“Nay, m’lady.” Serilda’s angry brown eyes shot hot flames, but the woman bit her tongue as she looked past Della to Brant. He sat lazily in his chair, but said nothing. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”
“Begone from this manor by morn. If you are still here on the morrow, you will be hanged for your insults to me.” Della smiled at the sour victory, knowing she had every right by law to banish her from the manor.
“Yea.” Serilda gathered her dress over her exposed chest and stumbled from the hall. The few men who’d heard the interchange were laughing merrily at the noblewoman fighting with a servant over their lord. The rest of the hall was too drunk to pay much heed, but would no doubt learn of it later.
“Why did you go and do that?” Brant slurred from behind her, drawing her attention back to him.
Della turned to glare at her husband. Her chest heaved with the effort it took to control her rage and she didn’t dare to answer him immediately.
“She did naught wrong,” Brant continued unabashed. “In fact, she was fulfilling your request.
“How?” Della shook as her fury started to find the words. Gunther had quieted at Brant’s side and both he and Gayla watched avidly. “How could you, m’lord, in front of everyone? In the main hall, at my place at the high table?”
“I’m sorry, wife. I had no idea you wanted my lap. Here, come.” Brant swayed toward her and pulled her onto his lap. Gayla giggled. Gunther held her fast, turning her head to give the ealdorman and his wife what privacy he could in a crowded hall. “You shall replace her, though I doubt your cold lips can compare to the warmth of hers.”
“Let go…of me,” she hissed as she fell against the warmth of his chest. “I will not be treated as such!”
“Such as what? Such as a woman? Such as a wife? Such as desired? Wanted? Loved? Lusted for? Favored? Adored?” Brant returned in a heated whisper of his own. His ale-laden breath hit hot upon her ear. “Or mayhap you mean such as a lover? Or whore? Or mistress? Or wife? Tell me, how will you not be treated, lady wife?”
“You make no sense. You are too far into your cups.” Della struggled against him. The smell of the liquor made her stomach curl with nausea. She’d thought the sickness had passed, but apparently it hadn’t. “Let…me…go!”
“Nay. Answer me. How shall I not treat you?” Brant successfully pinned her arms at her sides. Her feeble strength was no match for his war-hardened build. She ignored the encouraging cheers of the drunken crowd of knights who still watched the show, unable to feel anything past her husband’s nearness.
“Nay, you’re drunk.” Della strained against him. His power over her excited her and she tried to push the pleasure of his nearness away. He’d been away so long. How could he go to Serilda? Shivering, she saw the fine texture of his lips as they loomed near. When he was gone, she’d imagined his kisses, his mouth on hers, but now shuddered at the pain they caused her.
“Yea, that I am, but all the more reason for you to listen to me,” he warned. “I cannot control myself so well when I drink to excess. Mayhap, it’s the Viking in me wanting to come out. Is that not what you say of me? That I am a Viking barbarian? A thorn? A ravisher? A lewd boor?”
Brant leaned in to nuzzle the pulse in her neck. The short hairs of his freshly trimmed beard brushed along her skin and he licked her throat in a surprisingly expert caress. It had been so long since she’d felt the embrace of his arms, the heat between his thighs, large and wanting. She fought the desire, desperate to stay mad at him.
“I will not be treated with such disrespect.” Her argument lacked conviction. “You treat me like a whore in your hall.”
“Come, wife, what do you think of me?” he inquired of her neck, ignoring her protest. His hands turned caressing as he held her tight against him. The onlookers cheered, some inspired to grab maids of their own.
“Let go,” she demanded weakly against his strength. Inside she ached for him. It had been so long since she’d felt his hands, heard his seductive voice. She imagined his touch every night in bed. But she didn’t want him like this. Not drunk and using her as visual pleasure for his men. To add to her pain, she couldn’t forget that he had been doing the same thing with his hands to another woman a minute ago.
Nay, not just another woman—Serilda!
Della didn’t know what fact bothered her more. That he had been acting wanton with another woman. Or that the other woman had been Serilda. Or that she was so enjoying his attention at the moment that she wanted to forget her reasoning and let him continue.