Death Blow Page 7

  “Your betrothed wears the look of a woman with a scheme,” Thōrfin muttered. “’Tis an expression I have learned to dread on my Grelod. Somewhat is amiss.”

  Konáll studied the two women. Grelod had pulled Nyssa aside and had engaged her in an earnest conversation. “Methinks you err. Your wife seeks to calm Nyssa’s nerves. ’Tis all.”

  “Agreed, brother. The Lady Nyssa’s fingers trembled when I escorted her here. And her palms were icy.” Dráddør stretched his hands to the roaring flames. “I envy you not this night of a maiden’s fears. You found the harem master’s tools in your chest?”

  “Aye.” Dráddør would ne’er know the dildo had saved Konáll’s pecker from greening and withering.

  “The aphrodisiac oil I had the foresight to pack in your trunk will ease the pain when you take her maidenhead. She seems spirited, your betrothed.”

  Konáll stifled a snort. Spirited? ’Twas not the word he would use to describe Nyssa. Brave, foolishly so, yes. Strong as an ox. And not wise enough to fear any man nor beast. He had not had a chance to speak with Dráddør and tell him of Nyssa’s jötunn mother. Or the curse or the breaking of it. ’Twould have to wait for the morrow, whilst they planned the invasion of Castle Caerleah.

  Right then, Nyssa nodded to Grelod and nigh sprinted to the priest. She grasped the holy man’s arm, bent down, and cupped a hand over his ear.

  “Loki’s stones. What is she about?”

  Afore Konáll could stomp to the priest, Thōrfin stayed him with a backslap and a headshake. “Nay. Let her be. She agreed to the vow saying, did she not?”

  Through a clenched jaw and snapped together teeth, Konáll growled, “Aye.”

  “Judge you her to be a woman of honor?”

  Konáll considered all that had happened: Nyssa’s healing of his mortal wound, the scars and pain she had born for both him and Mús, her insistence that he know the all of her curse, and above all, her devotion to the people of Castle Caerleah. “Aye.”

  “She will keep her word, then.”

  Unease slithered up Konáll’s spine as he remembered her pause before agreeing to the vow saying. He rolled his shoulders, but could not shake a growing sense of foreboding doom.

  “Thōrfin has the right of it. She has a quick wit and a ready smile and moves with grace. Your Nyssa has been trained to be a lady of the castle. I predict for you a life of ease, fine food and drink, and much swiving.” Dráddør nigh deafened Konáll with a deep rumbled series of guffaws.

  Nyssa cocked her head and glanced Konáll’s way. Their gazes met and held for a drawn-out moment. Then her chest rose and fell; the tight bodice and low neckline of the cyrtel emphasizing what could only have been a long sigh. Of relief?

  The priest waved his hand their way and muttered something to Nyssa. She nodded, picked up her skirts, and walked to where Konáll, Dráddør, and Thōrfin stood.

  Konáll raised a brow.

  She dipped a curtsey, rose with head held high, and folded her hands at her waist. “Good eve, King Thōrfin, Lord Dráddør. I am ready, Lord Konáll.”

  At least she had not called him Viking.

  “Priest, say the vows,” he ordered.

  Grelod cleared her throat and raised a hand. She eyed Nyssa for a mere breath and then stated in a ringing, musical voice, “Nay. Konáll. ’Twill be done the proper way. Husband, call the men to witness the vows. Order the piper to play a tune and then we will begin.”

  “We have much to do this night, lady mine…”

  Lady Grelod arched a brow and fixed Thōrfin with a steely do-not-dare-question-me glower.

  He blew out a noisy sigh and acquiesced with a flick of his wrist. “As you wish.”

  Grelod signaled a group of women hovering near the fire and glided to take her place next to her husband’s side. The women surrounded their Queen.

  “She travels to battle with a piper and a gaggle of sewers. The good Lord save me from royal women,” Nyssa muttered under her breath, but Konáll caught the words.

  “She is ferocious in battle and the ladies with her can clean and sew e’en the most vicious wound closed. Queen Grelod and her women are healers, and King Thōrfin values them highly as do I.” Konáll both liked and admired Grelod, and he owed her a life debt.

  Though shadows chased Nyssa’s profile, Konáll could not miss the deep blush washing o’er her throat and face. A muscle beneath one eye twitched.

