Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (27 page)

Graceful, and lovely as the flowers of a summer meadow, she had stolen his breath at the first pleading look from her beautiful, slanted eyes. The boys tormented her, taunting her mercilessly for her ‘bad blood’, for she was the illegitimate daughter of the local thegn, Heorulf, and walked with a slight limp. By the time he happened upon them, the encounter had degenerated into a situation potentially devastating for her. Covered in mud and rotten eggs thrown by her persecutors, she had reminded him of a fawn, helpless and innocent, encircled by wolves, and desperately begging his aid and protection. Never had a woman needed him more.

He and Wat, the only one of his men with him at the time, made short work of the young ruffians’ high spirits, and taught them well the folly of their ill conduct. After, she thanked him with gracious words. He had been completely powerless to keep from staring at her full, red lips as she gazed up at him in adoration from the shelter of his arm. Nigh overcome by the horror of the attack, her soft, feminine form leaned so trustingly upon him, sweetly accepting his strength. He had whispered words of comfort and she responded as a flower opening to the sun.

He cared naught for the small affliction of her foot, for her beauty was as the radiance of the dawn spilling over the hills, as warm as the noontide sun and soft as the evening mist in the valleys. She was the promise of spring, and of summer’s fulfillment in one enticing, breath-taking female form. At the feel of her womanly curves in his arms, his body sang and his heart leapt with joy. He felt alive, as never before, his skin tingling, his breath coming in gasps it was difficult to hide. He wanted more, and she had promised more with her eyes, if he would only come to meet her father, Thegn Heorulf.

Her name was Ricel. Heorulf acknowledged her, she said, and accepted her as his daughter, had loved her and raised her as if she were one legally born. He would surely find an acceptable way to repay him for his kindness. She explained how she had come, through no fault of her own, to be separated from her father’s escort. He had returned her safely to them, even as they searched for her. When she told of his honorable rescue, they had added to hers their plea that he come to the manor to meet the thegn.

He had, and discovered the manor’s first marshal had recently died. An invitation to dinner was extended, and he gladly accepted. During the meal, he recounted his tale of the loss of Yriclea and its lord—for which he had accepted blame, as was proper—and his quest to save Lissa. Heorulf questioned him at length, offered whatever aid he might require, and then asked if he would consider taking the place of his own first marshal when his duty was discharged.

In the hours after, he had learned from the villagers the thegn was held by all to be a fair and honorable lord, and well able to afford a man of his talents and experience. He decided to accept the post, for he was no fool. He also decided to offer for Ricel. He had sensed Heorulf would not refuse. A lame girl-child of ignoble birth, no matter her beauty and graceful bearing, could not hope to look much higher than he, for he was the second son of a father wealthy and nobly born. Neither could he ask for more, as one who had yet to regain his honor. He still must seek vengeance against the northern thegn that killed his lord and destroyed Yriclea.

Thegn Heorulf had invited him back yestre eve. Something shifted inside his heart and mind during the feast laid out for him. It was as if he saw clearly, for the first time. He and the thegn had spoken long into the night. At its end, when the man offered his lovely daughter to wife as incentive to pledge his fealty, he had willingly yielded his loyalty and his sword. To Ricel, he pledged his guidance, his heart and the honor of his name…and therein lay his dilemma.

What then, of Lissa? He remained honor bound to free her from the hands of the Northmen. Did she still live, and if so, what chance was there her innocence remained intact? She had been in the Danes’ company nine days. His rage had not ceased to goad him, and yet his mind squirmed at thought of her purity being taken by those barbarians. He understood now, because of Ricel, that he had never truly loved her, just as he had always known she had never loved him. One look—only one!—from the exotic eyes of Ricel, and he had understood his affection for Lissa was a wan and shallow thing of his youth, forged in ignorance, for never in all his years had he encountered a fire that burned with the heat and depth of this new feeling.

