The Viking Takes a Knight (4 page)

“Ahem!”

Just then he noticed Hamr and Bolthor propping up the door frame, grinning like idiots. He threw up his hands in surrender, then stomped over, pushing them aside, heading for his great hall and about a tun of ale. Halfway there, he stopped and went back. Poking a finger in Bolthor's chest, he said, “If you dare concoct some bloody damn saga about me and an invasion by a beautiful woman and a tribe of little people, I swear you will be in the stew pot afore morning.”

“Beautiful?” Ingrith stared at him, wide-eyed. “Me?”

He spun on his heel and could not decide whether to go for the mead in his hall, or go to his bedchamber and bury his head under the furs for a sennight or two.

That was when he heard Bolthor say in an overloud whisper to Hamr, “I was thinking more about an Ode to Heart-Shaped Arses.”

John, for one, would not be attending dinner that night if that was on the menu.

On the other hand…

 

A woman's work is never done…

Ingrith endeavored with everything she did that day to please the irksome lord of Hawk's Lair, to no avail. By the time the evening meal was ready to be served, she could have fallen asleep on her feet in the bustling kitchen.

Ubbi was threatening to slit the throat of the
“ungrateful troll” if he complained once more. To which John had threatened to hang the “bothersome gnome” from the rafters if he did not get out of his way. Hamr, the outlaw Viking, just stood back enjoying the chaos. And Bolthor, the one-eyed giant, was composing saga after saga about the doings at Hawk's Lair, which would no doubt embarrass one and all, if their titles were any indication. “When Hawks Stutter.” “The Princess and the Hawk.” “Ode to Woman-Honey,” whatever that meant. “When Norse Ladies Go A-Viking.”

Hawk's Lair was a small keep, with only a hundred
housecarls
guarding its borders and another fifty servants or field cotters. She had fed, with ease, five hundred and more at her father's estate in the Norselands. Apparently, most of John's
hersirs
and
hirds
of soldiers were housed at Gravely, his deceased father's estate, which was a day's ride away.

The children had already bathed, for once not protesting, in the wonderful hot spring channeled into a bathing house. They were hopefully asleep, having already eaten. The boys were in a clean stable stall, and the girls in sleep closets along the back end of the great hall.

Now, as she sat supervising, platters and bowls of food were being carried by servants from the kitchen into the great hall, not to mention pottery pitchers of ale and mead and milk. Ingrith had worked her fingers to the bone preparing a meal to please the most particular palate. She doubted she
would get any thanks from the scowling Hawk, however. He had made his displeasure over their presence in his keep more than obvious, not just on their initial meeting, either.

She had never met a more infuriating man. He could show the most extreme displeasure with just the arch of one eyebrow. Without ever saying they were unwelcome, he made it obvious how inconvenient their presence was. She would have told him in no uncertain terms what he could do with his backhanded welcome if the children's safety was not at risk.

As it was, Ubbi had finally been banished to the cow barn for having kicked John in the shins. Twice. For perceived verbal offenses against Ingrith.

The whole situation was a mess.

She had not the energy to rise and make her way to the small sleeping bower that had been set aside for her on the second floor. But then she recalled the hot spring bathing house where she could ease her sore muscles. Luckily, when she got to the women's section, it was empty, everyone either being at dinner, or serving dinner.

It was heaven, as she had known it would be, her father having a similar natural resource at Stoneheim. A long time later, after bathing and then soaking herself until her skin wrinkled, she felt better. As she began to emerge, she heard a loud male voice from outside, shouting, “Where is she? I swear, if she's hiding from me, best she
beware. I am not amused.” It sounded like John. Who else?

The door to the bathing hut swung open before Ingrith had a chance to react. Having just stepped out of the pool, facing the entrance, she froze in place.

A stunned lord of Hawk's Lair, speechless for once, kicked the door shut behind him with a booted foot. “You…you…” he sputtered.

Realizing belatedly that she was naked…
Holy Thor! How could I have forgotten something so important?
…she turned abruptly and reached for a drying cloth. Then, she glanced back over her shoulder to see why John was so quiet.

He was staring at her bare backside. Gawking, more like.

O
h, baby!

Boiling with chagrin, John yanked open the door to the bathing house…and almost had a fainting fit at what he beheld.

Ingrith had just walked up the steps from the small pool, her body dripping with water, and she was bare-as-a-babe naked. In all her glory. And glorious, she was, too. And…
Thank you, God!
…not at all like a baby.

She was tall for a woman, but unlike most women of her height, she was not slender, no doubt due to her excessive cooking. Oh, she was not fat, either. She was soft…and rounded. Voluptuous, that was the best word to describe her. From her high, full breasts to her small waist and flaring hips. Her tiny nipples and aureoles were of the palest rose hue, almost flesh-colored, blending into the breasts themselves.

All this he noticed in the mere moment before she collected herself and swung around to grab for a drying cloth.

Now he was presented with her glorious backside.

With his heart pounding like a warhorse, he watched as she bent over to pick up a drying cloth.

Was he becoming a pervert now?

Bloody hell, he could no more have
not watched
than pluck out his eyeballs.

