Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (24 page)

Rain blew into his face beneath the hood of the cloak. He tripped over a branch he could not see in the darkness and slammed into a tree trunk. It brought him to a muttering halt. The feel of the bark beneath his hand identified his support as a beech. He crouched at its base and let his mind play over the events at the cottage.

How had things gotten so rapidly out of hand? Sindre was by nature belligerent, and it was naught new for his uncle to bait him, or his brothers, in such a way. The wrestling matches and fistfights between uncle and nephews were nigh legend at home. His father tolerated the squabbles because Sindre was a matchless warrior, and he desired his sons to learn from the best. Sindre always fought to win. He did not pull punches simply because his opponents were younger, less experienced or family.

But to draw a weapon on his uncle! Never before had either of them yielded to that dangerous impulse. What made this time different?

His jaw tightened. Lissa, of course.

For a while, it had seemed his uncle’s resentment of her had subsided. That unfortunate and very public kiss had stirred it back to life, though why, he could not fathom. He had but succumbed to Sindre’s frequent admonitions to make love to her.

His mind replayed the final words of Sindre’s last verse.

“Mate, for life!”

Surely, his uncle did not fear he would so forget himself in Lissa’s arms as to seek wedlock with her? He was the second son of a jarl. She was thrall. To bed her, was acceptable. Marriage was not. If his father did not kill him, his mother might. His brothers would understand, but not approve, and their regard mattered a great deal. Close they were, he and his brothers. He would not willingly jeopardize those bonds.

To be fair, Sindre’s accusations were at least partially true. With each day that passed, he
was
becoming more charmed by his thrall, and his desire for her grew apace. He faced with honesty his response to Lissa’s capture by the outlaws, for he would have killed a hundred men to protect her. No other slave—no other woman, including several lovely females he knew—stirred so strong a response in him. Why this should disturb his uncle was puzzling. Many men harbored great affection for a beautiful slave in their household, kept them as concubine, made children with them.

Lissa cared for him. He had seen it in her eyes this very evening. Perhaps, that affection would grow into love. The thought pleased him. Lissa’s love would be a thing to treasure. He could not—would not—offer the same in return, but he would protect and provide for her for the rest of her life. She would lack naught he could give. If his earlier actions had not opened Sindre’s eyes to that fact, his sacrifice to Thorr should have. He accepted her increasing importance to him. His uncle must be convinced to do the same. Lissa was his, and he meant to keep her.

Still, Sindre’s slur against her was serious. For a woman to be found guilty of practicing magic for the purpose of inflicting harm was a crime, one that carried the penalty of death. Lissa was neither sorceress, nor seducer. He would insure the charge did not stand, not even among her Saxon companions.

His mood lightened. Satisfied he could eventually settle the matter with Sindre, he whistled as he returned to the cottage.

∞∞§∞∞

Sindre had not returned by the following morn. Lissa could not be sorry. His stance toward her was ever harsh, but the previous eve he had crossed a line. That he perceived her a threat was clear. Why, was not so plain. His actions had dampened the lighthearted enjoyment of the evening as surely as the rain moistened the ground. Even Turold’s songs were unable to restore it.

Alwin had stuck close to Lissa all night, and now his little face was limned with concern. “Will he come back? What if he meets soldiers? They might hurt him. Should you not go after him?”

Bewilderment and anxiety dimmed the gold in his eyes.

Saint’s bones! He has become attached to the big víkingr. Oh, Alwin.

She caught Brandr’s eye, and saw his thoughts echoed hers. He smiled and rested a hand on Alwin’s head. “He has done this before, gone away for a time to think. He has a great dislike of confinement such as we have been forced to endure in this small cottage. Do not fear. He will avoid meeting with others. If he is not back by the time we leave on the morrow, he will catch up with us. He knows where we go.”

Alwin was not happy with that pronouncement, but he nodded.

The morning passed slowly, and as expected the rain continued, though it slackened. Lissa understood Sindre’s need to be away. She was heartily sick of being cooped up. There was little to do and she was bored nigh to pounding the walls, though faint good that would do but add more bruises.

