Fires of Winter (12 page)

“It happened nonetheless?”

“Aye, so take care, lass. I would not see the same happen to you.”

“Have no fear, Erin.
I
would not allow it!”

The old man shook his head doubtfully as he watched her walk away.

G
arrick sat at the head of a long table. His father was on his left, facing the room, and his mother sat on his right. His brother Hugh was also there, his plump wife by his side. Around the rest of the table were Garrick’s closest friends, those who had sailed with him. And at the foot of the table sat his half-brother Fairfax.

Garrick eyed his brothers thoughtfully. Although he resembled his older brother in height and build, he and his younger brother had in common only their eyes, which were like those of their grandfather, Ulric. Fairfax was less than a year younger than Garrick, but he was a good head shorter; in that regard he took after his mother, Yarmille.

Garrick and Hugh enjoyed the normal rivalry that exists between brothers, even if it was sometimes a bit too earnest. Still, the bond of brotherhood was strong between them. With Fairfax, Garrick enjoyed a different relationship, of companionable friendship, just like the one he shared with Perrin, his closest friend.

Between Hugh and Fairfax, however, there was genuine dislike, and tensions were usually high when they were in the same room together. Hugh begrudged Fairfax their father’s love, and Fairfax reacted to that animosity as any man would, with equal hostility.

Garrick, unlike Fairfax, had gained Ulric’s admiration and thus this house and surrounding lands. Fairfax had nothing but his mother’s small house and a fishing boat. It was a wonder the youngest brother was not bitter. His life was a hard one, and each day he worked to ensure he would survive a little longer. Yet Garrick knew he preferred it this way. Fairfax enjoyed the simple life of a fisherman.

The
skald
finished a humorous song of Loki’s exploits, to which he added mischievous antics of his own making, and left the crowd roaring its approval. Even Anselm had tears in his eyes from laughing so hard.

Heloise leaned close to her son when the noise died down somewhat and whispered teasingly, “You know, Garrick, your tale of the Slavic tribe you encountered was almost as amusing as that one. Are you sure you did not dress up the truth some little bit?”

“For shame, woman!” Anselm roared, having overheard her. “My son does not need to embellish his tales as I do.” Then he laughed at his own jest.

“Nay. With you, ’tis not known where the truth ends and the tale begins,” Heloise retorted, then added thoughtfully, “As with your tale of the Celtic girl. I wonder now if all you said was true.”

Anselm scowled across the table at her. “’Twas true, mistress! I did not need to elaborate
that
tale.”

Garrick looked on curiously. He had related his travels at length. But he had yet to ask about that stubborn wench he had found in his bed the night before.

“How is the girl, Garrick?” his mother asked. “I saw her but yesterday and she was still so bitter. She would hardly speak to me at all.”

“Well, she has found her tongue, I’m sorry to say.”

Anselm chuckled at this. “So you have tasted a bit of her spirit, eh?”

Garrick turned to his father. “Spirit? Nay, obstinacy is a better word. She is mine?”

“Aye, yours alone.”

Garrick grunted. “Well, she will not concede this.”

“I did not think she would.” Anselm grinned, making his son scowl.

He told Garrick of her capture, a story he had already related many times with pleasure. It did not interest the others, but Garrick listened most intently.

“So why did you give her to me?” Garrick asked finally. He refilled his tankard from the large cauldron of mead on the table.

“The girl surely hates me, for she must blame me for her plight. I have seen her wield a weapon, and I do not want her around me so that I must always be wary of her. Nor does your mother, at her age, need to put up with the kind of tempers that girl will throw. Hugh wanted her but had second thoughts when she showed her claws. He knew I wanted to give her to you and so chose her stepsister instead. You, I believe, can tame the girl if you will but try.”

Garrick scowled. “If she is all you say she is, why should I give the effort? She will be more trouble than she is worth, and is better sold.”

Now Anselm frowned. “You are not pleased with her, then? Any other man would be.”

“You know how I feel about women,” Garrick replied acidly. “This one is no different. As a piece of property, aye, she is valuable. But for my pleasure?” He shook his head slowly, denying the attraction he felt for her. “Nay, I have no need of her.”

Brenna had just returned to the small sewing room when the door opened and a young woman entered with a tray of food. Dull, disheveled orange-colored hair hung about her shoulders, and the blue eyes that met Brenna’s were tired.

“Janie?”

“So you will speak to me now?” the woman said with some surprise. “I was near to doubting you ever would.”

“I’m sorry,” Brenna said guiltily. “I did not mean to make you the brunt of my anger. I know I only added to your burdens.”

Janie shrugged wearily. “’Twas not right that Yarmille should have you bound. You had reason to resent it. It seems I am still to tend you, even though you have been released.”

Brenna felt additional guilt, for the small woman looked utterly exhausted. “I would tend to myself, but I was told to stay here.”

“I know.” Janie attempted to smile. “A girl as pretty as you would cause a commotion down there. You must be famished by now. Yarmille forgot about you, and so did I, until a few minutes past. Here,” she added, handing Brenna the tray of food. “This should hold you until I can bring your meal tonight.”

“Can you stay and talk awhile? I wish to thank you for all you have done for me.”

“You need not thank me. I was ordered to care for you, but I would have done so anyway. We are of the same kin, you and I.”

