Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (22 page)

“
Do I know your brother?” A shaft of interest opened in Valsarion’s eyes.

“
Waldemir’s was the only name my brother mentioned,” Lyting returned cautiously, circumspect.

The shaft closed. Once again Valsarion
’s expression was one of flint. “Much has changed in Kiev since your brother’s days here. ‘Tis wise to keep that in mind.”

Lyting watched Valsarion
’s departure, his hopes for Deira dimming. A rash impulse rippled through him simply to seize the Irish captives and flee Kiev. But with the three of them bound in chains, he wouldn’t even get away from the wharfs.

Dispirited, his thoughts strayed to the scar beneath his beard, and to those on his back. He must not fail these women, nor the child emperor and his mother. Yet he knew that sometimes one
’s best efforts were simply not enough.

His thoughts drew to Ailinn. He knew if any harm ever befell her, he would already have drawn his last breath.

»«

Ailinn settled aboard the new, smaller ship, grateful that, while she and her stepcousins each still wore ankle irons, they were no longer linked together by a common chain, nor were they shackled to the mast.

She guessed ‘twas, in part, because the goods already packed the space there, owing to the reduced dimensions of the ship. But also, being only three, she, Deira, and Rhiannon could be both easily managed and utilized whenever necessary as movable ballast.

‘
Twould seem they would sail the remainder of the journey apart from the other women, in the company of Skallagrim, Hakon, and, she presumed, Lyting. He had not said. She did not ask. She feared that his answer would not be the one for which she hoped.

Ailinn whisked her gaze over the wharf and found him
standing there. To her relief, Lyting climbed aboard, stowed the line, and took his place at the oar.

Lyting couldn
’t meet Ailinn’s eyes, for his disappointment bit too deep. Now they must join the main convoy at Vitchev and from there face the rapids and cataracts of the Dnieper. Once through, ‘twas an easy journey to Constantinople, where, at last, he would be able to see the women free.

Skallagrim threw off the mooring line and joined them, bellowing orders for the convoy to embark.

Lyting plied his strength to the oar. Together, he and Ailinn watched the distance between the ship and the docks of the Podol widen as Kiev diminished across the waters.

»«

Watch fires burned brightly atop the towers of Vitchev.

Ailinn withdrew her gaze from the wooded hill fortress that stood sentry high above their encampment on the Dnieper and looked once more to Lyting.

He sat no more than two arm’s lengths apart, cleaning his sword. They passed the time in companionable silence. At times, Lyting would slip a glance to her, and when their eyes met he would smile softly, then return his attention to the care of his weapon.

Deira slept nearby, wrapped in a fur pelt. Ailinn thought Lyting had swayed the chieftain to allow her that, for the night was c
hill and Deira looked unwell. Hakon had given Rhiannon to another earlier, and for the time he held watch. Skallagrim, too, was absent, making his rounds about the tented settlement with his drinking horn.

Here, at Vitche
v, the great convoy collected from the various trade routes to sail, as Lyting explained, in “fellowship.” She guessed there to be upward to fifty ships already gathered, filled with merchants, adventurers, their slaves, and to her surprise, a small number of Norsewomen.

Camp followers, of a sort? she wondered, then decided not. They appeared to hold wifely status or, at very least, that of free women who joined their men.

Several snatched devouring glances of Lyting, whispering and tittering among themselves. Ailinn’s brow rose a fraction. Dropping her gaze away, she smoothed her gown.

“
Norsewomen must be as fearsome as their men. I am surprised to see that some join the convoy, if the journey is so dangerous.”

Lyting looked up, a smile playing over his lips.

“Dangerous enough, but not so great as to keep a Norsewoman from the riches of Miklagárd. I hear tales that Irishwomen are also fearsome, riding into battle, perched behind their men on war-horses.”

A smile flirted at the edg
es of Ailinn’s mouth as well. “ ‘Tis legend really.” She looked again to a cluster of women at one cook fire. “And I hear tales that Norsemen take many wives. ‘Twould appear that man has three. Is this usual?”

Lyting followed her gaze. At once one of the two younger women there greeted him with tilting, catlike eyes,
communicating her interest in him. The other, equally aware of Lyting, lowered her lashes seductively, her invitation clear.

Ailinn cast a glance heavenward, regretting that she had directed his attention to these two prowling felines. But when she looked back, Lyting had already returned to his task, his expression unchanged.

“That is Arnór and his wife Jorunn. The two younger ones are Arnór’s daughters. He’s taken a fine bit of ribbing, but his women refused to miss the famed markets of Miklagárd this season. There is nothing so dazzling in all the world, I am told.”

Lyting smiled fully upon Ailinn, a smile that snatched her breath away
— a wide, easy smile, filled with a warmth and mirth that arced the distance and flooded through her.

“
In verity, Arnór’s family does not travel so far as you might think. They live the year through in Smolensk, a little north of Gnezdovo, where we made portage from the Dvina to the Dnieper.”

Ailinn heard little of the last of what he said, her concentration muddled, her pulse still beating apace from the impact of his smile. She looked again to the two sturdy
and very blond daughters of Arnór. They looked as if they could more than take care of themselves on such a voyage. They also looked as if they would more than like to take care of Lyting as well. She wondered how Lyting knew so much of their family.

Ailinn discovered Lyting smiling at her as she returned her gaze to his.

“They are friends of Skallagrim,” he offered, as though reading her mind. “One of the daughters evidentially had her eyes set on Hakon last season.”

