Vengeance Hammer (Viking Vengeance) (3 page)

Xára’s ire surged, but she wrestled her growing irritation into submission and nodded. Working quickly because she knew he had much to do, she wrote, “I am ready to do my duty.”

He straightened and once again his size dwarfed her, but she refused to let him see her fear, and looked unblinking into his piercing blue eyes. “I will send our monk to assist you. He is a learned man. Do what you must.”

She dipped a curtsey and then felt like a fool for resorting to courtly formality in such circumstances. Her cheeks heated.

“Let Monk Herbert know what you need and he will see it done. I bid you leave, Lady Xára.” He inclined his head and departed.

The image of him stayed in front of her for long moments. Never had she seen such haunting male beauty. The war braids at his temples seemed to draw his cheekbones high and taut while the golden waves that fell to his shoulders made her recall all the tales she had heard of the god, Thor.

The man must spend most of his time training to have a shoulder span so wide he had to twist through the doorway to Jennie’s room. The sleeveless tunic he wore reflected the color of his eyes, a blue so dark as to appear black in the shadows. Greenish-blue runes etched into his bare arms banded his bulging muscles.

She had kept her gaze lowered when they walked and could not help but be fascinated by the way his powerful thigh muscles flexed with each stride. Everything about him radiated absolute supremacy. The square-set jaw and the sinewy neck, even the scent of him, and his voice, Xára sighed. That a man’s voice could send tremors through her body? Cause her woman parts to heat and tingle?

Woman parts.

Her stomach cramped.

’Twas all coming to pass, Magnhildur’s malicious prediction. An icy shiver raised all the hairs on her body. She rubbed her arms and prayed. Prayed for a miracle for Jennie. Prayed she could save Evie by wedding the Viking.

Chapter Two

“You have the look of a warrior facing the greatest battle of his life.” Tighe joined Dráddør on the mound.

A sharp, sudden gust whisked dried leaves into a whirl and threw a flock of screeching gulls into an awkward arc. Dráddør lifted his face to the sun and enjoyed the heat of the midday sun. “Olaf Longface insists on a public consummation.”

Tighe grimaced and tugged on his scruffy beard. “I fear he is right to do so. If what we have learned is true, Néill and Godfraid will invade before the sennight is out. E’en with the wedding and the bedding, Néill will contest your claim to Lathairn. You must needs produce an heir within the year to secure the title.”

“Néill is but Arnfinn’s step-brother. Xára is Arnfinn’s only child and King Kenneth has affirmed she is the sole heir. I cannot see the king reneging on his word. ’Tis not as if Xára is a bastard.” Dráddør had spent the last while arguing with Olaf, King Harald’s lawsayer for the region. In the end, he had surrendered to Olaf’s ruling knowing that having a horde witnessing his taking of Xára solidified his hold on the castle and its lands.

“Agreed.” Tighe slapped him on the back. “The good news is that aside from the hall, the rest of the castle is fit for occupation, though strangely lacking in furniture. Lady Jennie has been moved and the healer brought from the village.”

“At least the bedding will not have to be in the open. ’Tis Loki’s mischief, the timing of it all—to have to wed and bed Xára when her mother is at death’s door.” Dráddør massaged the back of his neck. He had never expected to feel pity for Arnfinn’s wife and daughter.

“I have ne’er taken a maid, have you?”

Tighe’s question added to the worry dogging him since Olaf’s decision on a public swiving. Dráddør snorted. “Think you I could take any female as innocent as Hjørdis? Nay. ’Twas the reason I left the caliph’s service. I could not stomach him taking the girl virgins he so prized.”

“’Tis a detestable practice. I would sever the cock of any man in my service who defiled a child.”

“I swive oft, ’tis true, but I bed only tavern wenches and widows—lusty women who have long lost their innocence. Now I must take Xára’s maidenhood in public.” Dráddør traced the runes carved into the handle of his hammer.

“I envy you not.”

“She cannot speak, Tighe. Not a word.” He did not know why it bothered him so. Why he felt an overwhelming urge to protect her. Her clever way of communicating had earned not just his respect, but a grudging admiration. He explained the sand tray to Tighe.

“Why ’tis crafty and cunning. Her mind is sound then?”

“Aye. So are her ears though she concentrates on your lips when you speak to her.”

