Читать книгу Ice Maiden - Debra Lee Brown - Страница 10

The Scot was stubborn beyond belief.

For days Rika and her people watched, amused, as Grant worked in vain to build a seaworthy raft of driftwood and pitch and bits of rotten rope.

She stood on the cliff overlooking the beach, her cloak pulled tight about her, and observed him. The wind whipped at his hair and the loose-fitting tunic one of the men had given him to wear. His legs were bare though booted, and she knew not how he could stand for so long in the icy water, his gaze fixed on the southern horizon.

Winter was at its height. A thin crust of snow clung to the rocky outcrops and grass-covered moors of the island. Daylight was short, and no sooner did the sun rise each day then the wind waxed with a vengeance. She turned her face skyward and breathed of the salt and dampness.

All she knew was the sea, what it gave up and what it kept. As she fixed her eyes on Grant she found herself wondering what Scotland was like in the spring.

“He’s given up.”

Rika turned at the sound of Lawmaker’s voice. “Not yet, old man. Still he believes there must be a way. I see it in the set of his shoulders and in the way he clenches his fists at his sides.”

Lawmaker smiled and spared a backward glance to the sheep he tended on the moor.

Rika slipped her arm through his, as she often did, and huddled close. “You might have been right. This chieftain may not agree after all.”

“He’ll agree,” Lawmaker said, as they watched Grant in the surf. “In his own time.”

“Hmph.” They had precious little of that. Her patience wore thin. “He’s done naught but rage and pace the beach all this morn.”

“With you stood here openly watching?”

She nodded.

“Ha!” Lawmaker shook his head. “No wonder the man’s enraged.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand his anger. The solution is a simple one. He has only to agree and we can move ahead with our plan.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is.” It wasn’t, but she could see no other way.

“Have you thought what you will do after?”

She hadn’t, in fact. “I’ll do what I always have done—take care of you and Gunnar. Until my brother takes a wife, of course.”

Lawmaker flicked her a sideways glance. “And what of you, Rika. Have you not thought about a husband for yourself?”

She frowned at him. “You know well I have not. How can you suggest it knowing how my father treated my mother? And how Brodir—” she turned away and bit down hard on her lip “—what he did to me.” Her arm slid from his.

“Had I known of Brodir’s misuse of you—”

She raised a hand to silence him. “It’s of no import now. All is behind me. Gunnar’s freedom is what matters.”

“Not all men are like Brodir, you know. Or your father.”

That she could not believe. She sought Lawmaker’s eyes, prepared to make some retort, but caught him studying Grant. The Scotsman moved with purpose up the beach toward them, eyes fixed on her, his face a grim fusion of unconcealed hate and barely controlled rage.

“He is,” she said. “Just like them. I see it in the way he looks at me.”

Lawmaker shrugged. “The man’s out of his element, here in this place. Fair Isle is a world apart from his, and you a woman unlike any he has known, I’ll wager.”

“Ha! So he’s made it plain each time I’ve spoken with him. This wager I shan’t take.”

“Have you never thought to marry for love?” Lawmaker asked.

Thor’s blood, would the old man not let the subject go? “Love.” She snorted. “An emotion for the weak of spirit. Men use it to bend women to their will. Some, to crush them. And I won’t be crushed like an insect under a man’s boot.”

Lawmaker sighed.

He’d heard it all before, but she cared not, and continued. “You speak to me of love, and conveniently forget that you yourself never wed. You and I are alike, old man. We need not such weaknesses.”

“Ah, but there you are wrong. I have loved, more deeply and fiercely than you can know.” He looked into her eyes and smiled bitterly. “One day I shall tell you the story.”

She had never seen him like this, so direct and forthcoming with his feelings. “Tell me now.”

“Nay, for you are not ready to hear it. Besides, look—” He nodded toward the beach. “Your bridegroom comes.”

He did come, and at a pace that caused her to take two steps back. She met Grant’s gaze and saw his rage had subsided. She hardened her heart against what remained.

Hate. Disgust. For her.

She felt it as keenly as she’d felt Brodir’s fist on numerous occasions. Rika knew she was not like other women, and she certainly didn’t look like them. Nay, she was far from the ideal. Perhaps that was another reason she’d evaded marriage.

Who would have her?

Who, besides Brodir, who favored the arrangement only for the coin, and for the humiliation he could wreak on her?

Nay, wifery was not for her, and as Grant scaled the craggy hill before her, she took comfort in the fact that her marriage to the Scot would be mercifully short.

“Woman!” Grant called.

She did not answer.

Out of nowhere, Ottar appeared on the hill behind him, and moved with a speed Rika had not known the sandy-haired youth possessed.

