Chapter Five
“I am going to kill him.” Bettina stamped her foot so hard her toes threatened to fall off. “I will cut off his ears, slice his tongue out of his mouth—”
“Not another word, Bettina.” The growled coarseness in Njal’s voice silenced her at once. Before she could collect her thoughts, he cupped her elbow and guided her up the stairs to their chamber.
Once he barred the door, Njal turned to face her. “Tell me you had naught to do with Mordred’s barrows.”
She stumbled over her own feet and sat down heavily on the floor, her skirts billowing around her like sheets threatening to take flight on a windy day.
How did he know?
She decided to attack and not defend. “Mordred’s persuaded King Máel Coluim to give him Mama.”
Twin slashes of red stained Njal’s bronzed cheeks. “To me, wife. Look me full in the eye. I remind you of your vow last eve.”
Lord, he’s going to beat me.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where is your crossbow? Where are the barrows?”
Her parched throat swallowed her voice. She licked her dry lips. “The barrows will not be found.”
“Who else have you involved in this treason?” Bettina had to strain to hear his words he spoke so softly. “Speak now. All of it. Do not draw my anger into fury.”
She who never broke a bead of perspiration even after a hard ride became drenched in a patina of hot sweat. Bettina told him of the barrows, the cart, Brock, Luca, the stolen rents.
“I needs know from the start all you have done. Take off your cyrtel and tell me every crime you have committed.”
Not daring to move, Bettina watched in fascination as he set his weapons on the table and pulled his tunic over his head. Pausing in the middle of unlacing his boots, one foot propped on the bed, he quirked a brow. “’Twill be a penance for not obeying my command. Undress, wife.”
Penance?
Undress?
A delicious shiver sailed up her spine and she immediately wanted to bang her head on the table.
How could her womanly parts heat and throb now? She must concentrate on Mama.
Deciding ’twas better to humor her husband, even though his actions and words made no sense at all, she tugged free her laces, shrugged the dress off her shoulders, and let the blue fabric puddle on the floor.
“On the third floor there is a chamber where I keep my bow and arrows. And the breeches. The barrows have been taken to a slaughterhouse in a village near the coast.” She loosened the ribbon around the neck of her chemise and an icy chill assaulted the back of her knees as the transparent material fell to the stone floor. “The coin I stole from Mordred’s rent collectors was left in an alcove in the church at the abbey near Shelbourne.”
He cupped her jaw.
She met his gaze, standing tall before him in her stockings, slippers, and garters, and naught else.
“My cyrtel is gone.” Her fingernails dug into her palms.
“And breathtaking you look, wife, in naught but the finery a woman should wear.” She flinched when he collected a length of rope and watched as he approached her from behind.
“Njal.” She fair squeaked the words as he gently drew her onto the bed. The straw dipped and she shivered, for the fire had dwindled to cinders and soot. “’Tis cold.”
“I will build the fire afore I leave and gift you with a brick to warm your toes.” He straddled her waist and tied her arms to each end of the bed head.
“Njal—I know not what you intend.”
“I have a wife who is a poacher. A wife who steals from an earl. A wife who can be hanged for treason. A wife who has endangered the lives of the village smith and an innocent boy. A wife who will not stay put. What am I to do to but fix her in place?” He near breathed dragon’s fire his ire was so aflame, and she quaked and stayed so still she hoped he might believe she had drawn her last breath. “Should you move but a hair, I vow your penance will be long and I will show no mercy.”
“You show me mercy now?” Bettina glanced at one wrist, then the other.
Catching her chin between his fingers, he kissed her nose, the arch of an eyebrow. “When I am done I will send your mother to you. ’Tis her decision to keep you tied or free you. But understand well, your actions fall on all in this keep. Disobey, set a toe out of this castle, and all will be punished.”
Bettina could not draw a breath. She knew of his fury only because his nostrils flared and thinned. Mordred and Darwent ranted and raved when angry. The earl oft threw whatever he had at hand when he became enraged. Her husband, Njal the Peacemaker, grew more and more controlled as his temper spiked.
Njal rolled onto his side and shoved his breeches off. His manhood stood erect and thick and purpled, all the veins looking to burst from beneath his flesh. She frowned and glanced at him, her eyes half-shuttered. Did he intend to force her?