Still, his heart held compassion for Lissa’s plight. Rising to his feet, he set the empty tankard on the table, got out of his clothes and crawled onto the thick pallet. As he settled himself and drifted toward sleep, his mind was at peace. He would see her freed, and help her find a place where she could be happy. Perhaps, the thegn would know of a good man who would not mind she was no longer pure, who would take her and be a kind and profitable husband to her. Then he would find the thegn responsible for the destruction of Yriclea and exact his revenge for the shame heaped upon him. When he returned to Andeferas, the new life with Ricel, that promised more than ever he had dreamed, would await him.

∞∞§∞∞

Brandr found his small flock in the soft light of early morn. He stepped into the midst of the sleepers and waited.

“You are late.” Turold, Fægennes in hand, approached him from behind a trio of oaks that grew closely together. “Where is Sindre?”

“There was an accident. He will be well, but for now is not able to walk long distances. I had to go farther than I hoped to find a safe place to leave him. It took much time, nor was it an easy task to get him there.”

Turold chuckled and sheathed his weapon. “I find that not surprising. Lissa feared for you. She did not sleep until a short time ago.”

“I know.” A keen awareness had developed where she was concerned. He sensed her feelings, and found he understood her needs and, more oft than not, correctly guessed her thoughts. Little things about her had caught his notice, like the precise way her tip-tilted little nose scrunched when she smelled something unpleasant, or how she breathed through her mouth when she focused on a task. It held much in common with the close ties he shared with his brothers, only deeper.

Oswulf sat up, nodded a welcome and took Bryda out of the camp.

The dark bundle at his feet stirred. “Brandr?”

The quiet word was awash with hope and relief. He knelt on one knee and pushed back the hood of his cloak from her face. “I am here, lítill blóm.”

She knocked him onto his back as she lunged up from the ground to wrap her arms around his neck. “What took you so long? I feared….”

He chuckled and rolled over with her, settling himself against her softness. Hammer of Thorr, but she felt good beneath him, though the pleasure he took in the press of her yielding curves along the length of his body was less erotic, than a sense of belonging, of homecoming. In truth, he had missed her, and it was right and proper she was back in his arms and his care. The worry he might have sent her into danger worse than he sought to protect her from had plagued him from the moment he left her, and had not dissipated until this moment.

In some hidden corner of his soul he rarely acknowledged, he admitted what should have been clear all along. He was falling in love with his thrall. A marked complacency filled his mind at the idea.

He stroked golden curls off her face and gave in to the hunger to kiss her. It was a long, slow, thorough kiss, part of ownership, part of lust and all of a steadily intensifying bond that spoke of longing and caring.

Turold walked away, his quiet laughter echoing through the grove. “Fair maid and brave warrior, both with colorfully bruised faces to prove their valor. I will make a song of this.”

Brandr snorted and raised his head. Happiness and desire darkened Lissa’s golden eyes. He touched his lips to the corner of her mouth. “Your virtue will be in grave danger, thrall, if I do not stop
now
.” He grinned at the quick blush his words wrought. He sobered. “I am glad to find you safe, Lissa.”

“And I, you.”

He got to his feet and pulled her up beside him, his glance touching her stomach. “You are better?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then we must be away, and soon, before any villagers decide to come this way. Sindre is injured and awaits us.”

“Is it a grave injury? Oh, and do you hunger? Have you eaten since yestre day?”

“Nei, já and nei. I will explain when all are awake to hear, and we will not break our fast until we return to Sindre.”

She nodded and attempted to tidy her mussed hair and smooth the wrinkles in the old brown cyrtel, but the effort was ineffectual. No matter. The place where he left his uncle was private, close to a spring-fed pond where they could all bathe, and far enough from both the road and the nearby village to offer as much safe shelter as could be devised, but it would take some time to get there.

Oswulf came back into camp with Bryda. His scrutiny was sharp as he shook Alwin awake. “I see no blood. It was not soldiers, then?”

“Nei.”

“Leóf!”

Brandr braced as the small form hurtled across the grove and plastered itself against him, hugging him fiercely.

“You have returned!” Alwin tilted his face up to peer at him. “Lissa worried for you.”

He settled his hands on the boy’s thin shoulders. “And you of course, did not.”

