Chapter Ten
Skadi’s head lowered, her hand not leaving his chest, her fingers splayed open in a desperate plea that he’d immediately denied. ‘I had hoped never to do this with another man,’ she said quietly and his heart dropped like a stone.
The heat of her touch was spreading across his chest, like the roots of a tree, sending out threads of awareness throughout his body. His senses answered like the wind in the trees, swaying towards her with desperate yearning.
Did she realise how powerfully she affected him? Her words cut deeply to the bone, even as he leaned into her touch, wanting more of her. His chest tightened and he clenched his fists at his sides to stop from pulling her back, as she turned and walked into the room with a miserable sigh.
Yes, he had been foolish to think she would welcome him.
After meeting her again, he’d realised how pragmatic and proud she could be. He’d not expected her to relish the prospect of sleeping with him, but hearing her say that she’d hoped never to do this with another man had affected him far more than he would have imagined.
It reminded him that Heimdall had been her husband for nearly twenty years—most of his lifetime—she had slept beside Heimdall, became a mother to his child…
Agnar had taken that peace from her and, for the first time, as he followed her into her husband’s chamber, he actually felt as though he deserved the nickname Sven had given him: Usurper.
A handmaid rose from a stool in the corner and put down some needlework. She hurried forward as Skadi sat in front of a table and began to gently remove the Queen’s crown from her head.
Stubborn and sanctimonious! Spoilt and brazen!
So many insults came to mind when he argued with her, but he couldn’t seem to find the courage to say them. He’d seen the flash of outrage and pain earlier when he’d called her a puppet queen. Did she truly not realise how badly Sven and Heimdall had manipulated her?
Part of him was reluctant to hurt her again.
Which was oddly ridiculous—she had caused him and his mother so much heartache that he should hate her. Any other man would have cut off her head and certainly wouldn’t have lowered himself by marrying her.
The hard work, the risk, everything he and his mother had done to ensure his success, all of it had come to fruition and he should be celebrating his triumph.
Instead, his feast had been as sombre as a funeral and his bride had tried to poison him mid-meal.
But then…had he honestly thought she would welcome him with open arms as her saviour?
Yes…he had. Even when she’d tried to distract him by dropping her knife, or had touched his arm, he had stupidly thought that each touch held a secret meaning. That she might want him as much as he wanted her. Idiot!
The handmaid used a cloth and cleansing balm to remove the kohl from Skadi’s eyes, the black softening to a messy smudge.
It reminded him of his mother, who had used the ash from his father’s funeral pyre to smear her face and show her grief, not only for her husband’s passing, but for the loss of her son’s protector.
Was that why he felt no ill will towards Astra? Because he’d also been a fatherless child, his inheritance and safety also threatened by grown adults who should have protected him?
Was Skadi grieving for Heimdall? He hated the idea, but he knew it was likely. Would he be as callous as Sven had been to his mother? Demand she forget her husband and move on immediately?
It seemed wrong. But he also needed to consummate their marriage and, of course, he wanted her. Desperately, as if his body yearned to have her as much as his obsessive mind had been fixed on reclaiming his birthright.
‘Leave us,’ he snapped at the handmaid and to his annoyance she waited for Skadi’s nod of agreement before leaving.
He glanced at his unopened sea chest at the bottom of the bed. It looked ugly and battered surrounded by so much luxury and, of course, it was the only object in the room that belonged to him.
‘Am I safe to sleep around you, or will I find a knife at my throat?’ he asked mildly. It was a pathetic attempt at humour, but he’d never been able to charm those around him. He commanded loyalty by being true to his word and fair, not by being likeable.
His throat tightened and he moved towards two matching bowls of water set out with cloths and combs in one corner. He took off his tunic and laid it on a nearby stool, before washing his hands and face.
Skadi answered him with a bored sigh, ‘I imagine, if I did kill you in your sleep, my own death would follow shortly after.’
