Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(45)

Brant wasn’t surprised and still he waited for the words to take themselves back. At her insistence, he turned his attention to the rolled parchment. An acute pain assaulted him at her rejection. Frowning, he strode into the chamber, not handing it over.

“Give it to me. I will read it to you.” Della followed him inside and quietly shut the door.

Was this a game? Could she truly not know what he would think her intent was, bringing him to his chamber in such a way? Did the woman mean to turn him around until he couldn’t see straight, running him through with the dagger of her withheld affections?

Brant shot her a hard stare. “What do you mean to imply?”

“I saw that you were having trouble. Methought to save you the discomfort of admitting you don’t understand what the missive says. It is naught to be ashamed of. Many nobles have not been taught. And, well, you are a Viking.”

His frown darkened into a scowl. She took a step back as his body visibly stiffened. Brant didn’t move and her attention seemed caught by the soft fur rug he’d ordered placed on the floor upon his arrival. Then, as if steeling herself, she swallowed any emotion she must have felt and looked up. Again, she held out her hand.

“If you like, I will teach you, and to write also,” she said. “That way when you are about your travels, you will be able to read what I write to you and send direction. But, for now, hand me the missive and I will read it to you.”

She hadn’t given up on her idea of sending him away. Part of him wanted to laugh, but it was a small part. Then an idea formed in his head. His wife was trying to come to his rescue. He wasn’t sure if he should be insulted by her presumption or flattered by her unsuspected loyalty.

He sat and put the missive next to him on the bed, beckoning her to join him with a tilt of his head. She came to him, her steps slow as if she didn’t trust him. He remembered how good she felt against him and knew it was wise of her to be wary of his intensions. Though he tried, he couldn’t keep the wicked smile from curving on his face.

Sitting, she stretched behind his body to pick up the message. Brant grabbed her arm, gently drawing it from behind his back to face him. She looked at him in surprise. “But—”

“I can read, Della.” Brant took a deep breath, letting her scent settle around him. She carried the light aroma of wildflowers in her hair. The honeyed tresses were bound back to the nape of her neck, but fell freely from there. He could also smell the trace of soap from where she helped the servants to clean the hall.

“But I saw you struggling,” she said, confused. “It’s naught to be ashamed of, m’lord.”

Brant heard the quiver in her words. Stroking his hand up her arm, he moved to touch her under her chin. He saw her eyes widen uncomfortably at his handling. He tilted her jaw back so he could look fully at her face. “It sometimes takes me awhile since this is not my natural language, but I can read it. My father insisted.”

“So you were struggling? You did need my help?”

Why did I not see it earlier? You, my little Ice Princess, like to take care of everyone. Whether an illegitimate child, a manor full of servants, or an illiterate husband. It seems this little trait even surpasses your unrelenting repulsion of my heritage.

Brant smiled suddenly. His wife was protecting a very soft heart underneath her glacial exterior.

“What was it?” she asked, once again trying to peek past him to the sheepskin parchment.

“It is but a formality from the king. It is not important.” His smile broadened and he grew bolder when she didn’t move away from him.

“You’re finding amusement at my expense. I don’t know why I even bother trying to do aught nice for you. You are an overbearing, dimwitted oaf. I should have expected such ingratitude from a Viking.”

“Nay, enough, my Ice Princess.” Brant liked the heat he saw curling in her gaze. It was a pleasant change from their icy coolness. It seemed her words were the only defense she had against him, so he ignored them. Brant had dealt with frightened people before.

“Quit calling me that,” Della flustered. “I am not an Ice Princess, you barbarian!”

Brant shook his head and answered in a logical, even tone. “Then quit calling me a barbarian.”



“I—” Della’s words ground to a stop as she glared at him.

She didn’t know how else to respond. He represented everything that she hated in the world, everything that had ruined her childhood and had taken her mother so violently away from her. But she still found herself oddly attracted to him. Unable to resist, she looked at his hands. They were strong, even in relaxation. Every time they were together in private, he found a reason to back her against the wall, and each time it became harder for her to fight his pagan spell.