Undercurrent (31 page)

Oláf’s brows sank, and he stepped back. “Very well.” He retreated like a whipped puppy.

Cassie cleared her throat. “So I guess that’s why I should get to know Grunnhild, huh? I won’t be staying with you anymore.”

Her words stung surprisingly sharp. The past three moons he’d either shared Kier’s roof or the sky’s canopy with her. No more. A sense of loss added to the empty hollow where he stored his grief for Alarik.

“
Ragnar?”

Hopefully the smile he donned hid his thoughts. “Grunnhild is a good woman. You will like her, I think.” He breathed out a small cloud of frosty air. With the sun nearly disappeared below the treeline, a brisk autumn eve wasted no time in spreading its chilling effects.

Cassie yawned, a larger puff of white escaping her lips, and she tugged her cloak tighter at the neck.

“
I fear it has been a long journey for you. Let us quit to Great Hall. A hot mug will warm you for the night, ja?”

She smiled, and when her eyes met his, a hot drink paled in comparison to the fire she lit inside him.

“
Køm.” He turned and strode toward the largest building, taking care to avoid the temptation of holding her hand once again. It would be far too easy to give in to Oláf’s expectation to share his quarters with her.

He shoved open the heavy door of Great Hall, all the more difficult with grating hinges, and assessed the environment. Sweaty men, burning tallow, and the fermented smell of rushes needing replacement mixed into one familiar scent. Younglings hung on their mothers’ skirts as the women traded gossip in a near corner. Older men, weary with years and too worn to make the assembly’s journey, swapped stories and jests near the huge hearth fire. Several able-bodied warriors, left behind for minimal defense, dipped their heads as he entered, striking fists to chests. Apparently Oláf and Bryn had spread the news of Rogaland’s new jarl.

A thrall with a tray approached him, never once making eye contact. Ragnar accepted the mug and requested one for Cassie as the big door creaked open again. His first great act as jarl would be to order bear grease for the hinges.

“
The men are assembled, Jarl Ragnar.” Bryn’s voice came from behind.

Ragnar swept one last glance around the room, then turned. “How many men attend the assembly?”

“
Maybe thirty, thirty-five.” Bryn scratched at his beard and studied the ceiling. “I cannot be certain.”

Thirty-five gone and hardly thirty-five here to lift a sword. Mayhap the men of Sagandr could be counted on to lend aid, but even so… Dread tightened a stranglehold around his faith. Sweet Jesu, how will we stand against Torolf?

Nonetheless, he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. If he showed weakness, the battle would be lost before it began. “See to Cassie until Grunnhild arrives.”

At Bryn’s acknowledgment, Ragnar wheeled about and strode across Great Hall’s expanse. Drawing near the jarl’s dais, he experienced a shower of sensations raining upon him. Such irony. Pagan Rogaland would be led by a believer in Jesu. An overwhelming weight of responsibility for these people and sorrow that Alarik was not here at his side flooded over him.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped up and faced the people—his people. Many eyes turned his way, some hopeful, a few glad, but most simply curious. “Villagers of Rogaland.” He paused, allowing for silence to travel from one man to the next as they gathered closer. “The lawgiver has charged me as your new jarl.”

A round of ‘Hail Jarl Ragnar’ bounced like a skipped pebble across Great Hall before he continued. “I pledge my life to Rogaland’s peace and security, yet there is one who threatens us. Torolf will strike soon, and—”

The hinges screeched a banshee’s wail.

Both doors at the far end crashed open.

Ragnar unsheathed his sword, gripping it tight. Sweet Jesu, please. They were not ready…

The villagers parted, opening up an aisle. Two big men, one by far taller than any in the room, led a band of fifteen, mayhap twenty others. Ragnar blinked. Surely his vision failed him.

“
Hail, Ragnar,” the giant said. “Magnus have bad feeling, so we come to Rogaland. Ja, Kier?”

Next to him, Kier rolled his eyes. “Ja. Your bad feelings make everyone feel bad.” He angled his head toward Ragnar. “You might have warned me about that.”