  A haunting melody silenced the bustle that had erupted after Thōrfin’s barked orders. Konáll scanned the throng of warriors standing at attention and frowned at the elderly men from Castle Caerleah who were conversing loudly. His glare silenced them. He exchanged a glance with Dráddør and then focused on the piper who tested his instrument with a few low notes.

  Konáll recognized the tune. One of the haunting Scottish melodies he had come to relish filled the bay. The wind rustled leaves and trees swayed in tempo to the piper’s song.

  A hint of ice coated the brisk breeze. Nyssa hugged her arms, and Konáll moved closer to her to share his body heat.

  When the echoes of the piper’s last notes faded away, the priest coughed and moved to stand in front of Konáll and Nyssa.

  Dráddør obligingly moved to the side and out of their orbit.

  “Lord Konáll, Lady Nyssa, step forward and hold out your hands. If you please.” The holy man swiped the cloth square tied to his rope belt across his damp forehead.

  Konáll frowned. He had witnessed only one Christian wedding afore and had imbibed much ale prior to the vow saying, but he remembered naught of hands being placed in such a manner.

  Nay. Brökk and Skatha, his brother and his bride, had exchanged rings of gold. Did Nyssa expect such? For he had no ring for her.

  Nyssa unwound the ribbon decorating the sleeve of her gown and handed the pale blue strip to the priest. He wound the ribbon around first Konáll’s and then Nyssa’s wrists and knotted the ends together. Sweat dripped from the man’s cheeks onto his brown robe.

  “Lady Nyssa, repeat my words.” He mopped his temple and cleared his throat. “In front of King Thōrfin, Queen Grelod, King Harold’s Lovesingman, Olaf Longface, Lord Dráddør, and all assembled here, I take the Lord Konáll as handfast husband.”

  Konáll jerked around to gain a better view of his soon-to-be wife. Handfast? He had ne’er heard a marriage referred to as such. Some strange Scottish rite? But Nyssa said the words loud and clear and the knotted muscles in his neck relaxed somewhat.

  “L-L-Lord K-Konáll, ’tis your turn. In front—”

  “In front of King Thōrfin and Queen Grelod, King Harald’s Lovesingman, Olaf Longface, my brother, Dráddør, and all assembled, I take the lady Nyssa as wife,” Konáll declared.

  “Handfast wife,” Nyssa whispered.

  Konáll hesitated, but a wife was a wife was a wife, what mattered how the Scots called it? “Handfast wife.”

  “Nay. You must repeat the vow and say it right from start to finish,” Nyssa declared, her eyes narrowed and focused on him.

  “Has the lady the right of it, priest?” Konáll held Nyssa’s stare searching for some ulterior motive for the peculiar demand, but she ne’er blinked.

  “A-a-aye, my lord.” Beads of perspiration ran down the man’s cheeks.

  “In front of King Thōrfin and Queen Grelod, King Harald’s Lovesingman, Olaf Longface, my brother, Dráddør, and all assembled, I take the lady Nyssa as handfast wife.” A strangled rumble drew Konáll’s attention, and he swept a sidelong look at Thōrfin who had a fisted hand pressed on his mouth.

  “In the name of the lord, you are now handfasted husband and wife.” The priest made the sign of the cross.

  “’Tis done?” Konáll circled an arm around Nyssa’s waist and drew her to his side.

  “Aye. ’Tis done.” Nyssa averted her gaze.

  He studied the flat line of his wife’s mouth. What had upset her?

  Afore Konáll could question Nyssa, Grelod stepped in front of the two of them, arms
crossed, eyes narrowed. “Aye. ’Tis done, in a matter of speaking. Lady Nyssa, I charge you with giving your handfast husband an explicit accounting of the vows and the consequences of the ceremony you orchestrated. Do not mistake my next kindness for weakness. There is food and wine in your tent. Hang the sheets ere you slumber this eve, Konáll.”

  Grelod’s high color and low, clipped declaration spoke of a barely contained rage.

  Konáll’s jaw dropped. Why was Grelod so furious?

  “Are not there five to witness the consummation?” A frowning Nyssa craned her neck to meet his gaze, wriggled her shoulders, and glanced at Grelod, lashes fluttering like a butterfly evading a sparrow. “Including you, my lady?”

