Malice Striker (6 page)

She could not answer, being too stunned, too filled with tempestuous longings, to form words. Apples? Taste? Elsewhere? What could he mean?

“Lord Brökk. ’Tis of utmost import that I inform King Kenneth of the marriage vows.” Lady Gráinne’s terse tone spoke not of a plea, but a command. “He must know that they were spoken freely.”

Skatha shivered when Lord Brökk snorted and released her hand.

“Worry not, Lady Gráinne. Word has been sent to King Harald and also to the king of the Scots. ’Tis not so, Olaf Longface? Did not messengers leave on the morn-tide?”

“Aye. Word and evidence of the Lady Skatha’s purity were dispatched to Harald Bluetooth and King Kenneth.” Skatha could not tell which man answered the jarl’s question.

“My thanks, Lord Longface, but I must also send a missive. The king charged me with Skatha’s safety, and I would not have him take me nor Sumbarten Abbey to task.” Lady Gráinne’s snapped words silenced the head table and, indeed, the entire hall.

A log fell in one of the hearths, and the muted thud boomed like low thunder. The silence carried a density not unlike a storm about to break with a flurry of lightning cracks. A shiver snaked up Skatha’s spine.

Not a breeze lifted the heaviness weighting the air in the chamber. She dared not blink, dared not inhale, dared not fidget, for beside her, Lord Brökk had tensed, and she no longer heard the soft sighs of his expelled breaths.

Had Lady Gráinne offended Lord Brökk?

“Write your missive abbess, and I will have it sent on the morrow.”

The aroma of roasted boar and hot apple cider infused with cinnamon and cloves wafted to her nose moments afore the steady drum of footsteps reached her ears. The kitchen boys and wenches had begun to serve the food. Skatha allowed a small sigh of relief to escape her lips, but sniffed, searching for the last sign of a successful feast, the doughy scent of freshly baked loaves.

“Hilda, did you prepare the cottage?” Lord Brökk’s growled question startled Skatha.

Only by linking her fingers under the table did Skatha refrain from reaching for Lady Gráinne. What trouble brewed? Lady Hilda had been absent from the keep all day and ’twas the only reason the meal preparation had gone without mishap. She had hoped Hilda had decided to stay at the neighbor’s for some time, a sennight mayhap. But the witch must have returned in time for the náttverðr. Skatha could not remember ever disliking another female the way she did the Lady Hilda.

“Aye, my lord. All is ready.”

Skatha listened to the voice of the woman rumored to occupy the jarl’s chamber in the longhouse. Whilst she yearned to disappear into the hard back of the chair, Skatha instead straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

Lady Hilda continued, “Lord Brökk reminded me that I was remiss last eve, abbess, and did not assign you and your wards the requisite lodging due your station.”

Skatha’s stomach curdled. She dug her nails into her palms. Lady Hilda had not the voice of an elderly maiden aunt—nay—more that of a seductress. She squared her shoulders. All her life she had cowered afore strangers like a trembling mouse. If Bita Veðr was to be her home, she would make it hers, make
her
dictates rule.

“Lord Brökk has given oe’er a crofter’s hut for your use and assigned guards to accompany you during your stay at Bita Veðr. After the meal, the guards will escort you there.” The triumph in Lady Hilda’s tone could not be mistaken, and her booming declaration silenced the hall once again.

When had they become captives? Why? Had they not done all asked of them?

Why had he separated her from the others?

How was she to navigate her way around the holding?

“Wine, mead, or ale, wife?” He draped an arm around her shoulder.

She yearned to shake off his embrace and empty a pitcher of ale over his head. “We prepared hot cider with spices, my lord. ’Tis most pleasant to the palate.”

“’Tis a drink for babes. This eve we feast. Again I ask, wine, mead, or ale?”

Forsooth he was a stubborn warrior, a man after all, and the worse for it. “Wine, my lord.”

“Brökk. I would have you address me by my name when we are privy.”

Lout! Fool! Harbinger of misfortune! ’Tis the manner she wanted to address him. How dare he? Separate her from the only solaces she knew—Lady Gráinne, Elspeth, Muíríne, and Dagrún? Flaunt his mistress, Hilda, to her, to the entire hall? Whilst suckling her palm?

