Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (8 page)

Tears of heartbreak streamed down Kimmie’s face. She started sobbing in earnest and shuffled sadly off to the bedchamber.

Avril bit her lip in remorse. It was hard being a mother. Sometimes she thought she would have had an easier time commanding the army of Rivenloch than she did watching over one wee lass.

But the horrible memory of the berserker hurling his ax into the child’s back would never be far away from her thoughts. Kimbery’s sobs might tear at her, but at least she was alive to sob.

By the time Avril cleaned up the bath, Kimmie’s crying had subsided to sniffles. “Mama?” she called tentatively from the bedchamber. “Come tell me a story.”

Avril was tempted to tell her a story about vicious invading savages from the North, to cure her of her misplaced affection for their captive. But she supposed that would give the lass nightmares. Instead, she told her the story of the time she defeated all four of her brothers in combat.

From the next room, Brandr listened in rapt fascination. The woman was telling a grand, typically Pictish tale to her daughter about a warrior wench who’d disguised herself as a man and fought against her own brothers. It was a good story, like the sagas of his people—full of excitement, adventure, and retribution—and the woman had a pleasant voice, lilting and dramatic.

“The first brother, Eldred,” she told the little girl, “was very arrogant and boastful.”

“Arrogant?” Kimbery asked.

“Like this,” she said, and Brandr heard her striding about the room, probably with her arms crossed and her nose in the air. “Anyway, Eldred had never been defeated in battle. So when this new warrior challenged him, he accepted, saluting his foe with a cocky flourish of his blade. They began to fight, exchanging blows back and forth.”
Brandr could hear her scuffling about and grunting as she recreated the battle with an invisible sword.

“But Eldred was so sure he would win,” she said, “that he started to grow careless. And when he relaxed his guard and wasn’t paying attention, his sister ducked underneath his arm. With the hilt of her sword, she delivered a hard jab to his chin and knocked him flat.”

Kimbery cheered. “What about the other brothers?”

“Grimbol, the second brother, had a nasty temper and was quick to anger. Once he saw Eldred defeated, he immediately drew his sword and rushed in. He meant to slay the warrior who’d dared to humiliate his older brother.”

“What’s humiliate?”

“Make a fool of. She’d made a fool of his brother, and it made him angry. But his rage proved his own undoing. He began to slash haphazardly and—“

“What’s hap-, hap-“

“Haphazardly, in a reckless manner, with poor aim. Most of his blows swished through empty air, and every time he missed, he grew all the more furious. But his sister used his own fury against him. When he lunged at her, she dodged aside and pushed him forward, driving him face-first into the dirt.”

Kimbery clapped her hands. “Then what, Mama?”

“The third brother’s name was Osbern, and he was a cheat. He’d watched the stranger outwit and outfight his brothers, and he wanted his turn. But instead of waiting for a challenge like a man of honor, he attacked his sister while her back was turned.”

Kimbery gasped.

“Oh, she wasn’t surprised. She knew all about Osbern’s trickery and expected such shameful behavior. She leaped out of the way, and the point of his sword plunged into the mud beside her. Ignoring all the rules of chivalry, he dove at her, intending to wrest her to the ground, where he could pummel her with his fists, like the dishonorable dog that he was. But she was light and quick, and she skipped out of his reach. One clever slice of her sword, and Osbern fell to the sod with his trews around his ankles.”

Kimbery giggled. “What about the last brother?”

“When it came time to battle Wilfred, her last brother, the warrior woman tossed off her helm and showed her face.”
“Why, Mama?”

“Because Wilfred believed that women were made to be the servants of men, and she wanted him to know exactly who was getting the better of him.”

“What did he say when he saw who she was?”

“He called her bad names.”

“What bad names?”

“They’re so bad, I can’t repeat them.”

Brandr smiled at that.

“But the other brothers—Eldred, Grimbol, and Osbern—were as angry as bees when they found out they’d been beaten by their own sister. So they yelled at Wilfred to clout her soundly.”

“Oh, nay, Mama.”