  Grelod jutted her chin, her nostrils thinned and flared, and twin slashes of pink stained her cheeks. “I grant you a boon, Lady Nyssa. The stained blankets are all the proof we will require of the consummation. Should I find that you have not obeyed my instructions, my ladies and I will demand to publicly examine you in the morn. Do I make my meaning clear?”

  Nyssa’s golden complexion grayed, and for a moment, she stared at the coarse grass. Then she met Grelod’s stare and nodded.

  “I believe ’twould be best for you to take your handfast wife to the tent prepared for you, Konáll. We will o’ersee the feast on your behalf.” Thōrfin dismissed him with a wave.

  What had Nyssa done to earn Grelod’s wrath? Konáll had ne’er seen the woman in such a temper and judged ’twas best to leave at once.

  Thōrfin, on the other hand, appeared both amused and pleased.

  Konáll knew one certainty; ’twas some peculiarity he did not understand about a handfast wife as opposed to an ordinary wife. His temper, famed throughout the Jomsvikings for its slow boil, simmered. Konáll forced a smile to his face.

  “I bid you all good eve. At first light of dawn we will come to your tent to plan the invasion.” Konáll bowed, cupped Nyssa’s elbow, and urged her into a quick march.

  The second they cleared the milling soldiers and turned onto the path leading to the cliff top he said, through gritted teeth, “Before we reach the summit I had best have, as Queen Grelod ordered, an explicit accounting of the vows and the consequences of the ceremony you orchestrated. And understand this, Nyssa. If you have cheated me out of any aspect of the marriage contract, when I seize Castle Caerleah, I will claim it as mine and cast you aside.”

  Chapter Five

  Nyssa’s ire surged. She shook off his arm, glared at him, and snapped, “Worry not, Viking. The only one who gains naught from a handfasting is the female.”

  Konáll’s stoic expression ne’er wavered save for a slight tightening of his jaw when she called him Viking. He liked that not. She fought a grin. Viking he would be from this moment on.

  “’Tis a weakness of yours—the inability to walk and talk at the same time?” He set his hand to the small of her back and urged her on.

  She trudged up the narrow path. His palm slipped lower and brushed the swell of her buttocks with each step. All at once ’twas difficult to breathe, but the trail had narrowed and steepened, and that explained the heat bursting from her pores and her lightheadedness.

  “I am waiting.”

  Nyssa curled her fingers. In an attempt to shake off his hold, she lengthened her stride, but his hand pressed into her flesh like a hot forge. She concentrated on the summit and the torch flame flickering there, before saying, “’Tis a tradition from the Highlands and the Orkneys. A man and a woman handfast for a year and a day. They live as husband and wife during that time—”

  “As true husband and wife? With the rights of the marriage bed?” He fair growled the question.

  “Aye.”

  “And what of the lands you inherited that are to be mine to rule by our marriage contract?” Warmth skipped o’er her nape and a sweet tingle crawled from one shoulder to another when his hot breath met her flesh. She had not realized how closely he followed her.

  “They remain yours.” Her voice wobbled, she swallowed thrice. “At the end of the year and a day, if the handfasted couple agrees they do not suit, they are both free to marry another. ’Tis as if the vow saying had never been done.”

  Nyssa bent forward to climb the last few steps to the cliff top. She straightened and shivered when a fierce breeze assaulted her cyrtel and whipped the fabric to one side. The flames from three oil lamps hanging from tree branches to the left of a large, stripped tent, dimmed and then blazed after the wind died. The slight fishy aroma of whale oil tangled with the brine of the ocean and the venison haunch roasting below them. Her stomach grumbled.

  “There is food, ale, and wine in the tent. Later, someone will bring us a platter from the feast.” He leaned in and sniffed her ear.

  At once she took offense. “I scrubbed my skin clean. I do not stink any longer.”

  He chuckled, white teeth gleamed in the faint light, and crinkles formed at the corners of his deep blue eyes. “You smell like a siren. All woman, with a hint of soap, and some spicy seductive musk. I but wondered if you had found the aphrodisiac oil and touched a dab here.”

  When he traced the whorls of her ear, fingered her lobe, and then thumbed the soft spot behind, a shock, sharp and prickling, ran straight to her nipples and they throbbed and pearled ’neath the soft velvet of the cyrtel. She flexed her hands and wondered anew about the strange fluttering low in her belly.

  “Aphrodisiac oil?” She had ne’er heard the term afore.

  “An oil used by the harem masters of the Saracens. ’Tis used to awaken slumbering lust and dull the pain of breeching a maiden head.”

