The Norse King’s Daughter (23 page)

“We did kidnap the wet nurse, and Tyra did have to clonk one guardsmen with the flat side of her broadsword, and Vana kneed one man in his dangly part, and methinks there might have been a tiny fire in the kitchen for a distraction.”

First she felt a rumbly sound, then a shaking, and realized that Sidroc was laughing and trying to hold it back.

“What is so funny?” she demanded finally.

“You,” he gasped out.

“A mere thank you would be welcome,” she said once again.

He paused, said, “Thank you for saving my baby,” then brushed his lips against the curve of her neck.

That mere whisper of a kiss sealed her fate. She was in love with the loathsome lout.

Chapter Twenty-two

He could think of one way to shut the woman up . . .

S
idroc was no longer bone-melting angry with Drifa, but he did not trust her any farther than he could throw her. Not that he had any plans to throw her anytime soon,
unless
she continued to prattle about how happy his daughter was at Stoneheim and how unhappy she would be if forced to leave.

In truth, Sidroc was conflicted and did not need Drifa’s harping to add to his agitation.

“I want my daughter with me,” he insisted.

“But you do not know Runa. You would be strangers.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“You have no home yet for yourself, let alone Runa.”

“I will get one, and stop calling her Runa.”

“It is the only name she knows. Best you get used to it. Who would care for Runa? You have no wife or female staff.”

“I will.”

“Get a wife?” she asked in an oddly choked voice.

Well, not so odd, really. He knew she feared his marrying and taking the girl to form his own family for her. And why wouldn’t he? “Nay. No wife. Not right away, leastways. Why? Are you volunteering?”

“Good gods, nay!”

“Methinks you protest too much. But get that idea out of your head right now. Marriage is not on offer for you.”

“Aaarrgh! As if I would accept!”

“Women always say ‘Aaarrgh!’ when they are losing an argument.”

“This is not an argument.”

“You could have fooled me. Just to be clear, I meant a female companion for the girling, not a wife.”

“Do you know anything about things a little girl likes to do?”

He thought of his own boyhood . . . those times when he’d been able to escape his father’s heavy hand and just be a child. He had to grin. “I could teach her how to spit long distances, or sing bawdy songs.”

Instead of making her usual tsking noises at him, Drifa grinned and said, “I’ll wager I can spit farther than you, or skim pebbles farther on a fjord. My father taught me.”

“Come to think on it, you and your sisters were raised by your father, no mothers around, and you seem to have survived just fine.”

“Humph!” Another of her usual retorts when she was bested in an argument. She stomped off to say her final good-byes to Lucy.

They’d traveled for three days by camel, and were now out of the desert and within the borders of Byzantium. That did not mean they were safe. At the moment, they were trading the camels for horses to be used for the remainder of the journey.

“Ivar, can we speak in private?” he asked.

Ivar nodded and walked over to the side of the stable in the village where they’d stopped.

“I am concerned about Princess Drifa reentering Miklagard. There are those within the city who aided in her being taken captive.”

Ivar nodded. “I have the selfsame concern.”

“I think you should ride ahead. We have made good time, and I don’t think there is any way ad-Dawlah’s men could have gotten word of her escape to those in the city so soon.”

“How much time do you think we have before that happens?”

“Two days’ lead time, at most. Hopefully Finn and all the others will have arrived by then, too.”

“What is your plan?”

“I will keep Drifa with me, and I will prolong our journey long enough that you can gather together all of her belongings from the palace and from Ianthe’s. You can make her longship ready to sail, but take it to the harbor near the Gate of St. Barbara. That way, once we arrive, I will take Drifa directly to her longship, and you can set sail immediately north up the Bosphorus. Quickest way to leave the city behind.”

“The princess will not like being denied a last visit to Miklagard. She will say there are more gardens to study. More people to say her farewells to. More sights to see.”

“I know, but this is a decision we must make for her.”

Ivar nodded. “Her father would want it so.” Ivar smiled then, “I do not envy you. When the princess finds out what you plan, she shall be furious.”

“I can handle her,” he said.

But Drifa walked up then and remarked, “I hope it is not me that you are referring to.”

“Of course not,” he lied. “I was referring to that mare over there that I am thinking of purchasing. She is skittish, but I can handle her, don’t you think?”

Drifa looked dubious.

Ivar made excuses to go purchase some food supplies, and Sidroc knew he would take this opportunity to leave. Sidroc must occupy Drifa so that she would not suspect. Yet. “I have a surprise for you, Drifa,” he said.

She eyed him cautiously.

“How would you like a bath and a soft bed for tonight?”

She sighed. “Is that possible?”

“The stable master told me of a farmstead where they have a small pond, which is private, and he offers clean hay stalls for travelers. How does that sound?”

“I cannot imagine anything that would give me greater pleasure.”

I can.

“You think of everything.”

You have no idea.

Where’s a chaperone when you need one? . . .

It was early evening when Drifa realized that Ivar was missing.

Sidroc and Ivar had taken her outside the village to a farmstead where an elderly Greek couple, Stamos and Vera, gave them a hearty meal of lamb and lentils with warm bread, then directed them to a nearby pond that they assured them was clean. In other words, their farm animals were kept away from this section so there was no runoff of their waste. They’d even given them soap and drying cloths.

Drifa had gone first, and, yea, she had probably taken longer than she should have, luxuriating in being clean once again, from squeaky hair to shiny toenails. And she’d used the opportunity to wash her dirty clothes as well, laying them on a bush to dry.

