Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] (7 page)

How odd that he should think that way! For years he had craved excitement. Fighting the battles of one greedy king after another. Visiting far-off, sometimes exotic lands. A-Viking. Trading. Treasure hunting for amber in the Baltics.

Making new conquests in the bed furs.

And now … what? Was he developing a longing for peace, of all things? Did he yearn for the tamer life of hearth and family?

’Twas perplexing to Rurik, really, that such strange emotions should assail him. He was filled to overflowing with rage and frustration and dissatisfaction, and at the same time his heart… his entire being… seemed to swell and ache for some unknown thing.

No doubt, it was the
uisge-beatha
affecting him. He had been sipping for an hour and more at a cup of the potent, amber-hued beverage the Scots called “water of life.” Although Rurik preferred plain mead or ale, he decided he could cultivate a taste for this drink.

Rurik stood suddenly and fought light-headedness as he stretched and yawned widely. All of the Campbell castle was abed. ’Twas where he should head now.

Guards from Maire’s clan and Rurik’s retinue had been posted about the grounds, ensuring the security of
Beinne Breagha
, at least for now.
Beinne Breagha
. ’Twas Gaelic for Beautiful Mountain. Now wasn’t that a pretty misname for such a sorry estate? The rampart walls were crumbling down in places for lack of maintenance. Dirty rushes covered the castle floors. The fireplaces had not been cleaned for years and
downdrafts of black smoke wafted into the various chambers. The roof surely leaked in a heavy rain; here and there, he could see through to the night sky. The only thing that could be said in
Beinne Breagha’s
defense was that it was, in fact, surrounded by blankets of beautiful flowering plants.

Wearily, he picked up a candle in a soapstone holder, using the hand of his healthy right arm, and climbed the stone steps to the second floor, where there was one bedchamber and a solar… testament to some long-ago inhabitants who’d lived a finer life than these present Campbells did. Wincing, he tested his left arm for weakness as he walked, extending it out, then folding it back at the elbow, over and over. It hurt mightily to exercise the arm so, especially since the stitches were still tight and the wound raw, but he hated with a passion any weakness of body.

In the corridor outside Maire’s chamber, he came across Toste, who had been assigned guard duty over the witch.

“I’ll relieve you now,” he told Toste.

Toste nodded. “I’m away to bed then,” he said and headed toward the stairway and a waiting pallet in the great hall.

With a loud, jaw-cracking yawn, Rurik opened the heavy oaken door to the left. The master chamber was austere, which suited the dour Scottish personality. Rushes lay thickly over the floor… sweeter than those belowstairs, he noted… and pegs dotted the walls with clothing hung on them. In one corner was a large, unfinished tapestry on a wooden frame. There were several chests for bed linens and such and one higher chest on which rested a pitcher and bowl and
a polished metal in an ivory holder for looking at one’s visage.

He set the candle down and picked up the vanity device by its ivory handle. Examining himself closely, he saw a man of mature years—twenty and eight—with a day’s growth of beard and stern features. When had he turned so bleak of face? Soon he would be as sour-countenanced as any Scotsman.

And he saw the blue mark, of course. Always the blue mark.

It was vain of him to care so much about the mark, he supposed. But somehow it had come to represent all that he had hated about his youth. Despite everything he had accomplished in his life, the mark had become a humbling symbol to him of how little he really was.

He glanced over at the large, raised bedstead situated in the center of the room, its high head frame set against one wall. The room was dark, except for the flickering candle and the little moonlight that entered the room through the two arrow-slit windows.

With a glare, he surveyed the woman who occupied the bed. Should he shake the witch awake and demand that she cast her removing spells now? Or should he wait till the light of day?

He decided with a sigh of exhaustion to wait. Putting the looking-metal down, he began to remove his garments. With luck, by this time on the morrow, his face would be free of the mark, he thought, as he unpinned his mantle brooch and set it down carefully. It had been a betrothal gift from Theta.

Sitting on the edge of the straw-filled mattress, he toed off his boots, then stood and dropped his braies
and small clothes to the floor. Turning, he contemplated the wench. Since it was late summertime, bed furs were unneeded. Maire lay on her side in a thin chemise, hugging a pillow to her chest, like a lover.