Skatha chewed the insides of her cheeks, seeking a calm long vanished. Elspeth had described the Lady Hilda to Skatha. Tall, stout, breasts the size of large gourds, hair the color of ripe wheat, and eyes so deep a blue as to rival the color of a fjord. She flexed her fingers in a futile attempt at squelching the longing to scratch the woman’s fine eyes out of her sockets.

Nay! She was not jealous. She did not envy Hilda. Nay. Nay.

’Twas impossible. She had known Lord Brökk less than a sennight. Nay. She could not care for him. But, he…he had been inside of her.

“I traded dearly for this wine, wife. Sip. Tell me of the taste.”

The cold glass touched her lips; Skatha had no choice but to swallow the liquid. ’Twas pleasant, sweet, and fruity, but she knew of her frailties. “I have not the head for wine, my lord. I am prone to giggling and worse.”

He was silent for a long moment, and Skatha wondered if she had erred by being honest. Her insides rioted and her belly clenched as if she’d swallowed poison. She was so tired, so empty, so lost in surrender.

She must be brave. Muster her courage. Do not give in.

How was she to survive when Lady Gráinne and her friends departed? Nay, nay, she would not consider the future, only this day, this eve. For if she pondered an entire lifetime spent hiding her blindness, she would become crazed.

’Twould be as it was when the darkness had descended, one terrifying day after another, until the terror became the norm, until the panic abated, and all that was left was the numbness. All her life she had coped, dealt with one situation after another. Made the impossible happen. She would do so again.

“We will save the wine, then, wife, for when we are privy in our chamber.”

* * *

Could any female be so innocent? She blushed hot and furiously throughout the náttverðr. Flinched and stilled if he so much as grasped her hand, yet when he caressed the curve of her shoulders bared by the courtly gown she wore, her flesh warmed beneath his touch. How could he not have noticed her beauty? The delicate line of her nose, the sweet hollows below her high cheekbones, the shadows of her lush lashes that fluttered like wild butterflies skipping from daisy to daisy?

“Tell me of your life at Sumbarten.” Brökk speared a morsel of boar, a chunk of roasted apple, and after sliding a glance at his wife’s full ruby lips, a tiny piece of leek.

“’Twas a simple existence, my lord. Ruled by the church’s dictates. I have been trained to run a holding. I trust that I will not disappoint in the running of Bita Veðr.” She ducked her head.

Brökk tipped her chin. “Word of our union has spread up and down the coast. Several jarls and their wives sit in the hall. I would have none see any unease between us. ’Twill fuel gossip. Come. Accept my feeding of you this meal.”

Why was she so reluctant to accept food from his eating knife? ’Twas common custom to share trenchers during a meal. Yet, color stained her cheeks, the delicate flesh above her mouth dampened, and her small breasts heaved as if she’d been sprinting across a field. He had to nudge her lips twice with the food before she slowly and sensuously suckled the morsels into her mouth. And when her pink tongue flicked the seam of her lips to capture any errant juices, he stifled a groan. Ali’s talk of jötunn cocksucking conjured vivid images of her wine stained lips sliding down the length of his pecker.

“Have you ne’er shared a trencher afore?”

“Nay, my lord. We have wooden bowls at the abbey and are each responsible for our own feeding. Is the boar stew to your liking?” She kept her gaze averted from his.

“Aye. ’Tis far from the tough, dry fare produced by the kitchens.” He deliberately spoke louder than normal and glared at Hilda. Since Etta had died, the housekeeper had punished the entire holding with meals unfit for a herd of pigs.

Skatha jerked to face him, and their gazes met for a brief moment. She shook her head and looked down. “’Twas Lady Gráinne’s impression, lord, that the Lady Hilda’s care of the kitchens is much to your liking.”

Mindful of all the visitors in the hall and Hilda’s vindictive bent, Brökk lowered his voice. “Nay, your abbess is mistaken. I welcome your command of my holding. Once you are settled here, Lady Hilda will be sent elsewhere. Has she given o’er the spice keys to your keeping?”

“I have not asked for them, my lord, not knowing your wishes on the matter.”

Brökk studied his wife’s downcast gaze, the tight purse of her mouth, and the clenching fists resting in her lap. He had not expected Hilda to start spewing her spite so soon. ’Twas time he made arrangements to send her elsewhere. Mayhap he should rid Bita Veðr of all the females that Etta had insisted on hiring when she had taken the reins of the holding. But many had come from the surrounding farms and villages, and he did not wish discord so close to his home.

