Vengeance Hammer (Viking Vengeance) (4 page)

The moment the two men finished murmuring polite greetings, Dráddør guided Xára to stand next to Monk Herbert.

He faced the throngs in the bailey, intertwined their fingers, and bellowed, “Silence!”

The din of the gathered hordes quieted to a mere murmur.

Dráddør continued, “By command of King Kenneth of Scotland and King Harald of Norway, I claim the title of Earl of Caithness.”

A roar bounced around the rectangular enclosure. He had to lock his jaw to repress the shock of the unexpected response to his declaration. Though Dráddør knew Arnfinn had ruled with a vicious hand, he had expected at least a core of the keep’s population to be unwavering in their loyalty to the former Earl.

The crowd quieted when he held up a hand. “This day you stand witness to my marriage to Lady Xára, daughter of Arnfinn and Jennie, and heir to Castle Lathairn.”

Xára’s fingers spasmed in his hold. He swept her a sidelong glance. The tawny hue of her complexion had paled, but she kept a wide smile in place, and slowly scanned the multitudes packing the area. Did she search for someone in particular?

“Monk Herbert has conferred with the Lady Xára through the written word.”

The corpulent servant of God stepped to the edge of the terrace. He let a scroll hang loose in his upraised hand. “By her own hand, Lady Xára consents to the vow-saying.”

Cheers, stomps, and the thunder of palms meeting resonated and ricocheted.

* * *

Xára could scarce believe ’twas all over. It had been a day of violent emotional swings, one moment creeping with the snail’s pace of absolute despair, the next stampeding faster than a herd of swift gazelles on the flying hooves of rising hope.

After the ceremony ended and before the feasting began, each and every man, child, and woman present were required to swear their fealty oath to her new husband. When the oath swearing was underway, Xára snuck away to Jennie’s chamber.

The healer had not been able to persuade her to take a sleeping potion. She was awake and lucid, but in agony. When she heard the news of the marriage, Jennie finally drank the medicinal tea and almost immediately fell into the deep slumber of total exhaustion.

Xára examined Jennie thoroughly before she left. Was her color better? Did she breathe easier? Dared she hope Jennie would live? Xára shook her head. Evie, she must concentrate on Evie. But her mind refused to focus and she worried about Jennie all the way down the stairs. Not wanting to draw any attention she stole through the castle doors, threaded her way along the curtain wall, and slipped onto the bench, taking her place next to her husband.

She had not expected the Viking to accomplish so much within such a short period. Xára took stock of the changes.

Order had been restored to the grounds, but the furniture that would normally accompany an outdoor feast was missing. Most of the crowd sat on the dying, brown-tipped long grasses and weeds evident of summer’s last hurrah.

The makeshift high table, constructed of two doors standing on thick tree trunks, rested steady and even on a square wooden platform. That the Viking had managed to procure and even build crude furniture impressed her. She sat next to Dráddør on one of the few unbroken benches from the great hall.

A thorough perusal of the crowd showed no sign of Evie, and she heaved a huge sigh of relief. Xára had ordered Evie and her nurse, Ulna, to the stables, knowing the smithy and his son would keep them safe. But, she had half-expected Evie to defy her command. Mayhap the sprite had finally realized the seriousness of their situation. ’Twas naught more Xára could do until the morrow. The morrow. The morrow would only happen if she survived the night and the bedding. The witnessed bedding.

Nay. ’Twas not the time to dwell on the public consummation, she repressed a shudder, and forced her attention to the feast.

Ale, mead, and wine flowed with a freedom never seen under Arnfinn’s rule.

To Xára’s surprise, the fare proved not only palatable but plentiful. How had the Viking replenished so quickly the stores Néill had decimated? No matter. At least her people were being fed and mayhap would see their plight improve under his rule.

She ate little, her stomach too uneasy for food, and drank more wine than she had ever consumed before. It all seemed like a dream, his arrival, the vow saying, and the feast. Yet auld Bessie had long foresaw the advent of Hefnd Hamarr, the warrior known as Vengeance Hammer, who would restore Lathairn to the glory it had once claimed during her grandfather’s rule.