Grasping her jaw, he crawled between her spread legs. “Think you after last eve and this morn I intend rape?”
Her cheeks caught fire and she ducked out of his grasp. “Nay. ’Tis true I know you not well, but I believe you value your honor above all. I but held a woman’s momentary fear.”
The blue in his eyes thinned to a mere rim, he shook his head. “You have the makings of an emissary any monarch would bribe to his side. ’Tis proud I am to have you by my side.” He licked the seam of her mouth. “But persuade me from what I must do, you will not, wife. Had Mordred pushed his suspicions moments ago, ’twas naught I could have done to prevent him putting you to the sword in mine own hall.”
“Njal—”
“Nay.” He touched two fingers to her mouth. “Remember you what I told you after we had our first loving?”
“Of trusting each other?” Her voice sounded like rusty iron scraping aged stone.
“Aye. When I leave, think on that.” His mouth slanted over hers and he kissed her without mercy, his tongue working magik fire and sparks from her lips to breasts and burning nipples, plucking the straining muscles in her sheath. But he refused to allow her to return his caresses, to tangle tongues together, to let her suckle his jaw, the plump swell of his lower lip.
She strained at the restraints, thrashing and arching her hips to meet his rigid manhood, to feel the delicious friction, to ease the throbbing nub hidden in her folds. When he turned his attentions to her breasts, suckling and nibbling, and drawing his teeth on first one nipple then the other, leaving the buds wet and pulsing, a sob burst from her mouth.
“I beg you,” she whispered. “Please, Njal. Do not torture me so.”
He covered her pelvis with his and the weight of his sinew and strength crushed her wild wriggling to a halt. His mouth skimmed to her belly. He tongued her navel, kissed the moist flesh above, and levered off her to one side. Using one hand, he lurched to his feet. Chest heaving as if he’d battled a fierce foe, he glanced at her. “Last eve I discovered seeing my wife find her pleasure brought me to mine. ’Tis time you realize your actions have consequences. I would never have believed you to risk your life, your mother’s, Brock’s, and Luca’s for one petty moment of satisfaction. Think you on that, Bettina.”
Too stunned to utter a word, Bettina watched through veiled lids as Njal dressed in full mail, set sheathed sword to his side, stuffed daggers into the lining of his boots, and strapped two wicked-looking knives of a sort she'd never seen before diagonally across his back. ’Twould only be the promise of a fierce battle that would make a man known as the peacemaker leave armed to the hilt. ’Twas agony to see him depart, to watch his studied movements, to glance into his eyes as he shut the door so silently none would know he’d left the master’s room.
Big fat drops rolled down her cheeks.
How to right the wrong she’d done? ’Twas naught else. She had to go to the king and confess all. But first, she must take Mama to the abbey.
“Bettina?” The door opened and her mother walked into the over-warm chamber, for Njal had indeed built a roaring blaze and covered her with bed furs.
“Mama.” She scooted up the bed linens. “Make haste. Untie me.”
Mama just stood there shaking her head.
“We must hurry.” Bettina rolled onto one side. “What are you doing? Free me.”
“Nay. Methinks you will remain there until Lord Njal returns.”
“King Máel Coluim intends you wed Mordred. We must make our way to the abbey posthaste.”
“You are so headstrong, Bettina. You must learn to think things through. Think you I am a fool? That I have no weapons against Mordred?”
“Mordred hit you. And mayhap worse. I will not let the king force—”
“I have done you a grievous disservice. I wallowed in my grief at your papa’s sudden death and allowed you free reign.” Mama stared at her and sat on the mattress. “How oft have I told you to leave Mordred to me?”
“He hit you. I saw the bruises.”
“Aye. Mordred did hit me. Once. In a way ’twas a good thing, for until that slap ’twas as if I lived in a haze of grief with nigh a thought for your future or mine.” Mama stroked Bettina’s cheek. “’Twas the once and only the once.”
“What about Darwent? Why did you let Mordred appoint him?”
Mama shrugged. “’Twas the lesser evil. All Darwent has done is steal coin.”