Ragnar’s laugh started small and grew, until he swiped the moisture at the corner of his eye. How good it was to laugh again. When he caught his breath, he hollered to be heard. “Oláf! There will be feasting after all.”

He jumped from the dais and Magnus fairly swung him around. “You are a sight, my friend. Truly, a sight.”

But when he turned to clasp forearms with Kier, his mirth ended. Except for the creases at his eyes and the silver in his hair, Kier could have been mistaken for Alarik. His resemblance brought a fresh wave of mourning, almost drowning Ragnar, especially in knowing what must be spoken.

Ragnar led them to a long table, the three claiming one end. They must have traveled hard, for Magnus’ body odor walloped Ragnar’s nose. Kier settled across the table, and when their eyes met, he could think of no easy way to cushion his ill tidings. “’Twas wise of you, Kier, to heed Magnus’s feeling.”

“
I had no say in the matter. He is relentless.” Half a smile lightened his face as he glanced around the hall. “Where is Alarik?”

“
Much has happened.” Ragnar swallowed, words cornered in his throat like a wounded animal. “I am jarl of Rogaland now, and Alarik…Alarik paid for Einar’s death.”

“
How?” The question came out a little too loud, as if Kier suspected the answer.

“
With his life.” Ragnar looked away, allowing time for Kier to compose himself without scrutiny. Magnus busied himself with a large bowl of soup, obliviously slurping away. His loud, smacking lips must have masked Ragnar’s words.

“
Who called for such extreme payment?” Kier’s voice carried a sharp edge. Nay, a dangerous edge.

Ragnar turned back. “Torolf.”

Fiery passion lit Kier’s eyes overbright—the same look Alarik used to wear into battle. He stood, one hand resting on his knife, all the while searching the big room. “Where is this Torolf? I would like to meet him.”

“
You will, soon enough. I will send out a scout this eve to keep us aware of his movements.” Ragnar rose, planting his hands on the oak, and leaned toward Kier. “Torolf is a formidable foe. I seek his blood as earnestly as you. Yet there is one thing you should know.”

He settled his gaze on Ragnar. “What is that?”

“
Even with the men you’ve brought, Torolf outnumbers us two, mayhap three to one.”

THIRTY

Cassie dipped her bucket into the rain barrel one more time, then hefted it out full of water. Lugging it through the wide open doors of the byre, she sloshed a wet streak down the front of her skirt and left a muddy trail behind. An ox snorted and stamped when she spilled his drink, as if chiding her clumsiness. How did Grunnhild always make this look so easy?

She lifted the bucket and poured what remained into the roughhewn trough. Some splashed over the edges and showered the straw-strewn floor. Moist noses with whiskery muzzles leaned in. The oxen seemed content enough with their early morning refreshment. She set down her wooden pail, then straightened, brushing back stray strands of hair skewing her vision.

If only she felt as content as these dumb animals. She should. Grunnhild was nice, as Ragnar said. The longhouse she stayed in, cozy enough. And having Magnus and Kier around seemed like old times. So why the restless nights, blinking long hours into the dark? The never-ending days, mostly tagging at Grunnhild’s heels from lack of motivation to do anything else? She could chalk up the malaise to her keen desire for running water or electricity, but she knew it ran deeper than that. In fact, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say that Cassie Larson was moping around like a lovesick—

“
Cassie?”

She spun. A broad-shouldered silhouette darkened the doorway, and a tingle raced through her. As Ragnar drew near, the sensation settled low in her belly. She licked her lips, mouth suddenly dry.

He looked so…so…she sucked in a breath. Wheat colored hair hung long, just past his collar, damp from a fresh scrubbing. A well-trimmed beard outlined his strong cheekbones, framing full lips… No. She wouldn’t go there.

“
Grunnhild said you would be here.” He stopped, hardly an arm’s length away, much too close for her comfort.

She breathed deep to still her erratic heartbeat. His scent of woodsmoke and leather, manly and sensual, only made it beat all the harder. “Yeah.” Why did her voice sound so bright? Too bright. “I think Grunnhild sends me on errands just to get me out of her hair.”

“
Her hair?” He cocked his head and studied her.

