Fires of Winter (10 page)

Finally Garrick entered his own chamber. Here the backless couch, reportedly from the Orient, and the two thronelike chairs he had purchased at Hedeby would be brought. At present, the spacious room was poorly furnished by only his huge bed, a single high-backed chair, and a large coffer. No rugs, save an old bearskin, warmed the cold floor, and no coverings adorned the walls. This would be rectified once the cargo from the ship was unloaded, for Garrick had purchased extravagantly for his home in order to give the cold stone chambers some semblance of comfort.

Scant rays from the corridor lit the room. Garrick made his way to the large door opposite, which opened onto a small stone balcony. A majestic view met his eyes. The fjord lay far below in shadowy splendor. To the west was the deep blue of the ocean; the dark purple and gray of the mountains spread to the east. But most stunning of all was the orange fireball of the sun which hung low on the horizon.

Garrick stood there for many minutes before he again felt the exhaustion of his body. Leaving the balcony door open, which flooded the room with light, he crossed the chamber to close the door before turning to his bed. There, on the white ermine spread made by his mother from skins he brought her, lay the small form of a girl curled into a ball, looking ever so tiny in the center of the large bed.

Garrick stopped in his tracks. Her long black hair fanned out on the white ermine and hid her face. Her figure was obscure, wrapped in a woolen nightdress many sizes too large, so that he could not begin to guess the age of this sleeping creature.

Yet he was not curious, only angry that his bed was not available to him when he so greatly desired its comfort. He turned and stalked from his room. He went straight to Yarmille’s chambers, entered without knocking and shook the woman roughly from her sleep.

“Mistress, wake up!”

Yarmille opened cloudy eyes to stare at the tall figure looming over her small bed. His face was in the shadows, but she knew him instantly. “Garrick! You have returned!”

“Obviously,” he answered dryly, the anger unmistakable in his tone. “And to find you have sorely overstepped your authority!”

“I—what are you talking about?” she asked indignantly, pulling the embroidered coverlet up about her neck. “You accuse me falsely.”

Garrick’s brows narrowed. “By what right do you allow a guest in my chamber when the room allotted for such lay empty?”

“A guest?” It was a moment before she made the connection, and then she laughed softly. “Nay, she is not a guest.”

Garrick was close to losing all patience. “Explain, Yarmille, and keep it brief. Who is the female?”

“She is yours. Your mother bid me take her in hand, so I did not put her with the other women. And I knew that when you returned, the guest room would be put to use. I did not think you would mind over much if she shared your chamber.”

Garrick stiffened in frustration. “First, I do mind!” he said harshly, not caring who heard him now. “Secondly, what do you mean, she is mine?”

Yarmille was not used to seeing Garrick this angered. She should have remembered his recent dislike of women, and put the girl someplace else.

“Your father raided in the British Isles this summer and returned with seven captives. This girl was one of them and your father has given her to you. She was the daughter of a lord, and thought she would be your bride.”

“My bride!” he exploded.

“’Tis only what she and her people thought, Garrick,” Yarmille added quickly. “Anselm played them falsely, to make the raid go easier. ’Tis a long story that I am sure Anselm will be pleased to retell.”

“What is wrong with the girl that Hugh should not take her?” Garrick asked, knowing that his brother always took the choice females for himself now that Anselm no longer kept the young and pretty ones.

“The girl is a hellish vixen. You must be in your father’s disfavor for him to saddle you with such a gift. She is a fighter, I have been told, and thirsts for blood.”

No doubt she would also be hard on the eye, and this was why Hugh did not want her. Why
would
his father give him such a girl?

Garrick sighed, too tired to ponder further. “She is sleeping, so you may leave her be for now. But on the morrow you will move her elsewhere, I care not where.”

“She will attempt to run away, Garrick. I cannot leave her in the women’s quarters while they tend their duties. ’Tis too easy for her to sneak off from there.”

“By Thor, woman! I said I do not care what you do with her, but she cannot stay in my chamber!”

With that, Garrick stalked back to his room.

