Come Back to Me (20 page)

"Oh, don't worry about that. I know exactly what you need. Besides," Krysta added shrewdly, "you want him to be proud of you, don't you?"

That struck home as nothing else could have done. While Rycca privately thought there was scant chance of
Dragon feeling pride in a wife who came from a contemptible family and had behaved with such dishonor as to flee their marriage, she was desperate enough to seize on any hope. Therefore, she set aside her concerns and put herself in Krysta's hands.

Two days later, Rycca was debating the wisdom of that. She was exhausted, her feet and legs ached from standing so much, and the world seemed to have become a blur of colors and textures each more exotic than the last. Never had she seen such things. The most finely woven linens and wools were only the beginning. There were fabrics she had barely heard mentioned, much less ever imagined actually holding in her hands.

"The silk is from Byzantium," Krysta said as she eyed a length of shimmering blue embroidered with gold. "At least it comes through there, but I believe it was brought all the way from the fabled lands to the East."

Rycca shook her head in amazement. "It looks like the sea rippling in wind under bright sunshine."

"It will look even better on you," Krysta said and proceeded to direct the seamstresses as they draped the fabric. There were a dozen such women in the room just then but many more labored elsewhere, rushing to complete the extraordinary quantity of shifts, tunics, and mantles Krysta believed were necessary. Late in the afternoon, when Rycca's worries about cost were mounting, Krysta insisted she come down to the great hall to look at something. Whatever it was remained unseen for just then the men returned from hunting. Later, Rycca was to doubt that their presence together in the great hall was a coincidence, for by then she had realized that the lovely and genuinely kind Lady Krysta was also very clever, but at the moment she thought of nothing except Dragon's sudden appearance.

She had scarcely seen him since the previous morning. He spent all his time on the training field, hunting or sailing with Hawk, retiring very late, and once again staying to his side of the bed. She told herself she was relieved. Her mind rang with the lie.

But there he was, striding through the great hall, bringing with him the scents of wind and leather, sunshine and man. He looked in good spirits although she fancied she saw shadows beneath his eyes. What foolishness.

"My lord," Krysta called, and having his attention, she gave a little curtsy that made Dragon laugh and caused her own lord to raise his eyebrows.

"Be careful," Hawk advised. "She wants something."

Krysta swatted him lightly. "Stop that, this is important."

"A big something," Hawk amended and took another swat from his wife with a grin.

Rycca watched all this with amazement. Never had she seen such easy byplay between a man and woman, but that the man was easily the most feared warrior in all of England, known for the steeliness of his will and his prowess on the battlefield, left her stunned.

Yet there was Krysta going on blithely while Hawk looked at her with fond amusement. Such must be the power of love, Rycca thought, and felt stabbed through the heart.

"Your lady has proper respect for your purse, Lord Dragon," Krysta said. "She fears we are depleting it too much."

Dragon looked genuinely surprised. "I doubt that. How much are we talking about?" He addressed Rycca but Krysta hurried to answer.

"A dozen shifts, the same in tunics, several mantles, shoes, belts, gloves, veils, the usual."

"There is no time for more?"

"Alas, I fear not, my lord, unless you are willing to extend your stay."

Hawk laid a gentle hand on his wife's arm. "Krysta…"

"Oh, all right, I won't start that again. Then you do not think we have overdone, my lord?"

Dragon was looking at Rycca quizzically. "No, not at all. It seems adequate for the next few months."

Adequate. Garments of such quantity and luxury were merely
adequate
.

"
I
thought you would prefer to select the furs yourself," Krysta was saying.

"Of course," Dragon replied as though that was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Turning to Rycca, Krysta said, "You will be glad of those come winter. Cymbra tells me it is fierce cold in the northlands for much of the year. But she doesn't mind. The fires are always lit, there is great jollity, and Wolf gave her a wonderful sleigh that is pulled over the snow by reindeer trained by the Laps. Isn't that amazing?"

Rycca nodded mutely. Dragon was still looking at her and she found she could not meet his gaze. At length, he cleared his throat. "Well then, Hawk, what do you say to a sauna?"

