Authors: Sandra Lake
Sweat collected in the center of his back. Lothair yanked off his shirt and tossed it to the ground. The next competitor entered the sparring ring, ducking boldly under the rail, the crowd of farmers and field hands jeering their wholehearted approval. Watching their master take a thrashing in a wrestling match was cheap quality entertainment.
Lothair tackled the lumber hauler around the middle and managed to tip him off his feet and onto the wood-chipped ground. The man struggled back up and the match continued on for a few more rounds until Lars stepped into the ring to ruin it.
“You’re a mess, man. Go home and sober up. And next time we’ll let you finish what you started.” Lars shoved Lothair toward their horses. Fist and Valen stood with their arms crossed. Lars was no fun at all since wedding that little taskmaster. Tosha was a fine girl until she started sticking her nose into Lothair’s business.
“Taking orders from your little general, are you now, Lars?” Lothair smeared blood from his nose across his bare arm.
“Be angry with me today if that makes you feel better, but I will not stand aside while you take on matches you know you’ll lose just because you’re in the mood for a beating.” Lars looked pointedly at the other men, and grabbed Lothair’s arms at the same moment as Valen and Fist grabbed his legs. Together, with one strong swing, they launched him into the channel.
“You rump-fed traitors. Get off my land!” he shouted when he resurfaced. The cold water washed away the remainder of the drunken fog from the night before.
“Tosh is having a friend come feast with us the day after tomorrow. I will be expecting you, Lothair. Don’t make me come around to fetch you like an errant child.” With that, Lars and his two sidekicks strode off.
Lothair dragged himself up the bank and collapsed in the soft meadow grass. The hot summer sun beat down upon his face, punishingly cheerful.
Hanseatz never smelled or looked grander than it did in the height of summer—meadows of strawberries and wildflowers, lambs and foals kicking up their heels in the fields. Katia never saw what this place could be, adding that to his growing list of regrets.
Leaving Tronscar without her was his greatest regret. He should have given her more time to heal. He had allowed his own grief-stricken heart to blind him from seeing hers.
The remembrances of their journey last autumn, the closeness of their bodies each night in the tents, and the countless missed opportunities to make love to her on that trip haunted Lothair. Guarding her virtue had been his top priority at the time, and for what? Perhaps she wanted a man who was not afraid to take what he wanted, a man who would put concerns for her father’s title aside and ravish her soundly. Oh, what he would not give to ravish her soundly, toss her down in this very meadow.
Lothair closed his eyes and let the futile dream of her being here continue to unfold in his mind’s eye. She was lying on the riverbank next to him; he’d shift and lie over her. Tangled gold strands of her hair would catch in the grass, and her warm, soft limbs would embrace him, her playful exuberance for life bubbling out of her in an easy laugh. His hand splayed out to touch her, and finding nothing, his fingers curled into a fist, tearing a hunk of dry grass out by the root.
To heighten his tormented state, an image of his child formed in his mind, a smaller version of Katia. She’d be perfect, perhaps with Margery’s strawberry blond tones to her hair. A pretty, spirited, miniature Katia that Lothair could keep always, hold, protect, and cherish. The dream of her, the dream of them and what could have been but never was . . . could it have ever been real?
Sun-scorched, Lothair awoke to the sting of taut skin, a stiff neck, and the sore jaw that the lumberman had gifted him. He collected Homer, who was grazing farther up the riverbank, and led him the short walk home to the stable.
The fields and yards were nearly empty. Lothair had sent his mother to spend the summer with Margery and her growing family. Only a handful of servants remained in Hanseatz.
The solitude had been welcome, offering him time to be quiet and think. He had a world of opportunities—political advancement with his father’s continued support, military postings open for glory serving the Holy Roman Empire. Or he could pursue his own path—establish a group of traders and merchants, an independent legion of defenders of the Baltic Sea, a security force for freemen. The more prosperous the ports of Lubeck, Turku, and Tronscar became, the more stable and peaceful the region would become as a whole. Jarl Magnus had listened to him last winter and had offered his pointed advice and input.
