Chapter 1 #2
Katla’s brothers filed out, and she barred the door behind them.
Then she walked around Brandr a couple times, giving him a more thorough examination.
He followed her with his eyes, noticing that when she passed between him and the lamp, her night shift was thin enough for him to see the shadowy shape of her legs.
When she glanced at his genitals again, he couldn’t help his body’s response, swelling to his full state.
“Hmpf!”
It was not the reaction he was accustomed to.
Then she picked up a skinning knife from the top of a trunk in the corner. Had the bloodthirsty wench turned down her brother’s offer to geld him so she could do it herself?
His erection softened.
“Get your eyes back in your head,” she ordered. “You look like a demented owl.”
She bent down and cut the leather strap that gagged him near the knot behind his ear. “I’m not going to maim you. Not unless you do something to irritate me.”
He spat out the gag, grateful to be rid of its foul taste. “I’m glad to hear it. If you unbind my hands, I can take care of my feet myself.”
“I am aware of that,” she said dryly. “We have things to discuss first.”
He failed to stifle a yawn. “Say what you have to say quickly. Whatever your brothers drugged me with is making me sleepy again.”
She sat down on the end of her bed and studied him as if he were a type of fish in her net she couldn’t identify. She seemed undecided on whether to keep him or throw him back. “You’re taking that iron collar more calmly than one would expect.”
“I’m alive…and whole.” His head was starting to pound, but his thoughts were flowing clearer now. “A live man’s luck can change. A dead one’s never.”
“My husband is dead.” Her eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “Your father killed him.”
So that’s why she wanted him. Ulf the Ruthless was responsible for his predicament.
“Didn’t he offer a wergild?” Brandr’s father had a wicked temper, but once the battle lust cleared, he was practical about his debts. He usually paid off those he’d offended in the required amounts to keep matters from escalating into a full-blown feud.
“I wouldn’t dishonor my husband’s memory by accepting blood money,” she said.
“My father generally has a reason when he kills someone. Most of the time. It seems to me, your dispute is with him, not me. He’ll not ransom me, if that’s your plan. He won’t believe I was stupid enough to let myself be enthralled. And if I did, he’ll figure I deserve it.”
“No, he won’t.” When she crossed her arms under her breasts, her nipples stood out stiffly beneath the thin linen of her night shift. She didn’t seem aware of it.
“Then you don’t know my father.” Brandr bit the inside of his cheek to keep his body from rousing to her again. “The old bastard was winter hard when I left five years ago. I expect he hasn’t thawed a bit.”
“Probably not, since he now occupies a place of honor in the ninth circle of Hel’s cold hall.”
Dead. All the air fled from Brandr’s body in a whoosh.
Ulf the Ruthless was a bull sea lion of a man.
All Brandr’s life, his father had ridden him mercilessly, never satisfied, never recognizing that Brandr would have given his left hand to please him just once.
Never understood Brandr’s strange affinity for the flames.
Never trusted the gift of fire and refused to try to understand.
Now he was no more.
Just when Brandr had learned to control his unusual gift and was bringing his father the most potent weapon the decadent South possessed, the secret of Greek fire.
“Ulf Skallagrimsson’s ship was lost with all hands in a storm off the Orkney Islands last season.” She cocked her head and eyed him as a robin eyes the worm she intends for breakfast. “So, you really didn’t know your father is dead?”
He set his face into a grim mask. She certainly didn’t deserve a peek into the maelstrom of his emotions about his father’s death, especially since he didn’t know how to name them yet himself.
“You won’t have any better luck ransoming me with my brother. Our father taught us not to be burdened overmuch with family feelings.”
She shrugged. “I hadn’t thought of trying to get Arn the Leper to pay a ransom for you, but when I tire of you, it’s a consideration.”
“Arn the—”
“Ja, strange world, is it not? You sojourn all the way to Miklagaard and come back”—her gaze traveled over his length again—“perfectly healthy and sound. And your older brother stays home and is struck by a wasting sickness.”