Hawk said that sounded fine to him but the swift look he exchanged with his wife suggested both were more than a little concerned about the behavior of the newlyweds.

That concern was still in evidence the following day as they all gathered on the quay. Coming down from the stronghold, riding beside her husband, Rycca tried very hard not to stare at the ships awaiting them. There were three in all, long and sleek with center masts for the sails and row after row of benches for the oarsmen. Trading might have made the Lord Dragon rich but it was not in trading vessels that he himself ventured forth. The ships were drakars, dragon ships for the dragon lord, with curving double-ended hulls the sight of which struck terror into the most valiant heart.

Rycca took a deep, shuddering breath and struggled to calm herself but the vision was too real, the im-age too deeply rooted. Smoke and mist… the moon obscured… silence overall save for the soft rustlings of sleep until… the thud of a ship's hull striking shore… clatter of metal… feet pounding…

The church bell was ringing, ringing, ringing, not the slow and stately cadence of the call for prayers but frantically as it had when the mill caught fire and everyone streamed out into the night to fight the flames.

There were flames on this night, too. Flames and blood and screams… Aelflynne… shying from that anguished image, she encountered Wolscroft, younger to be sure but still the same, shouting orders, flailing with his sword, calling for his horse… the terrified face of the boy just before Wolscroft ran him through, silencing the tongue that might speak of how the lord fled when the Vikings came.

And later, in the dawn, crawling from the stable down to the river, hearing the men laughing as they finished their work, loading the last of the spoils and the slaves before the dragon prow vanished into the mists.

"Rycca?"

Her husband spoke to her, her
Viking
husband. From Sleipnir's back—she had learned the horses' true names from a groom—Dragon looked at her with concern. "You are ill?"

Hide quickly, let him not know, conceal herself as she knew she must
. "No, not at all." Grani shied beneath her as though the lie had reverberated straight through the horse and into the ground.

Rycca shuddered. "Truly, I am fine."

Her head throbbed. So did lies ever cost her.

Dragon frowned. His bride was very pale and her eyes held a haunted look he could not mistake, for he had seen it himself in the eyes of men in the aftermath of battle. No doubt there were those who had seen it in him as well.

His gaze swept out over the sun-dappled harbor, the neat and prosperous town, the mighty fortress rising over all. Strange setting for a terrified woman unless, of course, he took into account his proud ships awaiting them.

She was afraid to leave, to go with him as Ruth had gone to face the foreign land that held her destiny. He had hoped the last few days would ease her dread but such did not seem to be the case. So be it. They were both prisoners of duty.

He urged Sleipnir on, taking care to note that she did the same with Grani. On the quay, they dismounted. Krysta and Hawk joined them.

"Fair sailing," Hawk said, observing the sky.

"It should be," Dragon agreed without enthusiasm. He gestured to several of his men who hurried up to take the horses and guide them onto one of the ships. Meanwhile, others were busy loading the last of the chests and bales, barrels and baskets. A goodly crowd had assembled to see them go. Even for so worldly a lot as the inhabitants of Hawkforte, the sight of a Norse jarl departing with his Saxon bride was worth turning out for. The bolder among them called their good wishes and cheered.

Dragon allowed scant time for farewells. Krysta hugged Rycca briefly, promising her rather fiercely that all would be well, then he was handing his bride onto the largest of the three vessels.

"I will tell Wolf what we discussed," Dragon said as he stepped onto the deck right behind her. "No doubt he'll be in touch soon."

Hawk nodded. "Good. Meanwhile I'll see what more I can learn here."

The two men clasped hands. A moment later, Dragon called the command and the mooring ropes were cast loose. Sooner than Rycca would have thought possible, the dragon ships moved swiftly out beyond the harbor.

SHE WAS IGNORED AND FOR THAT RYCCA WAS deeply grateful. For hours after they departed Hawkforte, Dragon said nothing to her. Instead, he took his turn with the men on the oars. She tried not to notice the powerful rhythm of his body as he rowed but her eyes were drawn back to him again and again. All around was an alien world and he the only certainty in it.

