Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(26)

What is wrong with me? I refuse to be attracted to a Viking. I cannot be. Another thought occurred to her and she slapped the flat of her hand against her temple. The drink!

“The lout has woven one of his pagan spells over my senses,” Della said to herself in vexation. “That loathsome, ignorant son of a pig! That…that… Argh!”

That is why I still smell his scent of mint and horses, of earth and man. He put me under a spell!

Hitting the padded straw mattress in frustration, she shivered anew. The memory of his scent drifted over her as if he were there. She bit her lip, rubbing the top of her thigh through the coverlet. The spell tempted her to accept what it offered and, for a single moment, she let the thought of her husband overwhelm her.

Closing her eyes, she gently touched her lips with the pads of her fingers. She wondered what his mouth would feel like against hers. What untold promises did his hands hold for her, as he caressed the entire length of her form? Had he not said he intended to do just that?

Della ran her hand over her cheek and down her throat, imagining that it was his caress touching her. The erratic beat of her heart sounded in her ears. An ache started in her body, an unfamiliar longing that set a fire within her stomach and caused her thighs to tingle.

From the back of her mind, she heard a faint scream. It was her mother’s voice, telling her to stop, to fight the curse he put over her. She jolted at the terrifying sound. It was so real that it drowned out even the loud crackling of the fire. Balling her hand, she forced herself to remember her mother’s face, to hear her cries for help. A tear slipped over her cheek. Time had faded much, but the impression of her mother’s death, the knowledge of it, was still there. She’d been young when she witnessed it, but not so young as to forget that Viking barbarians had killed the woman. And now her father was in the other room, dying. She should be with her father, not sitting on a bed waiting for her louse of a Viking husband.

She twisted the ring Brant had given her around her finger, not taking it off. A thin band of bronze with a polished piece of amber in the middle was an odd choice in wedding bands. Most noblewomen received thin threads of gold and large jewels. The weight felt awkward on her finger, like a shackle. It would be a constant reminder that she now belonged to her husband—from daughter to wife and no say in between.

Part of her irritation was because the king would not let her inherit the responsibility of the manor, despite the fact she’d been solely in charge of every decision for the last five years. Della knew every inch of the keep, every page of every ledger, every villager, every animal, and every season. She knew every child, every illness, and every memory. And now everything was being taken from her.

After what seemed like both an eternity and a second, she heard the boisterous throng of men leading her husband to her. Della cringed as they opened the door to Brant’s bedchamber. She should have been waiting for him there, but she could not bring herself to leave the comfort of her room.

Mayhap the oafs will get lost, she hoped.

“Nay, it’s empty!” a man crowed. His drunken words echoed loudly over the clamor of men. “Mayhap the Lady of Ice has melted away completely.”

You drunken lout! Della felt like screaming. She nestled deeper beneath the coverlet. It wasn’t her fault she had to be tough to run the manor. How else would the men follow the direction of a mere woman? Tears rushed to her eyes anew. I’m not cold-hearted. I’m not!

The men came nearer and their insults grew as they encouraged each other on, remarking on her icy nature, claiming how Lord Blackwell best be careful lest she freeze parts of his body off. The last drew a heated debate between them on whether she would melt or Brant would freeze.

“Methinks the maiden is hiding from you, Brant!” Della recognized Gunther’s taunting voice.

She clutched the linens and held them to her chin, the texture rough against her palm as she agitated her fingers. Keeping her eyes on the door, she willed the men to lose their way, but eventually the light from their torches shone beneath the frame. They’d found her.

Della refused to look as the door was thrown open. A gush of cool air filled the room, making her stiffen in dread. For a long time, she didn’t move amidst the robust jests. When finally she looked, she saw her husband. Some of the men were pulling at his tunics, baring his strong stomach and sides.

She sucked in a deep breath and held it, letting her eyes roam from his delectably flat stomach, up his muscled chest, to his thick neck. For a man of his large size, there wasn’t a single ounce of fat on him. A small trail of darker hair grew seductively below his navel, leading a downward path into his tight fitting braccas. His feet were bare.