“But try as he might, Wilfred couldn’t lay a hand on her, for she was nimble and strong. You see, while her brothers had lain lazily about, boasting of their skills, she’d spent long hours practicing. She eventually managed to smack his arse with the flat of her sword and sent him crashing into his other brothers.”

Kimbery laughed long and hard. “Smack his arse!”

The woman couldn’t help but laugh along, which made Brandr grin.

“Aye. And when she’d defeated them all, a servant who’d seen the entire battle ran to tell their father. Her father was so proud of her, he gave her a beautiful jeweled sword as a prize, saying that it was she who should rightfully inherit his lands.”

A strange shiver ran up Brandr’s spine. He glanced at the jeweled sword in the corner. Could the story be true? Pictish women were said to be able to handle a blade. But could
she
possibly be the intrepid swordswoman in the story? Surely not. Surely the tale was a work of imagination. After all, the heroine of her story had become a landed heiress. This woman lived in a humble hovel.

“Did she live happily ever after, Mama?”

There was a hesitation. “Oh, I’m sure she did.”

“Mama,” Kimbery announced, “I want a sword.”

“You
have
a sword.”

Brandr raised a brow. The little girl had a sword?

“Not a wooden sword. A
real
sword,” Kimbery said.

“When you’re older.”

“And I want brothers to fight with,” she added.

“That I can’t promise you.”

“I want to be a warrior just like the lady in the story.”

Her mother chuckled. “You’ll be twice as good as the lady in the story.”

“Mama, can we practice sparring?”

“Tomorrow,” she promised, “but only if you get a good night’s rest.”

After she finished tucking in her daughter, the woman emerged again. Brandr quickly sized her up and decided the story couldn’t be true. She might be able to wield a blade, but no sweet-faced maid could possibly vanquish four seasoned warriors.

The next morning, Brandr woke with a face full of sheep. He sputtered and reared back as far as he could, which wasn’t far, since he was on a short leash.

“Caimbeul likes you,” Kimbery informed him.

He grimaced as the smell of the ewe hit him full force. “Gah!”

“Don’t you like her?” she asked.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes. The little girl had obeyed her mother—she was staying out of his reach—but she was holding the sheep on a rope and letting it nuzzle him with its crooked mouth.

“Shouldn’t she be outside?” he whispered.

“Shh. Don’t tell Mama. She doesn’t like when I—“

“Kimmie,” came a sleepy voice from the bedchamber. “Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody.”

There was a sudden thrash of linens and the woman rushed into the room, a warning ring in her voice as she came. “You’d better not be going near that Vi-...” When she saw that Kimbery was safe, the anxiety deserted her eyes. Then she saw the ewe. “How did that sheep get in here?”

Kimbery shrugged. “Caimbeul wanted to see my da. I’m going to put her back.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Kimmie, sheep don’t belong in the house. And he’s not your da. Now if you don’t take that animal out of here this instant…”

Brandr grew deaf to her scolding as he took note of the woman’s attire. By Odin, she was clad in little more than a sheer linen shift, rumpled from sleep. One side had slipped down, exposing the smooth, round cap of her shoulder. There she had a blue tattoo like those engraved on Pict warriors. It was an intriguing three-looped knot that had no beginning or end. Her hair was mussed in a careless way that reminded him of long nights tussling in bed. Her feet were deliciously bare, and her frayed shift revealed the supple curve of her calf and her ankle, which also bore an inked design, this one in the shape of a broken sword. But it was her mouth that was the most alluring. He remembered that mouth now. He’d kissed her, and her lips had been as sweet and soft as wild blackberries.

His loins tightened, and guilt made him grind his teeth against desire. But willing it away didn’t make it disappear, and while the woman continued to herd the sheep and her daughter out of the cottage, Brandr fought to keep his thoughts on survival, escape, anything but the beautiful, feminine silhouette revealed by the dawning sun as she opened the door.

Avril silently cursed herself for oversleeping. Keeping Kimbery safe meant being up and about before the wee lass could get herself into trouble. She’d certainly found trouble this morning, letting the ewe into the cottage. Avril wondered if
she’d
been such a handful at that age.

