.”

“Aye, my lady.” Pálli tapped two fingers to his forehead and fixed his gaze to the right.

The fourth guard who had emerged from behind the tent nodded and broke into a sprint. A white sheet flapped in a sudden gust.

Nyssa bit back a cry when she glimpsed the scarlet stain running a thin, ragged line down the middle of the pristine linen. She might as well have been burning at the stake with the blaze of heat bursting through her from scalp to toes. Odin’s mercy. Had Konáll sliced a dozen veins to provide evidence of her virginity?

Pálli arranged their formation so Nyssa walked in the center and was flanked by a man in front and back and one on either side. She scanned the encampment below and estimated at least five score men occupied the space ’tween the river and the cliffs. Shading her eyes she inspected the cove and the horizon.

’Twas a red dawn, which meant storms would rule the day.

Five langskips bobbed on the high tide, each anchored at equal distances from the other. A brisk wind whipped the sails on the ships. Three of the boats obviously belonged to Thōrfin for those had red skulls with crossbones emblazoned on their white sails; those of the other two langskips wore blue and white stripes.

White crests formed at the apex of heavy, rolling waves. She frowned, surprised by the amount of flotsam swirling in the ocean. The currents off this portion of the coast were not normally so turbulent as to scrape seaweed from the ocean floor.

Nyssa shook her head. ’Twas not important. She had other matters to pursue. How to probe without revealing how little she knew of her new husband? Husband. The word stuck in her craw. Four seasons ago she had dreamed of marrying, and longed for babes of her own and a castle to manage. She ground her teeth. Dreaming would get her naught. And her people were suffering. Curving her lips in what she hoped passed for a friendly smile, she adjusted her stride to match Pálli’s.

“How long have you served Lord Konáll, Pálli?”

The large warrior stumbled. “Beg pardon, milady. For two winters.”

She waved at the throngs below. “How many of those men below serve your lord?”

“Most of the men are King Thōrfin’s milady. Lord Konáll’s forces are three score strong, but every one of us served with the Jomsvikings.” The pride in Pálli’s declaration could not be mistaken.

“I have heard the skalds’ tales of the Jomsvikings. ’Tis not an easy feat to gain membership amongst such fierce soldiers. How came you to be separated from your lord?” Nyssa held her breath, not cert the man would answer her question.

His complexion greened, and he sent a furtive glance to the man to her left. “A storm arose and a wave washed Lord Konáll overboard. We did all we could but could not find him.”

She considered his explanation for only a single inhale before blurting, “But how come you to be at the opposite end of the isle from where I found him? ’Tis a day’s journey in good winds.”

Pálli adjusted the sword belted at his side. “’Twas a whirlwind milady. One moment the seas were calm, the next we were in the midst of a storm like no other. The langskips were tossed about like twigs. We had no time to even lash ourselves to the masts. Yet the only one lost was Lord Konáll. Lord Dráddør had been standing right beside his brother yet he was not thrown overboard.”

Clearly the man believed he had failed in his duties, his distress obvious in the way his knuckles paled as he gripped the steel hilt of his weapon.

“We scoured the coast for nigh on three days. Lord Dráddør was in a state. He refused to believe his brother was gone. Then King Thōrfin arrived, and he and his men joined in the search. We had little hope of finding Lord Konáll. ’Tis a miracle he survived.”

She jerked her gaze to his. “Miracle? Are you a Christian, Pálli?”

His face reddened. “My wife is Christian milady. I converted when we married.”

’Twas interesting. She had not heard of Christian Vikings. Though she considered herself a member of the church, the discovery of her goddess origins had shattered all she had been taught about the lord. She no longer knew truth from falsehood.

They reached level ground. Not five arms’ length from them two soldiers practiced their craft in an elaborate game of swordplay. A throng of men formed a half circle around the two combatants shouting their encouragement and advice.

On the east side of the camp, she spotted three thick curls of smoke spiraling to the sky. The gentle breezes circling the cove bore the aromas of manly sweat, brine, and bread baking. Her mouth watered. They had not managed to consume much during the night. Though Konáll had attempted to feed her not once, but twice, his method of transferring food by mouth had resulted in love play, and she had forgotten her hunger.

She had ne’er imagined coupling as fun. The church spoke of the union of man and woman as serious, holy, and…staid. Konáll had teased her, tickled her, made her laugh, made her forget the doom she faced. Lost in the memories of the night, Nyssa did not notice the deep pit dug into the ground and would have fallen into it, had not Pálli dragged her to one side.

“Beg pardon, Pálli.” She fought to catch her breath. “I was not looking where I was going.”

“Mayhap, you should take my arm, milady.” He crooked his arm.

About to accept his offer, Nyssa froze at the sound of someone shouting her name. She spun around, cupped a hand over her eyes, and peered.

In the distance, she spied a short wiry man carrying a pole bearing two buckets on either end. He was staring at her and bellowing, “Lady Nyssa.”

“Dermid!” Elation rang through her veins. Nyssa picked up her skirts and sprinted. “Dermid.”

One of the buckets tied to the pole overturned. The older man dropped his burden and darted in her direction. “Lady Nyssa. Lads, lads, our lady is here.”

A group of men with rickety gaits separated from the crowd of warriors. Nyssa recognized the elderly men of Castle Caerleah. Islay, who had turned over smithy duties to his son some winters afore; Lachie, the shoemaker, who could nigh see to sole a shoe, but insisted on making new slippers for her each spring. Osgar, who though he had seen more than fifty and two summers, could still slaughter and dress a deer with a finer hand than the new village butcher.

Within less time than it took to have a dog fetch a bone, she was surrounded by her dear, old friends. Men who had spoiled and indulged her from a toddler to the spring she’d left for her fostering.