He felt a lurch of lust in his loins, which caused him to frown some more. He did not want to desire this traitorous witch.

Walking to the other side of the bed, he slipped down onto the mattress. For several moments he just lay on his back, his hands behind his back. Then, with a muttered curse of, “Oh, bloody hell, why not?” he rolled to his side, right up against the backside of the witch. Carefully, he arranged his wounded arm on the mattress above her head, but his right arm he wrapped around her waist so that his palm rested on her flat stomach.

As sleep soon began to overcome him, he grinned. There would be sweet dreams this night. And wet, he would warrant.

He couldn’t wait.

Maire’s body was accustomed to awakening each morning before dawn, and this day was no different.

There was a difference, however.

In her hazy half-asleep state, with her eyes still closed and her senses not yet fully alert, Maire mulled over the events that had transpired the previous day and what she must do on this new day. She was free of her cage and the MacNab…
for now
… but there were plans to make to ensure their continued safety here at
Beinne Breagha
. First, she wanted to seek out Wee-Jamie and spend some time with him… simple but important mother/son activities, like combing his
silky black hair, or playing run-run-catch in the heather, or skimming rocks in a favorite trout stream. Jamie was her life, and she missed him desperately.

On her back, she yawned and started to stretch out the nighttime kinks.

That was when she noticed another difference about this morning … the most significant difference. There was a man sharing her bed … a
naked
man, she realized with a startled yelp. And she wasn’t much better, with her thin chemise hiked up practically to her… well, hips, and one shoulder strap having slipped down to a bare breast.

It was that horrid Viking … Rurik.

Even worse, he was wide awake and staring at her… hotly. Well, that wasn’t precisely correct. He was staring at her exposed breast as if he were considering whether to lick it or not.

Lick it? Lick it? Where do I get these ideas?

Despite all the reasons she had to hate Rurik, Maire felt an intense ache begin in her breasts, which caused their traitorous nipples to bead for his appreciative scrutiny.

“Maire,” he groaned, as if she were deliberately torturing him.

Hah! He wasn’t the one being tortured. She was.

He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, as if they were dry.

They didn’t look dry to her. In truth, his generous lips appeared slick and warm and inviting.
Oh, blessed St. Blathmac… his lips are not inviting. They are not, not, not
, she insisted to herself. She was losing her mind. In fact, she had to restrain herself from arching her chest upward toward said lips, which
would definitely be a brainless thing to do.

And if Maire’s day wasn’t starting out badly enough, she observed another even worse thing. She realized belatedly that not only did she have a naked Viking in her bed, but she was lying flat on her back whilst he lay on his side, with his left arm resting on the pillow above her head, a hairy leg resting over her thighs, a hand resting possessively on her stomach, and something hard
not
resting at all, but pressing insistently against her hip.

Oh, Maire knew all about men and their morning erections. In truth, it was the only time her husband had been able to bear making love with her. Then, and when he was falling-over drunk from imbibing too much
uisge-beatha
.

She tried to roll over and shove the big brute away, but he was immovable … like a stone wall. Besides that, her hair was caught under his arm, and her legs trapped under his thigh.

With a grunt of disgust, she yanked her chemise up to cover her breast.

He chuckled.

“What… are … you … doing … in … my … bed?” she gritted out.

“Best you stop wiggling about, Maire, or Lance will be impaling your sweet target.”

She stilled for a second and felt the male appendage pressed into her hip move. It actually moved. Was it growing larger? She didn’t dare look. “Lance?”

“My manpart.”

“You name your manpart?”

“Nay,” he answered and grinned unabashedly, “though many men do.”

“Many men are lackwits.”

He shrugged. “Mayhap. Where women are concerned, you may be right. In truth, a man’s
lance
often has a mind of its own. So, really, women should not blame men for their lackwittedness in that regard.”

“Now that’s a piece of male ill-logic, if I ever heard it.”

“Hush, Maire. You’re offending Lance, and he is a very sensitive fellow.”