Alwin, suddenly remembering he was supposed to be grown up, untangled himself and straightened. “Nay, I swear it!” Then, he grinned. “Well, maybe a little.” He peered around. “Where is Master Sindre?”

“Master Sindre has gotten himself a twisted ankle. He waits for us.”

He told the tale while they made the few preparations necessary to leave. “We traveled along the lee of a hill steeper than the one where we parted, but the rains had soaked the ground and it was more unsettled than we knew. Sindre stepped onto a spot that looked like any other. It shifted and slid beneath his feet, and threw him.” He started to laugh. “He rolled all the way down the hill, cursing the whole time. He can stand on one foot, but not walk. I believe his ankle will heal before his pride.”

“I will give him my shoulder to lean on,” Alwin declared.

“He will need it, no doubt.”

Turold cleared his throat. “Brandr, there is that which you should know.”

“Go on.”

“Yestre eve, crossing the river, we were watched by a hidden group of men. I could not see them all, but I believe their number was half a score at least, and those I could see were armed. They laid in wait for someone, and not for the good. They let us pass without showing themselves, but I am certain they were those we have been expecting.”

“Then it is good we separated.”

Unfamilliar feminine laughter floated into the grove from the direction of the village.

Brandr gestured toward the opposite side. “We will talk more of this later. Go! Quickly, now.”

East he led them, along the edge of a barley field, past a coppiced wood enclosed by a woodbank adorned in purple vetch and pink dog rose, and over empty hills covered in green grass and scattered stands of elm and beech. Beyond these, they came to a tiny pond of cold, clear water bounded by willows and rowans. At the far edge, the ruin of a stone building beckoned. It was little more than a hut, and the roof was missing, but the walls were mostly intact.

His uncle would be aware someone approached. He called out. “Sindre, we have come.”

His uncle rested against a wall, legs stretched in front of him. His axe lay to hand across his knees. “You made good time, Músa. I did not expect you before Dagmál. Where is the food? A man could starve waiting for thralls to bring him a meal.”

Before he could answer, Lissa dumped the food sack at his feet. She bent to look him square in the eye.

Brandr raised a brow when his uncle’s cheeks pinkened at her look. What prompted that interesting reaction?

“You, Master Sindre,” she said, “have need of patience!” But she tempered the impudent statement with a smile and started to lay out what food remained of their Midsummer feast.

Brandr felt his stomach growl at sight of the slices of smoked meat and cheese she laid out on a wooden plate.

At the same time, Sindre’s belly also rumbled. “At last, your thrall remembers her place, Músa.”

He was too busy trying not to fall upon the food to answer. At least there was plenty of meat for now, but even the last bit of bread, stale and hard, made his mouth water. Lissa softened the bread with a generous sprinkling of water. She served him first, and then Sindre, before passing the plate around to the others. He gobbled without bothering to sit.

“I will keep watch,” Oswulf said, taking his meal with him.

He nodded to the ceorl as he passed. Only the birdsong and the hum of a curious bee broke the silence while everyone ate.

Hunger satisfied, he was ready to leave the hut when Lissa and Alwin caught his eye.

Much to his uncle’s annoyance, Lissa was examining his ankle. “So,” she said, her practical tones lacking in sympathy, “now you have bruises to match the rest of us.”

Undeterred by Sindre’s grumbling, her fingers gently prodded swollen flesh.

Brandr craned his neck to look over her shoulder, pleased to see the injury did indeed appear minor. He had feared it would force them to remain here at the hut for several days, which thought made him distinctly uneasy.

Alwin, his brow furrowed, said something too quiet to hear.

Feeling left out and not liking it, he said, “What think you, Lissa? Will he survive?”

At his question, both of his thralls looked up, their heads so close together they nigh touched. Two pairs of wide, identical golden brown eyes peered at him from beneath the same shade of thick blonde hair, like the yellow fire of the gold.

He blinked.

Siblings!

But that was impossible. Or was it? He thought of what he knew about them both. Though they had not previously known each other, they were not only similar in looks, but in temper and humor, as well. Both appeared, at first glance, to be unassuming, but time in their presence disclosed keen awareness and a lively, if quiet sense of humor, as well as inner strength and courage.