Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(16)

“Yea, and Rab. While he is a foundling, it doesn’t mean his life is less important than a child who has parents.” She sighed in frustration, realizing she was getting agitated.

Gunther only smiled and continued to walk beside her in silence. He offered her his arm and she took it politely. Nodding to a few people, she inquired about their health and their families. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to him. “Why does Lord Blackwell lighten his hair? Is it a custom of his?”

“What?” He tried not to laugh and failed.

“His hair. Why does he lighten that red streak into the side of it?” She bit her lip. “Is his hair blond or red? And does the dyeing take him long to do? It seems a shame to waste much time on it, for there is naught to be done for him.”

Gunther only laughed harder. Patting the hand that rested on his arm, he ignored her pointed attack on Brant’s attractiveness. “That is not bleach, but how his hair grows. His mother named him Brant, meaning ‘one of fire’ because of it. They say he came from her belly in a blaze and has gone fiery to many women since.”

“I see.” Her jaw tightened as she got his meaning. Appalled, she thought, Wretched, lecherous barbarian!

Gunther cleared his throat, evidently having forgotten for a moment that he spoke to a lady. He had the decency to look embarrassed and started walking again, forcing her to continue on. “Would m’lady be so kind as to show me the work being done to the bailey walls?”

“Most certainly,” Della answered stiffly, her good mood dampened. She wondered at the burning sensation in her chest as she thought of Brant with other women. Then, with a decided shake of her head, she determined that it most assuredly could not be jealousy.





* * * * *


Della spent most of the day with Gunther. Considering he was a loyal subject to Lord Blackwell, he was a pleasant enough companion. He’d been surprised at her knowledge of the fortifications. When she’d shown him the additional plans she’d designed for the castle, he seemed almost unable to accept that she, and not Lord Strathfeld, had designed most of the keep.

What is it with men? Why do they think they are the only ones with brains? And most of them with skulls so thick you could not even use their heads for carrying water.

Brant and Lord Strathfeld had been gone since the morning. She was glad they were away chasing raiders. It meant she didn’t have to face her intended. She didn’t think she could control herself quite yet. Invariably when she thought of his willful embrace, her body would grow hot again and she’d be plagued with unfamiliar sensations.

Damned pagan curse!

Judging from the information she’d gotten out of Rab, there was a terrible fire in one of the cotters. An elderly couple had been killed in the flames. Della was saddened by the news. She knew well the location of the fire and could deduce that her father and her intended would be returning shortly. Not wishing to be around when that happened, she hid in her room.

Ebba’s loud knock sounded again on the door. Della had been ignoring it in hopes that the servant would think she slept and leave her alone, but the knock was persistent. Trying to hide her ire at being interrupted, Della stood and slid on a tunic to conceal her nightclothes.

Since it was still early in the eve, she hadn’t yet tried to sleep. Della hardly ever slept at night, or at all for that matter. It had been that way since childhood. Presently she’d been staring into the small fireplace, bemoaning her future in self-pity. If it were up to her, she would have continued to do so undisturbed. Ebba knocked again, louder and more insistent.

With a heavy sigh, she unlocked her bedchamber door. Her stomach was tied up in nerves. She’d locked the heavy oak to keep Brant out, lest he get it into his mind to keep his word and try to make her plead for his favors before the nuptials. Although, a nagging part of her doubted a mere lock would keep the barbarian out if he wanted to come in.

“Yea, Ebba?” Della was aggravated as she pulled open the door and looked out into the hall. She froze, seeing the white face of the young maid. “Ebba, what is it? What has happened? Is it my father?”

“M’lady, I’m sorry,” Ebba said quietly.

Alarmed, Della looked behind the woman. A few torches lit the dim hall to reveal a small gathering of people. Amidst the throng was her father. She sighed with relief to see him. But then her eyes drifted to the grim countenances of Lord Blackwell and the few servants who stood behind him, and finally she detected the midwife, Serilda. The woman smiled at her. Della didn’t care for the woman and took the smile with a sense of foreboding.

“Begone, Ebba,” Della hissed. When the maid scurried from her sight, she put her hands to her hips and turned her cold, proud gaze to her father. “What is the meaning of this deception? Why send Ebba to bring me from my chambers? I would have answered your knock as readily as hers.”