The Silken Cord (30 page)

“I thought you were a boy. I don’t murder
women and helpless children.”

Should she be pleased or insulted? “I’m not
helpless and I’m certainly no child.”

His gaze lowered over her body and she felt
the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks. “Aye, you are a woman,
though it’s hard to tell in your present attire.”

The man’s long hair stirred in the breeze,
the color of ripe wheat at summer’s end. He wore no beard like the
other warriors, his lean cheeks high and chiseled. Golden and
bronzed, his brutally handsome face appeared angular and harsh.

Kerstin watched as he bent and picked up his
sword from where he had tossed it upon the ground. The slim weapon
bore the signature of Ulfberht, the blacksmith from Germany, one of
the finest blades Kerstin ever saw. Many a man would covet that
sword, and no doubt much rich coin purchased it.

He reached for his helmet and held it
beneath one arm, his gaze never leaving her. When he sheathed his
sword, she breathed with relief.

The scent of rain teased her nostrils. A
storm was coming and she must get home.

His sardonic smile showed even, white teeth.
Though his alert gaze remained on her, he gave her a deep courtly
bow. “At last we meet, Kerstin of Moere.”

His words brought a thud of dread to her
chest. She looked at him with curiosity, feeling as though she
should know him. There was something vaguely familiar about him.
Her heart pounded. Had the king truly sent him to marry her? How
absurd.

The crooked length of his nose showed it had
obviously broken before. His blunt jaw gave him an arrogant look. A
thin, white scar ran along his left cheek. Did he have other scars
won in battle? Aye, he was indeed a man of war.

Above them, clouds gathered in the heavens.
He glanced up, his face grim. “Odin must be angry.”

She shook her head. “I am a Christian, like
my mother. I don’t believe in the pagan gods of my father.”

He snorted.

“You haven’t told me who you are. I’d like a
name to place you with.” She spoke in a tight voice, eager to run
home and tell her father what had occurred.

“In time. For now, I wish to know why Alrik
sent his only daughter to meet me in battle. Are all your brothers
dead?”

Her youngest brother died less than a
sennight ago, killed by one of this man’s warriors. The memory was
still raw and a tremor of pain washed over her. “My father and two
of my brothers yet live.”

“Why aren’t they here? Do they hide behind
your skirts?” His brows quirked as he looked at her calves. “Such
nice legs. Do you prefer woolen hose to a skirt?”

His words bit into her mind. She had always
preferred her soft tunics and pinafores to the coarse garb men
wore, but battle was no place for long, tangling skirts. "My father
lies in his bed, wounded by a sword from the last battle he fought
against your people."

"Will he die?"

"Nay, I won’t allow it."

"You do practice witchcraft, just as your
people say," he whispered in a harsh voice. "Do you call upon the
powers of Hel to aid you?"

Kerstin drew in a sharp breath, hating his
insinuation. At one time, her people had called her a good witch
out of fondness. Later on, it had become a vile label that brought
suspicion and hatred from those who didn’t know her or understand
her skill. “I am no witch. I simply tended his wounds and gave him
something to ease the pain. I’m more interested in healing than
causing mayhem.”

The man stepped closer, taunting her with a
wave of his hand. “Your actions today indicate a desire for blood.
Now that I have the Witch of Moere, my brother’s life can be
avenged.”

Kerstin gasped. Could it be? Of course.

She knew him now. He was a Sigurdsson. All
his people hated her because they thought she murdered his brother,
Bjorn, last summer when he had come to wed her.

“Jonas? Jonas Sigurdsson?”

Even as she said his name, she recognized
him from the few times she had seen him at the clan gatherings when
she was no more than a child. The muscled body, the stubborn tilt
of his head, the harsh jawline.

Eyes bluer than the sea.

A brutal warrior replaced his boyish charm.
People didn’t call him the Strong Arm without good reason. Never
beaten in battle, he was the youngest son of Sigurd, the Earl of
Hawkscliffe.

The Undefeated.

