Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (30 page)

“Aye, m’lady. An’ there’s still some draught
there on th’ table nex’ ta th’ bed, if ye need it.” With that, she
departed, closing the door behind her, and leaving Vika once more
to moil in her worry, wondering again how she might deal with
Grímr’s unexpected arrival, with keeping the fact of her unborn
babe—his unborn babe—unknown to him until she was ready to reveal
it, and also wondering how she was e’er to keep him from revealing
the fact of their daughter, and Vika’s abandonment of her, from her
cousins, and even more fearfully, from her
father.

On the cusp of that thought, the door swung
open, and in stepped the exact last man she e’er wanted to see.
“Grímr!” Her gaze swept o’er his shoulder to the passage behind
him, but thankfully, he was alone.

He shut the door and leaned against it with
his arms crossed over his chest. “Vika.”

She took a step forward, then stopped short.
“How—” Forcing a breath into her lungs, she started again with more
bite: “Why are you here?”

“Do your cousins know you are childing?”

She blinked. “Wh—I-I’m not!” She turned and
walked several paces away, wringing her hands. She
would not
swoon. “Why would you think it?”
Good God in heaven! He knows!
He knows!
She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, then
swung around to face him once more, saying, “Clearly, that insult
was a ploy to set me off the true subject. You have not answered my
question: Why are you here, Grímr?”

His brow lifted, but, thankfully, he pursued
his query to her no further, instead dropping his arms to his side
and coming away from the door, he strode with ease, as if he were
master of the keep, as if he were master of
her
, to the
chair by the hearth and settled in it before saying, “I think you
are full aware of my intentions with regard to you, Vika, so why do
you waste precious breath asking me such?”

G
RÍMR WATCHED, WITH
both ire and amusement, Vika glare at him in silence as she
struggled to remain in control of her natural inclinations, which,
he had little doubt, included at least a slap to his cheek, and at
most an attempt to throttle him. Such fire. He’d been drawn to it
from the moment they’d met—what seemed years and years ago now—and
he was pleased beyond words to see it in her now, the healthy glow
to her cheek, the near-ease she had in her movements, the
quick-witted sparring they had shared thus far, all signified to
him that she truly was fully on the mend.

And the babe….
Aye, he’d seen her in
this state before, and no matter that the evidence of it barely
showed beneath the layers of clothing she wore, nor the lie that
fell so easily from her lovely lips, she most assuredly was
childing. He knew from the glow to her skin, from the slight
rounding to her face, from the evident blossom in her breasts. The
jealousy, the fiery ball of anger at the thought of another man
touching what was his, he ignored—or, was determined to do so.
And, if ‘tis my babe she carries ‘neath her heart?
He fought
the joy that came with that thought just as vehemently. Still, he
would allow the admission to himself that he was glad to know that
the fall she’d taken had not flushed it from her womb. For, who
knew? It might have been the final blow that would have caused her
death, and then he’d not be able to fulfill his vow to his
daughter.

Rising from the chair, he said, “I’ll leave
you to your rest now,
svanfríðr
.”

“Bu—”

He shut the door against further speech.
There was time and plenty for that in the days ahead. For now, all
that mattered was that she had not sustained any lasting injuries.
The matter of the babe, and whether he’d sired it, would have to
wait. And, in any case, ‘twas clear she had no intention of wedding
another, whether he be father of her babe or nay, so even if ‘twas
proved to be another man’s when ‘twas brought forth at last? Again
he fought back the instant burn of jealous rage that seethed in his
gut, flexing his hand, then curling it into a tight fist at his
side. Nay, even then, he’d not deny the babe a place in his
home.

* * *

“I think it not at all so difficult a
thing,” Vika said, a brow arched as she rubbed the pad of her thumb
o’er the nail of her middle finger.

Morgana’s lips twitched with mirth in
response to her cousin’s clearly nettled barb at Grímr’s answer to
Robert’s query regarding the last joust Grímr had entered. For some
unknown reason, Vika had been behaving with much hostility to their
male guest, and had countered near to every comment the man put
forth, as if he’d offended her in some way. Truly, Morgana had
ne’er seen her cousin behave in such a manner to any man,
especially one as handsome and virile as this one. Nay, ‘twas more
her way to use her tongue to seduce and charm than to taunt and
vex.