Ailinn was tempted to add that both daughters appeared to have their eyes set on
him
this season. She bit back the remark and tugged her mantle more closely about her shoulders.

“
And do the rich markets also draw you to Byzantium?” she ventured, then feared he might find her overbold.

He smiled in a way that sent warmth spreading through her all over again, like sweet, silken honey.

“I am an emissary for my brother.”

“
Ah, the man who accompanied you to Thora’s. He is a Norman lord, is he not?”

“
Rurik is the Baron de Valsemé.”

She absorbed this.
“Your ‘mission’ must be important to bring you so far from Normandy.”

“
Já.
‘Tis.” His crystal-blue eyes melted into hers. “Do you know aught of the duchy, Ailinn?”

“
Little. Only that the Norsemen ravaged Francia until the king ceded them lands.”

Lyting
’s hands paused. He could not argue her words. Though neither he nor Rurik ever warred in Francia, he deemed it best not to apprise her that they were both blood nephews to Duke Rollo.

Ailinn continued to gaze at him expectantly, as though to ask if he had taken part in the plundering.

“
Nei
, Ailinn. I harrowed no Franks. In those years you think on, I fought
Norge
men, keeping them from the shores of Danmark, until after the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte.”

The tenseness went out of Ailinn
’s shoulders.
Norge
men. Norwegians. Enmity lay between them and the Danes in her homeland, also.

“
What more do you know of the duchy?” Lyting asked, his manner familiar, conversational, as though they knew each other well and now sat casually about the evening fires after supper, sharing a pleasant talk.

“
Only what Bergette said, that by the terms of the treaty the Norsemen took the waters of Holy Baptism.”

“
Satt
. True.”

“
She also said that many continue to practice their old faith alongside the new. That they embrace Christianity only in so far as it gains them land or advantage.”

Lyting tugged at his lower lip as he formed a response, but Ailinn spoke again.

“Bergette further explained how Norse merchants take a form of baptism without water, and that they wear crosses so they might trade with Christians, solely with an eye for profit.”

“
The merchants you see here are Svear, Ailinn — people of Sverige, not Normandy.” Lyting motioned to those moving about the camp. “What Bergette said is largely true — of the Svear and other Norse merchants — though there are those who embrace the faith more earnestly than others.”

“
Then the Normans wear the cross for land, and the merchants for profit,” she commented dryly.

Ailinn
’s gaze fell to the chain that gleamed about Lyting’s neck. Then slowly she raised her eyes to his.

“
You also wear the cross.”

Lyting saw the conflict in her eyes.

“Rest easy, Ailinn. Christianity has taken firm root in Normandy, and the duke honors the faith by constructing a great cathedral at Rouen. As for myself — ”

He hesitated, a part of him wishing to conceal from her his chosen path, another part urging that he place it between them, and at once, lest he lose sight of the future to which he committed himself. Resigning himself to what he deemed he must do, Lyting drew the silver cross from his tunic.

“I, too, embrace Christ’s cross and have received the holy waters. If you would know, upon my return to Normandy, I shall enter the Abbey of Corbie and take the cowl.”

Ailinn
pulled back. “That cannot be so,” she returned forcefully, her eyes grown large.

“
Ailinn, ‘tis truth.”

“
Ní hea
!
Non.
Why do you tell me this? You are not meant for cloister.”

Lyting stared at her a full moment, taken aback by the intensity of her response.

“Ailinn, God calls whom He will.”

“
Then you must have misheard,” she asserted, her tone unbrookable.

“
Why does this upset you?”

She looked away.
“It does not.”

“
Why, then? Because I am Norse?”

Norse?
The word skipped past her. All she could think on was the image of a shining silver warrior, defeating the pirates so stunningly upon the waters; and before that, at Thora’s, his bounding to her defense, sword in hand, as he protected her from Hakon.

She
lifted her chin, her gaze holding his.

“
Tell me you are God’s warrior, but do not tell me you are his monk. I have seen you in the eye of battle, seen your mastery upon the sea and your readiness upon the land. Even now you prepare for tomorrow,”

Her gaze fell
to his sword, gleaming beside him.

“
And what of Hedeby and my arrival there? You sought to purchase me from Skallagrim nearly at once. Do you deny that?”

“
I do not deny it.” Ailinn’s outpouring astonished Lyting.

“
Why, then, if ‘twas not for . . . well, fleshly purposes.”

“
Fleshly purposes?” His lips began to pull into a smile.

Ailinn appeared flurried despite her words, and he happily feasted on the lovely
sight of her — her eyes wide and shining, her dark red hair tumbling about her face and shoulders, glinting with gold in the firelight. Saints’ breath, but she was beautiful.

“
Fleshly purposes,” Ailinn repeated, her cheeks burning. “Is it not your wish to take me for your bed?”

Lyting
’s breath caught in his throat along with his voice. Ailinn continued to look on him, the firelight playing over her exquisite features . . . playing over her softly parted lips. Of a sudden Lyting knew a hunger sharper than anything he’d ever known or endured.

Já
, he wanted her. With his whole being did he want her. Not as a slave, but willingly, as his lover, his heart-mate. He wanted to spend his passion on her and in her and touch eternity with her through the children they would beget.

Lyting fought to staunch the floodtide of emotions that
surged through him and threatened to sweep him away. He had been warned. He knew the dangers — to his soul, to his calling — when he first came on this journey. Now he must confront and overcome his deepest, most elemental desires, lest he be swayed from his path. He had allowed himself too close to the fire, and the fire’s name was Ailinn.