Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(98)

“M’lord,” Della answered, her voice was frozen.

He searched her eyes for a long moment. Then, seeming to find what he looked for, he started to turn away.

Wait! Della trembled, but her voice was calm. “Was all well at Blackwell Manor?”

Brant turned back around. His eyes once again probed her face. “Yea.”

“You were able to rest? They fed you well?” Della looked him over, resisting the urge to touch him. He looked starved.

“Yea.”

“And the manor?”

“It still stands.”

“Did you,” Della began, only to close her mouth. There was really nothing else she could ask. Did you miss me? Did you make use of a mistress? Did she please you?

Brant squinted and waited for her to continue.

Della lifted her chin and motioned weakly to the side. She hid her tortured soul from him, finding the comfort of her icy mask more bearable. What else could she say?

Brant snorted and brushed past her, going to the main hall.

Della’s body weakened and she swayed on her feet before catching herself. Aching deeply, she turned to watch him disappear inside.

Did you miss me, Brant? As I have missed you?





* * * * *


The freshness of Strathfeld was a blessing after the hell he’d lived in at Blackwell Manor. Swearing, he reached to scratch his head again. His scalp would not stop itching and he suspected Blackwell Manor had infested him with lice. With a morose laugh, he doubted his wife would appreciate him spreading the plague of little creatures into her cleanly home.

My wife.

He shook his head, a grim smile crossing his humorless lips. Upon seeing her lovely face, he’d hoped she came to greet him because she missed him as he did her. Brant hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hold her until he saw her in the background. He’d actually walked away while Gunther was in mid-sentence.

But Della hadn’t missed him. She only greeted him out of duty and to ask all the proper questions expected of a wife, leaving off in mid-inquiry. She didn’t even care enough to continue the charade. It reminded him of the day he’d first met her—the way she looked icily down her nose at him with practiced perfection, her scorn barely concealed behind her beautiful amber eyes.

My beautiful Ice Princess, I should have heeded the warning and kept my flame far away from you. But, fool that I am, I kept trying to warm a heart that cannot be warmed. I am like a burning twig against one of the giant ice blocks floating in the northern-most waters. One might be able to melt off a few drops, but soon the cold will put out the flame and the droplets will quickly freeze again.

He wondered if he would have been better off staying away, but as he scratched his scalp again, he knew he would rather burn down Blackwell Manor than to spend another night inside the lice-infested walls.

Deciding it best he take care of the problem before it got much worse, he went to search out Serilda. She would have a healing draught for the itching on his head.

Yea, it’s too bad she does not have a healing draught to melt my wife’s icy heart or to mercifully kill the painful beating in mine.

Brant stepped into the scarcely lit chamber of the midwife. The fireplace burned low as a caldron bubbled within. It gave off an unpleasant, spicy odor. Like the rest of the servants’ quarters, the chamber was humble, only Serilda stayed by herself, whereas many of the others shared theirs with at least one person. He guessed it was because none of the others would sleep with such a smell in the room.

“M’lord, what may I do fer you?” Serilda eyed him in mild surprise, but didn’t stand to greet him.

Brant glanced at the long table where she sat. It had been fashioned in the middle of the room. Atop the wood were several piles of dried herbs and ground powders. When he again looked at her, Serilda smiled sweetly at him from the other side. Her dark hair hung loose about her shoulders in the fashion of a virgin, but the way her eyes glinted in playful invitation he guessed she was hardly innocent. Bringing her long nails to her lips, she licked them slowly.

Brant ignored her advances as he moved thoughtfully along the table, picking up a vial filled with a yellowish liquid. He frowned, recognizing the substance. It had been an old war practice to dip the end of arrows in poisonous venom, but it was found to be a deadly one to the careless soldier who pricked his finger fumbling for arrows in the heat of battle. “Venom?”

“Yea,” Serilda answered. “I don’t like it myself, but Lord Strathfeld ordered it kept. He thought he may have use of it someday.”

Brant didn’t like having poisons in the manor. They could easily fall into the wrong hands. “Get rid of it at once and any others like it.”