And yet all he really wanted to do was sail north and court a certain iron princess, petition her for an audience, and wait for her to come down the stairs and hear him out.
Lightness lifted his heart, and the aching in his head lessened. He had decided. He brushed his horse, collected his gear, and made his way to the side entrance of the kitchen. He needed ale and then a good night’s sleep.
Smoke billowed out the open kitchen door—strange, since he had no household staff for the next few days.
He wiped his boots on the iron bar outside the entrance and ducked inside to see a flustered maid pulling a burnt pie out of the brick oven. Cursing, she fanned the smoke away from the carnage.
“It’s fine. A little cream and it will be fine,” she said to herself.
“A little cream or a good bottle of brandy, ma’am. Solves all the world’s problems.” Lothair flopped down on a chair, reached for a pitcher of water in the middle of the table, poured himself a drink, and then leaned back, watching the chaos. “I thought Mistress Isa gave you all a week’s leave to visit your families?”
The maid froze her flustered motioning and slowly turned. “Hell’s bells, you frightened me. What are you doing here?”
Lothair waved his arms out to the side to keep from toppling backward. “What am
I
doing here? This is my home!” he said. This was a surprise attack. He forced his breathing to slow. She was here and she was nervous, meaning she had to want something from him. He would not allow her ambush to take away his advantage over her.
“Again, what are you doing here, Kat?”
“Obviously I’m baking a pie and making dinner. The housekeeper is visiting her sister in Garum.” She perched her hand on her hip, trying to act natural but failing miserably.
“Baking?” Lothair crossed the kitchen to inspect the charred brick of a pie.
“Well, it looks easier than it really is, you know. Tosh just makes everything wifely seem easy, but it is not,” she said. Her words were a rush of chatter, as they always were when she got nervous, but Lothair’s ears were stuck on only one word: wifely. “It turns out being a wife is very, very hard and it may take some training or at least adjusting. Oh, damn, the roast.” She tore off across the kitchen, cursing all the way, burning her hand removing the meat from the spit.
Lothair felt like he was walking in quicksand. She had come home—dear God, she had come home to be his wife. He walked over to examine her latest piece of blackened cookery. She hacked and sawed at the small round lump.
“Good, the inside is salvageable. Do you care for lamb, Lothair?” she asked, keeping her eyes on her task.
“How can you be certain that it is lamb?” He gazed down at her. She wore a flimsy, pale pink linen gown. Her hair was arranged in a careful collection of smart braids, with a lace cap pinned on top. She looked nothing like her normal self. Usually she preferred practical leather and armor. The woman before him had a tight corset, her bosom proudly on display, and mouthwateringly tempting. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of her kitchen fires, and a small amount of perspiration had collected at the base of her throat. She looked well—better than well. She had gained a small amount of weight back, and she resembled the young maid he had met five summers ago in Tronscar. She had been nothing more than a wisp of a girl back then, with all the fire and brimstone of hell housed just below the surface.
His mind still did not fully accept what his eyes were gazing upon. Katia had come back to him. He thought his heart would burst.
Stepping closer behind her, Lothair caged her between his hips and the counter. He swept aside the silky strands of hair that had escaped from her braids and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, igniting in him the instant need for more. He did not know why she was here, or for how long; a part of him didn’t care. She was here now and he had dreamed of what he would do if given the chance to hold her again.
Katia was still rightly his wife as far as Lothair was aware. The jarl had never sent the documents to petition the church for an annulment. He tasted her damp flesh again, and his hands went to her hips as he pressed against her lush backside. He pushed her gently forward into the counter and she sighed as he continued to kiss her neck, rolling her head over to the side and offering him more area for his mouth to travel across. The small, surrendering gesture shredded the tether of Lothair’s restraint.
***
His right hand came over her shoulder, plunging down the top of her gown, and grasped her breast. He rolled her nipple ruthlessly in his powerful grip and she gasped with the sudden intensity. Her knees buckled, making her collapse forward onto the counter.
Clearly he was not in the mood to be gentle. Thank God.
