Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(10)

Or the spirit.

He knew the moment her gaze alighted on him and felt the chill of her icy stare from across the room. Suddenly he frowned, disapproving of her second public display of anger.

“Lord Blackwell,” Della fumed at him from below as she made her way up to the high table. Once on the raised platform, she placed the palms of her hands squarely on the table to stare him down. Brant smiled and moved as if to look down her bodice. Della gasped and straightened. Her hands flew to cover what little cleavage showed before fisting stiffly at her sides. He shot her a devilish smile. Her face tightened until it looked as if she might crack. “May I have a word with you?”

Brant studied her for a second, pretending to ponder his answer. She was an enchanting creature despite the constant icy restraint on her face. Her eyes were the color of prized Viking amber and hair was of the lightest spun gold. Earlier the locks had fallen freely to her waist in waves of pleasing softness, but now she had it bundled tightly to the back of her head and held into place with a circlet of gold chains. He had a feeling it was to keep him from fondling it again.

She grabbed a fistful of her long blue dress at the waist and held it in her clenched hand. Her foot tapped as she waited impatiently for his answer. He tried not to let his amusement show. Finally, he nodded once to grant her permission.

Della took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “Perchance I may have a word with you in private, m’lord?”

Brant hid his delight at her mocking restraint, again pretending to mull her request over in his mind. “Nay.”

Her jaw dropped and her eyes rounded in bewilderment. It was clear she was rarely refused anything. Bristling as Gunther laughed, she shot a deadly look to his friend. To her credit, it quieted the man’s laugh to a chuckle. She turned her thorns to him once more.

Brant realized only he could detect the small changes in her emotions. To anyone else in the hall she would appear cool and calm. He watched her mounting fury and wondered how far he could push her before she exploded. Would her passions be as easy to rise between the bed linens? He found it peculiar that he wanted to demand control from her a moment before and now he couldn’t seem to stop himself from provoking her anger.

She wasn’t as frigid as she would lead him to believe. There was a wealth of passion in her, just waiting to be released. Perhaps, when he showed her the pleasure of the marriage bed, she wouldn’t be so adverse to his presence. Brant suppressed a grin. She might even beg for it.



Della glared at the obstinate man, despising his highhanded treatment of her and thought, You are not Ealdorman of Strathfeld yet, Brant the Thorn, you Viking barbarian! This is still my father’s keep.

“Must I insist?” She clenched her teeth.

“Insist all you like, but the answer is nay. I am content where I am.” He looked obnoxiously smug. She watched as he lifted a lazy hand to his beard to scratch at his chin.

I’ll bet he is infested with fleas, she thought in dismay, and I will have to clean the rushes daily because of it.

She raised her chin and her voice, not caring that Gunther was there to witness. “Very well, I refuse to marry you. I’d rather live my life as a pauper, scrubbing the garderobes. I care not for you or your pagan customs. Is this clear enough for you?”

Brant snarled. He shot to his feet, slamming his palm flat onto the high table. “Methinks it’s about time I had a talk with my lady bride.”

Her jaw dropped as she took a hasty step back. She placed her hands defiantly on her hips and didn’t look away. But, even so, she knew she had talked too out of turn. His dark fury poured from every movement. She cursed herself for again daring to step too close to the flame. He stalked around the table until he was well upon her. His fists were hard balls at his sides, attesting to his ire. Without pause, he grabbed her about the waist and threw her easily over his shoulder.

“Oomph.” Della felt the wind rush from her lungs as she landed hard against him. He then leapt from the platform like a raging beast to the main hall floor. Della screamed and clutched at his back for support. Much to her amazement, he didn’t drop her. His feet found easy footing in the rushes. Screaming, she demanded, “Let go of me, you oaf. How dare you treat me like this? I am Lady Della of Strathfeld. I am a lady!”

Brant’s arm blazed a liquid heat into her stomach as he adjusted her on his shoulder. Della dangled helplessly over his back, pressed intimately against the heat of his body. Her waist fit next to his thick neck and he held her steady with one arm wrapped around her upper thighs. Della didn’t move, noting in astonishment how gracefully he walked for a man of his size. Then, hearing Gunther’s hearty laughter, she came to her senses. She pushed her arms on his back and wielded herself up with a cry of fury.