“Are you cert she understands what you say?”

“Aye. There is no doubt in my mind.” Dráddør couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching as he recalled Xára rolling her eyes when he had asked the same question this morn. “But she is a maid who has led a sheltered life.”

“Think you she has any inkling of what to expect?”

Dráddør shrugged. He studied the waves battering the cliffs in the distance.

Tighe cleared his throat. “I have found fear of the unknown to be my own worst foe. If Xára knows naught of swiving and ’tis obvious her mother cannot prepare her—then the task falls to one of us.”

All at once Dráddør knew the perfect strategy to make the best of the formidable consummation. He stamped his feet to take the chill from his toes. “I will handle the matter.”

Tighe pointed to the horizon. “See you that?”

Dráddør shaded his eyes. “Loki’s balls be sliced! Two ships on the horizon.”

The ships were mere dark blobs and he could not discern their shape clearly. ’Twas impossible to tell if they were of Norse origin or from elsewhere, and even that would not indicate whether a foe or an ally approached, for Godfraid was a Viking.

It could not be. Néill could not have reached Leòdhas, gathered an army, and returned so soon. But Dráddør had never travelled to the isle, did not know how the currents and the winds ran, and could not chance ’twas not the expected enemy.

The stiff breezes that constantly swept the mound suddenly died. Tighe licked a finger and tested the wind’s direction. He glanced over his shoulder. “A storm. Coming from the east. But ’twill not break this day. They will be becalmed.”

“Mayhap. I will not lay odds on it. Set a watch here. The fealty oath swearing will take place before the feast. I needs find the leader of the men-at-arms, Liam the Lucky. We must make haste.” An urgency he dared not ignore fueled Dráddør’s furious pace.

They found Liam the Lucky supervising the repairs of a broken portion of the curtain walls. He greeted Dráddør with an offer of swearing his fealty oath at once. Surprised by Liam’s eagerness, Dráddør demanded an accounting of the events prior to their arrival. The warrior not only confirmed what Xára had written earlier, he volunteered intriguing details of the circumstances leading to Arnfinn’s death. Dráddør digested the information for later consideration and focused on the matters at hand; repairing the wanton destruction in the hall and bailey and preparing for a feast.

After accepting Liam’s vow, Dráddør and Tighe, with Liam’s assistance, secured laborers from those assembled in the bailey, and all set to work. The combined forces accomplished more than Dráddør had expected before the sun hovered above the horizon.

A cleansing swim and a change of clothing only served to heighten Dráddør’s dread of the impending consummation. He surveyed the grounds from the wide terrace that encircled the front of the castle. A thorough scrubbing revealed the gray-blue speckles in the broad swath of stone stairs leading down to the bailey and they now sparkled in the waning rays of the sun.

The sharp scent of lye had replaced the ripe aroma from that morn. The grounds overflowed with his and Tighe’s warriors, the keep’s inhabitants, and people from the nearest villages. Word of the wedding and the feast had spread far and wide. Half of Dráddør’s men had hunted earlier and their bounty now cooked in the bailey. Several hinds of deer, suckling pigs, and dozens of fowl roasted on spits strung over a series of low fires against one wall.

He checked the lookout mound and heaved a sigh at the relaxed postures of the three warriors on watch. The ships they had spied earlier remained becalmed on the horizon. With any luck, Odin would grant them another day to prepare.

Approaching footsteps drew his attention and he glanced over his shoulder to find Tighe and Egron nigh upon him. “The sun leaves us soon. Lady Xára?”

“Is ready. She and the monk should be here anon.” Tighe wore the garb of his title, dark hose tucked into tall hide boots, a navy tunic embroidered with his coat of arms, and a wide leather belt that sheathed the many weapons of a highland warrior.

Before the echoes of Tighe’s voice died away, the corpulent monk, with Lady Xára at his side, appeared in the double-doored archway of the castle.

Dráddør had been too preoccupied previously to take any notice of Xára, the woman. Not that he would’ve been able to discern much the way she had been clothed earlier. She had worn a matron’s cap and a shapeless, muddy-colored robe with a high neck.

Xára the woman sucked the breath from him.

Sunlight danced in the golden streaks threaded through the mass of her tight chestnut curls that fell like a caressing curtain to well below her waist. Lithe tendrils swirled around slender shoulders bared by the scooped neckline of the forest-green cyrtel she wore. Plump, full mounds peeked over the black lace sewn into the top of the dress.

