“As m’lady wishes.” Brant smiled. Without the slightest hesitation, he started to lift his own tunic over his head.
“Nay!” Della felt the blood draining from her face. “Not your tunic.”
“Then?” Reason slowly took control of his desire and his eyes began to clear.
“Take off your pagan curse. Take it off me. I don’t wish to have these feelings. Take them away now. I don’t want this. I cannot want this,” Della said in shame. She couldn’t believe what she had asked him to teach her. Almost stunned by her own actions, she added softly, “I hate you.”
A cruel laugh answered and she stumbled back, tears blurring her gaze. He loomed toward her, his eyes hot with anger. “Yea, I will take the curse off of us, but not the way you might mean.”
“It will be by force.” It was her only line of defense. She continued to back away. Her wet eyes darted frantically to the door and she wondered if she could push past him.
Brant glared at her for so long she thought he would incinerate her with the heat of his gaze. When he didn’t answer, she was afraid the words wouldn’t be enough. Finally, he turned and picked up the missive. Keeping his back to her, he said, “The next time you start something, you best be prepared to finish it. For this is the last time I will control myself. Next time, be assured I will have you—willing or nay.”
Della wondered at the look of intense pain on his face as he stalked from the chamber. The door slammed only to swing open behind him. She watched to make sure he would not return to finish what had been started. Part of her ached to stop him, but she could not force herself to call out.
By All the Saints! Della sunk to her knees and cried. Her body was not her own, she didn’t understand what it felt. What have I begun?
* * * * *
Brant walked away from the high table, not bothering to look back. He wasn’t sure where he was going, only that he didn’t feel like entertaining. King Guthrum’s ambassadors were in his hall, drinking his mead and eating his food. The missive they carried was merely a formality sent by the king, securing Brant’s pledge of loyalty before his majesty’s arrival in two fortnights. The ambassadors were going to all of the manors in the kingdom.
Brant wasn’t sure why the king would have use of such a document, but left his mark on it nonetheless. With his recent addition of a title, and because he was a well-respected knight known for his levelheaded resolve, Brant had been their first stop.
Brant also informed the men of Lord Strathfeld’s death. They promised to get word to the king, if his majesty hadn’t received the message that had already been sent.
If he’d been a gracious host, he’d have stayed with the men to entertain them. Brant wasn’t feeling very gracious. There was only so much of Lord Lester’s excessive self-serving gossip a man could stomach. Besides, the king already knew where his loyalty stood and he didn’t need to prove it to his majesty’s lackeys.
Brant ordered Ebba to prepare chambers for the ambassadors, insisting she draw baths so their every comfort could be met, with extra strong soap sent to the odious Lord Lester’s chamber. He really hoped the nobleman took advantage of the generosity.
Making his way to the outer bailey, he turned toward the steady thumps of the workers. Brant had ordered Edwyn to improve the surrounding walls, and from what he’d seen, the man was doing a fine job of overseeing it. The castle’s stonemason was replacing the wood with stone to prevent any attackers from setting fire to the walls. Already the project was nearing quick completion. Strathfeld was quite self-sufficient in that regard.
Quite like its mistress, Brant thought with a scornful curse.
When Della asked for a kiss, he’d seen her uncertainty and had felt like a fool for not giving in to her right away. Only, he’d been basking in the pleasure of her request. It was the closest she’d ever come to admitting her attraction to him. He’d seen her insecurity and knew she’d never asked such a personal thing from anyone before. His little ice maiden was so self-reliant. He doubted she ever asked anyone for anything.
When he’d kissed her, it was sweet torture. Even now his body raged with wanton hunger. Still in a foul mood, his blood boiled as he thought of his wife’s teasing kisses and standoffish desires. With a grim expression of discontent, he glared along the wall, hands on hips as he stood. He didn’t see the new stone in his anger.
“Lord Blackwell.” Edwyn nodded at Brant as he approached. It was clear by his look that he still hadn’t sized up his new overlord. Though, in light of Lord Strathfeld’s death, the man should’ve been grateful that Brant let him stay on at all. It was no secret that Lord Blackwell had his own seneschal to attend to the matter of repairing the manor. Many thought Gunther an odd choice for the job, being that he was a fighting man. Brant didn’t care. He wanted his friend close.