Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(3)

“Yea, Ebba?” Della’s head was forced back to look up at the man. His light blue eyes held a rigid formality within their depths, though his words had carried some vast amusement. Della found herself suddenly grateful he wasn’t to be her intended. She thought her fiancé was big, but this one gave her reason to pause.

“M’lady?” Ebba insisted once more, tugging lightly on her mistress’s sleeve. The barbarian raised an eyebrow and Della’s frown deepened.

The noblewoman drew her gaze away first. “Ebba, get you to the kitchen and tell Isa about our guests. Mayhap they would like a draught of mead after their travels.”

“Yea, m’lady.” Ebba gave a small curtsy and scurried away in relief.

“Do you know Lord Blackwell?” the Viking warrior asked when they were alone. His low voice dripped over her like heated syrup—thick and warm and wickedly sweet. For a barbarian, he was well pronounced despite the heathen accent. He hadn’t moved, but with Ebba gone Della lost some of her confidence. She didn’t like being alone with him.

She was by no means a short woman and yet this man still towered over her. An unsettled feeling curled in her stomach at his nearness, taking her by surprise. She took a step back to put some distance between them. His mouth twitched up in obvious amusement and she was compelled to run. Not many people could frighten her by their mere proximity.

I am a lady. I am above him. The words were less convincing than before.

Purposefully, she gave a slow, dispassionate glance over the length of his attire, refusing to let him know he unsettled her. It was a mistake. Looking at him only made the feelings worse. The flexible chainmail shirt he wore ran across an expansive chest, the heavy links molding into the folds of his muscles. An unfamiliar fire worked its way through her, causing a shiver to run the length of her body.

Repulsive, Della thought, hoping to convince herself she meant it.

From the look of his shabby clothing, she presumed he was part of Blackwell’s hird, the retinue of fighting men who served under him. His crossed arms and widespread stance effectively made an unbreakable barricade. Under his threadbare long tunic, she detected his thighs were like the trunks of two large oaks and his arms like their immense branches. It occurred to her if she were to try, she wouldn’t be able to wrap her arms around his upper body.

Della saw how this man would make a formidable opponent on the field of battle and off it. His hair hung loose, in the typical Viking style, to just below his shoulders with two braids plated into it behind the ears and banded with thin strips of leather. He had trimmed blond whiskers over his jaw. She looked at his eyes, momentarily lost in the clearness of their depths.

Come on, girl, wake up! He is a lecherous Viking!

The barbarian raised his eyebrow and an amused corner of his mouth wrenched up higher than before. She grudgingly noticed the attractiveness of his lips under the short beard.

“Do you know Lord Blackwell?” he repeated. “His manor lies not far from here and you speak as if you are acquainted.”

Blessed Saints! She chastised herself, annoyed at having been caught staring like a dimwitted fool.

“Nay. It’s only by his inflated reputation that I know of him.” Her icy features remained purposefully blank, though she was hard pressed to keep the hauteur from her voice.

The Viking nodded and Della wondered at his unwarranted concern. As he stepped forward, a lock of his long hair fell across his shoulder. The braid on the left side of his head appeared to be a dark shade of red, while the rest of his hair was lighter blond. It reminded her of a streak of fire burning through a golden field of wheat. It was said that Vikings were able to bleach the color from their hair with soaps, though she had never seen it done.

“Do you ride with Lord Blackwell oft?” Trying to sound uninterested, she turned to watch her father and intended. She decided to ignore the fact that the man to her side wasn’t properly introduced.

Leastways, mayhap I can discover a few things about my intended.

“Yea, oft enough,” he answered, his tone serious. “It’s almost like we are the same person.”

Della scrunched up her nose at his enigmatic words. “And you have fought together in many battles, I presume?”

“Yea, and sometimes we even sleep by the same row of cattle,” the man whispered mischievously.

Della paled and refused to look at him. She was about to question him further when she saw her father turn to her with a look of satisfaction. Nodding her head stiffly in the ealdorman’s direction, she acknowledged his interest.

“Lord Strathfeld is a good man.” The Viking prevented her from asking more. There was a yielding respect in his voice as he spoke. “He has truly proved his worth in battle.”