Brandr let this new horrific truth settle into his brain.
The great city of the South sent its lepers away to eke out a living on scraps and thievery.
In the North, while no one wanted to share a trencher with a leper, if a man had high enough rank to begin with, he’d not be outlawed for being unlucky.
Brandr’s brother, Arn, would still be jarl in Jondal as long as he was able to wield a sword.
Brandr would be expected to step in when Arn could no longer lead.
But not if he was a slave. Without a clear transfer of leadership, there’d be a scramble for power and a fight among the chieftains to determine who would succeed Arn.
Brandr frowned, wondering how to avoid that disaster.
When headmen fought, fields went unplanted, and the people of Jondal would suffer the next winter.
“Feeling for your brother, are you? Don’t. A thrall is poor enough not to be able to afford pity for anyone.” Katla leaned toward him. “I assume my brothers already took whatever wealth you brought back from the South.”
Brandr snorted. He’d worn a gold chain about his neck, and a small pouch of silver weighed down one side of his belt. But the big chest of coin still rested in safety on the longship. That was to be divided evenly among him and his traveling companions.
Six were returning home to Jondal. Nine of them had started out for the great southern city, but one took a knife blade to the gut in a brawl the night after they set out.
The wound went bad before they’d even cleared the wide mouth of Hardanger Fjord.
Another was lost during a storm near Gibraltar.
A third fell fighting the Saracens in the service of the Byzantine emperor.
On an honorable field of battle, his flesh gave food to the eagles.
But Brandr and the other returning men from Jondal accomplished what they’d set out to do. Brandr had found a sorcerer in the South who schooled him in how to use his ability to call up flame, though he still hid his gift from all but his closest friends.
People feared those who were different, and inspiring fear wasn’t Brandr’s aim.
He and his friends had lived a praiseworthy adventure and returned North with enough silver to set up each of them in comfort for several lifetimes. Brandr’s companions counted themselves lucky to come home without losing more of their number.
But they weren’t home yet, and with Brandr enthralled, now they were only five.
Even if his friends were able to track him from the mead house, they were too few to overpower the Tysnes islanders and free him without a bloody brawl.
“Ja, your thieving brothers took everything of value,” Brandr said.
They couldn’t take the wealth he carried in his head.
If they had an inkling he bore the secret to Greek fire, they’d be trying to torture it out of him still.
“You get only me in this bad bargain. What are your intentions?”
***
Katla wished he wouldn’t keep turning those deep amber eyes on her. They made it hard for her to think.
“I’m not sure what you’re fit for,” she said, willing herself not betray how the sight of his hard body affected her. The son of Ulf had the frame of a warrior, honed to lean fitness. His muscles stood out beneath smooth skin marred by only a few battle scars.
Katla didn’t mind not having a husband countermand her decisions, but she sorely missed the feel of a man between her legs. Brandr Ulfson made her remember that longing in exquisite detail.
She set her mouth in a tight line. It was a man’s world. A woman had to be strong when dealing with one, even one wearing an iron collar, lest he run roughshod over her. “Have you any skills besides wenching and drinking?”
“I’m a fighter by trade.” His mouth turned up in a lazy, sensual smile. “Obviously, drinking isn’t one of my strengths. At least, not when someone taints the mead. But don’t discount wenching. I know how to please a woman. My bed skills are yours for the asking.”
Her eyes flared with irritation that he’d divined the direction of her thoughts. Men took bed slaves all the time.
Why shouldn’t a widow enjoy one, so long as she kept herself from bearing?
It wouldn’t be a problem in her case. Katla suspected she was barren. Her husband Osvald’s bastards littered several hearths, but she never showed signs of quickening during their year together.
She gave herself a slight shake. This new thrall was nothing but the son of her husband’s murderer. She had to keep thinking of him as such. She’d sworn to avenge Osvald, and this was her first chance to make good on her vow.
