Vengeance Hammer (Viking Vengeance) (2 page)

A woman so thin as to be skeletal lay on a coarse, moth-holed blanket of indeterminate color. Another female, shoulders hunched, face propped in ash-stained hands, sat on a three-legged stool at the head of the makeshift bed.

Dráddør cleared his throat.

The seated female cocked her head and looked in his direction. The rays streaming through the room reflected off the whitewashed wall behind her and he could not make out the girl’s features. He took three long strides and halted when his booted feet met the pallet’s jagged corner.

He studied the woman on the bed. Eyes closed, sparse hair plastered to gaunt, sallow cheeks, she groaned when a shiver racked her emaciated body. He winced when she coughed, the rasping, dry hack painful to hear. He would not have to banish the lady of the castle, for her hours were numbered.

All at once, her lids flickered, and her eyes opened. He expected them to be glazed with pain and suffering, instead they shone with intent and lucidity. She met his gaze directly, and the corners of her mouth lifted.

“You have come. My time is short.” Her hoarse voice cracked and she broke into a coughing fit.

The girl attending the lady dabbed a ragged piece of linen to the blood spittle produced by the coughs. She kissed the woman’s cheek, shot him a fierce scowl over her shoulder, and reached for a jug on a low table behind the stool.

“Lady Jennie, I presume?” Dráddør stifled a curse at his stupidity. The woman clung to life by not even a spider’s web, and the last thing she needed was to have to answer questions. He held up a hand. “Nay. Do not attempt to speak. Mayhap your maid can answer my queries.”

He glanced to the girl who had poured water into a goblet and was attempting to ease Lady Jennie’s parched throat. “This is no fit chamber for the lady of the castle. Where is your healer?”

Mayhap a healer could dose Lady Jennie with some sleeping potion and ease her last hours.

The girl shot him a look that would haunt him to his grave. Sorrow dulled the brilliance of her startling turquoise eyes. Her lips trembled but she bent again to her task and held the cup to Lady Jennie’s mouth.

“Nay.” Lady Jennie struggled to lift onto her elbows.

Immediately the girl set the cup on the table and tried to press Lady Jennie gently back onto the pallet.

“Nay. Xára…daughter. Cannot speak.” The effort to whisper the words exhausted Lady Jennie and she collapsed onto the straw, but held his gaze with hers. Again the clarity of her brown eyes when death was nigh upon her disconcerted him.

He frowned. “My lady, I understand you are unable to speak—”

“Nay.” She crooked a shaking finger.

Bracing himself, he held his breath, dropped to one knee, and leaned in close to Lady Jennie.

“Xára. Daughter.” She nodded her head toward the young female. “Cannot speak.”

It took a moment for the meaning of her words to penetrate. Dráddør met the dying woman’s anxious stare. “This girl is your daughter. She is called Xára and she cannot speak. Is this what you want me to know? A simple nod or shake of your head is all that is necessary.”

Relief shone in Lady Jennie’s chestnut eyes, she dipped her chin. “Waited…for you.”

What could she mean? The plan had been for a surprise, swift attack. No word had been sent of Arnfinn’s condemnation of treason or his death sentence.

“Hefnd Hamarr…” Beads of perspiration clung to her faded gray brows.

He drew back to stare at her. “You know of me?”

She nodded and twisted one arm from under the sheet covering her from neck to toes. Her hand trembled, but she latched onto his wrist. “Xára…wed her.”

For a woman who could weigh no more than a small child, she had a surprisingly strong grip. He understood now. Lady Jennie wanted her daughter settled before she succumbed to the grim reaper. “Aye, my lady. The king himself has commanded our vow saying. I am ordered to wed your daughter and take charge of Lathairn Castle. Be at ease.”

Her overlong nails bit into his skin. “Before the…sun sets.”

The saliva in his mouth bittered. He had hoped to prolong the vow saying until he knew why the Lady Jennie had poisoned her husband. But ’twas clear there would be no questioning of Lady Jennie, and he could gain no knowledge from a female incapable of speech. So be it. He would wed the girl before night fell.

He stole a glance at the girl, Xára. She looked to be as pleased about the prospect of a wedding as he. Did she even comprehend the situation?