Thirteen men who’d been left widowed by a disastrous epidemic of a wasting disease. Their wives had succumbed first, and though Nyssa had been but a young girl of ten summers and had not fully come into her healing powers, she had been able to save the men. But ’twas only because of the training she’d had from Islay’s wife, Elsa, the castle’s healer. And Elsa had succumbed to the sickness afore the first spring day. It had been a time of despair and confusion and soon after, Da and Mama had sent her to Sumbarten Abbey accompanied by Gudrun, Elsa’s sister.

“We thought ye dead, lass. When your brother nay returned to the castle and we had no missive from ye, we thought the worst.” Dermid wouldn’t stop patting her hand.

Lachie busied himself arranging and rearranging her skirts.

Osgar and Islay carried on a whispered quarrel about her shorn hair.

“Cease your prattling and release the lady Nyssa.” Pálli elbowed his way to her side. “She is ordered to Queen Grelod and is late.”

Nyssa regretted her lie about her appointment with the queen immediately. How she longed to sit with the men and question them on the castle—why they no longer lived in the keep and what sinister schemes her uncle had in mind. But she had to meet with Grelod before Konáll finished sparring.

“Pálli, pray have one of your men show my people where Lord Konáll’s tent is located. I would have you all near me this eve. My…my husband makes plans this day to regain Castle Caerleah. Later, after the evening meal, I will share these with you.”

“Husband?” Dermid clasped both her hands, and she had to repress a grimace when he gave a whoop of delight. “Hear that, lads. Our wee bairn is now a woman! ’Twon’t be long afore her belly is big and we have a gaggle of wee Nyssas to spoil.”

Her skin ran cold, and she nigh choked on her own bitter spit. “I must go, Dermid. Heed my orders.”

“Aye Lady Nyssa. Come lads, let us inspect our lady’s quarters. ’Tis good, lass, to see you wearing proper clothes.” Dermid gestured at her gown.

“But what madness made you cut your beautiful hair?” Islay shook his head. “We will brew you the rosemary potion my wife used when her hair thinned.”

Islay’s wife, Elsa, had been Nyssa’s mentor and the castle’s healer. A wave of longing swept through her. How she yearned for a place to call home. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.

She sniffed and swallowed three times before saying, her voice gruffer than she wanted, “I have missed you, my friends. We will speak of everything later.”

For long moments she battled her emotions and could scarce bite back the tears watching the men make their way to the tent she’d occupied the day afore.

“Milady? Are you ready to continue?”

“Aye.” Nyssa glanced at Pálli and forced a smile. She kept her own counsel during the short walk to Grelod’s tent.

Pálli and his men halted at the entrance. “We will await you here, milady.”

Taking a deep inhale, she put her lips to the seam of the flap. “Queen Grelod, ’tis I, Lady Nyssa. May I enter?”

She twined her fingers together surprised to find them icy on the warmish day.

The flap opened and Grelod herself stood in front of Nyssa, sable brows pinched together, ruby lips drawn into a downturned line. “I am most displeased to find you here. Did you not heed my command yester eve?”

Aware that Pálli and his men strained to hear their conversation, Nyssa lowered her voice. “I have done as you ordered and would beg an audience.”

Their stares met.

Nyssa read the distrust in the queen’s jade eyes.

With a quick nod, Grelod stepped to the side and motioned Nyssa inside.

Keeping her spine stiff, Nyssa entered the tent and repressed a groan when she glimpsed Grelod’s entourage. Seven women sat around a table replete with fruit and what looked to be soldiers’ garb.

“Ladies. I need a few moments alone with Lady Nyssa. The mending will wait. Pray go and oversee the evening repast.” Grelod’s focus didn’t waver. She kept her gaze trained on Nyssa.

Nyssa was cert the queen’s eyes had burned a hole in her gown.

Silence fell over them after Grelod’s ladies departed. Nyssa had hoped the woman would demand an explanation, but she uttered not a word.

Repressing the urge to clear her throat, Nyssa clasped her hands together and squared her shoulders. “I have come to beg a boon from you.”

One eyebrow rose, but Grelod’s lips remained pressed together.

“I told Konáll of handfasting, the whole of it. Albeit I may have led him to believe that Castle Caerleah and the rest of my inheritance would be his e’en if he casts me aside—”

“I will ruin you if you attempt to cheat Konáll—”

“The boon I ask is that you have Lord Olaf prepare documents to deed my inheritance to Lord Konáll from this day forward.” Nyssa had to raise her voice at the beginning of her declaration to silence Grelod’s hissed threat.

The queen’s jaw sagged. She stumbled and caught the tent’s center pole to regain her balance.

Nyssa stifled a chortle at the shocked expression on Grelod’s face. The woman had ne’er expected this move. “Will you grant me this boon?”

Grelod rubbed a thumb o’er her chin and stared at Nyssa through shuttered eyes.

An uneasy quiet ruled the small space.

The silence lengthened.

Nyssa’s palms grew sweaty. She dried them by pretending to smooth her skirts.

“Aye.”

Her knees wobbled. She wanted to howl her relief, but instead blurted, “I would beg you to keep this matter ’tween the three of us.”

Grelod pursed her lips and continued her predatory scrutiny of Nyssa. She shook her head. “I fear ’tis not possible. Konáll will most cert question Thōrfin on the handfasting—”

“
You
could persuade your husband to allow my deceit to stand. It harms none but me.” Nyssa curled her fingers into fists and prayed.

“I fail to see how it harms
you
. You are now Konáll’s wife—”

“His handfast wife, my lady. He
will
cast me aside in a year and a day, if not sooner.” The saliva in her mouth bittered on the declaration.

The queen’s forehead creased. “Why are you so cert of this?”