The Shipwreck (7 page)

She kicked and screamed as her mother picked her up.  Brandr, amused by the wicked little sprite’s antics, couldn’t help but laugh aloud.

Avril turned in surprise.  The Northman was grinning.  His eyes sparkled like the sunlit sea, and his teeth flashed as white as snow.  But it was the low rumble of his laughter that took her breath away.  She didn’t realize how much she’d missed that sound.  She hadn’t heard male laughter in four long years.

Then Kimbery, wet and slippery, taking advantage of Avril’s distraction, slid out of her grasp and began tearing around the cottage.  She dodged the linen Avril held out until Avril finally gave up, figuring the little girl would dry herself off with her running.

The Viking’s smile turned bittersweet then, and a faraway look came into his eyes.  Avril knew at once that he must be remembering his own daughter.

She forced her gaze away, dabbing at her damp kirtle with the linen.  It wasn’t her concern.  His people hadn’t cared whose children they slaughtered when they’d raided Rivenloch.  Why should she care what had happened to his daughter?  And yet, against her will, words fell softly from her lips.  “What was your daughter’s name?”

He glanced up, as if surprised she’d read his thoughts.  “Asta.”

“It’s a pretty name.”

“She was a pretty...”  He choked on the words.  “A pretty lass.”

She shouldn’t feel sorry for him.  The Vikings killed pretty Pictish lasses all the time.  But there was a deep sorrow in the Northman’s eyes that pulled at her heart.

“Who’s Inga?”  The words tumbled out of her mouth unbidden, mortifying her.  She should never have asked him that.  He probably didn’t remember calling her by that name or kissing her anyway.

His gaze shot straight to hers.

“You...spoke her name in your sleep,” she explained.

He frowned.  “I dreamt she was alive.”

“Your wife,” she guessed.

He nodded.

He must have loved her well.  That kiss had been full of tenderness and desire.  As odd as it was, Avril envied the dead woman.  His fortunate Inga had known the love of a devoted husband.  Avril had only experienced the mindless lust of a Viking berserker and a handful of men for whom she felt nothing.

Just then Kimbery went galloping past.  Before Avril could catch her, the wee lass dove at the shocked Northman.  She plopped herself into his lap and captured his gold-stubbled face playfully between her hands.

“Da!” she cried.

Avril’s heart leaped into her mouth.  Tiny, pale, bare Kimbery looked so vulnerable against the Viking’s broad chest.  Lord, he could bite off her hand with one snap of his jaws, just like that wolf in his story.

She glanced up in horror at his face.  But he looked far more rattled than she was.  No doubt he was unused to strange naked children leaping into his arms.

“Kimbery!” she barked.  “Get away from him!”

Kimbery clambered down, looking guilty.  She probably hadn’t intended to disobey.  She’d only been caught up in her play.

Still, Avril didn’t dare let her think it was acceptable to traffic with Vikings.  “Go to bed.  Now.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Now!”

The little girl began to weep, which made Avril feel awful.  After all, she’d been so happy a moment ago.  But Avril couldn’t afford to let down her guard.  Kimbery’s life depended upon it.

Tears of heartbreak streamed down Kimmie’s face.  She started sobbing in earnest and shuffled sadly off to the bedchamber.

Avril bit her lip in remorse.  It was hard being a mother.  Sometimes she thought she would have had an easier time commanding the army of Rivenloch than she did watching over one wee lass.

But the horrible memory of the berserker hurling his ax into the child’s back would never be far away from her thoughts.  Kimbery’s sobs might tear at her, but at least she was alive to sob.

By the time Avril cleaned up the bath, Kimmie’s crying had subsided to sniffles.  “Mama?” she called tentatively from the bedchamber.  “Come tell me a story.”

Avril was tempted to tell her a story about vicious invading savages from the North, to cure her of her misplaced affection for their captive.  But she supposed that would give the lass nightmares.  Instead, she told her the story of the time she defeated all four of her brothers in combat.

From the next room, Brandr listened in rapt fascination.  The woman was telling a grand, typically Pictish tale to her daughter about a warrior wench who’d disguised herself as a man and fought against her own brothers.  It was a good story, like the sagas of his people—full of excitement, adventure, and retribution—and the woman had a pleasant voice, lilting and dramatic.