“It really is heart-shaped,” he remarked before he could bite his traitorous tongue.

“Whaaat?” She swung around to face him again, this time covered somewhat with a piece of cloth that scarce hid her breasts and thatch of golden curls, a darker shade than her blonde head hair, which was piled atop her head.

Amazing the details a man could notice when given a bare glimpse of a female's intimate parts!

“Why are you looking at me?”

“Do you jest?”

She made a clucking sound of disgust. “What are you doing here in the women's pool?” she demanded, then shouted, “Get out!”

“I'll wait for you outside until you are clothed,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster, embarrassed as he was to realize that it had not even occurred to him that he was entering the section reserved for women. In his defense, he added, “'Tis your fault I am here.”

“Aaarrgh!”

That was woman language for “You are driving me barmy.”

Well, she was driving him barmy, too, he thought
as he closed the door and heard a hard object hit the door behind him. Probably a bar of soap.

Mere moments later she came storming out, fully dressed in a long-sleeved, faded red
gunna
. “What? What is so important that you had to invade the private women's quarters? Who are you looking for?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You wily witch! Are you trying to guilt me into letting you stay here? Because, God knows, your actions are having the opposite effect.”

“What in bloody hell are you yapping about? You could at least let me finish bathing afore accosting me.”

“I did not accost you. Believe you me, if I were accosting, you would know it.”
Have I lost my lack-brained mind?
“And, by the by, dost think foul language befits a lady of your standing?”

She said a word that was even more foul.

“For shame, Ingrith!” Oddly, John found he was enjoying himself.
Must be my brain is melting from lack of sex.

“Oh, please! You have said far worse.”

“I am a man.”
If you only knew!

“And that makes a difference…how?”

If you only knew!
“Do not try to distract me with this pointless prattle.”
I wonder if her nipples are still hard. They were moments ago.

She inhaled and exhaled for patience. “What is the problem, John?”

The problem is that I haven't had a woman in months. The problem is you have a tempting body. The problem is I want to bed you. The problem is that I cannot.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“How?”

“Like you are seeing me naked.”

He smiled then, a slow smile that accompanied a head-to-toe survey. “The image is imbedded in my brain. I cannot will it away.”

She folded her arms across her chest, which, if she only knew, drew attention to their plumpness. And, by the rood, her damp gown was clinging in some very interesting places.

“Everyone is waiting for you to be seated so that the evening meal can start.”

“What?” she nigh shrieked. “The food will be cold.”

He shrugged.

“Why is my presence necessary?”

“Because every blessed person in the entire keep is chastising me for my treatment of you. The latest complaint being that I am working you to death and now starving you.”

“And they do not even know that you invaded my private bath. Tsk-tsk-tsk! Wait 'til they add that to their list of your transgressions.”

He ignored her snide remark. “They say I have
forced you to perform menial labor as payment for hospitality here. They say I have treated you with disrespect.” She started to bring up the private bath invasion again, but he continued before she could speak. “They say you are no doubt weeping in your pillow because I begrudged you some honey. They say—”

“They say. They say. What do you care what
they
say?”

“Well, for one thing, Bolthor is composing a poem about it, as we speak.”

“Bolthor? The skald?”

He nodded. “The world's worst skald.” He grabbed her hand and began to drag her through the corridor toward the great hall.

“Wait! I cannot come to dinner like this. My
gunna
is damp from my bath.”

“I noticed.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“At least let me get an apron.”

Now he knew why Viking women wore those long, open-sided aprons. They were hiding treasures from their menfolks. On the other hand, he would not mind seeing Ingrith in one of those aprons…with naught underneath. Now there was another image to imbed in his lustsome brain.

With a snort of self-disgust, he said, “Your attire will have to do for now. The food will indeed be spoiled if we have to wait that long.” He dragged
her even harder now. In fact, he put one hand on her upper arm and the other at the back of her waist, propelling her forward.

“You are being a brute.”

He stopped suddenly and pulled her to a halt beside him. They were just outside the great hall, where the buzz of conversation was heavy. He was pleased to see that his men, and some women, had already started eating…and were enjoying the meal immensely.

“You are right, Ingrith. I have been brutish. Let us start over.”

She nodded. “I understand that we descended on your keep without invitation and that our presence here is…inconvenient.”

Inconvenient? That was as good an explanation as any. “I tend to be reclusive,” he attempted to explain. “And I do treasure my honey studies.”

She put a hand on his forearm, which he could swear caused a tingle that traveled up his arm, down his chest, to parts best known to men as their best parts. So distracted was he that at first he did not realize she was speaking.

“…and so I will do my best to find another place for us to stay until the danger passes. In the meantime, I promise that I and the children will stay out of your way.”

“Oh, Ingrith! What a churl you must think me! You may stay as long as you want.”

She beamed at him as if he'd handed her a pot
of gold…or in her case, a pot of rare kitchen spices.

He immediately wished he had not issued such a sweeping welcome, but what was done was done.

As they passed through an aisle leading to the dais, various of John's men called out to Ingrith.

“M'lady, the
nekkesan
is tasty,” Cyril, his chief archer, said.

“Huh?” John looked at her.

