Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] (6 page)

Oh, my!

“Now you repeat the words,” he demanded raspily, refus
ing to let her pull her wrist from its savage embrace with his.

In stunned silence, her eyes locked with his. She could not speak.

“Say the words, Eadyth,” Eirik coaxed.

“Blood of my blood, I pledge thee my troth,” she repeated softly.

Her world tilted askew then as something new and beautiful—and frightening—blossomed inside Eadyth’s chest and unfurled with exquisite, heart-stopping intensity. This was not the usual betrothal ceremony, presided over by church clergy, attended by family and friends, as solemn as the wedding ritual itself. It was better, and its heart-wrenching intimacy shook Eadyth’s long-frozen soul.

“Do you think this is binding?” she finally whispered.

“Yea, ’tis,” he answered softly.

Still holding her arm fast, Eirik pulled a ring from his tunic and slipped it on the third finger of her right hand. “’Tis the first of my
arrha
gifts for you. You will move it to your left hand after the wedding, symbolizing that you accept your new position of obedience.” He chuckled at his last word.

Eadyth raised an eyebrow skeptically, but she could not fail to appreciate the magnificence of his gift as she closed her fingers to keep the huge gold band from slipping off. Looking closer, she saw the image of a raven, with gleaming emerald eyes, etched into its center.

“’Twas my grandfather’s.”

Eadyth nodded at the significance. “I have never heard of
arrha
. It means ‘earnest gifts,’ does it not?”

“Yea, tradition calls for three bridal gifts. The ring was the first.” Then he reached into the packet on the table and handed her a silk-embroidered shoe, proclaiming, “This is the second. It belonged to my grandmother Aud.”

“Only one?” she asked with a laugh, pleased, despite herself, that Eirik had taken the time to honor her with tokens.

He grinned. “I get to strike you on the head with it during the marriage ceremony. Normally, your father would hand it
to me, symbolizing his transfer of authority over you to my hands.”

“Hah! My father never exerted that kind of control over me. I would not allow such, even if he had wanted it.”

Eirik continued to grin. “On the wedding night, the other shoe is placed at the head of the marriage bed, on the husband’s side, to signify the bride accepting her husband’s authority.”

Eadyth shoved the slipper back into Eirik’s hands. “Keep your bloody slipper. As for the ring,” she said admiringly, not wanting to give it up, “I accept it with my own interpretation of
obedience
to my husband.” She smiled at him, despite her resolve to develop no fondness for the churlish knight. “Well, if that is all—”

“Nay, you forget. I mentioned there were
three
‘earnest gifts.’”

She raised an eyebrow.

“The traditional betrothal kiss.”

Before she could demur, he leaned forward. Alarmed, Eadyth turned at the last moment so his warm lips brushed her cheek. Eirik chuckled low in his throat at her maneuver, then put his right hand at the nape of her neck and forced her lips to meet his in a light feather stroke of a kiss. His left hand still held hers in a firm clasp.

Eadyth closed her eyes momentarily to savor the sweet pleasure of his warm lips.

Oh, Eadyth girl, you are in big, big trouble. This man is a dragon, and you are the dry tinder. He will burn you alive. Run, girl, run as fast as you can.

“What is that ungodly smell?” he asked.

Eadyth blinked several times to clear her muddled senses. “Huh?” she said.

Eirik wrinkled his nose and leaned closer to her head-rail, sniffing loudly. “It smells like fish oil. Or hog renderings gone bad.”

Eadyth pulled away from him then and stood shakily, knowing he smelled the grease in her hair. She hunched her
shoulders a bit and cackled, “’Tis a special ointment I have concocted to ease my aching limbs of a cold morn. Would you care to try it? ‘Tis good for horses, as well.”

Repulsed, Eirik jerked back. Eadyth smiled inwardly at the look of confusion on his open face. He obviously failed to understand the odd attraction that had shot between them for one moment. An aberration, she vowed, which would never occur again.

“You will call the banns then?” she asked weakly as she moved toward the door, her senses still churning from his touch.

“Yea. I have no chaplain at Ravenshire now, but I can send to St. Peter’s in Jorvik.”

“And the wedding? When will that take place? Time is important if we are to forestall Steven’s moves.”

“Three sennights?”