“Ottar, no!” she cried.

Too late.

Grant turned on him, and Rika froze. “I must help him,” she said, and started forward.

“Nay. Be still.” Lawmaker grabbed her arm.

“But—”

“Quiet. I’m trying to hear what they say.” Lawmaker jerked her back, and she watched, her heart in her throat, as Ottar confronted Grant. The howling wind made it impossible to hear their conversation.

“He’s only ten and six,” she said. “Grant will kill him.”

Lawmaker shook his head. “I think not. For all his rage, methinks George Grant is not a man who’d harm a reckless youth.”

“How can you be certain?”

Ottar went for Grant, and Rika shot forward, prepared to intervene.

Lawmaker yanked her back. “I’m a good judge of character.”

One hand on Ottar’s shoulder, Grant held the youth at bay. Rika held her breath, her arm burning from Lawmaker’s steely grip, and watched as the two exchanged some unintelligible dialogue. Finally Grant released him, and Ottar scaled the cliff. Rika breathed.

“See?” Lawmaker said. “I thought as much.”

Ottar shot her a dark look as he brushed past her.

“The boy’s jealous,” Lawmaker said.

“Jealous? Of whom?”

“The Scot. I told Ottar about the marriage.”

“That’s preposterous,” Rika said. “Why would Ottar be jealous? He’s just a boy. Besides—”

“He’s smitten with you. Has been e’er since he was old enough to walk and you to lead him by the hand.”

“Nonsense. We’re friends.”

“He’s nearly a man. Take care to remember that, Rika.”

She had no time to reflect on Ottar’s peculiar behavior or Lawmaker’s explanation of it, because Grant had scaled the cliff and now stood before her.

Rika drew herself up, ignoring her fluttering pulse, and looked the Scot in the eye. “You will agree to my plan?” She pursed her lips and waited.

“I will not,” Grant said between clenched teeth.

She had expected him to yield. Could he not see that he’d lost? That she would prevail?

“In that case,” she said, “there’s more driftwood on the opposite side of the island. I’m certain some of the children would be pleased to help you gather it.”

The fire in his eyes—slate eyes, she noticed for the first time—nearly singed her, so close did he stand. She was uncomfortably aware of his size, his maleness, and let her gaze slide to the stubble of tawny beard on his chin and the pulse point throbbing in his corded neck. Perhaps she’d been wrong to so quickly dismiss his masculinity.

Yet there was something different about him. He was not like the men she knew. She had not the feeling of foreboding she did as when Brodir loomed over her in anger. After a long moment, she realized why.

Grant dared not lay a finger on her.

Likely because he knew Lawmaker would kill him if he did. Or mayhap, as Lawmaker had said, Grant wasn’t the kind of man who…Nay. They were all that kind. Besides, it didn’t matter the reason. The knowledge of his reserve gave her power, and power was something she’d had little of in Brodir’s world.

“How far is it?” Grant snapped, holding her gaze. “To the mainland.”

“Three days’ sail—by ship.” Lawmaker glanced pointedly at the makeshift raft on the beach. “In fair weather.”

Grant’s eyes never left hers. “Three days. No so far.” He brushed past her, deliberately, and stalked off onto the moor. Bleating sheep scattered before him.

Her skin prickled.

“You’ve not much time left,” Lawmaker said to her as they watched him go.

She knew well what the elder meant. Brodir was long past due and could return any day. When he did, Rika’s one chance to save Gunnar would be lost forever.

“This is one of the complications you mentioned,” she said as she watched Grant charge a ram in his path.

“Precisely.”

“Well, then, old man, I leave it to you to sort it out.”

George settled on a bench in a corner of the village brew house and wondered how the devil to go about getting a draught of ale to slake his thirst.

He’d been given free range of the island, much to his surprise, and since he’d been strong enough to walk he’d covered every desolate, wind-whipped inch of it. Save sprouting wings and flying off, for the life of him he couldn’t fathom any way of escape.

Damn the bloody woman and her clan.

All had been instructed—by her, no doubt, though she seemed to hold no great position in the eyes of her own folk—to speak nary a word to him save what was necessary to feed and shelter him.

What little he’d been able to learn about the place and its people, he did so from his own observation and from snatches of overheard conversations.

The village was small, housing less than a hundred folk, and sat atop a cliff on the south side of the island. Below it lay a thin strip of rocky beach, boasting a tiny inlet at one end that harbored the single craft Rika had called a ship.