“Stay then, for a while.”

“Nay, I cannot, Brenna—may I call you Brenna?” At her nod, Janie continued. “There is too much to do down there. Already half my morn has been wasted in the guest room,” she said with a grimace. “These men do not care what time of day it is when they want their pleasure.”

Brenna watched her leave. Were Linnet, Cordella and the others also suffering this kind of treatment? Would it be forced on her too?

“Nay! Never!” she said aloud before she sat down on the floor with a tray of food, suddenly conscious of her hunger. “Let them try!”

She attacked the meal with gusto, and silently thanked Janie for remembering her, since no one else had. The plate held two plump pheasant legs, a half loaf of flat bread spread with rich butter and a small bowl of creamed onions. The fare was delicious, spoiled only by the drink given to her to wash it down, a tankard of milk. Milk, bah! Did Janie think her a child? She craved ale—at the very least, wine—but never milk.

Before Brenna finished the meal, the door opened again and she looked up to see Garrick Haardrad, leaning casually against the frame. He was handsomely attired in a form-fitting tunic and trousers made of soft blue linen trimmed with sable. A wide gold belt with a large buckle studded with blue gems went around his waist and crossed his flat stomach. Resting on his broad chest was a huge silver medallion.

Brenna’s eyes moved unconsciously to his bare arms. She saw much strength in the corded muscles under bronzed skin. She imagined those powerful arms gathering her to him, and her pulse raced wickedly at the thought. But this was quickly overshadowed by thoughts of the outcome Cordella had so often taunted her with.

She finally met his eyes, and her face flamed at the amusement she saw there. He had watched her appraise him; she sensed he had also read her thoughts.

“What do you want, Viking?” she asked sharply, to hide her embarrassment.

“To see if your disposition has improved.”

“It has not, nor will it!” she replied vehemently, recalling all the vile things she had heard about this man. “So you needn’t ask again.”

Despite her sharpness, Garrick smiled, revealing white, even teeth, and two deep dimples in his cheeks. “I am glad to see you heeded Yarmille’s orders and made use of your time. Is that your work?” He nodded toward the loom.

She followed his eyes and would have laughed if she did not believe him to be serious. “Nay, I would not touch that thing.”

He was no longer smiling. “Why?”

“’Tis woman’s work,” she shrugged and continued her meal.

“Will you tell me now you are not a woman?”

She cast him a look that implied he was daft. “Of course I am a woman. But I have never done women’s work.”

“’Tis beneath you, I suppose?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.

“Aye,” she answered, unabashed.

Garrick grunted and shook his head. “They told me you were offered as my bride. Would you have come, neither knowing how to run my house nor how to assume a wifely role?”

“I can run a house, Viking!” she snapped, her eyes stormy. “My aunt taught me all there is to know about women’s work. But I never put those lessons to use. And for my being offered as your bride, ’tis so. But know that the prospect was loathsome to me, and I agreed only because my father had given his word that an alliance would be made. At least
we
honor our word when ’tis given!”

Her implication was not lost on him. “I played no part in the deception that was used. Do you blame me for it?”

“Nay, I know where the blame lies!” she spat. “He will pay one day!”

Garrick smiled at her threat. So his father was right when he said she hated him. From her defiant attitude, he could almost believe the other things Anselm had said also. He let his eyes travel over the length of her. Could this small girl have wounded a Viking? Nay, ’twas not likely. Her slim form was made for pleasure, not wielding a sword. Again he felt a strong attraction to her, and it rankled him. She was indeed dangerous—not in her threats, but in her beauty. He did not trust women, and only took them when the need was strong. Otherwise he shunned them, and he determined that this woman would be no different.

“If you do not blame me for your being here, then why do you direct your anger at me?”

“You are a fool, Viking, if you have to ask! I am brought here and then you come and say you own me. Well, no man owns
me!
No man!”

“So we are back to this again?” he sighed, folding his arms across his chest. “I am not yet ready to prove the issue, mistress, but when I am, you will know for a certainty who is master here.”

She laughed, feeling that his reluctance accorded her a victory. “I know you are master here, Viking. I did not think otherwise.”

The twinkle in her eyes made him smile. “As long as you concede me that, mistress, then I think we can get along without too many disputes.” With that he left.

T
he sharp teeth of a nightmare woke Brenna with a start and she jumped up, ready to do battle. Upon seeing her surroundings by the dim light filtering through the half-open door, she relaxed in her improvised bed of furs and stared thoughtfully at the dark walls.

Was it morning or still night? How could those Vikings drink all night and still be at it?

The rumbling of her belly prompted Brenna to rise. Was she supposed to starve while waiting for them to remember she was here? To the devil with them! She would search out her own food. Anger and determination lighting her eyes, she left her place of confinement. She was not so foolish as to venture down the inside stairs, for they ended within sight of the hall. Instead she went the way she had gone before, down the stone steps that led outside, then to the open door at the rear of the house, where fragrant smoke was coming out.

Brenna peered nervously inside. She saw two women, one old and the other not much younger, turning a whole pig over a roasting pit. Behind them, Janie removed two loaves of flat bread from a long-handled iron tray and placed them with several others in a large basket sitting on a table. Yarmille was nowhere in sight, so Brenna stepped carefully inside the long, narrow room.