“My wishes are that you have the keeping of the household, Skatha. I will instruct Hilda of this on the morrow.”

Her head whipped up, and she gifted him with a dazzling smile, her brows raised high in surprise. Even white teeth gleamed in the light from the oil lamps behind the dais. Forsooth, she was no beauty, but those violet eyes mesmerized him, and her raven tresses framed a face glowing joy at hearing his words.

“I thank you for your trust in my abilities, my lord.”

“Brökk.” He captured her hand and absently kissed the base of her wrist. Mayhap he should send Hilda to Jutland with Ali when he departed within the sennight.

The meal went on too long for his liking. Olaf toasted their union, as did the score jarls and their noblewomen in attendance. Even Ali stood to wish them happiness.

Skatha ate little, pleading she had tasted too much during the preparation of the meal. He had served in many royal courts and knew how to draw a woman into conversation, but his wife proved guarded when replying to his questions. Brökk signaled the end of the feast by giving thanks to all who had journeyed to the holding.

He helped Skatha to her feet, and they left the hall to loud cheers, the odd vulgar shout, and much thumping of his shoulders. They walked in silence to his lodge. During the meal, he had arranged to have a fire lit, and food and drink to be left for them.

Brökk secured the door and lifted her into his embrace. “Last eve you bore the pain of your virginity, Skatha. This eve you learn of the pleasures to be had once your maidenhead has been taken.”

She shivered and her throat worked, but she uttered not a word.

After settling her gently in the middle of the mattress, he whispered, “Be not afeared, wife. All will be well.”

“I know my duties, my lord.” The musical lilt to her voice had vanished, and she clasped her fingers tightly together, but otherwise sat rigid where he placed her, not seeming to even draw breath.

Brökk shed his garments, leggings, and boots, added three logs and tinder to the blazing fire, and doused all but two of the sconces on the wall. He poured wine into a goblet and made his way to the bed, pausing to study his goddess.

The blue tint to the ringlets falling to below her waist glistened like the finest black bear pelts he had once purchased from a Rus trader. Goddess she would look spread naked on a bed of those furs, with her fair skin, violet eyes, and ruby lips. He had been hard and aching since speaking with Ali in the tavern, and now knowing soon he would have his fill of Skatha, his stones fired tight, and his prick wept.

He eased onto the mattress. “Will you hold this wine for me, Skatha?”

She flinched, shifted to him, and held out her hands. “Of course, my lord.”

“Brökk. Say my name, lady mine.” He folded her fingers around the base of the goblet and brushed his lips across her forehead.

“Brökk.”

Smiling, he drew the bed curtains and scooted against the headboard. Aware with the lights doused and the bed drapes drawn, she could see little, he gently lifted her onto his lap and took the goblet from her grasp. “Will you share a few sips of wine with me? ’Twill relax you.”

He heard her swallow. “As you wish.”

“Brökk.” He kissed her cheek.

“Brökk.”

“Do you wonder why I have darkened the chamber?”

She started and her brows pinched for a moment. The pink tip of her tongue moistened her lips.

He knew she had to feel his cock’s further engorgement.

“Aye, my lord.”

“This eve we learn each other by touch and feel. We have no need for light or sight.” His arm supported her back, but thus far she had kept apart from him, holding her spine straight and her legs still where they lay across his. To his delight some of the stiffness eased from the shoulder lying on his. He had been right to douse the torches.

“’Tis the way of bedsport?” The steel that had previously tempered her voice softened.

“One of the many. ’Tis of import we learn what pleases each other.” He had trained many a wild creature to his touch—falcons, hawks, and the high-spirited wild horses the Arabs raised—and ’twas all the same steps. Accustom them to his touch, speak soft and crooning of what he would do next, and reward oft with food and caresses.

“I know not the ways of men, my lord. Naught of bedsport and pleasing men.”

He kissed her full on the lips. “Brökk, Skatha.”

“Brökk. I was sent to the abbey in my tenth and first summer. No men lived at Sumbarten.”

“No man aided when labor was needed?”

“’Twas seldom needed, but if it was, then Lady Gráinne dealt with them. We had a king’s legion to protect the lands and the farms and villages, but Lady Gráinne forbade the warriors entry to the manse and the abbey fields.”

He curled a lock of hair behind her small ears and traced the tender whorls. “Wear you no earbobs?”