Closing her mouth, she blinked her eyes.
What a shame they must be enemies. She found him easy to look upon
and respected his fighting skills. “I heard you were traveling the
world, selling your sword arm as a mercenary. You’ve been gone
several years. When did you return?”

“Recently.”

She lifted her brows. “Why did you come
back? I would think our farms quite boring after the adventures
you’ve had.”

Jonas’s blue eyes flashed. “I returned at my
father’s bidding when he sent word you had murdered my elder
brother.”

“I murdered no one.”

“You deny it?”

“Of course. I would have honored the
betrothal my father made with your brother.”

“If you didn’t kill Bjorn, then who
did?”

“I don’t know.” She refused to cringe or
feel shame over a crime she did not commit, yet she couldn’t push
aside the doubts shadowing her mind. Because of Bjorn’s death,
people branded her a witch. In spite of the good she tried to do
with her healing skills, the stigma remained.

“Now, who is the liar?”

“Nay! I tried to save his life. I wanted him
to live.”

“Who would know better how to administer
poison than a witch? Your own people accused you of killing Bjorn.”
The low rumble of his voice filled the forest glade, seeming to
join with the encroaching storm.

Shifting her weight, Kerstin crunched dried
leaves beneath her feet. Sweat dampened her woolen shirt. She tried
to ignore the cloying wetness, but wished she could remove the
heavy chain mail and yank off the shirt.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she moved
back, chilled by her damp clothes and the increased cold. He
watched her in silence and though she couldn’t deny what he said,
for hours she had tried to purge Bjorn when he became ill, to
remove the poison from his body. Her efforts had been in vain. When
he had drifted into a deep sleep and died, she had sobbed bitterly,
knowing what his death meant to her people. Already there existed
harsh feelings over land disputes. Bjorn’s death meant all-out war
and they all paid dearly for it.

A drop of rain struck her hand and Kerstin
shivered. The bleak clouds above them compacted, the treetops
swaying like hulking beasts.

“I know you’re ruthless and cruel, Jonas
Sigurdsson, but I’ve heard at one time, you were a kind man, a
farmer and trader. That you had mercy and delighted in peace.”

His face whitened. As he took a step toward
her, his fine mouth curved in a sneer of malice. “Mercy has no
place during battle. I know your black deeds and won’t listen to
your denials. I wish I could kill you and end this feud between our
people, but the king has forbidden it.”

Kerstin held her ground, prepared to meet
her death. Her blood ran cold. A morbid shiver ran up her spine and
she drew in a hissing breath.

The wind sprayed dirt in her face and she
felt the grit between her teeth. “If you kill me, there will never
be peace between our people.”

Flickering doubt filled his eyes, so quick
and subtle she almost didn’t notice. He did seem to care.

“Are you frightened of me?” she taunted. “I
would think a strong warrior such as you wouldn’t fear a
witch.”

“I fear no man, or woman. And I don’t
believe in magic, though I believe in evil.”

She believed the same.

“Have you become a traitor to our king?” She
gave him an accusing glare.

He cocked his head to one side and his brows
lowered in a thoughtful frown. “Why do you think I’ve betrayed our
king?”

“I saw the banner you fought under. It was
the royal colors. You have an Eiriksson with you and they conspire
to take the throne from King Hakon.”

His shoulders relaxed but his grim mouth
betrayed him. “You are mistaken. My men would kill any Eiriksson we
found. Like you, we support King Hakon.”

Kerstin knew what she had seen. The vivid
red and green of the royal house of Vestfold had flown above them
as they fought. They must have an Eiriksson spy with them, the
dirty traitors.

She would take the news to her father and he
would warn the king. Jonas wouldn’t be so smug when he faced the
vast army of King Hakon. Yet, death was a constant threat and she
was so tired of war.

There might be one other way to end this
feud between their people. Seeking to be brave, she walked to stand
before Jonas and tilted her head back to stare up at him.

“I can heal the Beast of Hawkscliffe,” she
offered.

He blanched white and took her arms in his
gruff hands. As he lifted her close, her feet left the ground and
her chest pressed against his. His furious gaze locked with hers.
“What do you know about the Beast?”

