Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(11)

Brant grunted like he was in pain as she hit him. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and grabbed her butt with his free hand. Giving her cheek a hard squeeze, he warned, “Hold! Or I will likely drop you on your hard head.”

Della instantly let her arms fall and did as he commanded. A strangely devious and unfamiliar response started in her stomach at his arrogant handling and she felt the familiar way in which his hand caressed her backside. For a moment, the touch mystified her into silence. The heat of his grip sent scorching waves of fire through the two layers of linen she wore.

Della stiffened as she realized he was carrying her to the bedchambers. Tears instantly came to her eyes and she began to shake. The weight of his hand deepened on her sensitive bottom. Her thighs tightened and she became hot as an unusual throbbing started in her core. She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing to run as soon as she was let down, and prayed her quivering legs would carry her.

He moved his hand from her backside to push open his chamber door. Then, with a hard jerk, he kicked it shut behind him. The door vibrated with a decisive thud. He carried her across the chamber and effortlessly tossed her onto the feather mattress. Standing over her, he crossed his arms to make an impenetrable barrier with his body. His eyes silently dared her to run.

Della shivered. Hurrying to her hands and knees, she backed away from her potential ravisher. She dashed the shameful tears that slipped from her eyes. Brant watched her edge to the side of the bed, a look of hot passion on his face.

“You are naught more than a dishonorable barbarian,” she yelled, terrified by the animalistic way he looked at her. It was like a starving man watching a loaf of bread.

“And you are a spoiled shrew,” he fired back.

“Miserable lout!”

“Aggravating wench!”

“Heathen!”

“Battle-axe!”

“Wretched boor!”

“Enchantress.” He softened his tone and smiled when her mouth dropped open with no reply. “So, there is a way to silence your foolish tongue. I could quickly show you more effective ways to draw a compliment from your lord husband.”

Enchantress? Della swallowed uncomfortably. No one had ever said such a thing about her, at least not to her face. She cursed herself for the pleasure she felt at the compliment. “You are not my husband.”

“Yea, not yet, but I will be soon enough. There are a few things we need to get straight between us if this is to be a happy marriage.”

She eyed his devilish looks. He still wore the same long tunic he had been wearing earlier, only he had removed the chain mail. His clothes were threadbare and bewailed a want for a woman’s touch. They lacked fine embroidery at the edges and the material was old, not at all fit for a leader of men and the future Ealdorman of Strathfeld. She wondered why the poor quality of his clothing didn’t bother her as much as it should. Or why she suddenly felt compelled to rip the tunic from his chest to see what was hidden beneath.

“If it is happiness you seek, m’lord, mayhap you should seek another wife. It’s not too late.” Her low whisper sounded ominous. “For you will not find happiness with me.”

He studied her for a long time. Then, as if trying to be reasonable, he said, “Mayhap, you judge our marriage too harshly and out of turn.”

“Nay.” She reached to pull at the material that hung from the top canopy of the bed and entangled her foot. “It is you who judge me out of turn. I refuse to be married to a Viking. The whole race of you murderous heathen barbarians can rot. Call me a traitor. Do whatever it is you do, but I’d rather hang than—”

“I am afraid, m’lady, you have no choice in the matter, for it is out of your hands. You will be Lady Blackwell or you will suffer—”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Either you wed with me two days hence or you die a pauper.”

Della understood instinctively that the man before her wasn’t lying. He would ruin her if she refused him, and not only her. There were a lot of people living in Strathfeld Castle and the surrounding lands, a lot of people who depended on her—Saxon people. No matter what she felt, she couldn’t be selfish. Lifting her chin as she stood on the other side of the bed, she wasn’t willing to be humbled by his threats. “Yea, I will marry you then, but heed my words. It will be rape the night of the wedding and every night thereafter you seek your husband rights. I will never lie with you of my own free will and I will fight you every time you try to take me. My body will not bear you a child. I will seek the help of the midwife if it becomes necessary. If it’s happiness you are seeking, it will not be at my hand.”