“The first brother, Eldred,” she told the little girl, “was very arrogant and boastful.”

“Arrogant?” Kimbery asked.

“Like this,” she said, and Brandr heard her striding about the room, probably with her arms crossed and her nose in the air.  “Anyway, Eldred had never been defeated in battle.  So when this new warrior challenged him, he accepted, saluting his foe with a cocky flourish of his blade.  They began to fight, exchanging blows back and forth.”

Brandr could hear her scuffling about and grunting as she recreated the battle with an invisible sword.

“But Eldred was so sure he would win,” she said, “that he started to grow careless.  And when he relaxed his guard and wasn’t paying attention, his sister ducked underneath his arm.  With the hilt of her sword, she delivered a hard jab to his chin and knocked him flat.”

Kimbery cheered.  “What about the other brothers?”

“Grimbol, the second brother, had a nasty temper and was quick to anger.  Once he saw Eldred defeated, he immediately drew his sword and rushed in.  He meant to slay the warrior who’d dared to humiliate his older brother.”

“What’s humiliate?”

“Make a fool of.  She’d made a fool of his brother, and it made him angry.  But his rage proved his own undoing.  He began to slash haphazardly and—“

“What’s hap-, hap-“

“Haphazardly, in a reckless manner, with poor aim.  Most of his blows swished through empty air, and every time he missed, he grew all the more furious.  But his sister used his own fury against him.  When he lunged at her, she dodged aside and pushed him forward, driving him face-first into the dirt.”

Kimbery clapped her hands.  “Then what, Mama?”

“The third brother’s name was Osbern, and he was a cheat.  He’d watched the stranger outwit and outfight his brothers, and he wanted his turn.  But instead of waiting for a challenge like a man of honor, he attacked his sister while her back was turned.”

Kimbery gasped.

“Oh, she wasn’t surprised.  She knew all about Osbern’s trickery and expected such shameful behavior.  She leaped out of the way, and the point of his sword plunged into the mud beside her.  Ignoring all the rules of chivalry, he dove at her, intending to wrest her to the ground, where he could pummel her with his fists, like the dishonorable dog that he was.  But she was light and quick, and she skipped out of his reach.  One clever slice of her sword, and Osbern fell to the sod with his trews around his ankles.”

Kimbery giggled.  “What about the last brother?”

“When it came time to battle Wilfred, her last brother, the warrior woman tossed off her helm and showed her face.”

“Why, Mama?”

“Because Wilfred believed that women were made to be the servants of men, and she wanted him to know exactly who was getting the better of him.”

“What did he say when he saw who she was?”

“He called her bad names.”

“What bad names?”

“They’re so bad, I can’t repeat them.”

Brandr smiled at that.

“But the other brothers—Eldred, Grimbol, and Osbern—were as angry as bees when they found out they’d been beaten by their own sister.  So they yelled at Wilfred to clout her soundly.”

“Oh, nay, Mama.”

“But try as he might, Wilfred couldn’t lay a hand on her, for she was nimble and strong.  You see, while her brothers had lain lazily about, boasting of their skills, she’d spent long hours practicing.  She eventually managed to smack his arse with the flat of her sword and sent him crashing into his other brothers.”

Kimbery laughed long and hard.  “Smack his arse!”

The woman couldn’t help but laugh along, which made Brandr grin.

“Aye.  And when she’d defeated them all, a servant who’d seen the entire battle ran to tell their father.  Her father was so proud of her, he gave her a beautiful jeweled sword as a prize, saying that it was she who should rightfully inherit his lands.”

A strange shiver ran up Brandr’s spine.  He glanced at the jeweled sword in the corner.  Could the story be true?  Pictish women were said to be able to handle a blade.  But could
she
possibly be the intrepid swordswoman in the story?  Surely not.  Surely the tale was a work of imagination.  After all, the heroine of her story had become a landed heiress.  This woman lived in a humble hovel.

“Did she live happily ever after, Mama?”

There was a hesitation.  “Oh, I’m sure she did.”

“Mama,” Kimbery announced, “I want a sword.”

“You
have
a sword.”

Brandr raised a brow.  The little girl had a sword?

“Not a wooden sword.  A
real
sword,” Kimbery said.

“When you’re older.”

“And I want brothers to fight with,” she added.

“That I can’t promise you.”

“I want to be a warrior just like the lady in the story.”