“And, how many times, pray, have you fought
in a tourney, so that you might be so knowing and assured of this
opinion?”

With a turn of her head, Morgana’s gaze
rested again on Grímr. Aye, Vika had finally made him show a bit of
ire. She shifted her attention to her husband. And, ‘twas evident,
Robert was so flummoxed by the situation, that he would only clear
his throat and shovel another turnip into his mouth.

“There is no need for me to fight to know
that what I say is truth,” Morgana’s cousin said, gazing down at
the nail on her middle finger as she stroked it with the thumb of
her other hand, “for even Robert uses that very ploy at least once
in every joust he’s been in.” She stroked her palm up and down
Robert’s upper arm. “Is that not so, Robert?”

She’d purred his name, in a voice more
suited to the bedchamber, and Morgana’s earlier good cheer was
replaced by worry, and anger. Morgana moved her hand toward the
chalice of wine as if to pick it up, but knocked it over instead,
directly into the pale-blue silk-covered lap of her cousin.

‘Twas with no little satisfaction that
Vika’s antagonist for the meal burst into laughter, that Morgana’s
husband leapt off their bench to keep from getting drenched
himself, and Vika screeched that her best gown had been ruined.

You must curb your willful anger and
pride, Morgana, for they are sins
, she heard the chiding voice
in her head of Ma dame Aliénor, the abbess of the nunnery Morgana
had been raised in, and Morgana’s elation was instantly tainted
with guilt. In repentance, she silently vowed to the rarified image
of Ma dame to give her own favorite gown to Vika as recompense.

The page rushed over with a cloth and
Morgana reached for it, then wrapped one arm about the waist of her
cousin and used the other to daub at the stain, as they both exited
the great hall together.

* * *

After the ladies had departed, Robert sat
back, crossing his arms over his chest and studied Grímr with a
raised brow. ‘Twas all Grímr could do not to show his discomfiture
in manner or word, instead composing his visage into an indifferent
mein as he took a long pull on his ale and waited, this time, for
Robert to speak his mind first.

It took much longer than Grímr e’er believed
it would, but after what seemed to be several quiet, ponderous,
moments, as the only sounds about them were of the pages clearing
the remains of the meal from the table, Robert said at last, “I ken
now why that island of yours struck a familiar chord within me when
we met: ‘Twas Vika’s home as well, before her husband’s death.”

Grímr watched the door shut behind the last
page carrying a loaded tray before saying, “You’ve caught me out.
Vika was wed to my uncle—and, aye, we two are well acquainted.” How
well, he’d not reveal unless absolutely necessary to his own
ends.

Robert’s eyes narrowed on him. “The two of
you seem at sixes and sevens.”

Grímr shrugged. “Aye,” he said, and took
another pull on his ale, but did not allow his gaze to waver from
his host’s.

“All right,” Robert finally said. “I see
that you’ll share naught more. But, I’ll tell you this: If it comes
to choosing between you and Vika as guest, I must, and will, choose
my wife’s cousin.”

“As it should be. But, worry not, for ‘twill
not come to that, I give you my vow.”

* * *

Vika paced her bedchamber, nibbling on her
thumbnail.
Had her ploy worked?
Would Robert demand that
Grímr leave, find another place to stay while he carried out the
alleged
duty
that he’d come to do? She prayed he would, yet
she feared ‘twould take much more to push Robert to do so.

‘Twas a shame she’d had to sacrifice her
lovely gown for the attempt, but, she had to admit, ‘twas worth
losing it to see the e’er agreeable Morgana so vigorously protect
what was rightly hers. Mirth rose up from Vika’s belly and exploded
forth in a snort. She wondered if Robert realized his wife had
purposely spilled the wine, out of jealousy and umbrage.

Nay, no doubt not. For Robert had his eye to
his meal and would not have seen the spark of satisfaction that
glimmered e’er so briefly in Morgana’s eyes before, sadly, her
conscience o’ercame her bout of fiery will, and once more the
illusion of docile kindness prevailed.