“Keep your lewd suggestions to yourself.”
Brandr Ulfson eyed her with boldness, so she felt obliged to return the favor. By shearing Brandr’s locks, her brothers had accentuated his strong, even features. A man had to be breathtakingly handsome to still be so appealing after he’d endured the shame of being shorn.
She knelt beside him and ran her palm over his head, down his neck, and around his firm jawline.
“Since Ulf is already dead, I can’t deliver justice to your father.
Hiring someone to kill a leper might be considered an act of kindness, not retribution, so I’ve made no move against your brother,” she said, jerking her hand away from his smooth cheek.
She needed to keep her distance. “That leaves only you.”
She wouldn’t kill him. It wasn’t as if he’d had a choice in who his father was, but short of visiting physical harm on the son of Ulf, she could still have justice of a sort.
She’d humble him so abjectly his name would become a byword throughout the North, a warning to all men who fell into the hands of a vengeful woman.
But Brandr Ulfson wasn’t an easy man to feel hard toward. There was a feral quality to his maleness that made her insides go soft, vulnerable. When he turned his penetrating gaze on her, she felt weak as water.
She straightened her spine.
“Letting you demonstrate your bed skills doesn’t sound like revenge,” she said. “It sounds like you’re trying to trick me into pleasuring a thrall.”
“If we shared a bed, it would be about your pleasure.” His amber eyes darkened to sable. “Not mine.”
“So bedding me wouldn’t please you?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m sure it would please me. Very much. But my aim would be your delight.”
Her breath caught, and she couldn’t move. He gave her a thorough look, starting with her mouth, lingering at her breasts, which tingled under his direct gaze, and traveling down her loins and limbs.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Katla. And you’ve missed a man’s touch.”
“I haven’t missed yours. And you will address me as ‘mistress’ or ‘my lady.’ You may not use my name, thrall.”
She turned and rummaged through her clothes trunk for the oldest, most coarse tunic she could find. She hoped it would be big enough to fit him, but for now, she’d be satisfied with draping the undyed fabric across his groin.
“Varangians are supposed to value honor above all,” she said. “Before I loose your bonds, will you swear upon your honor to obey me and not to run away?”
“I won’t run. Your brothers took me by guile and womanish potions, but they took me. As long as your commands do not conflict with my honor, I so swear to obey you,” he said. “May Thor strike me blind if I do not.”
“If the god doesn’t, I will,” she promised as she cut the bindings on his wrists.
He worked the knot at his ankles as soon as his hands were free. Then he stood to pull the rough tunic over his head.
Upright, Brandr was even bigger than he appeared when lying on the floor. She took a step back from him. The tunic was snug across his broad chest and struck him mid-thigh, leaving his well-muscled legs exposed. At least his disturbing maleness was covered.
“Now what, princess?” He managed to make the title he gifted her with sound like a curse.
She had to show this man his place and quickly. “I saved you from the gelding knife this night. You will show your appreciation by kissing my foot.”
She lifted her night shift to ankle height and presented one to him, toes pointed.
That should wipe the smug expression from his face.
He shrugged, bent over, and grabbed her ankle. Then he yanked her upside down. Her bottom took a glancing blow on the floor before she found herself hanging precariously, her foot level with his mouth when he stood back upright.
It happened so quickly, surprise forced all the air from Katla’s lungs. Her night shift billowed down to bunch at her armpits, exposing her to him. When she tried to kick free, he grasped her other ankle as well. Her fingertips splayed on the slate floor to steady herself.
She clamped her lips shut to keep from crying out. There were a dozen strong men snoring on the other side of the door. They’d all rush to her aid, but she’d die before she let anyone catch her in this undignified position.
He planted a wet kiss on her instep then lowered her to the floor. She managed not to land on her head, but her right shoulder took most of her weight before she rolled to lie flat on her back on the cold slate.
He glared down at her and bared his teeth in a wolf’s smile. “Want me to kiss anything else, princess?”