She nodded. “I will be off to Hawks’ Lair then whilst there is still light and will return in twenty-one days.”

“Nay, you will not leave today.”

Eadyth stopped dead in her tracks. “Why?”

“We must needs have the betrothal feast tonight.”

“Nay, we will not!” she cried, knowing she had to put a distance between them to reevaluate this foolish masquerade she had started. At the challenging look on his face, however, she softened her voice and cajoled, “Let there be no hypocrisy atween us in this marriage. Why pretend emotions we do not feel?”

“My men will question my motives, and yours, if we do not at least appear to want this alliance. If we cannot convince my loyal retainers that I cared enough once to breed a babe on you, how will we convince the king that I am the boy’s father?”

Eadyth saw the logic in his words but resisted, nonetheless. “
Cared enough!
Hah! You do not know Steven so well if you think that was the motive for the act that brought about John’s conception. ’Twas more like,
lusted enough.
”

He shrugged and grinned widely. “Either way. If ’tis the
image of lust you prefer to convey, mayhap I could put a hand on your thigh or a tongue in your ear whilst we are toasting our betrothal this night.”

“A tongue in my…!” Eadyth felt her face flame. “Do you dare, and I will put a sharp knife to your precious manhood.”

Unamused by her threat, he informed her stonily, “I dare much, my lady, and think again afore you throw warnings my way. You will get more than you bargained for, I promise.” When she raised her chin haughtily, he added, “I will win every battle you wage, my lady, whether it be with might or words.”

“Do not be so sure of that,” Eadyth threw over her shoulder as she walked out the door, and heard him chuckle at what he probably considered childish, feminine defiance.

When Eadyth saw Girta sitting at a table in the great hall, partaking of the newly baked bread and a slice of freshly cooked meat, she slowed down.

“When you are done breaking fast, will you see if my beekeeping veil is in the pack attached to my horse’s saddle? I would check for wild bees in the fields beyond the orchard I saw this morn. Mayhap there are some new species I can breed with mine.”

Girta nodded and raised an eyebrow questioningly, knowing full well that Eadyth often pursued her beekeeping jaunts when troubled.

“Will there be a wedding?”

“Yea, there will,” she said, looking down with wonder at the ring and at the thin wound on her wrist. “In three sennights.”

“Will we stay here ’til then?” Girta’s brow furrowed as she scrutinized Eadyth with loving care.

“Nay, we return on the morrow at first light and will come back the day of the wedding.” She sat down next to her old maid and confided, “Girta, there is one thing you should know. He thinks I am much older than I am, and quite…uncomely.”

“Why would he think so?”

“Well, he does not see perfectly, like my father. Remember?”

Girta nodded.

“And the hall is dark and smoky. And, uh, the grease in my hair apparently gives it a grayish hue. And my loose garb…well, all these things combined, I suppose, have given Eirik the impression I am old. And—”

“How old?” Girta asked suspiciously.

Eadyth shrugged. “Mayhap forty or so. Certainly past the childbearing years.”

Girta’s mouth dropped open in surprise before she threw back her head and chortled gleefully. “Oh, Eadyth, child, you play with danger here.” Then she sniffed and leaned closer to her beloved charge. “Oh, Good Lord, Eadyth, the pig grease in your hair has gone rancid.”

They both burst out laughing then, and Eadyth hugged her dear old nurse warmly in companionship. And perhaps desperation.

Eirik stomped off the exercise field later that afternoon, prompted by the wild ranting of several servants who had come to him complaining about the ghost in the orchard come to haunt Ravenshire. Bloody Hell! It was all he needed—an aging wife, a crumbling keep, and now a ghost.

He walked briskly through the fields beyond the kitchen garden, overgrown with gorse and bramble, past the spring-fed pond where he had swum as a child and now used for bathing, and through the long-neglected orchard of apple, pear, peach and plum trees. His grandmother had cultivated and cared for these fruit trees lovingly over the years. He wondered idly if they were diseased beyond salvation.

Finally, he spotted the “apparition” his frightened servants had been complaining about all afternoon. In truth, the witch from Hawks’ Lair did look a mite ghostly in a long diaphanous veil which covered her entire body from head to toe, like a ghost, with specially made sleeves from which pro
truded odd leather gloves that reached up to her elbows. The hound she had kicked the night before lay nearby like a besotted lover.

