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Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(25)



“Your father insists we finish so there can be no doubt as to our union    . I gave him my word and I will keep it.”

“Could we please get this farce over with?” Della turned from him in dismissal.

“Noble guests,” Brant announced, stopping her. His tone had turned serious. “We are grateful you have shared in our day. It would appear we are to leave the festivities early. My new bride is anxious to…” He paused. Della couldn’t move. “To make the match binding.”

The meaning in his words was clear and the inebriated crowd cheered out lewd suggestions as Della’s face turned red. Mortified, her mouth opened as her eyes darted to Brant. A smug look lined his features.

If you, m’lord, want a battle of the wills, then you have just met your match in a woman! Della swore she would repay him for this insult.

A crowd of giggling, eager women rushed the high table before she had a chance to rebut his claim. Hands grabbed her, pushing and pulling as they led her from the great hall. She didn’t recognize some of their faces. With the suggestions of the men ringing loudly behind her, the women forced her toward the stairwell.

“Della the Cold, it seems her ice has melted after all!”

“If it’s too hard a task, m’lord, I would be willing to do it fer you!”

“Nay, Lord Blackwell knows well how to sheathe his sword!”

“It would seem Lady Blackwell has heard that as well!”

Della was repulsed by their blatant disrespect. They kept up with their vulgar remarks, only shouting louder once she disappeared into the stairwell. The women giggled at the overbold men, a few even whispering their own unblushing suggestions for the bride. A persistent wave of hands pushed at her, forcing her toward the bedchamber. And, ringing loud above the entire commotion, she heard the irritating sound of her husband’s lusty laughter.





* * * * *


“It would appear the maiden has not softened yer mood.”

“I would be better off with my mistress in Jorvik.” Brant said to Gunther, even as he stared at the stairwell. He had tried to let her outbursts pass unpunished, for she had much on her mind with her father’s illness. Clearly, she hadn’t been told of Lord Strathfeld’s condition beforehand. But as she’d tried to walk away from him as if she were too good to be in his presence, he couldn’t help the plan that formed in his head. No matter how sorry he felt for her, he could not allow her public insolence to continue. There were too many eyes on them, too much at stake. One wrong look, one wrong act on his part and he would have more headache then he needed. If it had been anyone else but Gunther, he wouldn’t have admitted his irritation over Della’s actions. “My bride is a shrewish wench.”

“It’s not so bad—” Gunther laughed at the skeptical look Brant gave him, drawing curious attention to them. Lowering his tone, he said, “She is more beautiful than rumored and I should think you would like a bit o’ fire between the linens.”

“Yea, she is beautiful, but her beauty does have an awful spite to it.” Brant took a pitcher from a passing maid and lifted it to his lips, gulping down the contents. When he finished, the maid was giggling. Handing it back to her, he said to his friend, “I am sorry for her sadness over her father, but I will not disrespect the wishes of a dying man to ease the displeasure of a quick-tempered woman. I promised to make this union     work. The shrew is about to meet her match.”





Chapter Five




Della huddled beneath a thick coverlet, teeth clenched in apprehension. The women, unfamiliar with the abovestairs of the keep, hadn’t thought twice about following her direction to her own bedchamber and not her husband’s. Though she’d protested every step, nothing she said could have spoiled their good humor. They giggled at her attempts to stay their hands as they quickly, and with surprisingly expert skill, undressed her. One plump, elderly woman even pinched the flesh of her backside.

She had never been seen naked by so many curious eyes and had tried to cover herself with her hands. When that didn’t work, she’d taken one of her sleeping gowns from her trunk. The act only seemed to amuse the women more, as they laughed harder and suggested she wear nothing at all.

With the women gone, it was only a matter of time before the men arrived with Lord Blackwell. Seconds blended with minutes until she had no idea how long she waited. Every slight noise made her jump with alarm.

The bedchamber was uncommonly cold even with the fire blazing in the small hearth. Within the flame danced images so haunting that she couldn’t look away. The first was that of a fiery red streak through pale blond. Then of her husband’s supple lips under his beard and his clear, summer sky eyes behind the sweep of his lashes. She tried, but could not banish him from her thoughts and she hated herself for it.