“Well, Lance better get away from me, or risk being broken by a quick chop of my fist.”

Rurik winced, but still grinned at her. “I would not mind your fist on me. Not chopping, of course. More like, softly—”

“Aaarrgh! How dare you speak to me so?”

“I dare much, m’lady, and I expect I will dare much, much more before I leave your company.”

“I repeat, why are you in my bed?”

“Where else would I be? I am not letting you out of my sight till you remove this blue mark.”

If only he knew … the blue mark did not detract from his good looks at all. In fact, it brought out the deep blue of his eyes, and made his face appear fierce, like an ancient Celtic warrior. “Aye, I can see why you would want to have it removed. It must interfere with all the women you would like to draw to your bed furs, then abandon.”

“Oh, I have no trouble attracting women, even with this mark,” he boasted. “Actually, some women like the way…” He stopped midsentence and stared at her. “Abandon? Are you implying that I abandon women … that I abandoned
you?”

“What would you call it?” she snarled. She immediately
lifted her chin with indifference. “Not that I cared.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “How did I abandon you? You were betrothed to be married, were you not? A love match, I believe you called it at the time.”

“Hah! That did not stop you from seducing me. You were relentless, Rurik. You would not leave me alone till I finally succumbed.”

“Do not lay all the blame on me, Maire. You were willing, in the end.”

“In the end,” she emphasized.

He cocked his head to the side. “Were you in love with me, Maire?”

“No!” she practically shouted.

“Then what?”

“I don’t want to talk about this any more. Let me up. Or I really will strike a mortal blow to your Lance.”

He smiled, not at all intimidated by her threats. “I will release you for now, witch, but we will finish this conversation afore I leave this cursed land.”

She scrambled out of the bed the moment he raised his arm and lifted his leg. Suspecting that he perused her form in the thin chemise, she did not turn, but quickly donned a clean but well-worn
arisaid
, belting it at the waist. Still not turning, out of fear that she might see more of “Lance” than she would prefer, Maire scooted toward the doorway and the chores that awaited her this day.

But Rurik asked a question, just as she put her hand to the door latch, that caused her to stop in her tracks and the blood to run cold in her veins.

“Where is your son, Maire?”

“My … my son?” she stammered, dropping her hand from the door latch as she turned back into the bedchamber. “Which son?”

“You have more than one son?” He was half reclining against the headboard, the bed linens drawn up to his waist, his arms folded over the bare skin of his lightly furred chest. His question was asked with seeming casualness, but Maire knew there was nothing casual about his pose or the question.

“Nay, I have only one,” she said, walking closer to the bed.

“And that would be James, I presume. The
bloody hell
laird-to-be of Clan Campbell?”

She nodded though his wording was rather curious … offensive, really. “ ’Tis true, Wee-Jamie will one day be our clan chieftain… if we survive the MacNab threat, that is.”

It was his turn to nod with understanding.

“How do you know of Jamie?” The words sounded calm, but inside Maire was tense and wary. Her heart thundered against her rib cage.

“I met him yesterday when Old John came to me with the proposition. And a more foul-mouthed little bugger I have ne’er met.”

She gasped. Then, noticing his surprise at her gasp, she took a deep, calming breath. “I did not know that Jamie was with Old John when he met with you…. I mean, I knew he was with Old John, but I thought they were off in the forests, in hiding. The MacNab would use Jamie against me, you see, if he could lay hands on him. I’ve had to keep him out of sight for weeks now. As to his foul mouth …” She shrugged. “I suppose the lad has picked up bad habits from my men, since I’ve been unavailable to correct him. And besides that…” Her words trailed off as she realized that she was rambling with nervousness and Rurik was watching her intently.

“What kind of mother are you that you entrust your son’s well-being to that ragtag guard? By thunder, woman! They have trouble enough holding on to their own bodily appendages, let alone those of a running child.”

“I am a good mother,” she declared hotly, “and don’t you dare say otherwise. You know naught about me, or my son, or my clan. Who are you to be my judge, Viking? Are you an expert on fatherhood now, as well as raping and pillaging?”