“By all the saints, woman! What do you out here at this time of day in that ridiculous apparel? ‘Tis almost time for our betrothal dinner.”

Eadyth swiveled abruptly, just realizing he stood behind her. “Don’t come any closer. The bees are swarming and may attack.”

Eirik’s eyes widened as he noticed the hundreds of bees covering her hands and glove-protected arms. In fact, they buzzed all over her flimsy garment, like live ornaments.

“Are you daft, my lady? Come away from here at once.”

“I am in no danger. ‘Tis my business, raising bees. I have told you so afore. I just wanted to see what wild species you have available here at Ravenshire afore I bring my bees here. I have had some success in mixing the breeds, but these are of an inferior quality and may have to be moved to another site.”

Eirik shook his head in disbelief at this strange woman he was about to wed. Would she continually surprise him? And what was it about her that both repelled and attracted him at the same time? He had never lusted after older women in the past, and yet he did not think he would find the bedding of her as distasteful as he had originally thought.

“Mayhap we will consummate the wedding tonight,” he said huskily, not realizing he had spoken aloud ’til he noticed the stiffness of her body and the defiant lift of her chin.

“Mayhap cows have wings,” she snorted, sweeping the bees off her garment with jerky motions of her hands as she moved away from their hive. Then she glared at him angrily. “I am going back to Hawks’ Lair
now
. I will not stay the night at Ravenshire, you lusty lout. Hah! There must needs be a shortage of women for you to make such a ludicrous suggestion to me.”

The dog fell into step behind her like a well-trained foot soldier when she called out, “Come, Prince.”

“
Prince
? What manner of name is that for a lowly mongrel?” Then he drew his thoughts back to her annoyance over his suggestion. “’Tis not so ludicrous. Many a marriage is consummated on the betrothal alone.”

Eirik had not really expected her to comply. In truth, he did not know why he had even broached the subject. He did not want to make love with a skinny wench like her. But still her displeasure rankled his pride, and he followed her stomping figure back to the keep, cursing under his breath at his stupidity—not just in voicing the words, but in even agreeing to the wedding.

“I was only jesting,” he lied. “Have you no sense of humor at all?”

“Humph! Stop following me.”

“Stop walking away from me. And stop that bloody dog from nipping at my heels.”

“’Tis your bloody dog, not mine. He is just being protective of me because you are raising your boorish voice.”

“Lady, you overstep yourself. We are not wed yet. Remember that.”

She had the good sense to slow down at his warning. After all, she had more to gain from this wedding than he. Or so she must think.

He grinned as he caught up with her and reached for her arm, the dog yipping wildly. She jerked away at his touch, and Eirik frowned. He misliked her touchy attitude. In truth, she was nervous as a pregnant cat any time he got within breathing distance of her.

Deliberately, he placed a hand on her arm, testing her reaction. Leaning back so he could see better, he watched as her eyes flew wide with alarm. Even through the filtering screen of her veil, Eirik could see that she breathed heavily through her open mouth. He watched with fascination as her deliciously full lips quivered nervously behind the white netting. “I have seen such fabrics in the harems of some eastern rulers, though put to much different use,” he murmured, then smiled in remembrance.

Eadyth just scowled.

The small mole at the side of her mouth drew his attention. He reached forward, unable to resist the temptation, and touched it lightly through the wisp of material. A jolt of desire rocked his senses and turned him instantly hard.

“Do not touch me,” she whimpered, trying to pull out of his firm grasp. “Please. I beg you. I will release you from your betrothal vow.”

Eirik dropped his hand and stared at her, puzzled. What frightened her so? After all, she was not a virgin maid, untouched by man. And knowing Steven of Gravely’s predilection for sexual excess, he assumed the knave had taught her more than a few tricks in the mating.

“My lady, I do not take my oaths lightly. As far as I am concerned, my betrothal vow is as binding as the wedding ones.”

She lowered her gaze and inhaled deeply to regain her composure. It was obvious his touch had distressed her mightily.

Or repulsed her, he thought, and went rigid at the insult. Women found him attractive. It had ever been so. What prickled Eadyth? Something was seriously amiss.