His cock hardened when their gazes met. The unique color and expressiveness of her eyes had stayed with him while he toiled all afternoon. The niggling concern of his pecker not rising to the occasion died at once. He held her stare and she faltered not, firming her chin, and gliding to a halt in front of him.

“My lady.” Dráddør sketched a half-bow.

She inclined her head and sank into a deep curtsey.

How had he not noticed her grace and elegance? The titillating slant of her almond-shaped eyes? Cheekbones high and proud, skin smoother and more golden than the creamiest, fresh-churned butter? The slight tilt at the tip of her nose, or those bee-stung, ruby lips?

Beside him, Tighe muttered in Norse, “By the almighty, you have the luck of your god, Odin.”

Aye, but he did not acknowledge Tighe aloud. Instead he forced his concentration to the plan he had devised. “Lady Xára, I would have a moment of your time.”

Her eyes widened, but she nodded.

Dráddør extended a crooked arm.

She placed her palm on the back of his hand. The flesh-to-flesh contact shot blood to his groin and his cock twitched.

Matching his long stride to her shorter one, he led them to an alcove on the south corner of the terrace. He caged her in, blocking her face and form from the assembled crowd and the others on the steps.

“I will go slowly. Nod or shake your head as I go along. We do not have much time.” Absently he noticed a halo of amber around the green-blue of her eyes.

A nod. She fingered a necklace of smooth, polished, black stones.

“The consummation will be witnessed by all.”

Her brows climbed. She clutched his arm, and shook her head.

There was no time to speak sweet phrases and allay her obvious alarm. He repeated his words. “Do you understand?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and her lips all but disappeared as she worried them, but she nodded.

“Look to me, Xára.”

Her eyelids flew open and for a moment the sweet flutter of her dark, curled lashes distracted him. “I ask for your trust. I ask you to obey my instructions and offer no resistance.”

Drawn into the abyss of her confused gaze, he gritted his teeth not expecting her to concur and not wanting to have to resort to his second option.

The excited hum of the voices in the bailey faded. A buzz in his ears masked the screams of children playing. He heard naught but the sound of her uneven inhalations. Saw only the two entrancing white teeth nibbling her pouty lower lip. Images of her mouth, rosy and swollen from his kisses, glazed his vision.

She captured his arm and turned the wrist so his palm faced up. Looking right into his eyes, Xára touched a fist to her heart and then placed her clenched hand in the center of his and pressed his fingers closed.

The gesture tore the very breath from him and struck like a dagger to his heart. He, who feared no creature, no man, no god, was felled by the terror of failing her faith in him.

He swallowed the dryness in his throat. “You are cert you understand?”

A lock of hair tickled his arm when she nodded and gifted him with a tremulous half-smile.

“Are you ready?”

In answer she shifted, tucked her arm into the crook of his, and titled her head back to meet his stare. Smiling widely now, she urged him forward with a slight squeeze.

While they had been preoccupied, all had been made ready. Dráddør guided her to the assembled quartet of men. He loosened her hold on him, linked their fingers together, and stood so she could see his mouth when he spoke.

“Lady Xára, I present to you, Olaf Longface, King Harald’s
Lovsigemann
or lawsayer.” He spoke slowly forming each word with careful enunciation and studied her reactions with battle-intensity.

Again, the elegance of her curtsey captivated him.

For once Olaf appeared uncertain of how to respond. He grasped her fingers, touched his mouth briefly to the back of her hand, and, after a prolonged silence muttered, “My lady.”

Dráddør gestured to Olaf’s right. “This is Earl Tighe of Dalriada.”

“Entranced, Lady Xára.” Tighe mimicked Dráddør’s slow speech and exaggerated mouthing. Capturing the tips of her fingers in his, he brushed his lips over each knuckle in turn.

Dráddør clenched his jaw and snapped out of the corner of his mouth. “Desist.”

“I am merely attempting to put your betrothed at ease.” Tighe’s lips barely moved and he spoke in Norse, but somehow Xára caught their hissed exchange and swept her glance between them.

Anxious to get the deed done, Dráddør rushed through the introductions of Egron, commander of his warriors, and the captain of his second langskip, Ghazi.