As if she read his thoughts, Lady Jennie tugged on his wrist, and rasped, “Xára is no imbecile. She understands all. She hears.”

The coughing took hold of her again. Deep, wracking hacks that drew up scarlet-tinged foamy spittle.

Xára elbowed him aside, swiped at the bloody droplets, and plied her mother’s chest with damp cloths pungent with the aroma of angelica.

Dráddør lurched to his feet. He moved to the window, leaned his head over the sill, and inhaled. The sweet tang of brine filled his lungs, the sun warmed his cheeks, and the raw fury he had held in check since learning of Arnfinn’s death dissipated. The hypnotic undulation of the waves pounding the rocky coast vanquished the lingering remnants of his angry frustration.

A sudden silence captured his attention. He set his back to the window.

Lady Jennie had either swooned or fallen asleep exhausted. Xára tidied her mother, swept the matted locks of hair away from the papery, yellowed forehead, tucked the linen sheet under her shoulders, and kissed the hollowed cheeks.

Xára pushed off the bed, stood, and turned to him, her manner aggressive, her chin lifted. She waved at the entrance to the room.

Dráddør quirked a brow and then realized the futility of the gesture.

She pointed to the hallway.

What harm could it do to follow her silent command? He nodded, rose, and slipped out of the chamber. She followed him into the passageway. For a long moment, they gazed at each other, Xára searching his face for what he knew not. Then she touched his bare forearm, pointed in the direction of the stairs, spun around, and halted, waiting.

He scratched the bearded stubble on his chin. Xára obviously wanted to take him somewhere. The female appeared to have her wits about her. For cert, she did not appear to be touched by madness or disease. But was her inability to speak one that was inherited? Would she bear children with no voice?

If ’twas the case, he could refuse the marriage. Neither King Kenneth nor Harald Bluetooth could fault him for that.

* * *

Xára could scarce draw a breath.

The man walking alongside her held her fate, Jennie’s, and that of Evie’s in his hands. Dráddør, the man who had dedicated his life to killing Arnfinn, Earl of Caithness, thought she was dull-witted no matter what Jennie had told him. She had considered pretending to be such, but ’twas not her nature to cower to anyone.

Jennie.

She swallowed her tears.

Locked her jaw and grappled for control.

If only she had known that Jennie had resolved to end both her life and Arnfinn’s. She would have stopped her from drinking the poison.

What had caused her to make such a sacrifice? And why did Jennie refuse to speak of it? What terrible threat had Arnfinn used? Or had it been another?

Hatred, raw and grating, boiled her blood to thundering in her ears. She despised the man all thought her father. She loved the woman all thought her mother.

Blinded by her fury, she bumped into a side table and would have tumbled had not Dráddør grabbed her by the waist. His aroma enveloped her at once, veiling her other senses as she inhaled the mingled aromas of male sweat, leather, and the sea. So different from the female perfumes of lavender and rose she had grown accustomed to at the abbey.

He wore no gloves and an inferno danced over her skin where his fingers gripped her through the threadbare habit. She could not recall the last time any but a woman had touched her with such gentleness. ’Twas intoxicating and exciting and dizzying.

And yet she sensed naught of him. ’Twas her gift, her strength, to touch someone and catch a brief memory playing in the present, an oath taken, a port visited, mayhap even such trifle as a thirst quenched. Yet naught escaped from this man.

He steadied her. “Are you ill, lady?”

The wonder of his voice. Deep, like low thunder vibrating through clouds. Dense, rich, strong, and heated like a boulder baked in the sun. Mesmerized by his low rumble, she yearned to press her fingertips to the corded veins in his thick neck, and learn from him how to speak again.

“Lady Xára, are you faint?” He gave her a little shake.

She dared not look at him, too afraid her confusion and the secret, delicious thrill coursing through her showed plain on her face. Ducking her chin, she nodded, shifted out of his hold, and picked up her pace.

Now her awareness of him, of the warrior manliness leashed beneath those powerful muscles and his immense size, bubbled through her veins. Her nape grew damp and she had to choke back a nervous tickle scratching at her throat.

He muttered something she did not catch and she swept him a surreptitious peek. His mouth had canted into a grim line and she knew his patience with her, Jennie, the whole lot of it, was nigh at an end.

“’Tis pointless.”