Xára learned naught throughout the long repast. The acute sense of hearing she had inherited picked up the slightest whisper, however she understood little Norse. But she had gleaned much during the brief introductions when both Olaf Longface and Earl Tighe had kissed her hand before the ceremony.

Earl Tighe had buried a wife and child. His memories of his stillborn son and dead wife plagued him and, though he laughed and smiled oft, a deep sadness and acute agony rode him like Satan’s steed.

Olaf Longface’s reminiscences were all of a fine court and a stocky man with blue runes on his face. The lawsayer wanted naught more than to return to an enormous holding filled with rich furnishings and throngs dressed in fine velvets and rich leather.

The two captains had bowed to her, but appeared wary of so much as brushing her skirts, and she had learned naught of them.

She both wanted the meal to last forever and to be done forthwith. The little she knew of what happened ’tween men and women she’d acquired from studying cocks attacking hens and corpulent pigs rutting.

Noise assaulted her ears and added to her growing befuddlement. She had hoped the Viking would take her right after the vow saying. Why had he allowed the meal to drag on and on?

She cast an eye over the assembly. The people left standing were in the throes of different stages of sobriety, some still imbibing, a few weaving erratically through those seated on the grass, others dozing with chins on chests, and a good majority sprawled in passed-out splendor around the dying fires.

The Viking’s warriors, however, stood in a sober and vigilant guard over the crowd. Not accustomed to disciplined soldiers, she kept a careful watch on the Norsemen in anticipation of their dissolution into drunken ribaldry, rape, and wanton destruction.

Dráddør’s large palm encircled her wrist.

Xára nigh jumped off the bench. She bit her lip and fought to repress the overpowering urge to jerk out of his hold.

The time had come.

The saliva in her mouth dried in an instant. The echo of her thumping pulse obscured the shouts and curses of the intoxicated men and women still left standing.

His thumb and forefinger caught her chin.

She tried to swallow but could not and did not resist when he forced her to meet his stare. In the flickering torchlight the dark blue of his eyes had turned to the hue of smudged charcoal. “Trust in me.”

Her heart threatened to climb out of her mouth, but she did not waver from the hypnotic hold of his gaze even though her insides twisted and knotted.

“Try not to resist. It will not last long. Do you understand?”

Dread snaked ice across the bare skin of the shoulders exposed by her gown. She shivered, but nodded.

Earl Tighe rose to his feet, goblet in hand, and bellowed, “To the Earl of Caithness and his wife, Lady Xára!”

Olaf Longface along with the warrior, Egron, and the captain, Ghazi, lurched from their seats, and echoed the earl’s salute not a moment later.

A few men in the bailey shouted out lewd suggestions and attempted to stand. Only the village whores still roamed the grounds and their suggestions brought a scalding heat to Xára’s cheeks.

She gasped when the Viking summarily hauled her into his arms.

“Put your arms around my neck.” She barely heard his whispered words, but obeyed his command.

He marched across the bailey, his pace so rapid she tightened her hold on him. Mother Mary have mercy, he smelled the way she imagined paradise would, hot and spicy and delicious. The muscles of his neck rippled beneath her palms. Unable to resist she touched a fingertip to the bulging line of a blue vein buried under a thick layer of sinew and smiled when he pressed her closer to his massive chest.

He bounded the stairs taking them two and three at a time. When they reached the wide landing at the top, he said, in a velvet and steel voice that caused her belly to flutter like the wings of a swallow soaring across the sky, “Can you hear me?”

The query gave her an excuse to cup his jaw. He glanced at her and her chest ached when his brows pulled together. “They will follow us soon. I cannot prevent any who make it up the stairs from entering the master’s chamber.”

And witnessing their joining.

She took a deep breath and pressed her trembling lips together. All at once, understanding dawned with the brilliance of a glorious sunrise. ’Twas the reason for the prolonged feasting and the copious amounts of ale, wine, and mead served to all but his men. How shrewd his plan.

She grinned.

He frowned and broke into a furious march. “We must make haste.”

The doors to the Earl’s sleeping quarters stood open and when he strode into the room, Xára gasped. She had helped to supervise the cleaning of Arnfinn’s chamber and expected to see the few pieces of furniture salvaged from about the castle: a narrow straw pallet, a table, two stools, and a rusted metal trunk. She scarce believed her eyes at the transformed room.

