“Yea, Della.” Brant made a move for her. “It is a most monstrous thing. Let me take you back to your horse.”
“Who?” she managed to ask when her eyes cleared of the memory. Della motioned despairingly to the burned cottage. “Who could do such a thing? That is just a child—an innocent!”
“M’lord, I found this by the edge of one of the cottages.” The noble couple turned their attention from one another at the sound. One of the soldiers held up a leather waist bag. “It looks as if it was dropped as the raiders departed.”
Della glanced pathetically at the man as he unintentionally answered her question. He was new to Strathfeld and she guessed he’d signed on after her father’s death. Her eyes drifted from his ruddy red face to the satchel he held. An all too apparent yellow mark of two hammers glared at her.
“Vikings did this.” She stared at Brant. “Your people. How could you? Does your kind have no soul? No conscience?”
“Nay, I had naught to do with this.” The reasonable tone in his voice didn’t affect her. “Della, do not judge me by the actions of others. I would never do such a thing. You should know this of me by now.”
“Nay!” She held up her hand to stop his advance. Her wild eyes flashed in panic as he continued to move toward her. Pointing a finger, she said carefully, “I want no more of you or your pagan curses. How could I have thought I loved you? You are a Viking. Your kind did this. This is what they do. Your kind killed my mother. Your kind has no soul.”
“Della,” Brant persisted.
She shook her head, unable to reason. Tears froze eternally in her eyes. “Do not come near me. Go to your Blackwell Manor. Live out your days there. I want no more of you.”
“But, Della—” Brant was cut off by her vicious glare.
She turned from him, her pain keeping her from staying to hear anything he might have to say.
“Della, wait,” he tried anyway.
“Roldan!” Della yelled.
The man was instantly by her side. “Is all well, m’lady?”
“Nay. It was a mistake for me to come.” Della turned and didn’t take her eyes off Brant. His face was hardened to her, his blue eyes dark with an emotion she could not ascertain. She matched his deadly stare. “Take me home, Roldan. I am done here.”
Brant felt his heart collapse into the pit of his stomach. When she’d looked inside the cottage at the bodies, he’d known she was punished enough for her defiance that morning. He’d seen the great fear in her eyes and was helpless to fight it.
Then, as she remembered the past, he recognized the crazed light that momentarily flickered within her. She didn’t see him, but a painful memory. He’d lost many promising soldiers in the same terrifying way. It would happen after a fierce battle, when they’d witnessed more carnage than their minds could fathom. They went momentarily crazy, unable to take the mental anguish.
But the battle Della remembered was old and ingrained into her soul so deeply, he feared no one would ever pluck it out. What chance did he stand against the spirits of her past, the haunting memory of their cries? He was only a man and men did not fight spirits.
How could I have thought I loved you?
His heart would have filled with untold joy at her unintentional confession had her eyes not disputed the fact. But any droplets of happiness that flowed in his chest were bittersweet and didn’t last. There was no reasoning with her. Not about this, never about this. And as she rode away, his pride didn’t let him stop her.
Chapter Sixteen
A fortnight came and went since Della had last seen Brant standing outside the ruins of the burned cottages. He hadn’t come home that night, not that she’d been expecting him to do so. Those long, lonely days brought both tremendous rain and unreasonable shine, and the castle worked on despite the rift left by the missing ealdorman.
Della had made how she felt about seeing him again very clear. In that first sennight, she’d told herself repeatedly that she didn’t care if he rotted like the burned bodies of the peasants. But she thought of him constantly and her treacherous body ached for the feel of him.
Gunther returned to Strathfeld late the same night of the fires, briefly informing her through tight lips that Lord Blackwell was at Blackwell Manor and was not expected to come back anytime soon. He was to have her escorted during the day and confined to her chambers at night, protected by a guard, where she would remain until she notified her warden she was ready to come out in the morning.
“You are not a prisoner. Lord Blackwell does this fer yer safety,” Gunther had explained grimily, though Della hadn’t questioned the order.