Even so, when Morgana had insisted Vika take
the very lovely lavender silk gown, Vika did not refuse it. She ran
her hand o’er the shiny white-and-purple violets embroidered around
the low neckline with fine silk thread. ‘Twas truly beautiful. Much
more so than the gown Morgana had ruined.

With a sigh, she hung it on a peg, then
settled on the bed for a short nap.

As she drifted to sleep, images of Grímr’s
reaction to her in the gown, of his handsome face and desire-filled
eyes, of her cool reception of such open admiration, floated behind
her lids, and she smiled.

* * *

Robert shut the door behind him as he came
into the bedchamber behind his wife that eve after supper, and
after the second round of sparring between his guests he’d been
subjected to. “Those two are making my meals not settle well.”

Morgana turned her gaze to him and gave him
a small smile that included a shrug and a shake of her head.

“He is the nephew of Vika’s husband, did she
tell you?”

Morgana’s eyes went round. She shook her
head and lifted the filet and veil from her head, then put them
away.

“I’ve told him that Vika will be the one to
stay, should their animosity become a burden.”

On a sigh, his wife nodded.

“Why did you give Vika your gown?” he said,
walking up behind her and aiding her in disrobing for the
night.

Her answer was a flurry of hand movements
reminding him of the spill of wine at the nooning meal. He gave a
gruff grunt in answer and opened his mouth o’er the pulse at her
neck, more interested now in the soft, pale, succulent flesh feast
laid before him.

The heartbeat under his tongue fluttered and
sped, and a rush of breath beat, warm and moist against his cheek,
as she lifted her arms up and around his head. In answer, he cupped
her breasts, fuller now because she carried their babe in her womb,
and tweaked their dark tips into tantalizing points.

When she tried to turn in his arms, he
stayed her movement by dropping an arm across her belly, bringing
her lush bottom up against his cock, and pressed his palm against
her mons, prying her humid lips apart with his fingers and sliding
them into her liquid heat as he teased her clit with the rough pad
of his thumb.

In moments, she’d drenched his hand and her
thighs trembled and opened. When she arched, went rigid against
him, when he felt the first ripplings of her womb begin to
contract, he pinched her nipple and sucked hard on that pulse point
at the base of her neck.

She came so hard, he almost lost hold of
her, almost stumbled. And, as was becoming e’er more common, she
vocalized her pleasure with a long moan.

Which only made his own need for completion
more acute.

Lifting her up into his arms, he cradled her
head in his palm and pressed a lip-splitting, passion and
need-filled kiss on her mouth as he brought them to their bed.

“I would have had you where we stood, but I
don’t want to hurt the babe,” he told her, as he quickly doffed his
own clothing. Then, climbing atop her, he kissed her brow, lifted
her limbs about his waist and drove home. “Blood of Christ, ‘tis
Heaven here, I swear.”

In answer, she ran her tongue up his neck
and bit down hard on his earlobe, which made him arch, which sent
him deeper, which made him touch the mouth of her womb, which
nearly made him spew his seed before he’d had time to enjoy the
ride.

“Nay, none of that,” he told her, then
imprisoned her wrists above her head, gave her a small nip on her
lower lip with his teeth, pressed his cheek to hers, and lifted and
lowered his hips in slow, seductive movements, keeping them both
riding the sharp edge between delight and torment, between the need
to remain bonded, and the desire for release, for long, long
minutes, until Morgana’s face and chest were so flushed, and
Robert’s pulse was so rapid, that he feared they’d both burst into
flame if they did not fall o’er that searing, pleasurable precipice
soon.

With the very last bit of strength he had
left, he raised up on his knees and took her with the force he’d
been depriving himself—depriving her—for much too long and, as his
cock slid in and out of the tight, slick, engorged center of her,
as her hips came up again and again to meet his, the world around
them exploded into millions of flashes of starlight. Somewhere on
the edge of his consciousness, Robert heard Morgana cry out her
pleasure, and his deeper answering cry as well.

Sometime later, Robert awakened from his
passion-induced sleep to find Morgana had bathed him, and was now
settled by the fire, as so oft she was, mending yet another piece
of clothing of his. Warmth filled his heart as he watched her.