The cool breeze ruffled the hair on Brenna’s cheek and caused her to wake. She blinked sleepily at the sunlight filling the room and moaned. Morning already? It seemed as if only a few hours had passed since she had been untied and warned not to leave the room. She assumed a guard had been posted outside her door, but it did not matter. She was not ready to leave yet. Her body was still sore from the long confinement, and she knew she was in no condition to brave the unknown. She must get her strength back, and then see what avenues of escape were open to her. It would be foolish to leave without knowing something of the land.

She got up and closed both doors, sealing the room in darkness again, then crawled back into the bed. She had almost drifted back to sleep when she heard a voice raised in anger. A few moments passed, then the door opened and a very tall young man walked into the room.

Brenna was instantly alert, every nerve in her body attuned to danger. She did not move, but watched the Viking warily through half-closed eyes, prepared to dash for his sword if the need presented itself.

The stranger did not look in her direction or move toward the bed, but went to the chair against the wall and started to remove his clothing in a rough, angry manner. First the sword, then a short knife, then the sleeveless tunic was thrown on the chair seat. Next a leg was raised and the foot placed on the chair to unlace the leather garters and remove the soft skin boot.

Brenna scanned the man’s features with eyes that seemed almost possessive. A man this pleasing to look upon she had never seen before. Long, wavy hair of a golden color curled about exceptionally wide shoulders. The nose was long and straight, the chin firm and smooth. The strong bare arms were corded with thick muscles, as were the broad chest and back, muscles that rippled and danced with each movement. Blond curls covered the chest, ending at the tight, flat abdomen. Narrow hips led to strong, tapered thighs. The whole body spoke of strength and power. It was superb, marred only by a few minor scars on the lower torso. Such a body was a dangerous weapon in itself. Brenna felt a strange and unknown sensation course through her.

The man started to unfasten his trousers, and Brenna stiffened. One part of her wanted to see the rest of this beautiful physique, but the practical side of Brenna knew no good could come from this. Fortunately, the man glanced at the bed and changed his mind.

Brenna held her breath. She had yet to think about what the Viking’s presence here meant. Why he should come in here and make as if to prepare for bed was beyond her. She did not consider that this might be Garrick Haardrad.

The man turned now as if puzzled, and stared at the balcony door. Then he moved to open it again. After this, he closed the other door, shutting them in the room together, and returned to the bed.

Brenna no longer pretended to be asleep, for she had a feeling he knew she was awake. She rolled to the end of the bed, for it was placed in a corner with one side against the wall, and she needed an avenue for flight. She crouched there, her long tresses flowing about the woolen nightdress, her body tense.

Both of them froze when their eyes met and locked for a long moment. Brenna felt as if mesmerized by those aqua-colored eyes, so light, a gentle blending of both green and blue. Annoyed, she found she had been holding her breath, and released it.

“I think you have been playing a deceiving game, wench.” His voice was deep, neither angry nor gentle. “You do not seem a wild vixen intent on escape, but a frightened child—though cunning mayhaps, for your game has gotten you a comfortable room.”

She laughed boldly. “Frightened? Of you, Viking? Your first description was accurate.”

“You are still here,” he pointed out.

“Only because I was kept tied to this bed until last eve,” she replied.

A tight smile formed on his lips. “’Tis a convenient story, but one that can easily be proved false.”

Brenna’s dark brows narrowed. She was not accustomed to being accused of lying. Like a cat, she jumped from the bed and landed facing him, feet apart and arms akimbo.

“Know this, Viking!” she said furiously, looking at him with dark, steady eyes. “I am Brenna Carmarham and I do not lie. Were it not the way I said, then you can be sure I would not be here now!”

A glimmer of amusement came into Garrick’s eyes as he watched this proud beauty. He ignored the implication of her words, and took them as an empty threat.

“Since Yarmille seems at a loss to know what to do with you, ’tis fortunate that I have come to take you in hand,” he said lightly.

“How so?” she asked, raising a brow. Before he could reply she added suspiciously, “Who are you, Viking?”

“Your owner, so I have been informed.”

Brenna gasped. “Nay, I will not be owned!”

