Debra Brown - Ice Maiden

Ottar snorted, and drained the cup before him. “I’ve work to do,” he said, and pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on George. “I’ll see you later, at table?” The question was for Rika.

“Of course,” she said.

Ottar quit the brew house like a young bull elk gone to sharpen his sheds against the nearest tree. The lad itched for battle, and George had the distinct impression he was the enemy.

“Now,” Rika said. “What would you know?”

“This…marriage,” he began.

She raised a hand to silence him. “’Twill be a marriage in name only, of course. And short-lived at that. You do take my meaning, Grant.”

’Twas not a question but an order, and George took orders from no one, least of all heathen women. Her confidence irked him. Yet a hint of color tinged her cheeks, and he could swear she was unnerved by the topic.

“I understand ye well.” Good luck to the poor sod who dared breach that icy exterior. George was happy to have none of it.

“In name only,” she repeated, louder this time.

“Name only?” A silver-haired man at the next table rose abruptly at Rika’s words. “Name only?” To George’s astonishment—and Rika’s, too, from the look on her face—in a voice both commanding and strangely melodic, the elder recited a snippet of verse:

“‘When a man is wed

Ere the moon is high

He shall bed his bride

Heed Frigga’s cry”’

Hmm. What the devil did that mea—?

“He shall not!” Rika slammed her fist on the table, and her drinking horn clattered to the floor.

Now here was something unexpected. George’s interest in the matter grew tenfold with her response. He watched as the silver-haired man exchanged a pregnant look with Lawmaker.

“Who is Frigga?” George asked, intrigued.

The silver-haired man smiled. “Goddess of love—and matrimony.”

Rika swore under her breath.

“And who are ye, if I may ask?” George said.

“Hannes,” the man said. “The skald.”

“Skald?” George frowned, trying to recall where he’d heard the word before.

“He’s a poet,” Lawmaker said.

Rika shot Hannes a nasty look. “Not much of one, in my opinion. There shall be no—” she crossed her arms in front of her, and George saw the heat rise in her face “—bedding.” She spat the word.

“Oh, but there must be,” Hannes said. “It’s the law.” He arched a snowy brow at Lawmaker, who sat, seemingly unmoved by both the skald’s declaration and Rika’s outrage.

“Hannes is right,” Lawmaker said finally. “It is the law. Without consummation, there is no marriage—and no dowry.”

Rika shot to her feet. “You said naught of this to me before.”

Lawmaker shrugged and affected an expression innocent as a babe’s. “I thought you knew.”

Until this moment, George had not seen her truly angry, and it fair amused him. The self-possessed vixen had finally lost control. Her cheeks blazed with color, setting off the cool blue of her eyes. Those lips he favored twisted into a scowl.

Somehow he must use this opportunity.

“If the coin is all ye want,” he said to her, even as the idea formed in his mind, “ye need not a marriage to get it.”

Her scowl deepened. “Explain.”

“I told ye,” George said. “I shall pay ye well for my transport home.”

“How much?” Her eyes narrowed.

He hesitated, wondering how little he could get away with offering. His clan was comfortable, but not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination. He had his own bride-price to pay for Anne Sinclair’s hand. That silver had gone down with their ship and would have to be raised anew.

Lawmaker cleared his throat. “It makes no difference, Rika, what the Scot offers. If your dowry remains intact, with your father…”

George watched as her mind worked.

“Ah, you’re right, of course,” she said. “It solves not my other problem.”

George had no idea of what they spoke, yet the matter intrigued him more than it should.

“So marriage it is,” Lawmaker said.

Hannes made for the bar. “And consummation,” he called back over his shoulder.

“I refuse to submit to such a thing! He’ll not touch me.” Rika fisted her hands at her sides and seized George’s gaze. He was certain, if she held it long enough, those crystalline eyes would burn holes right through him.

Her breathing grew labored, and George was all too aware of her breasts straining at her gown. ’Twas cold in the room, and before his very eyes her nipples hardened against the thick fabric. All at once, he felt something that startled and disturbed him.

Arousal.

He shifted on the bench and adjusted his tunic. The thought of bedding such an offensive woman—and one so tall at that—was repugnant. She was everything an alluring maiden should not be: domineering, opinionated, and with a roughness about her that was appalling in one of her sex.

Aye, should they do the deed, the hellion would likely wish to mount him.

His mouth went dry at the thought, and for the barest instant he recalled how her braids had grazed his chest the first moment he laid eyes on her.

Rika stiffened, as if she read his thoughts. Unconsciously she bit her lip, and George’s eyes were drawn to her mouth yet again.

An unsettling thought possessed him.

Mayhap heeding Frigga’s cry would be not so disagreeable after all.

The woman disgusted him.

And intrigued him.

’Twas late and the fire in the longhouse waned, smoldering embers casting a reddish glow about the smoky room. George sat on the bench near his bed box and watched discreetly as Rika bested Ottar at some kind of board game.

She shot him an occasional glance, her eyes frosting as they met his, then warming again in the firelight as she laughed at one of Ottar’s jokes.

Lawmaker sat with Hannes in whispered conversation, seemingly oblivious to everything around them. But George knew better. The old man didn’t miss a trick.

Rika had avoided all of them, save Ottar, since the incident in the brew house the afternoon before. At table she’d been silent, and when George caught her staring at him, he’d read something new in her eyes.

Apprehension.

It should have pleased him. After all, decent women should fear him. Respect him. But all he felt was surprise, and a mild disappointment he was at a loss to explain.

’Twas the talk of consummation that had changed her. Of that George was certain. Her entire demeanor seemed altered since the skald’s matter-of-fact proclamation.

George ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. It wasn’t his idea, this bloody marriage. ’Twas hers. He wanted no part of it. He was daft to even consider such a proposal. Nay, he wouldn’t do it. There must be another way.

He scanned the faces of the men still at table, and those seated around the fire on crudely hewn benches. Blowing snow whistled across the moors outside and flapped at the sealskin coverings draping the windows.

A young woman rose from the central table and caught his eye. She was small and blond, exuding a delicate beauty and an air of sensuality that George found rather appealing.

She held his gaze while she poured a draught of mead into a horn, then moved toward him with a feline grace. “Are you thirsty?” she asked, and offered him the drink.

“Aye,” he said, and took it. Were he on his own shores, he’d consider flirting with this one. “My thanks.” He drained the horn and grimaced at the sweetness of the libation.

“You don’t like it?” The woman pouted prettily.

“I prefer a stout ale.”

“My name is Lina,” she said. “Perhaps I can find you some.”