Early on, Oswulf had gone to check the meat smoking in the shed. When he came back inside, he sat by the fire, whittling a piece of ash wood. His humor was dark, but all the men were testy from the after effects of the ale. Her attempts at conversation were answered with terse grunts. Not long after, Turold, who should have been sleeping after keeping watch the last half of the night, disappeared, as did Brandr.

Her heart was cheered when Brandr’s tall form darkened the doorway shortly after noontide, and with him came the sun. She stood with him there, watching the slow dispersal of the clouds. A bright beam fell on his face, illuminating lines of weariness beneath the fading shades of healing bruises. None of them had slept well.

Oswulf shoved past them with Bryda. He caught up the axe leaning just inside the door. “We go to cut more wood for the fire.”

His tone was gruff, but the look Bryda threw her twinkled with an unmistakable gleam of anticipation.

Her hand flew to cover her answering grin. She might be unmarried, but she knew what that expression meant.

Brandr did as well. “If you do not return soon, should we be concerned and come seeking you?”

Oswulf’s threatening growl did not cease until the forest swallowed them. Brandr’s laughter rang through the clearing.

“They are happy together,” she said, “It is a good thing to see.”

He looked down at her. Mischief laughed from the blue gaze. He ducked into the cottage and returned a moment later, Alwin in tow, and with a blanket belonging to Turold over his shoulder.

“Come with me.”

She giggled. “If you plan to use that blanket for us to sit on, we may be certain Turold will be less than pleased this night when he discovers it is wet.”

Brandr grinned. “He is a skáld, as much accustomed to sleeping in discomfort in the wild, as between dry furs in a warm hall. He will survive.”

“You are heartless!” But she laughed, and he took her hand to guide her behind the cottage, Alwin tagging behind. A path, little more than a deer track, led into the forest. It wound a short way through the dripping woods until it opened onto a clearing with a rise in the center. It was another mound, considerably smaller than the one where they had sheltered before the outlaw attack. Sunlight sparked white fire off water droplets in the grass, but it was the arc of brilliant, striated hues splashed across the sky that brought them all to a dazzled halt.

Alwin forgot his unhappy musings, cavorting at the sight. “A bow of colors, leóf! Is that not a sign that all will be well, that Master Sindre will come safely back?”

Lissa knew a sudden vexation at Sindre for needlessly upsetting the boy. From the brief expression that crossed his face, a similar sentiment tugged at Brandr. He laid an arm around Alwin’s shoulders and squeezed. “Já, Alwin Brandr-thrall, a rainbow is a hopeful omen.” He glanced at Lissa. “For all of us.” He gestured to the mound. “We will go up. It is a simple climb and the sun will quickly dry the ground.”

The grassy slope was slippery, but they aided each other and made it to the top without mishap. Alwin stood to one side, staring at nature’s palette hung above their heads.

Brandr spread out the blanket and she surprised a grimace at the movement. “Your ribs still pain you?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Bryda wrapped them and that has helped, but I would be free for a time of their tight restraint. Help me remove my ring shirt and tunic.”

The garments were quickly shed and the cloth strips unbound. Brandr’s sigh of relief was so lusty it could have been heard back at the cottage. He grinned when he caught her staring at his chest.

“Cease your gawking at the manly grace before you, thrall, and examine the other wound, in my side. I would know it heals correctly.”

She started to frown, but saw that devilry danced in his eyes. Deep inside, wonder unfolded. This víkingr, this powerful, lethal warrior, was
teasing
her. He
expected
her to protest, perhaps hoped she would. The day grew immeasurably brighter.

“You are mistaken, Brandr. I was but looking at the wrap marks left by the bindings, naught more. As for the wound, I can easily see it has no further need of care.”

“Will you never learn? A thrall does not correct her master, and have I not told you I require honesty at all times?” He caught her chin in his hand. “I know it was not the bind marks you admired. Come. The truth. You like what you see. Say it.”

Alwin’s head whipped around to peer at them. He rolled his eyes in youthful disdain before plopping on one corner of the blanket, his back to them. He drew up his knees and stretched his forearms across them. In exasperated tones, he uttered a single word that might have been ‘grown-ups’.