Her mother chuckled.  “You’ll be twice as good as the lady in the story.”

“Mama, can we practice sparring?”

“Tomorrow,” she promised, “but only if you get a good night’s rest.”

After she finished tucking in her daughter, the woman emerged again.  Brandr quickly sized her up and decided the story couldn’t be true.  She might be able to wield a blade, but no sweet-faced maid could possibly vanquish four seasoned warriors.

T
he next morning, Brandr woke with a face full of sheep.  He sputtered and reared back as far as he could, which wasn’t far, since he was on a short leash.

“Caimbeul likes you,” Kimbery informed him.

He grimaced as the smell of the ewe hit him full force. “Gah!”

“Don’t you like her?” she asked.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes.  The little girl had obeyed her mother—she was staying out of his reach—but she was holding the sheep on a rope and letting it nuzzle him with its crooked mouth.

“Shouldn’t she be outside?” he whispered.

“Shh.  Don’t tell Mama.  She doesn’t like when I—“

“Kimmie,” came a sleepy voice from the bedchamber.  “Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody.”

There was a sudden thrash of linens and the woman rushed into the room, a warning ring in her voice as she came.  “You’d better not be going near that Vi-...”  When she saw that Kimbery was safe, the anxiety deserted her eyes.  Then she saw the ewe.  “How did that sheep get in here?”

Kimbery shrugged.  “Caimbeul wanted to see my da.  I’m going to put her back.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Kimmie, sheep don’t belong in the house.  And he’s not your da.  Now if you don’t take that animal out of here this instant…”

Brandr grew deaf to her scolding as he took note of the woman’s attire.  By Odin, she was clad in little more than a sheer linen shift, rumpled from sleep.  One side had slipped down, exposing the smooth, round cap of her shoulder.  There she had a blue tattoo like those engraved on Pict warriors.  It was an intriguing three-looped knot that had no beginning or end.  Her hair was mussed in a careless way that reminded him of long nights tussling in bed.  Her feet were deliciously bare, and her frayed shift revealed the supple curve of her calf and her ankle, which also bore an inked design, this one in the shape of a broken sword.  But it was her mouth that was the most alluring.  He remembered that mouth now.  He’d kissed her, and her lips had been as sweet and soft as wild blackberries.

His loins tightened, and guilt made him grind his teeth against desire.  But willing it away didn’t make it disappear, and while the woman continued to herd the sheep and her daughter out of the cottage, Brandr fought to keep his thoughts on survival, escape, anything but the beautiful, feminine silhouette revealed by the dawning sun as she opened the door.

Avril silently cursed herself for oversleeping.  Keeping Kimbery safe meant being up and about before the wee lass could get herself into trouble.  She’d certainly found trouble this morning, letting the ewe into the cottage.  Avril wondered if
she’d
been such a handful at that age.

From the doorway, she watched Kimmie lead the sheep back to her pen.  “Make sure you close the gate,” she called.

Then she turned and caught the Northman staring at her.  He looked like a warrior, stern and hardened, about to march into battle.  His eyes were hooded, and his jaw was tight.  His chest rose and fell with a deep breath as his gaze slowly coursed up the length of her.  Finally, he met her eyes.

A flash of heat like lightning seared her as she recognized his expression.  She’d been wrong.  It wasn’t a warrior’s bloodlust.  It was desire, pure and direct.  Her breath caught, and her face turned to flame.  But his ice-blue gaze did nothing to quench the fire, instead fueling her distress.

She clenched her fists.  She should curse him, clout him, kick him.  Yet she did nothing.  Though the urge to rebuff him was strong, the compelling lust in his eyes was even stronger.

She licked her lips.  Against her will, her gaze drifted down to his mouth.  She remembered the light touch of his hands upon her face, the warmth of his breath, the taste of his kiss.  What scared her was that a part of her longed to feel it again.

And if Kimbery hadn’t burst in upon them at that moment, she didn’t know what might have happened.

“Mama!  Mama!” Kimbery cried, jumping up and down, waving her wooden sword.  “Spar with me!  Spar with me!”

Avril cleared her throat.  Of course.  Sparring had always helped her when she felt emotionally out of sorts.  She could take up her sword and slash away at anger, fear, and, in this case, desire, and defeat them soundly before they could get the best of her.