From the doorway, she watched Kimmie lead the sheep back to her pen. “Make sure you close the gate,” she called.

Then she turned and caught the Northman staring at her. He looked like a warrior, stern and hardened, about to march into battle. His eyes were hooded, and his jaw was tight. His chest rose and fell with a deep breath as his gaze slowly coursed up the length of her. Finally, he met her eyes.

A flash of heat like lightning seared her as she recognized his expression. She’d been wrong. It wasn’t a warrior’s bloodlust. It was desire, pure and direct. Her breath caught, and her face turned to flame. But his ice-blue gaze did nothing to quench the fire, instead fueling her distress.

She clenched her fists. She should curse him, clout him, kick him. Yet she did nothing. Though the urge to rebuff him was strong, the compelling lust in his eyes was even stronger.

She licked her lips. Against her will, her gaze drifted down to his mouth. She remembered the light touch of his hands upon her face, the warmth of his breath, the taste of his kiss. What scared her was that a part of her longed to feel it again.

And if Kimbery hadn’t burst in upon them at that moment, she didn’t know what might have happened.

“Mama! Mama!” Kimbery cried, jumping up and down, waving her wooden sword. “Spar with me! Spar with me!”

Avril cleared her throat. Of course. Sparring had always helped her when she felt emotionally out of sorts. She could take up her sword and slash away at anger, fear, and, in this case, desire, and defeat them soundly before they could get the best of her.

“You promised,” Kimbery reminded her.

“I did promise. Just let me get…dressed.” A blush stole up her cheek as she realized she’d rushed out in her nightclothes. No wonder the Northman was looking at her like that.

She avoided his gaze as she swept past, but she couldn’t avoid hearing the conversation between the Viking and her daughter while she dressed in the next room.

“Do you have a sword?” Kimbery asked.

“I did.”

“What happened to it?”

“I lost it in the sea.”

“Maybe Mama can get you a new one.”

“Kimbery,” Avril warned, “are you talking to that man?”

“Nay,” she lied. “I’m talking to Maeve.”

Avril heard only whispers after that until she emerged.

“Watch me, Da!” Kimbery cried, leaping about with her wooden sword, battling an unseen enemy.

But the Northman’s eyes were fixed upon Avril as if nothing else existed.

Brandr’s breath caught in his chest. He’d heard legends about female Pict warriors, but he’d never seen a woman dressed, or rather
un
dressed, in such a manner. She’d foregone her confining linen underdress and wore only her sleeveless kirtle, which gave her a greater range of motion and revealed the blue design on her shoulder and her sleek-muscled arms. Riding low on her hips was a leather swordbelt carved with intricate designs. She’d tucked the kirtle back up under the belt so that it bloused halfway down her thighs, exposing a pair of long, lovely legs that were tucked into short seal-fur boots.

If he’d thought the sight of the woman in her nightclothes was alluring, it didn’t compare to the vision of her dressed for battle. Perhaps that was the secret of Pict warfare. What foe could fight such a distracting beauty?

“Watch me! Watch me!” the little girl was yelling as she leaped about. It took all of Brandr’s willpower to drag his gaze away from the lass’s breathtaking mother.

“Kimbery, not in the house,” she scolded.

“But I want Da to see me.”

“We’ll leave the door open.” She gave him a look then that said the door would be open, not so he could watch the little girl, but so
she
could keep an eye on
him
.

Which was fine with him. After spending the night on a leash with a throbbing broken arm and waking to a stinking sheep nuzzling at his ear, he figured he deserved the reward of watching a woman cavort about half-naked.

What began as a pleasurable pastime quickly turned into torment. It had been more than a year since Brandr had bedded a woman, and his body responded as eagerly as a starving man seated at a feast. As the woman flexed and lunged in preparation for sparring, she unknowingly taunted him with her taut, slender arms and her silky thighs. Her garment clung to her body, hugging every subtle curve. Each time she twirled to change direction, her skirt flipped up, and he couldn’t help but watch for a glimpse of something more.