Lothair’s hand pulled at the fabric of her gown, not stopping until he reached the apex of her legs. Holding her possessively, his palm claimed her, pressing on her center without mercy.
His touch was punishing, possessive, and everything she’d ever wanted. In chorus, he toyed with her nipple, pressed his erection into her backside, and rubbed his palm against her at a frantic pace. The pleasure built until she gasped and cried out.
He pulled his hands away, leaving her breast cold and exposed. As her mind returned to earth, she thought to protest, but he had released her only long enough to free himself from his trousers. Before she could take in her next breath, he was bending her over. Her hips pressed sharply against the edge of the counter and he entered her roughly from behind, His fingers dug into her hipbone as he slammed into her over and over again. It felt wicked and dangerous and perfect.
“Yes,” was all she could say. She was enslaved by this intoxicating pleasure. Her mind went blank, her body humming,
more, harder, faster
.
“What am I to you, Katia?” Lothair growled, never slowing his rhythm.
“You are my . . .” she gasped, unable to catch her breath.
“What am I to you?” He hammered into her harder, more frenzied. She was so close—just one more and she would come apart. He slammed in again, hard.
She screamed out in sweet, climatic agony of it all. “Lothair!”
“You. Are.
Mine
,” he snarled. This was a Lothair she had never known, but the one she always knew existed—the proud, passionate, dangerous protector. The Lothair she had been attracted to the day they met. He may not have forgiven her, but he did want her, and if she worked hard enough, she was convinced that she could make him happy.
***
Lothair slumped over her back. He wrapped both arms around her and held her, their bodies connected. Was she a ghost?
He couldn’t release her. Out of his arms, she was beyond his control; here like this, she’d have to stay.
“Oh, Lothair, the potatoes!” She wiggled to get free, arousing his member back to stiff life.
“We’ll put cream over them. Cream fixes everything, apparently.” He picked her up and turned her around, landing her bare backside on the counter. He bunched her gown up and pulled down the front, groaning at the sight of her supple breasts.
God help him, he had missed the sight of her breasts. He cupped the deliciously soft flesh in his hands and entered her swiftly. She simply touched his cheek, smiled, and made no protest.
***
“Well, you ruined supper.” Katia twirled a lock of Lothair’s wavy hair between her fingers. She lay on the kitchen floor with her husband dozing next to her, resting his sleepy head against her breast.
“You already ruined supper before I arrived,” he said.
“Not
ruined
. . . well, perhaps it was a little on the dry side. But it was my first baking expedition. I couldn’t get the damn crust in the pan. It kept breaking. It was the most challenging thing I have ever tried to do.”
He snorted. “Solo sailing across the Gulf of Bothnia was not more challenging?” he said dryly.
“That was fun. This wifely business is hard.”
He propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over to kiss her lips. “Is that what the pink frock was about, and the arson in my kitchen? Being wifely?”
She shrugged. “Lothair, I am going to be a terrible wife, but I am determined to improve my baking. I have thrown down the gauntlet. I will conquer a piecrust.”
He burst out laughing. “A buttery maid can make my bread, Kat. Only my wife can sail circles around half the northern fleet.” He kissed her again, savoring her. Pushing himself up off the table, he extended his hand down to her. He righted his trousers and started to brush the flour off her skirts.
“It’s hopeless, Kat. The gown did not survive. Did you bring more wifely frocks or was this my only chance to see you soft and submissive?”
“I can be submissive.” She bit her lip and batted her eyelashes at him.
He laughed from his belly this time. “Submissive! The next thing you are going to tell me is that you’re hanging up your sword for needlework?”
Katia dropped the flirty expression and picked up the overturned chair and sat down. She’d best get this nasty apology business over with. She could not try to sleep another night wondering if he hated her deep inside. Air the ugly bits out and see what can be fixed—that had been her grandmother’s advice. She studied her hands, collecting her thoughts. She had practiced this moment for hours, for days. She must get it right.
“I’m sorry, Lothair.” She braved a glance up to read his eyes. He gave nothing away, but pulled over a chair and sat beside her. “What I did was immeasurably stupid and careless and foolish and—”