“He sold our cattle, our gold is gone, as are all the tapestries.” Bettina went still while Mama untied first one rope then the other. “He left the villagers to starve. ’Twere not for my poaching—”
“I will admit that we ate well, but ’twas no need for you to risk treason. Leofric would have helped us and well you know it.”
“And being weak women, we must rely on men to feed and clothe us? Aye. ’Tis the way of it if you are born female. Papa taught me to hunt, to fish. Why must I deny my skills when my people have need?” Bettina rubbed her wrists. Though Njal had tied the ropes softly, the flesh there still itched.
“Dress, child. And while you do, think you hard and long. Do you sacrifice all for foolish pride? Do you want a babe? A son? A husband? Or will you seek a convent? For ’tis the only choice we have as women.”
Her mother’s questions pierced and burned like poison-tipped arrows. Bettina laced her gown, but saw only children of all shapes and faces, smiling toddlers, chubby babes. A life in a convent, or bed sport and a family? What did she want?
* * *
“You found him?” Njal levered to a standing position in the wooden tub. Water sluiced off his skin, and he welcomed the warmth from the fire after the chill of the liquid. “On the morrow we begin laying out plans for a bathhouse. I vow I will not spend a winter stuffed into this thing.”
Magnus eyed the oval barrel more suited for a child than a full-grown warrior. “’Tis why I chose the river. Aye. Brock is back at the smithy. The barrows have been slaughtered and sold on the coast. There is naught to concern you on that matter.”
“And you, Jarvik?” Swiping the drying cloth over his back, Njal glanced at his younger brother. “Cnut has agreed?”
“Aye.” The blazing flames behind him lit Jarvik’s wet hair to a burnished gold. “I have the sealed scroll for the morrow. And you?”
Njal grinned and looked about for his breeches and tunic. “’Tis proceeding according to plan. The Peacemaker holds sway yet again.”
“Cnut the Great is well pleased with your scheme. He trusts not Mordred.” Jarvik plucked two heavy logs from a stack right of the fireplace. “And the Lady Gwen?”
Tying his breech rope loosely, Njal replied, “She sees the wisdom of my proposal and will take this eve to decide.”
“Aught else?” Jarvik threw the logs into the fire and the green wood hissed in protest.
“How many do we take on the morrow?” Magnus, always the guardian, would not proceed to an enemy’s fortress without the means to slaughter all if necessary, and on this occasion Njal accepted the wisdom of his thinking.
“All that arrive on the morrow go with us in full armor.” Njal cracked each knuckle on his left hand. “Let Mordred know ’tis a mere third of our forces. He strikes me as coward but not stupid.”
“Jarvik and I will pick holes in the plan. We will be prepared.” Magnus cricked his neck side to side. “Methinks if the kitchen gossip has the right of it, you must see to your lady.”
“All know what you did.” Jarvik used an iron rod to stoke the flames higher. “Never would I have thought Njal the Peacemaker would tie his wife naked to a bed.”
Anger dusted the corners of Njal’s mind. “Desist. My bride is my affair. Let all know the lord will tolerate no gossip of his wife. I leave you to make this well known to the people of the keep.” When Jarvik opened his mouth, Njal barked, “Nay. Not another word.”
His temper so on edge he was tempted to smash the oak barrel to smithereens, Njal stalked from the chamber without donning his boots. He mounted the stairs, his bare feet slapping the cold stone, his thoughts concentrated on Bettina. During the long day spent either in the saddle or persuading others to his reasoning, his wife had stayed at the forefront of his mind.
No other woman had ever befuddled his logic, yet she had from the start.
Never did his temper triumph over rationale, save with his wife.
From the moment he’d first caught sight of Bettina and the boar, his mind had fractured. Three hundred pounds of enraged beast charging at her kneeling form on the forest floor had done him in. His chest had near exploded from sheer terror, and then to watch her squint, fix her gaze on the animal, roar like a warrior, jerk up, and bury her pike in the creature’s chest, he had no thoughts but a despair so absolute Valhalla beckoned.
His heart had been entirely in her hands at that moment.