‘That would be the most obvious step to follow,’ he answered, rubbing the linen cloth down his face and chest to dry himself. It wasn’t true, but he wouldn’t tell Skadi that. If he died, Vali’s orders were to take Skadi and her daughter to King Olaf unharmed.
He glanced back at Skadi. Her spine was as straight as a spear and she was gently applying a salve around her eyes to remove the last of the kohl, which was now almost gone. To his surprise he realised she was watching him curiously in the polished bronze plate that was propped up on an iron stand.
Was she admiring him? The thought was ridiculous, he’d fought many challenges and battles to command such a large army.
His body was covered in the proof of it, ugly scars and burns to cauterise his wounds.
His hair was too long—it swept around his shoulders, tickling his lower ribs.
He should probably cut it off, as it made him look like an unkempt beast no matter how much he combed it.
Her eyes flicked away from him and she began to wipe at her eyes with a strip of linen, as if she were unbothered by his presence.
It irritated him that she found his presence so easy to ignore.
‘Where is the poison?’ he asked, wiping the last droplets of water from his face and neck with one of the linen cloths, the colour of Thrudheim blue. He tossed it down on the table with a flick of his wrist, the smack of the cloth drawing her attention to him.
It had to be on her, as he’d drunk from the glass previously with no effect. She must have added it when she gave him that ridiculous task of crawling beneath the table for her knife.
She’d made him behave like an absolute fool!
‘It was nothing,’ she snapped, primly wiping the last of the balm from her eyes, as if she weren’t the most deceiving witch to walk the lands of Midgard.
Striding over to her, he grabbed her arm and lifted her up. She gasped in outrage, but he ignored her, inspecting her dress until he spotted the small purse strapped to her belt. With one hard tug he broke the leather tie holding it in place and then let go of her to open it.
Inside was a tiny corked bottle. ‘Your perfume?’ he asked with a mocking raise of his brow.
She smiled cruelly, not a hint of shame on her beautiful face. ‘Try it for yourself and see.’ Had she smiled like that when she’d agreed to break their betrothal and marry Heimdall?
Ignoring her, he took the purse and its contents straight to the brazier and dropped it in the flames. When he returned, she was rinsing her face in the bowl of water he’d not used. She even dried her face with a fresh cloth, refusing to touch anything that he might have used.
‘It appears you are even more dishonourable than I thought, Skadi. Such cowardly tactics are beneath a true queen.’
She raised a pale brow at him and lowered her drying cloth. ‘Strange, I have not thought of you at all. At least…not until a couple of weeks ago, when I heard you had murdered my husband. Is it true you stabbed him in the back? How amusing that you would call me dishonourable!’
Agnar was stunned, he felt as if he had run head first into a wall. ‘I did not stab him in the back!’
She walked to a seating area screened off with a little steel brazier. There was more furniture in here than last night, he noticed. Did she normally sleep in another room? Or was that another foolish wish of his?
She settled herself into a large chair beside the brazier and folded her hands in her lap. ‘The men that returned to me before your attack say otherwise!’
Red-hot anger flooded his veins, and he moved to stand in front of her leaning down to glare into her face, not caring how intimidating he might seem. ‘Then send for them. I will hear these lies said to my face!’
Skadi gave a derisive laugh. ‘And have you kill them for it? No, I will not.’
‘Then tell me what they said, word for word.’
‘Only if you stop raging at me like a wounded bear,’ she snapped, gesturing to a nearby chair. He grabbed it, thumping down in it to face her, their knees brushing against one another and causing Skadi to squirm back in her chair.
‘Well?’ he growled between gritted teeth.
With a roll of her eyes, she explained, ‘Heimdall had finished a successful raid.’
‘Raid? He slaughtered an entire village of unarmed peasants,’ Agnar corrected, his blood running cold at the memory.
Skadi’s eyes widened. ‘His…back was turned and he was overwhelmed by your men—’
‘He was attacked by a group of men. But they were not mine.’