Brandr laughed and sat, pulling her down beside him. The necklace and the two pendants he wore swung across his chest with the movement. She made no protest as his arm slipped around her waist. He tucked her against his warmth and took her mouth in a slow, sweet union.

“For now, I will allow a delay in the obedience to my command, but do not think I will forget.” The mirth in his eyes abruptly died, leaving behind an azure fire that provoked an answering heat within her. “I want you, Lissa Brandr-thrall, and you desire me. One day, you will yield to my embrace, and I will give you joy.”

Warmth touched her cheeks. Hoping Alwin had not heard, she glanced at the youngling’s slim shoulders, but his attention was riveted on the sinuous undulations of a brown, multi-legged insect crawling down his leg. He paid them no mind.

She clasped her hands in her lap, though she would have preferred to wrap them around Brandr’s neck and surrender to the seductive call of his body to hers. With an eye to Alwin, she lowered her voice. “It is not seemly you should say such things.”

“You are my thrall. I can say aught I wish to you.” He cocked his head and peered at her. “It is but more of the truth. I think it pleases you.” He lifted her chin with a finger. “Think you I do not see the warmth of your affection for me, Lissa? You care for me, and I….”

He paused. The blue of his eyes darkened, the look within becoming distant, unseeing. It was as if he left her, though the stroke of his fingers along the line of her cheek never ceased. Her heartbeat raced. The little hairs on her arms stood up as all her womanly senses went on alert. He hovered on the verge of something momentous—something pivotal.

His focus snapped back. His awareness, like a living thing, enveloped her. Ardor blazed. She thought she would melt beneath the fierceness of its heat. She forgot to breathe.

“Lissa, I….” He paused again, blinked, and his gaze flicked to a point beyond her shoulder. Tiny crevasses formed between his brows. Though he did not move, in some indefinable way, he withdrew.

Six slow beats of blood pulsed through her veins before he straightened and smiled.

His gaze came back to her, but the azure fire was tamed, and held in check. “You are important to me.”

The moment had passed. His words did not echo his earlier thoughts. She knew it. Sadness ground a slow path through her heart. Cowardice did not sit well on him. For her heart’s sake, she must still hide the depth of her feelings.

Alwin suddenly jumped up and ran down the mound. At the edge of the tree line, he dropped to his knees.

Her eyes on the boy, she eased away from Brandr’s side. “If you wish to receive honesty, you should also give it.”

She could not see what had drawn Alwin to the trees, but was grateful he was now at a discreet distance.

Brandr’s hand fell away, but he seemed to realize his misstep. “Is it not enough that I desire you, Lissa, that I want you in my arms?”

“You demand much of me, but offer little in return.”

“You are my thrall. It is my right to demand everything you have to give.”

“No. You may command obedience and deference, but no man may command the heart.”

“You speak as a woman.” His voice deepened and anger laced its timbre. “You know naught of that which defines a man.”

“What I know is of no importance. It is truth that lingers in question between us. You have not spoken it.”

He lunged to his considerable height. Hands on hips, he towered over her. “Females! Always you plague a man for more than he should give, and when he offers what he can, you remain unsatisfied. It seems if I want peace, I must say words designed to appease. Very well. I have become fond of you. Now, ask no more!”

She met his gaze. “As you command.”

She forced a smile, and leaned back on her elbows. Let him prevaricate. She would enjoy the sun on her face.

Brandr’s earlier prediction the sun would quickly dry the ground proved correct. The warmth had set the ground to steaming. Little ghostly puffs of vapor rose around them. A warm, humid breeze swirled, gentle as the breath of a sleeping dragon. The grasses waved, dry for the first time in days.

He put his back to her and called to Alwin, who had crawled some distance from his original position. “What have you found, youngling?”

Alwin threw a grin over his shoulder and reached into the grass, coming up with a long, sluggishly twisting length of black-barred brown in his hands.

Lissa grimaced. She did not like snakes.

“Bring it here, lad,” Brandr said. “I wish to see this great trophy you have captured.”

His clothing mud-streaked, Alwin climbed up the mound. He pointed to the oversized bulge in the snake’s middle. “See you, leóf! It has eaten.”