Garrick shrugged. This was no meek slave he had been given: that at least was obvious. “You have little choice in the matter.”

“I—said—nay!” Brenna shouted slowly, her entire being rebelling against the idea. Flashing eyes reflected her outrage. “Never!”

Impatience crept into his voice. “I will not debate the issue.”

She surprised him when she replied haughtily, “Nor will I.”

Garrick laughed despite himself. Never had he had a slave such as this one. Such glorious jet-black hair, almost blue in its richness, such creamy white skin—and a face that was a vision. He was almost tempted to inspect her further, to see what lay beneath the unbecoming nightdress.

Brenna watched him warily as he sat down on the bed and ran long fingers through his wavy hair. So this was Garrick Haardrad, the man she was supposed to have married, the man who now assumed he owned her. He spoke her own tongue, which surprised her. But then, so did his mother, who must have taught him.

She wished he had not returned so soon, and that she had had time to assess her situation first. She didn’t know whether to fear this man or not. He was decidedly pleasing to look upon, and she found herself almost wishing that things had turned out differently, that she was here to be his bride, not his slave. Anselm had ruined that, and she could hate him all the more for it.

“What do you mean, you will take me in hand?” she asked.

“I do not tolerate useless property. My slaves earn their keep one way or another, or I dispose of them.”

The very coldness of his voice, coupled with the heartless words, sent a shiver down her back. “You would attempt to sell me?”

“Attempt? You imply I do not have the right.”

“You do not!” she snapped, unnerved by his callousness. “I told you I will not be owned.”

“Odin help me!” Garrick implored in exasperation, then turned a stormy eye on her. “You will desist, mistress, lest I am tempted to prove the issue!”

She started to ask how, but decided quickly that she would rather not know. She would not concede, but since he had made no demands on her as yet, she could let the matter pass for now.

“Very well, Garrick Haardrad,” she said matter-of-factly.

He looked at her suspiciously, not sure whether she relented because of his threat, or because she was his. If he was not so exhausted, he would not have put up with her haughtiness this far. This slave most assuredly would need taming. He realized he might enjoy the effort. This surprised him. It had been a long time since he had felt an instant attraction to any female. He wondered if it was her beauty or her proud defiance which intrigued him most. He wished now he were not so utterly exhausted. But no matter. He could wait. She would be here when he was ready for her.

“You may resume your sleep, mistress,” he said tiredly. “We can discuss your position in the morning.”

She turned baffled eyes towards the balcony. “’Tis morning now.”

“Nay, ’tis the middle of the night, wench, and I am sorely in need of sleep.”

“I am not blind, Viking,” she replied tartly. “I can see the sunlight clearly.”

He had lost the will to argue. He peeled back the ermine spread and lay beneath it. “We are far in the north. Our summer has no night as you know it, our winter no day.”

Now she recalled her lessons with Wyndham. He had told her that the sun did not set during the summer here, rose for but a few hours during winter, and for a while not at all. At the time she thought he was just spinning wild tales to make her lessons more interesting.

She looked at Garrick on the bed, his eyes already closed. “Where am I to sleep then?”

He did not open his eyes to answer. “I have never shared my bed before, but I suppose I can make an exception this once.”

“Your generosity is not welcome!” she retorted. “I will not sleep with you.”

“Suit yourself, mistress. I’ll wager the floor will not be to your liking, though.”

She held back the curse that was on her lips and started toward the door. His raised voice stopped her long before she reached it.

“You do not have my permission to leave this room, Mistress Brenna!”

She swung back to face him, her eyes dangerously wide. “Your permission? I did not ask it!”

He propped himself up on one elbow. “Nay, but henceforth you will.”

“You insufferable oaf!” she snapped irately. “Has not one word I said entered your muddled head? I will not be told what to do by—”

“Cease your prattling, girl!” he commanded. “Loki must be laughing at the fates that gave you to me. You are sadly mistaken if you think I want to share my bed with you, but I can see no other way this night if I am to get any sleep.”

She let the insult pass. “Have you no other rooms in this house?”