’Twas not much of one in George’s estimation. There was no natural timber on the island. Clearly the byrthing, as the locals called it, was built of scrap wood gleaned from shipwrecks. The low-drafting vessel looked barely seaworthy, but was heavily guarded all the same—likely due to his presence. Right off he saw ’twas too large for one man to sail alone.

Though sleet and the occasional snow flurry pummeled the surrounding moors, George was comfortable enough in the furs and woolen garments the islanders had loaned him, and with the food and shelter he’d been offered. He was neither prisoner nor guest, and felt a precariousness about his situation that was intensified by the fact that he had no weapons.

’Twas not the first time he’d been forced to use his wits in place of his sword to get what he wanted, though he’d feel a damn sight better about his chances with a length of Spanish steel in his hand.

He supposed he could just wait it out. If it were spring, he’d do exactly that. But few ships dared negotiate even coastal waters in the dead of winter, let alone chanced an open sea voyage. It could be weeks, months even, before another craft lit in Fair Isle’s tiny harbor.

The memory of the shipwreck burned fresh in his mind, though no trace of it, save scattered bits of wood, was left along the rocky shore of the island. He’d hired the vessel and its crew out of Inverness, and had taken a dozen of his own men as escort, including his brother.

Oh, Sommerled.

He raked a hand through his hair and blinked away the sting of tears pooling unbidden in his eyes. What had he been thinking to let the youth talk him into such a daft scheme? They should have traveled up the coast by steed, as was expected.

Expected.

Sweet Jesus, the Sinclairs!

Even now, they must wonder what had become of him and his party. His wedding to Anne Sinclair, youngest daughter of their chieftain, was to take place—he mentally counted off the days—two days hence!

He’d never get back by then. He cursed, and a dozen sets of eyes turned in his direction. Not at this rate, he wouldn’t.

The door to the brew house banged opened, wrenching him from his thoughts. Needles of sleet blew across the threshold instantly chilling the room. On its heels drifted another frosty presence.

Rika.

She did not see him, half-hidden as he was in the shadowed corner, as she made her way to an empty table well within his own view. The youth, Ottar, who’d made it clear to George the previous day he styled himself Rika’s protector, settled beside her on a bench.

The woman needed no protector. She was half man herself. Just as he decided she was, indeed, some freak of nature, Rika threw off her heavy cloak and absently brushed the snow from her hair.

’Twas a decidedly feminine gesture, and George found himself fascinated by the dichotomy. In fact, he could not take his eyes from her. ’Twas his first opportunity to observe her undetected, and there was something about it he enjoyed.

She called for horns of mead and, once delivered, she chatted easily with the youth. Ottar looked on her with a kind of boyish awe. God knows why. The youth had actually warned him off her. What nonsense. He had no intention of touching her, though he didn’t like anyone—man or boy—telling him what he could or could not do.

No matter. The youth was harmless enough. Yesterday on the cliff, George could have snapped his neck with one hand, if he’d had a mind to. At the time, he’d been more concerned with throttling the woman. Even now, as he looked at her, he could feel his hands close over her throat. The scar she bore told him he was not the only man who would see her dead.

The brew house door swung wide again, and Lawmaker came in from the cold. He spied George immediately and nodded. Rika followed the elder’s gaze and, when her eyes found George’s, her fair brows knit in displeasure.

He read something else behind that perpetual mask of irritation she reserved for him, but what it was, he could not say—only that he felt strangely warmed by her cold scrutiny.

Lawmaker settled beside her. He was an unusual man—patient and clever, with an air of intellect about him that was refreshing in what was otherwise a barbaric wasteland of humanity.

Rika pulled her gaze from his and cocked her head to better hear Lawmaker’s conversation. She looked up to him, relied on him. George could see it in the way she seemed to consider the old man’s words before replying—as a daughter would reflect on a father’s advice.

Lawmaker was clearly not her father, though he figured all important in her scheme. The elder was, in fact, the man in charge at the moment. Their laird, or jarl, was away. Gone a-Viking, the children had told him.

What surprised George most was that Lawmaker apparently condoned this marriage scheme. Mayhap the man had not the sense he’d charged him with.

Regardless, ’twas time George learned more of this plan, exactly what would be expected of him. At the moment, he had no other option for quitting this godforsaken place. He rose and moved slowly toward their table.

Rika froze in midsentence, then drew herself up to acknowledge him. Christ, the woman was irritating. “Have you something you wish to discuss?”

“Aye,” he said.

She nodded for him to sit. Why he waited for her consent in the first place, he knew not. He took a place on the empty bench opposite her.

“I have questions about this proposed…marriage,” he said.

Her face brightened. ’Twas the first spark of cheer he’d seen from her, and it made him feel all the more strange.

