Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(5)

“Do you leave so quickly?” Brant asked in low, exact tones as his future wife backed away from him. He wanted nothing more than to wring the life’s breath from her traitorous, unfaithful throat. Her passionless face gave no emotion away.

No wonder you are called Della the Cold-Hearted. Methinks you lack all passions, even fear.

Brant watched the woman’s unwavering composure in awe. She was a beautiful creature, or would be once the ice melted from her features. She looked too young to possess so much self-control, though she was old by marrying standards. He estimated she could be no more than one and twenty years.

Brant hadn’t meant to overhear her conversation with her handmaid. He’d thought simply to introduce himself, for it was clear she thought his seneschal and good friend, Gunther, was he. But when he caught her cutting remarks about his heritage and cleanliness, he couldn’t help himself. He had teased her to teach her a lesson about gossiping. Though now he saw there was to be no end to her insults. The damned Anglo-Saxons always insulted what they didn’t understand and it seemed his bride was no different. He’d hoped since she was a lady, a position allowed her by the very race she now scorned, she would see the wisdom in their alliance.

Brant took a menacing step toward her. He usually would be against striking such deliberate fear into a woman, for he knew they were naturally apprehensive of his large size. He always tried to treat womankind with a gentle hand and, after they got to know him more intimately, they never complained. But this frustrating woman wasn’t fearful of him. In fact she seemed damned near indifferent. Could it be the rumors about her were true? Did she truly feel nothing?

Do you understand your mistake now, little schemer? Brant took another step, closing the distance between them. He noted in grim satisfaction the way her pulse quickened at the base of her slender neck. Nay, you are not immune to my anger, you just shroud it well.

“Do you leave before being introduced to your future master?” Brant forced a hard smile as he fingered a lock of her waist-length blonde hair. He smoothed the submissive strands gently between the pads of his thumb and his forefinger. She wore a simple blue gown, the fine linen embroidered at the edges as to befit her station. By looks alone, she would make him a good wife—someone warm and soft to hold during the night, someone to slake his desires when they arose. First, she must learn to submit to him. He had a feeling she wouldn’t take kindly to being commanded. Lifting the soft lock of hair to his lips, he kissed it lightly before whispering, “For make no mistake, Lord Blackwell will be your master.”

“No man will ever be my master.” She snatched her hair from him and threw it over her shoulder in contempt. “And you will do well to unhand me in the future lest I tear off the offending appendage.”

Brant’s smile widened at her show of defiance. He was going to enjoy taming her obstinate ways. Underneath her icy façade was a fiery passion just waiting to be released. Even through his anger, he had to confess, he was drawn to her unpleasant temperament. And he had worried that his bride would turn out to be an unexciting wife who couldn’t hold his attention.

“I will not be commanded! Not by my father and certainly not by your fellow barbarian over there.” Della turned her chilly gaze in the direction of Lord Strathfeld.

“Of that you can be certain, m’lady,” Brant whispered mockingly to her, as he followed her eyes. He felt more than saw the small shudder of apprehension that radiated through her body. A lazy smile settled on his lips, though his insides were kindled in a temperate rage. His future father-by-marriage nodded his acknowledgment as he made his way toward them. Gunther followed closely behind him. Della’s hand trembled as she grabbed the dress at her waist to still her fingers. He turned and gave an agreeable smile to Lord Strathfeld. “M’lord.”

“Ah! It is good that you are getting on.” Lord Strathfeld nodded worriedly to his daughter, his look of concern belying the pleasure in his words.

“Argh,” Della huffed under her breath in aggravation.

Lord Strathfeld raised a brow at her anger and shook his head in disapproval. Leaning into his daughter, he warned none too quietly, “Della, this is no way to act before your intended. Would you have him think you are no lady?”

Della looked scornfully at Gunther and held out her hand to him. “It is a pleasure, I’m sure.” The words barely escaped her bared teeth.

Gunther looked at Brant in confusion and then took her hand. He bowed gallantly over it. “M’lady.”

Brant felt a small pang of irritation as Della moved to Gunther’s side. She took up his friend’s arm and turned a self-important stare to him.