A canopy bed of enormous proportions stood in the middle of the far wall. The rich burgundy curtains hanging from the posts were pulled to the sides. A sudden nervousness stormed from her prickling scalp to the tips of the toes curled under in her satin slippers.

He set her down gently, fingers spanning her waist. “I will play maid for you. Before they come we will be beneath the sheets well hidden from view. Do you—”

She set her hand to his mouth, comprehending the need to rush, nodded, and pushed him aside.

“Can you manage alone?” He spoke the way parents did to a child.

Yes, she nodded.

“Thank Freya,” he muttered in a low voice and turned around. “Loki, work your mischief on those who follow.”

Why did he think she could not hear him unless they faced each other?

The gown laced in the front. She tore at the leather ties while footing off first one slipper, then the other. Mother Mary, her heart would surely explode, its beat so thunderous she felt it in her throat. She edged to the side of the bed, slipped the cyrtel off her shoulders, and let the fabric puddle around her stockinged toes.

Risking a quick peek over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of him seated in a magnificent chair that did not belong to the castle. He had tugged off one boot and was working on the other.

She clambered onto the high mattress and fumbled with her garters and stockings. Cursing a sudden clumsiness besetting her movements, Xára fought and won the battle of the legs, and tossed the ribboned garments to one side.

Another swift peek found the Viking setting his weapons one by one on a low chest she didn’t recognize. Heart hammering like a battering ram, she ripped off her chemise and winced when the fabric rented and the threadbare gown split at the top.

Xára dug under the covers and pulled the soft material up to her nose. Though a fire blazed and snapped in the stone hearth, the heat had not permeated the bed linens and when her bare back hit the cool sheets, she shivered and her teeth edged.

The sound of booted feet thundered to her ears, she held her breath and searched for Dráddør. The straw dipped and all at once he was above her. His face was so close to Xára’s, her eyes crossed when she tried to focus on his nose.

“Look to me, Xára. You and I are the only ones in this chamber.”

She glanced to the right. Two Vikings stood on either side of the doorway. Olaf, Earl Tighe, Egron and Ghazi and a few other warriors had entered the room and now formed a circle around the bed.

“Look to me,” he commanded in a tone that brokered no quarter. “Close your—nay wait. Can you hear me without seeing me speak?”

The frantic concern puckering his forehead made her lips curve. He looked nonplussed and panicky.

She nodded.

His relieved sigh tickled her cheek and she smelled the cinnamon from the sweet apple pudding served to end the meal. “I will make this quick. First we will kiss. Then I will stroke your…your woman parts to prepare them for my…my shaft. After that I will thrust inside of you. There will be pain when I breech your maidenhead. I know not how much, but immediately I will withdraw. Then I will have them take the sheets to be hanged and order everyone out.”

The lord almighty had interceded on her behalf. Relief loosened her bunched shoulder and neck muscles. She had not realized the tension holding her limbs in paralysis until that very moment. The reassurance and confidence he radiated seeped under her skin, warmed her icy nose, fingers, and toes, and sucked away her rigidity. She smiled and traced the strong line of his jaw marveling at the slight scratchiness of the stubble.

“Close your eyes for me now,
mit sváss
. Do not open them until I tell you.”

She did not understand the Norse words he’d spoken, but he said them like an endearment, and Xára guessed them the equivalent of dearling or sweetling. For some peculiar reason, the notion soothed her, and she nodded.

He brushed lips to her brow and, when she obeyed his order, to her lids.

The brief grazing caress left her skin sizzling. His mouth, hot and wet skipped over one cheekbone. She gasped when he lowered his hips to hers and nudged her legs apart.

A languor, compelling and bewitching, stole across her limbs. She now understood how men seduced maids into abandoning their virtue, the feel of searing skin on searing skin more enthralling and delicious than anything she’d experienced afore.

He lowered onto her and his legs, the thigh muscles hard as steel, forced her knees wide. His groin, heated and forged with sharp planes and angles, settled on her, hipbone grazing hipbone.