Ottar snorted, and drained the cup before him. “I’ve work to do,” he said, and pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on George. “I’ll see you later, at table?” The question was for Rika.

“Of course,” she said.

Ottar quit the brew house like a young bull elk gone to sharpen his sheds against the nearest tree. The lad itched for battle, and George had the distinct impression he was the enemy.

“Now,” Rika said. “What would you know?”

“This…marriage,” he began.

She raised a hand to silence him. “’Twill be a marriage in name only, of course. And short-lived at that. You do take my meaning, Grant.”

’Twas not a question but an order, and George took orders from no one, least of all heathen women. Her confidence irked him. Yet a hint of color tinged her cheeks, and he could swear she was unnerved by the topic.

“I understand ye well.” Good luck to the poor sod who dared breach that icy exterior. George was happy to have none of it.

“In name only,” she repeated, louder this time.

“Name only?” A silver-haired man at the next table rose abruptly at Rika’s words. “Name only?” To George’s astonishment—and Rika’s, too, from the look on her face—in a voice both commanding and strangely melodic, the elder recited a snippet of verse:

“‘When a man is wed

Ere the moon is high

He shall bed his bride

Heed Frigga’s cry”’

Hmm. What the devil did that mea—?

“He shall not!” Rika slammed her fist on the table, and her drinking horn clattered to the floor.

Now here was something unexpected. George’s interest in the matter grew tenfold with her response. He watched as the silver-haired man exchanged a pregnant look with Lawmaker.

“Who is Frigga?” George asked, intrigued.

The silver-haired man smiled. “Goddess of love—and matrimony.”

Rika swore under her breath.

“And who are ye, if I may ask?” George said.

“Hannes,” the man said. “The skald.”

“Skald?” George frowned, trying to recall where he’d heard the word before.

“He’s a poet,” Lawmaker said.

Rika shot Hannes a nasty look. “Not much of one, in my opinion. There shall be no—” she crossed her arms in front of her, and George saw the heat rise in her face “—bedding.” She spat the word.

“Oh, but there must be,” Hannes said. “It’s the law.” He arched a snowy brow at Lawmaker, who sat, seemingly unmoved by both the skald’s declaration and Rika’s outrage.

“Hannes is right,” Lawmaker said finally. “It is the law. Without consummation, there is no marriage—and no dowry.”

Rika shot to her feet. “You said naught of this to me before.”

Lawmaker shrugged and affected an expression innocent as a babe’s. “I thought you knew.”

Until this moment, George had not seen her truly angry, and it fair amused him. The self-possessed vixen had finally lost control. Her cheeks blazed with color, setting off the cool blue of her eyes. Those lips he favored twisted into a scowl.

Somehow he must use this opportunity.

“If the coin is all ye want,” he said to her, even as the idea formed in his mind, “ye need not a marriage to get it.”

Her scowl deepened. “Explain.”

“I told ye,” George said. “I shall pay ye well for my transport home.”

“How much?” Her eyes narrowed.

He hesitated, wondering how little he could get away with offering. His clan was comfortable, but not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination. He had his own bride-price to pay for Anne Sinclair’s hand. That silver had gone down with their ship and would have to be raised anew.

Lawmaker cleared his throat. “It makes no difference, Rika, what the Scot offers. If your dowry remains intact, with your father…”

George watched as her mind worked.

“Ah, you’re right, of course,” she said. “It solves not my other problem.”

George had no idea of what they spoke, yet the matter intrigued him more than it should.

“So marriage it is,” Lawmaker said.

Hannes made for the bar. “And consummation,” he called back over his shoulder.

“I refuse to submit to such a thing! He’ll not touch me.” Rika fisted her hands at her sides and seized George’s gaze. He was certain, if she held it long enough, those crystalline eyes would burn holes right through him.

Her breathing grew labored, and George was all too aware of her breasts straining at her gown. ’Twas cold in the room, and before his very eyes her nipples hardened against the thick fabric. All at once, he felt something that startled and disturbed him.

Arousal.

He shifted on the bench and adjusted his tunic. The thought of bedding such an offensive woman—and one so tall at that—was repugnant. She was everything an alluring maiden should not be: domineering, opinionated, and with a roughness about her that was appalling in one of her sex.

Aye, should they do the deed, the hellion would likely wish to mount him.

His mouth went dry at the thought, and for the barest instant he recalled how her braids had grazed his chest the first moment he laid eyes on her.

Rika stiffened, as if she read his thoughts. Unconsciously she bit her lip, and George’s eyes were drawn to her mouth yet again.

An unsettling thought possessed him.

Mayhap heeding Frigga’s cry would be not so disagreeable after all.