Never had he considered a warrior wife as a true mate. All the women he had bedded, and there had been countless during the seasons spent at different courts, had been of the same ilk, exquisite beauties well versed in the seductive and diplomatic arts. All had hunted him, and he had but to linger his gaze on a pretty face or smile more than once at a giggling maid, and his bed was filled.
Never had his female quarry spewed fire and bristled, and sought to avoid his attentions. None had defied him. Not one single woman had ever burrowed beneath the wall he’d built around his feelings. Yet somehow, from that first moment when he thought to see her gored to pieces, Bettina had.
For so many seasons, he’d parroted the poems of love, of cupid’s single arrow felling a man, and not once had he believed a word he’d uttered. ’Twas simply a means to seduction, naught else. Hoist by his own petard, he was. Njal the Peacemaker, ready and willing to murder, to precipitate war, to keep his woman safe.
When he stood in front of the door to the master chamber, Njal hesitated, for he had no plan, no preordained strategy to follow. The hinges creaked.
“How did you know I was here?”
Bettina’s flawless creamy skin held the flush of a warm fire. The corners of his lips curled when she lifted her chin and met his gaze without a flinch or jerk.
“I left the door open a crack and waited. I smelled your soap.”
She drew the door wide and stepped back, plump toes peeking from under the hem of the emerald gown dusting her ankles. “I bid you welcome, my lord.”
Her eyes, dark and fathomless and so wide as to jump out of her face, stared at him. “Are you hurt, my lord?”
“Nay, Bettina.” Njal entered the room and barred the door before turning to his wife. ’Twas as if a giant fist bruised his ribs, for she looked so forlorn, wringing her hands, staring at the floor, tracing a gouge in the stone with one pink toe, her lips pursing and widening as if she sought but could not find words. He liked not seeing her uncert and wary, so he framed her face, kissed the tip of her nose, and brushed his thumb over her trembling mouth. “I have—”
She placed her hands over his lips. “I have much to tell you. I have my breeches, crossbow, quiver, and arrows ready for you to burn, Njal.”
The mammoth hand grappling his chest tightened when her voice wavered on his name. He attempted to speak and the pressure on his mouth from her slight fingers increased.
“I have done as you ordered and thought long and hard. ’Twas grievously wrong of me to endanger Mama, Brock, Luca, and all at the keep. But ’twas particularly wrong to kill the barrows the morn after we wed. I dishonored you. You are Viking and I know well a Viking will gladly greet Valhalla to protect his own.”
Njal crushed her to his chest. He sniffed her hair’s hazelnut essence, and buried his nose in the silk of her tresses. “Ah, Bettina, you please me so. I am fortunate indeed to have garnered such a formidable wife.”
He burned with the need to be inside her, to bind her to him again and again. Scooping her off the floor, he took her to bed. ’Twas little effort to divest each other of their loose garb and when he had her lying on the bed in all her glory, blue-black hair fanned wide on the bed cushions and white linens, the vision clenched a curtain of tenderness, blurring his sight for a heartbeat.
“I would have you give over to me this eve, wife, and every eve here in our bed.” He rolled them so she lay on top of him. “I would have you give me the respect due me in public, but here, in our chamber, and when we are privy, I want none other than my fiery warrior wife. The woman who bristles and spews fire because her husband, foolish warrior that he is, called her a simple country maid. The wife who when she wins at Fox and Geese offers to return two geese in exchange for her turn at kisses and much else.”
By Odin, he loved the way all her thoughts showed on her face. The slight widening of her eyes and the sharp elevation of her brows when she heard the words “warrior wife.” The one-sided curl to her mouth when he described her bristling and spewing fire, the way she couldn’t restrain the broad smirk and the saucy peep at him when he spoke of Fox and Geese.
She blinked, the dark fringe of her lashes casting shadows on her creamy skin. Cocking her head, she glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. “And you will burn my breeches, my bow and weapons?”
He knew then he would win few arguments with his wife. The realization tugged his lips into a smile. Then ’twould be his strategy to win only those battles crucial to Bettina’s safety.
“Nay, sweetling. Not if you give me your vow to hunt only in my presence.”
Her grin fair dazzled his senses, his prick doubling in size though more than ready and engorged, and his balls twitching in anticipation of explosive relief.