The sea went on forever. Land, once faded from view, might not have existed at all. Even the scent of it was gone. There was only wind and water, the creak of the rigging and slap of canvas mingling with the occasional grunts of the men straining at their efforts.

A small tent had been erected in the prow and there Rycca sat. The sides could be lowered when she wanted privacy but for the moment she was glad to leave them up. Such comforts as were possible had been provided—a sturdy box bed she could not help but notice was large enough for two, several chests with flat tops that doubled as benches and low tables, even an oil lamp carefully secured to a wooden post so that it could not tip over.

Rank had its privileges but rest did not seem to be among them for Dragon took no ease. He stayed on the oars while yet there was light. Before it faded entirely, Rycca was surprised to see the faint shadow of land on the far horizon. Surely this could not be the northlands? She had thought that far more distant. The moon had risen and by its glow they dropped anchor in a shallow bay. She saw no sign of habitation, nor did any sounds of people reach her on the still night air.

When at last Dragon came to her, he brought a bowl of stew and a mug of cider. "You should eat," he said, handing her both and turning to go. The men had taken in the sail and were bedding down for the night in the bow.

A few talked softly among themselves but their voices were hushed.

"Wait." Solitude had never troubled her but here, where land was no more than a smudge between sea and sky, she craved some human contact.

He turned back, looked, waited.

"Where are we?"

"Off the coast of Normandy. Tomorrow we swing north. If the weather holds, a week or so should see us at Landsende."

"Normandy…" So very close. So utterly unattainable… now.

He must have heard something in her voice, some hint of the longing she felt, for in an instant he was before her. He grasped her chin, compelling her eyes to meet his.

"Where were you going?"

Startled, she spoke stiffly. "When? What do you mean?"

He loosened his grip but only a little. "When I encountered you. You were making for Hawkforte, I think. Were you intending to take ship from there, for Normandy perhaps?"

Her sudden gasp was answer enough. He let go of her but did not leave. Instead, he stood, hands on lean hips, and glared at her. "That's where Thurlow's gone, isn't it?"

She reeled from shock to shock. "How do you know about him?"

"Hawk told me. Your brother has taken himself off, which is reassuring since it means at least one member of your family has some sense."

Her cheeks flamed but she could hardly dispute him. Hawk continued to eye her narrowly. Finally, he went to the flaps of the tent and pulled them down. "When you have eaten, get into bed."

"I am not tired."

He was opening the chest across from her and did not so much as glance up. "Did I ask if you were?" Straightening, he drew out of the chest a thick leather belt.

About to take a spoonful of stew, Rycca set the bowl aside. She stared at the belt, unable to draw her eyes from it. The night was warm but she was suddenly very cold. Her father had beaten her with a belt, a stick, whatever was nearby. Was her husband the same?

"What is that for?" Even to her own ears her voice sounded high and reedy.

He was twisting the belt in his hands as though testing its suppleness. "I don't want any surprises tonight."

"Surprises?"

He came toward her. In the small tent, on the ship, at sea there was nowhere to go. "Not hungry? Then hold out your arm."

She had to stand up, had to put some distance between them, had to think… "Why?"

"Don't argue about this. While we lie within reach of Normandy, do you seriously believe I will take the chance of your deciding to flee yet again?"

She stared at him dumbfounded. He intended… what? To beat her so that she could not escape?

"Th-there is no need for this."

He stopped suddenly, staring down at her. Her breath was rapid and shallow, her eyes opaque. "Rycca… ?"

Suddenly, she was back, as though rising up out of some depths he could not glimpse, and her gaze spat fire. "It's only an excuse, that's all, just a pretense for hurting. You despise my father, rightly so, but he always did the same.
Rycca, you are disrespectful. Rycca, you look rebellious. Rycca, you did not obey quickly enough. Rycca, there is something wrong with you
. Unless he was drunk, of course, then he did not bother with excuses. Do you get drunk, my lord? Should I know such times will be particularly bad?"

"God's blood…" A Christian curse, sprang from his lips as naturally as her name. "Rycca, stop this! I have never struck you, nor will
I. I think only to secure you to me while we sleep."