Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(97)

“Yea, m’lord.” The servant yawned and pushed himself lazily from the wall. He kicked at the rushes in disinterest. To Brant he looked like a bored child.

Brant growled and stalked away from him. How did Della do it? He could command men to give their lives on the field of battle, yet he could not direct a lazy servant to clean a keep. He found a new respect for her spirit method and wondered if the cleaning spirit would consider traveling.

Brant had missed Della these past seventeen days. He missed the scent of her hair, the chilly scorn of her face, the warmth of her naked body against his. Every night he lay in bed he thought of her, every day he walked through the filth of his manor he longed for her. But was it better to be in her scornful presence, unable to touch her through her icy façade? Or mayhap, was it better to be without her presence completely? He found it tormenting to be near her, unable to touch her heart. And he found it even more torturous to be without her.

But her face had been so full of fear the last he’d seen her and her eyes had hinted near hysteria. As she’d stalked away from him, his chest had tightened and as she’d ridden off at Roldan’s side, she hadn’t bothered to turn back. Though he’d pretended not to watch her leave, he had from the corner of his eye. Della had effectively banished him from her. She was afraid of him and not for any action of his own, but for the actions of mercenaries.

Brant studied the leather satchel. It was not Viking made, but a badly done imitation. The leather pouch was that of an Anglo-Saxon peasant, the clay symbol easily dissolvable in water. Who would want to frame the Vikings? He was afraid he didn’t like the answer. Stuart of Grayson.

Stuart was the only one who had something to gain by his fall. It was clear the man wanted not only Strathfeld, but also Della. He’d seen well how the man looked at her.

Della had so readily accepted the satchel as an explanation. She had willingly thought the worst of him and his people. It wasn’t fair. And had she really said she loved him?

Loved not love, Brant reminded himself. She’d said loved. He hadn’t hoped for so much. How had he not seen it? If she’d said something sooner, communication would have been so much better between them. Brant knew nothing of a woman’s love but that it kept them loyal and they would risk much for it.

He cared for her, but love? Nay, love was something best left to women. It was of their nature to care for others.

By the end of the seventeenth day, Brant had enough of his solitude. He decided if he couldn’t touch Della, he would at least be near her. He wanted to go home, and if his wife didn’t want him there, then so be it. She would just have to stay out of his way, for he would no longer stay out of hers.





* * * * *


Della shivered, a chill working over her as she walked into the bailey yard. The sky was bleak, almost as dark as her mood had been. But now hope evaded that dim place in which she’d dwelled. Brant was back at Strathfeld.

Rab ran ahead of her. The boy had been standing guard on the wall since she’d arrived without Lord Blackwell. He waited for the nobleman to come and now he had.

Della couldn’t speak as she moved toward the front gate, drawn to see Brant, desperate to look upon his face, to see he was well. At the same time, she was afraid.

Brant rode his horse through the gate, carrying himself as majestically as a king, even though weariness shone from his face like a pauper fighting the plague. He still wore the old tunic she’d last seen him in and she’d forgotten he didn’t have a change of clothing with him at Blackwell. Della ignored the urge to order a bath drawn. He undoubtedly wouldn’t appreciate the wifely gesture.

It had only been a fortnight and four days since she’d left him by the burned cottages, yet it felt as if she’d been without him for an eternity. Her first impulse was to run to him and be gathered into his arms, to press kisses against his mouth and demand he go abovestairs with her. Instead, she forced her heart back into her chest and she constrained the emotion from her eyes.

Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin, waiting to see his reaction before she gave hers. As she watched, he talked to some of the men who’d come forward to greet him. The moment his eyes found her, his smile faded and his face gave nothing away. When he acknowledged her with a slight nod, she tilted her head regally in return. Her heart fluttered as he took a step toward her. Della waited for him to come to her.

Brant looked wearier than she’d first thought. Dark circles marred the flesh beneath his eyes, his cheeks were sunken, and his beard was overgrown. He looked more beautiful than she remembered.

“M’lady.” Brant’s voice held no affection as he watched her through veiled eyes. Stopping before her, he vigorously scratched the back of his head. She felt like a stranger greeted her.