Nay. He would not deny her this. She glared at the pitted stone floor and concentrated on hurrying her footsteps.

Jennie had made her promise not to cry, to be strong, to win over this Viking and swear him to Evie’s protection, and she would, by the mercy of the lord above. Xára fisted her hands. She would make this warrior respect her.

It had been difficult to hide her meager possessions from Néill’s rampaging destruction. They approached the garderobe and Dráddør’s steps slowed. As awful as the whole castle stunk, the aroma here was powerful enough to fell even the most insensitive nose.

“Halt. I do not need the use of—”

She touched two fingers to his lips and froze. ’Twas as if lightning had struck her fingertips. The skin there sizzled. His mouth felt like satin and velvet, hot and smooth. Xára jerked her hand away.

Hurrying, nigh tripping over her own two feet, she rushed into the tiny chamber where the privy straw was stored. The master of the garderobe had vanished two sennights past and she had moved her treasures here.

“What are you about?”

She shot a look at him, scrabbled the loose hay from the hidden alcove, and retrieved her writing supplies. When she had lost the use of her voice, Jennie had devised a clever way to communicate without using their scarce stores of precious vellum. Carrying the box and bundles, she pushed past where he stood in the archway, and pointed her chin to the opposite direction.

He made a sound somewhere between a growl and an exasperated sigh, but followed her to the chamber she had once called her own on the third level. She heard his quick inhale when he saw the state of the room. Naught but one table had been left standing, but at least ’twas clean.

“Lady Xára, I have not the time for this. The people of the keep are restless and I must attend to the castle defenses.”

Ignoring the laced irritation in his tone, she quickly assembled everything and using her fingers wrote in the sand in the tray,
Néill assembles an army in Leòdhas.

She motioned for him to come forward and pointed to the sand tray Jennie had had made so the two of them could “speak” to each other.

His golden brows pulled together, but he did as she asked, and read her words. Quick as a furious winter melt, he spun around, massive hands on his hips, his glance sweeping from the tray to her, back and forth, and back and forth. His frown deepened. He scrubbed at the light dusting of hair on his chin.

“Do you understand me when I speak?”

Oh, she yearned to pinch him for even asking such a doltish question. Were all men witless? That she could write words but not comprehend them? She rolled her eyes, pursed her mouth, and nodded.

“Lady, you cannot expect me to know your thoughts or abilities. I have to secure the castle before nightfall. Who is Néill?” His straight nose could’ve breathed fire, he appeared so vexed.

After smoothing the sand, she inscribed,
Arnfinn’s stepbrother. He claims Lathairn Castle. He travels to Leòdhas to bring back Godfraid and his warriors.

He gave her a look as if she was daft. “Godfraid mac Arailt, the Earl of Leòdhas is vassal to King Harald of Norway. King Harald has commanded our union. ’Tis treason if Godfraid aids your Néill.”

Not
her Néill,
never
her Néill. Resisting the temptation to stamp her feet, she nigh punched out her words in the sand.
Néill and Godfraid are on their way.

“How know you this?”

She wanted to howl in frustration. But she and Jennie had agreed how to handle this query. She wrote,
Ask Liam the Lucky.

At his ferocious scowl, she added,
Lathairn’s Man-at-Arms
.

He studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment.

Xára knew if he gainsaid her now, all was lost. She did not waver under his persistent scrutiny even though perspiration broke out over her back and chest.

Finally, when she’d decided he would cast her to the wolves, he blew out a long breath. “When did Néill leave for Leòdhas?”

Cert now he understood the gravity of the situation she raised two fingers and wrote in the sand,
2 eves.

His mouth flattened. “They could arrive within the sennight.”

Turning away from her, he clasped his hands behind his back, and paced the length of the chamber. While he was striding up and down, she inscribed more in the sand.

Abruptly, he halted right in front of her. She pointed to the tray.

He read aloud, “Néill intends to wed you and claim Lathairn. Godfraid supports him. I surmised as much. So be it.”

She craned her neck to meet his gaze and waited, heart thundering against ribs so hard her chest ached.

“First, I will verify all you have said—” He sighed. “What you have written. Then I will send two of my men to you. Have your mother moved to her rightful chamber. I will have the healer summoned. The vow saying will take place before sunset. Am I correct that you understand what must be done?”