  His intense stare sent an uneasy shiver up her spine and when the meaning of his words sank into her head, she gaped at him.

  “Come.” He linked one hand with hers and tugged. “We have much to do and talk about afore dawn.”

  She stumbled forward, her knees shaky, and bent her head when Konáll lifted the canvas flap covering the entrance. Her mouth fell open. She had not known such luxury could exist in a mere tent. ’Twas night and day to the one she had been in earlier.

  “Grelod insisted we use their quarters this night. Meets it with your approval?” He captured both her wrists, twisted her to face him, and their gazes met.

  She had never seen him so afore. No lines marred his forehead, his mouth held no strain, and the slight curve of his lips showcased soft dimples on either side. He had scraped the growth of hair o’er the last few days from his jaw, and she marveled once again o’er his striking male beauty. She had ne’er seen an unscarred warrior afore.

  “Nyssa? ’Tis to your liking?”

  All thought fled, and try though she did, Nyssa had no notion of to what he referred. “I…what is to my liking, Konáll?”

  The back of his hand brushed her cheek and his smile widened. “My name from your lips is a sound most sweet and arousing, wife. All day I have recalled the way you screamed Konáll when your women’s pleasure hit you on Thrimilici. This night I will hear my name from your lips when we both find our pleasure and I am buried deep inside you.”

  Cert flames licked her head to toe, Nyssa ducked to check whether she stood on a lump of fired coal, but soft pine needles littered the tent’s floor.

  “Know you why I chose this cyrtel?” He trailed a long finger around the scooped neck of the gown.

  Her sex clenched, and she could not tear her focus from his slow tracing.

  “Breathe, mìlseachd.” His hot palms cupped her cheeks, and he tilted her head back.

  Once again he confounded her, his stare so fierce and predatory she shivered. “’Tis necessary.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “Breathing.” He grinned. “Methinks I have you all aflutter, handfast wife.”

  His reference to her status gathered her scattered thoughts. “You are not angry about the handfasting?”

  “’Tis done. On the morrow, I will speak with Thōrfin and Grelod and learn more of the custom. Understand this, Nyssa: I have c
laimed you. You are mine. Both King Kenneth and King Harald have blessed our union and naught will take you from me. Naught but death, and I am not yet ready to ascend to Valhalla.” He turned her around.

  She bit her lip and then glanced over her shoulder at him. “You are addling my brains, Konáll.”

  “I chose this cyrtel over Grelod’s objections, because of the laces. They are easy to remove and I long to hold you naked in my arms.”

  Afore she could utter a protest, he quickly worked the laces loose. She grabbed the bodice when he began to draw it down and whirled about. “We do this now?”

  “Aye. Now. And when you have recovered later, and before dawn.”

  Thrice? Her mouth went dry. She swallowed.

  He tugged her hands away from the gown and with a few deft moves slipped the cyrtel away. With a soft whoosh the dress puddled around her feet. His deft fingers made quick work of the ribbons tying her transparent chemise together and that garment joined the cyrtel on the ground.

  She cupped her hands over her breasts and averted her gaze.

  “Nay.”

  Nyssa squeaked when he scooped her into his arms, strode to the pallet in the center of the tent, and set her down gently on the packed straw covered by a sheet of fine linen. She fought when he tried to pry her hands free.

  “What is amiss? I have seen your bounty afore.” He stood and untied his boots.

  She snorted recalling her cousins’ taunts about her meager titties. “Bounty? My breasts are not bigger than a plump boy’s. And they are stamped with Aegir’s curse.”

  Konáll tugged his tunic o’er his head. She had not even noticed when he set aside his axe and sword.

  “’Tis a birthmark, Nyssa.”

  “Nay. Four seasons past, I had no such mark.”

  He sat next to her.

  She fixed her gaze on the platter next to the pallet, and her mouth watered when she saw a fat loaf, a round of cheese, and a few pears and apples. Her stomach growled.

  Konáll chuckled. “Come handfast wife, let me feed you.”

  He lifted her onto his lap and set her bottom on his engorged shaft. ’Twas hot and hard and throbbed. She could scare draw breath and did not know what to do with her hands. He surrounded her, one arm around her waist and his broad chest so close that the tip of her nose grazed a clump of golden hair. He smelled of soap and spice and warrior, hard and relentless.