Her knees weakened under his curious gaze. This was stupid. If she didn’t pull herself together, she’d embarrass them both. Already her cheeks flamed hot. She smoothed her moist palms along her skirt and stood taller. “Never mind. Did you want something?”

He nodded, indicating a wide log bench near a worktable laden with tools. “Sit. I would speak with you.”

Taking care not to watch his backside too closely for fear of tripping over her skirt and landing in a pile of manure, she followed—then wished she hadn’t when he sat close to her. Her pulse ratcheted to a dangerous level. She bit her lip, willing the pain to distract her from his shoulder pressed against hers and the memory of being held in his arms.

He glanced sideways at her and smiled. “The past days we have not had much time together, ja?”

“
I noticed.” Whoa. That came out like a bitter fishwife. She tucked back the wayward strands of hair yet again, wishing her harsh statement would be as easily brushed off.

“
I am sorry.” He shook his head, his smile weakening. “My responsibilities—”

“
No. Don’t.” He looked so weighted, so burdened as he stared into the distance of the byre. How dare she add to his concerns by pouting like a little girl just because he was busy? She rested her hand on his leg, hopefully letting him know she was one worry he needn’t carry. “I understand. You’re jarl now. Things are different.”

“
Ja, but…” He sighed and focused on her hand, then shifted. The bench creaked and his thigh tensed with the movement.

She pulled back her palm, practically burning from the heat induced by the ripple of his muscle.

“
I have something I should have given you long before.” He produced a small leather pouch. “’Twas Alarik’s wish for you to have this.”

A worn bit of thin leather nestled on his outstretched palm. That Alarik had thought enough of her to leave behind some small token poked her with needles of grief. Her fingertips brushed Ragnar’s as she reached for it, prickling her further. How could her body betray her at a time like this? She moved over, angling so that she faced Ragnar without being in constant contact.

Shaking the little bag, she dumped the contents into one hand. “Oh.” The word came out as a breath. Her pin, her carved brooch, the reason she found herself sitting next to the man she—dare she admit it? She swallowed and closed her eyes, clutching the pin to her breast.

“
You loved him, ja?” Little more than a whisper, Ragnar’s tone sounded like that of a lost little boy.

Boy? Oh, no. Sitting this close, she was all too aware of the man. She blinked open her eyes. The defeat in his sagging shoulders and sadness of his pressed lips startled her.

“
Yes, I did love Alarik.” Her verbal admission surprised even herself, though the next revelation shooting from her heart through her mouth stunned them both. “But not as much as I love you.”

The cattle’s lowing, the wind whistling in through the byre’s door, all sound receded except for Ragnar’s heart thudding in his ears. A ripple of alertness ran from head to toe, the same sensation of acute awareness as when entering a battle. Surely she could not know what she said.

“
Cassie.” His voice clogged with emotion. She gazed at him, sea-green eyes flecked with amber, the depth of which he could explore without care of ever—

What happened to his clear thinking? Ragged of face and body, he dared not give in to the hope she’d accidentally breathed life into. He shook his head. “You cannot know what you are saying. Try again.”

Never varying her gaze from his, she lifted her hand, slow, trembling, determined. He grasped her wrist as her fingers grazed against his hair, her pulse wild beneath his touch.

“
Nay.” He groaned the word.

Tears shone in her eyes. “Ragnar, please.”

The softness of her voice disarmed him more completely than a warrior’s assault, unleashing a strange desire to bare himself. Could he risk it? Should he?

He closed his eyes, unable to face her reaction, then loosened his hold. The swath of hair he’d hidden behind for three years lifted. He stiffened, fighting to simply breathe and not run.

She inhaled sharply but said nothing. What was there to say? Her repulsion must be so complete, so overwhelming, she probably couldn’t speak for the horror his face inflicted. He never should have agreed to this. Regret surged and—

The bench creaked. Warm, sweet breath brushed his face. Soft lips pressed a faery’s touch against his brow, sliding lower to his eye, resting briefly on his cheek. Her mouth, her breath, her warmth traveled the length of his ridged scar. The same endearment as in his vision, but this was no dream. A tremor shook through him.