She braced her hands against his shoulders
for support, her fingers biting into his chain mail. “Only that you
are the Beast and you suffer from some malady that caused you great
pain and many scars. The gossips say that’s why you left and have
been gone for so many years. To hide and heal.”

His brow quirked with amusement. “I’ve never
hidden from anything. There’s nothing that can heal the Beast. The
scars run too deep.”

“How do you know they can’t be healed?” She
stared at him nose-to-nose.

As he drew back, his eyes narrowed on her
earnest face, his voice low and hoarse. “The wounds have long since
healed.”

“Surely your soul cries out for a healing
balm.”

“Healing from you?” His eyes widened, his
brows drawn together in a horrified glare. “I want nothing more
than your death. If not for the king, I would take my revenge and
kill you now.”

Kerstin cringed as he held her in a gentle
grip of steel, forcing herself not to struggle. He sighed with
impatience. “No one can mend scars left upon the body, or upon the
soul.”

“You’d be surprised what can be done. The
heart, the mind ... close your eyes and you won’t see the scars
upon the flesh. Look at them with your heart and there is no
deformity.”

For several moments, they stared at one
another. Their gazes clashed. She felt compelled by him and could
not look away. Where were his scars? He seemed too solid, too
strong, too godlike to have any flaws for her to heal. Perhaps the
blemish was on his soul.

In his eyes, she saw raw pain. Then, it was
gone, replaced once more by the savage warrior. “You want to heal
me, little witch?”

“Yes, if it would bring peace.”

“There is only one way for peace between
us.”

Pulling her close, he kissed her. His mouth
covered hers and stole her breath and her senses. Time spun away
until she felt numb to the world around her. Nothing mattered
except him, his touch, the taste of him. Her reaction startled her.
When he let her go and placed her on her feet, her breath caught
with indignation.

He gave her a chilling smile. “There will be
peace, once you are my wife.”

As Kerstin stood in shock, his gaze ranged
over her. She opened her mouth to rebuke him but he gave her no
opportunity.

“I treasure the thought of having a witch
for my wife.” His tone filled with contempt. “It’ll be interesting
to learn what talents you possess. I want to discover if you quail
in terror as other women do when they see me without my shirt.”

“You seek to frighten me,” she accused.

If forced to wed him, would he brutalize
her? Such a large, towering man could destroy her. And this man had
no reason to be kind.

“You are a beast,” she whispered.

“And you are a witch.”

“I won’t marry you. You can speak with my
father, but he won’t agree.”

“What, ho?” he crowed. “Just moments ago you
pleaded with me to let you heal the Beast.”

“You’ve twisted my words,” she replied with
mortification.

The fool. No doubt he would love to have
power over her, to wield his strength to hurt her. “I will marry
Elezer of Lade.”

He gave a scoff of disgust. “Lade is no
longer a strong holding and Elezer has no great army to lend the
king aid in battle. King Hakon has said you are mine.”

And what about Elezer? True, he had no great
army like Jonas or her father, but he was young, strong and kind.
He loved her, as she loved him. Since childhood, they had been
great friends. After Bjorn’s murder, he had been one of her few
allies, offering comfort when others stared at her with distrust
and accused her of murder and practicing black magic. Their
friendship had blossomed into love. She could never betray him this
way. Alrik would not break the betrothal.

Alrik would not break her heart.

“I’ll never marry you, Beast.”

Jonas laughed and showed her a flashing
smile. His blue eyes glinted with a steely edge. It reminded her of
a wolfhound scenting prey in the forest.

“We shall see.”

The journey to Kerstin's home wasn’t long.
Through the forest, down the green hills that rolled out above the
sparkling River Tyne, and along the well-worn path to Moere.

As he looked out on the quay, Jonas saw the
protective inlet from the river. The natural harbor provided safe
anchorage for Alrik’s ships. It also made a surprise attack by an
enemy impossible, unless they came from the rugged hills above,
which would prove difficult, but effective. Jonas and his men had
hidden their ships and done just that, hoping to go undetected
should there be an Eiriksson spy close by. Never had he expected
supporters of the king to attack him, let alone his future
bride.