‘Convenient.’
‘True.’
They glared at each other for a moment, neither one of them willing to back down, until Skadi leaned forward to ask, ‘Why are you contesting this? You told me yourself that you killed him! That you wanted to kill him!’
‘I did.’
She shook her head and threw up her hands with an exasperated huff. ‘Well then!’
‘I challenged him to a death match, openly, and he couldn’t deny it.
I am a man of power now, with my own army behind me.
It was the only reason I was there, to meet him honourably, away from the walls of his kingdom.
The only way I could win back my birthright, without attacking Thrudheim directly.
The day was set, and then Sven asked him to plunder the village to the north.
‘I suspected Sven was trying to delay the challenge, so I followed. When I arrived at the village, Heimdall had made bloody work of the Saxon peasants and appeared to have travelled onwards, even further north. When I caught up with him, his men had been ambushed. Heimdall lay bleeding on the ground, crawling towards his sword. I gave him the mercy of a quick death and allowed him to face me sword in hand. It was far more than he deserved.’
Skadi had been staring at him with exasperated disbelief, right up until he’d described Heimdall’s death.
Then her expression had faltered and he’d seen doubt in her eyes, the same uncertain expression he’d seen all those years ago, right before she’d asked Heimdall not to kill him.
He still remembered her words of supposed mercy, ‘He is no one, Heimdall, just a child…leave him, he is no match for you and never will be.’
The same words had spurred him on to defeat Heimdall twenty years later, to demand his birthright and to show Heimdall that he was not only an equal match…but better.
But then her stubbornness flared to life and she haughtily informed him, ‘That is your recollection. I am sure Sven would have another tale to tell.’
‘I am sure he would. King Sven is not and has never been your ally.’
She bristled, rising from her seat and walking towards a wooden screen at the side of the bed.
‘No one is! According to you!’ she hissed the words, although this time, her voice was more tired than aggressive and he decided against riling her further.
She would realise the truth in time—or perhaps she had always known it?
And had lived all these years in denial of her mistake… that was far more likely.
He heard her fumbling with clasps and ties.
‘Do you need help?’
‘You dismissed my handmaid, remember!’ she grumbled back, and there was more huffing and straining from beyond the screen.
Impatient with her obstinance, he walked around the screen to find her with a dress half over her head as if she were caught in a sack.
Smiling to himself at the absurdity, he allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight of her ridiculous struggle, because for once she appeared fallible.
But he knew she would not thank him for it, so he lowered his smile and helped yank the tight-fitting gown over her head.
There was a small tearing sound and he was sure a seam had split somewhere.
She emerged from the bundle of fabric red faced and irritated.
He handed her the gown and stepped back around the screen. ‘I’m sure you can manage the rest.’
An unwelcome tide of emotion rushed through him and he struggled to regain his control. He had wanted to keep going, to rip every elegant seam and shield from her armour. To strip her bare.
Why did the thought arouse him so much? He’d had Byzantine courtesans dance naked in front of him at the Emperor’s palace.
They’d fallen into his lap like ripe fruit—paid, of course, and used as a temptation by the Emperor to try to entice him to remain as part of his army in Constantinople.
But even so, he’d been less intoxicated by their blatant invitations than he had been by the sight of Skadi’s furiously wriggling body.
The soft sound of her dress tearing had filled his mind with wicked possibilities, of him ripping the remaining shift from her body and ravaging her against the wall. To have her powerless under his control. Not with fear, but with passion.
He had never wanted a woman more…and yet, he loathed her. Hated every ignorant, spoilt and stubborn thing she had ever done.
Why, then, did he want her so badly? Would taking her satisfy his ambition, soothe his pride? Symbolise a final triumph and victory? Would reclaiming her ease the heartache of the past? Console the hurt and frightened child he’d once been?
Did he need her to finally see him as a man?
To want him as a man?
Ridiculous! He had to control himself, or he’d risk looking a fool.