“Turkey-neck pudding,” she translated.

Gilbert, a groomsman, remarked, “The poached pike with mustard sauce is the best I have ever had.”

Hah! Gilbert wouldn't know poach from roach.

He looked at Ingrith again.

“You are glaring.”

He mentally wiped the furrows from his brow. “What are all these different dishes? Are we having a feast? A visiting dignitary? Perchance a saint's birthing day?”

“Nay! This is the way I cook every day.”

He groaned.

“You are not to worry. It will cost no more than your usual fare. I will not deplete your larder.”

“That is not what I am worried about. 'Tis spoiling my people, you are. They will ne'er accept another cook.”

She blushed, and he suspected that she had no intention of finding a new cook for a good while yet.

Once they were seated at the high table with
Bolthor on one side of them and Hamr on the other, he stared, stupefied, as she named each of the dishes placed before them.

Pork with raspberry sauce. That must be what he'd seen earlier on the spit. But there was also
maymenye ryalle
…spiced pork in a nutted wine puree, Ingrith explained. Gingered carp. Almond eel soup.
Henne dorre
, or golden cardamom chicken.

Not to mention a sallat of wild endive, leeks, shredded cabbage, carrots, apples, and honey served in an aspic.

I wonder where she got the honey this time.
He did not dare raise a ruckus over the honey again, considering the effect of his first tirade. “I had no idea we had so many different spices here at Hawk's Lair,” he commented instead.

“You don't. I brought my own with me.” She made that announcement in a way that required a compliment.

“How wonderful!”

She slanted her eyes at him. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“Who? Me? Of course not.” He paused. “Mayhap a little.”

Then there were the vegetables: creamed parsnips, horseradish, cucumbers in vinegar, herbed beets, cabbage with pork marrow, and
amyndoun seaw
, a vegetable gruel.

“I hate cabbage,” he said.
Another halfwitted remark!

“Then do not eat the cabbage,” she advised patiently, as if he were a thickheaded boyling.

And for sweets: the oatcakes he'd seen her baking earlier, plus bilberry tarts, stewed pears, and gilliflower pudding.

Saints save me! Dinner will last for hours.
God only knew how many hours afore the trestle tables could be dismantled and folks retire to their sleep benches. He enjoyed the occasional feast, but if she planned such an array every night…well, he might very well begin fasting.

However, no one seemed to mind, except him. There was a vast amount of smacking of lips, and oohs and aahs of delight. At the rate they were going, there would be no food left over for the morning breaking fast.

“You are not eating, m'lord,” she commented.

He stared down at the trencher they shared, which she had piled with a little of all the dishes.

“Here, try this,” she said, picking up a portion of pork dripping with red sauce with her fingertips and placing it at his lips.

He opened obediently, like the boyling she seemed to regard him as, but the sensation that shot from her fingertips at his lips down to his manpart was anything but boyish. Without thinking, he grabbed her wrist when she was about to withdraw and licked the remaining sauce off her fingertips, one at a time.

“M'lord!” she exclaimed.

He knew exactly what she meant, whether she recognized it for what it was, or not. Just that tactile abrasion of his rough tongue on her soft skin caused him to want so much more. Truly, his finger licking had caused desire to lick like a firestorm through his body. Trying to hide his arousal, he remarked, “I notice you m'lord me only when you choose. Other times I am Hawk or John. Make up your mind.”

“M'lord,” she emphasized. “
What
are you doing?”

“Acting as your finger bowl?” He gave one last lick that encompassed her palm as well. But what he really wanted to lick was…

She jerked her hand away. “What do you think?”

“Huh?”

“The taste?”

“Of your skin?”

“Nay, not of my skin. The raspberry sauce on the pork. Dost think it is too sweet?”

He took another piece off the trencher and chewed it slowly. “A little sweet,” he concluded. Then grinned at her. “Wouldst like to lick
my
fingertips?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

A virgin…she must be a virgin. At her age! Poor thing!

“Tell me about your beekeeping, John,” she urged then. “What is it that fascinates you so?”

“I don't know if it is fascination with the bees.
More like the honey and what can be done with it. I am not the first person to discover the medicinal properties. Even the ancient Romans knew that it could help heal wounds, cure coughs, that kind of thing. But I believe there are other uses it could have, such as…” He stopped and stared at her. “I am boring you. My apologies, m'lady. I get carried away betimes.”

“You were not boring me. It is refreshing to hear of a man being passionate about something other than…well, passion.” She grinned at him.

Passion was not a word he needed to hear from her lips at this point. Time to change the subject. “Tell me, Ingrith,” he began, picking at the food in front of him with both his knife and a wooden spoon. “Why have you never wed?”

She rolled her eyes.

“What?”

“Everyone asks that of women once they reach a certain age. Do they ask the same of men? I think not.”

“Actually, they do. Especially my mother.”

She smiled at him, and—
Heavenly Hosts!
—he felt another lurch low down in his belly. What was happening to him? He had met Ingrith in the past and never experienced this overwhelming attraction.

“You are an attractive woman, Ingrith. It is a logical question.”

“Mayhap. I have not wed because the right man never asked me to.”