Of course, this was the first time she had been naked since leaving the Arab tent city, and she got her first good look at her hennaed nipples and areolas. They looked ridiculous to her, although the harem eunuch had assured her and Ianthe that it was considered beautiful to many men. It would be months before the dye wore off. Good thing she wasn’t married. It would probably give a Norseman a good laugh, or a fit of heart pains at the shock on first seeing them. Skalds would compose poems and recite them up one end of the Norselands and down the other, “Ode to Painted Nipples.” And folks would whisper with questions about what other intimate body parts of hers had been painted. None, thank the gods, though they probably would have been if she hadn’t escaped.

After bathing, she went to the barn where they planned to sleep that night, and Sidroc went off to bathe by himself. She was sitting on a clean wool blanket on clean hay in a clean
gunna
, combing her clean hair, marveling at how it was the simple things in life that gave the most pleasure.

But then Sidroc returned.

It wasn’t that he took away those pleasurable things. ’Twas just that he unsettled her.

He, too, had bathed and donned clean clothing. He’d even shaved. And he looked more handsome than any man had a right to, even a Norseman.

While she continued to comb her hair, he braided the long strands on either side of his face. ’Twas not an exercise in vanity, she knew. Viking men favored long hair, but they did not like it swinging onto their faces, blinding them. Even so, the braids added to his attractiveness, and he probably knew it.

“Where are you and Ivar going to sleep?” she asked as she put her comb away and smoothed out the blanket. When he didn’t answer, she turned to look at him.

He averted his eyes and busied himself checking over the horses they had purchased, which were in nearby stalls.

When he returned, she tried again. “Sidroc? You never answered my question.”

“Ivar has gone.”

“Gone where? The man has not left my side since we arrived in Byzantium. Like barnacles on the underside of a longship he has been to me.”

“I will be the barnacle on your underside for the time being.”

Surely he did not mean that the way it sounded. Especially since he seemed to harbor a hatred of her most times, and indifference the rest. “Why? Where has Ivar gone?”

“Ahead to Miklagard.”

“Why?”

“To make preparations.”

“What is going on?”

“We decided that there might be danger for you in the city. Mayhap Mylonas. Mayhap some others. We do not believe ad-Dawlah arranged his misdeeds on his own.”

“We. We. We. What is it with all this ‘we’ business? Why was I not consulted as well?”
I have a bad feeling here. A very bad feeling.

“Men’s work,” he murmured.

If I had a pottery pitcher, I cannot say I would not use it over the fool’s head.
“What. Did. You. Say?”

“Not. A. Thing.” He sighed deeply. “Do not make this difficult, Drifa. It is for the best, and we will catch up with Ivar in no time at all.”

Drifa narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “Let me repeat my earlier question. Where do you intend to sleep tonight?’

“Right here,” he said.

I knew it, I knew it. The troll!
“Nay, you are not. I am not coupling with you again.”

“Mayhap you should wait until you are asked.”

Her face flamed. “Go find another stall to sleep.”

“None are clean. Do not worry, I will not touch you.”

She should have been assured by his promise, but then he added something else.

“Unless you ask.”

He proceeded to remove his clothing. Every single stitch. Then he stretched his arms overhead, yawned widely, and laid himself down on her blanket.

“Good night, Drifa.”

He really means to stay away from me?
She would have been fooled, except for one thing. His enthusiasm was sticking up like a bloody flagpole.

Laughter bubbled up in her and erupted in a guffaw as she pointed at it. She continued to alternately snicker and giggle, even as she laid herself down, fully clothed, at the farther edge of the blanket.

“Good night, Sidroc,” she said when she finally calmed down.
Isn’t it wonderful that this is a game two can play?

She was almost asleep when she heard him mutter, “It’s not funny.”

“Yea, it is.”

“ ’Tis not nice to make jest of a man’s . . . um, manhood.”

Drifa fell asleep with a smile on her face.

She awakened in the middle of the night to a chill in the air and a light that should not be there. She realized that a torch had been lit and placed in one of the secure wall brackets. And, somehow, her clothing had melted away.

Most amazing of all—though she was a dunderhead for letting down her guard—the biggest scoundrel in all the Norselands was leaning over her, staring slack-jawed at her hennaed nipples.

’Twould seem the joke was on her.

He wasn’t an artist, but he painted pictures in his mind . . .

Sidroc didn’t know whether to hoot with laughter or shout with joy at the wondrous sight before him. He was kneeling at the side of Drifa’s nude body, taking in the view. A most incredible view, by the by.

Drifa had suddenly grown reddish-brown nipples and areolas.
Bright
reddish brown! They were either a virile man’s fantasy-come-true, or a monumental jest. He was leaning toward the former.

“Why am I naked?” Drifa asked, her eyes shooting open suddenly.

Was there ever a more foolish question asked by a woman?
“You were moaning in your sleep and I thought it best to check for hidden wounds.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“It was worth a try.” He turned his attention back to her chest, not that it had ever left. “Uh, what happened?” he asked with as much subtlety as he could muster.

“I already told you before that the harem eunuch hennaed all the flower buds, even Ianthe’s.”

She reached for her
gunna
that lay beside the blanket.

He reached it first and tossed it to the far side of the stall.

Flower buds? Does she mean . . . ?
“You told me before? Never! I would have recalled
that
.”

“When you rescued us, I distinctly remember telling you about the marble phalluses and the hennaed flower buds.”

“I must have been dazed with delight over seeing you again.”
Or something.

“Are you being sarcastic?”

Who? Me?
“Not at all. You must understand . . . nay, do not cover yourself. I am not done admiring the artwork.” He drew circles around the outer circles of both areolas with his forefingers.