Elspeth stirred as they talked and Margriet wanted this over. "My father vouched for his worthiness," she began and was met with a stare of frank disbelief. "He gave me no choice and there was no time to send word to my father over the matter." Again, Thora blinked as though she'd never heard of such a thing … and well, neither had Margriet.
"He is my cousin. Kin from my mother's family," she lied when all other attempts to explain failed.
"Ah," Thora said, nodding in acceptance. "Kin then?" Thora walked to the door and then turned back. "I wi' tell him ye are getting ready."
Elspeth began to push back the blankets and stopped as she realized they were not alone. Margriet nodded at the woman and watched her leave, lowering the latch to keep the door shut. Elspeth climbed from the bed and immediately began searching the tray for food. 'Twas then that Margriet realized her stomach did not churn as it did in the morn. Afraid not to use the herbs and to get sick once they were on the road, she sniffed at the food to see if it caused the ailment to begin.
All she smelled was fresh bread and some cold meats. Could she be past the worst of it as the cook had explained?
"You are not green, Lady Margriet," Elspeth commented. "How do you feel? Are you hungry?" The girl began eating, but Margriet hesitated.
She'd only eaten some bread dipped in hot broth before sleeping last eve, abstaining from the venison roast after her return. By now, she would be heaving. Instead, she could feel a growing appetite within her. Worried that the sickness might return later, she tucked her herbs into the pocket of her tunic as she dressed. Better to be prepared then caught off guard.
It did not take even close to an hour for them to dress and eat, and soon she and Elspeth walked down the steps to the common room where she knew the men had slept. The tables and benches were filled with men breaking their fast, but Margriet did not pause there for fear of seeing the round-heeled wenches again. That sight would ruin her day before it began.
Walking outside, the winds buffeted against them. Cooler by much than the day before, Margriet made certain her wimple and veil were secured. Sven greeted them in Gaelic, which brought a smile to Elspeth's face. The girl, in turn, tried to say the same words in Norn to him and Margriet watched as his expression softened at her attempt.
This was not good. Although she doubted Elspeth would expose their secret, encouraging a relationship between this commoner girl and this nobleman's son was like building a fire in the middle of the dry season-it would burn hot and destroy everything in its path. Still, putting obstacles in their way would only heighten the interest between them.
So long as Sven respected the boundaries between him and "Sister" Elspeth, there was no harm in them speaking to each other. Margriet planned to keep watch over them and warn Rurik if things got out of hand. The absurdity of that thought struck her as she approached that very same man.
He stood with his back to them, tightening the straps of his saddle in place. He stopped for a moment and bowed his head. Margriet thought he might even be praying, until he shook his head and muttered something under his breath that sounded like some oath to a pagan god. Straightening up, he turned and saw them.
He looked horrible! At first glance, she thought him ill, for he had lost his robust bearing and seemed instead to be weighted down. Margriet fought the urge to go to him, to touch his cheek, to fix whatever ailed him. It was only Elspeth's cough that brought her to her senses in time to avoid a very unseemly display.
"Good morrow, sisters," he said in greeting.
"Good morrow, sir," Elspeth said in return as she passed him. Sven led her to her horse and waited to help her mount.
"Good morrow, Rurik," Margriet said, unable to stop from saying his name. Her lips tingled as she spoke it, much as they had last eve when he kissed her. Now, he stood aside as Heinrek helped her into her seat atop the horse.
She watched now as the rest of the men stumbled out of the inn and into the light of day. Many looked as though they'd slept little and not well at all. 'Twas when several would not meet her gaze that she comprehended the problem, though knowing of it and knowing how to handle it were two different matters.
They had paid for the harlots' attentions.
Confused over how she felt and how she should react, Margriet focused her thoughts on the church's teachings on fornication. She felt the heat of embarrassment creep up into her cheeks as one of them did offer a greeting. She knew what they'd done-something a "holy innocent," as Rurik called them, should have no knowledge of the act or even understand any but the sketchiest of specifics about it.
But Margriet knew the pleasure of a man's touch, the thrill of joining her body to another's, and the wonderment of the act of giving herself to the man she loved. Although the harlots did not give themselves for the purest of reasons, no purity was involved at all, Margriet did not doubt that they enjoyed plying their wares and the coin it brought them. So, she found it a thorny matter to see their faces and know what they'd done in the darkest part of the night.
Margriet decided that avoidance was her best path for now and she bowed her head, trying to appear in prayer. Mayhap they would think it to be for the forgiveness of their immortal souls? Her attempt was interrupted by Rurik. Acting as though he was adjusting the strap of her stirrups and saddle, he waved the group forward under Magnus's lead.
"I would speak to you for a moment, Sister."
Something was wrong, for he did not hesitate this time in calling her that. He always hesitated. He held the reins of her horse now, so she had no way of avoiding this.
"I have wronged you and would ask your pardon," he said without meeting her gaze. "Especially for my behavior last night."
He did look up now, but when she saw the pain there, she wished he had not. "Rurik," she began, but she stopped as he continued.
"Nay, let me say this, I beg you." He waited for her to allow him and then he did. "I have lived the last thirteen years seeking pleasure where it may be, and have never met a woman I wanted who I could not have." He offered a sad smile. "Until you."
Margriet did not know whether to be pleased or insulted by his admission. She was no common girl like those at the inn to be ogled and desired, but a part of her was flattered.
"I should not have allowed you to even be in the same place last night with those women. You should not have had to endure their antics or even their presence."
"I have met fallen women before, Rurik," she began to explain, somehow wanting to ease whatever guilt he felt. Especially since she was not the holy innocent he thought her to be.
"Nay, Sister," he said, stopping her from saying anything else. "'Tis my fault. As is … "
"Please, Rurik, do not speak of it," she interrupted. "Nothing happened between us. Nothing," she assured him.
He felt vaguely insulted by her declaration instead of comforted by it, but he did not argue this time. He nodded and then mounted his horse. With a tug on the reins of her horse, he guided her forward to follow the rest, now a few dozen yards ahead of them.
Of course, she was lying, for he could see it in her eyes when she spoke. Something important had happened between them and his denial or hers would not change a moment of it in his memory. They may have spoken about the temptation offered by the harlots to the other men, but he spoke of the temptation between he and her. And the kiss that happened was simply a sign of how strong that temptation was growing to be.
He offered up a prayer that the rest of the journey would go swiftly, for Rurik did not know if he could count on his self-control when it came to her any longer.
By mid-morning, he knew things were not going to go as easily as he'd prayed they go. The sun had not yet climbed to its highest place in the sky when disaster struck and, by the time it did just after noon, only three of them remained upright-he, Sven and Sister Margriet.
Chapter Eleven
"Do you think it's plague?" Rurik asked. He feared saying the very word, but he needed to know what they were fighting, or not.
"Nay," she said shaking her head. "There are no buboes or other signs of plague among them. I fear they ate something bad."
Sister Margriet, as he now forced himself to think of her, turned and looked at the group of men and one woman, who lay on blankets in the shaded place beneath the only copse of trees he could get them to. They'd left the village and rode out onto the flatlands that typified most of Caithness as it approached the coast. Bogs and marshlands for miles and miles, with nary a hill or rising anywhere.