The Dragon Slayer

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The Dragon Slayer Jianne Carlo

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Copyright © 2011 by Jianne Carlo ISBN: 978-1-936751-26-6 Edited by Georgia Woods Cover by Mina Carter All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Etopia Press electronic publication: April 2011 http://www.etopia-press.net

Chapter One Dunsmuir Castle, Scottish and Northumbrian Border AD 1029 “Treachery brews.” Ruard kept his voice low, though the din of the villagers, castle workers, and local nobles assembled to witness his marriage to Catriona the Pure drowned his words to any would be eavesdroppers. “’Tis said in the village the Picts are gathering forces.” The interminable wait for his bride’s arrival had soured Ruard’s mood. His new lands were not the prize he expected for having served King Cnut for nigh on four winters. He welcomed the notion of a pitched battle. ’Twould release the restless energy stewing in his bones. And appease the lust building in his loins. “Aye. Mayhap we can relieve them of coin. For you will surely need many to set this castle to rights.” His brother Njal grimaced and spat the wine in his mouth into a brass goblet. “Did not Cnut the Great speak of the riches of Dunsmuir Castle? I have seen naught but filth, and tasted naught but food, ale, and mead fit for the pigsty since we arrived.” “Aye, but the soil is black and rich. And the farms are vast.” Ruard and Njal had not wasted their days and nights, but ridden the breadth and depth of the lands to be his once he wed Catriona

the Pure. Ruard eyed the two wenches thumping brass mugs onto the tables. “Why are there but two maids serving the castle’s needs?” “Methinks they serve the men’s needs.” Njal unsheathed his eating knife and dug a patch of dried gravy off the table’s surface. “’Tis been nigh on two moons with no swiving. Last eve I near took the fleshier one to my pallet.” Ruard spewed the ale in his mouth over the table. Squinting at his contribution to the encrusted grime, he swiped a hand across his wet lips. “Nay! Not once have I seen you swive a wench other men share.” “My prick has felt naught but mine own hands for two moons. ’Tis like a fever in my head, the thought of a hot, tight puss. A woman’s soft skin.” Njal scratched his groin. “A bountiful bosom.” Groaning as his cock hardened in response to the image Njal’s words conjured, Ruard snapped, “Cease. Or my resolve will shatter.” Njal chortled, slapped a hand on the table, and scowled when sticky ale coated his fingers. He rubbed his hand back and forth over his tunic. “None shall believe that Ruard the Randy’s cock sat unattended for one eve, far less two moons. That you not take a castle female I understand, but one of the village wenches?” Ruard shrugged. “I would have my lady respected by her people.” Njal waved at the dirt-streaked faces of the men and women lurching and stumbling between

the rows of tables in the hall. “You desire the respect of these?” Ruard scanned the chamber and he blew out a long breath. When the king had deeded him Castle Dunsmuir, he had pictured a holding not unlike that of his older brother’s—clean, orderly, smelling of fresh herb rushes, and filled with well-garbed workers and tradesmen. Not a filthencrusted, smoke-filled hall with air so foul he avoided taking meals at the high table as oft as possible. Not louts who did naught but gorge on ale and wallow in their own waste. “Neither the castle nor these people have seen a scouring brush in nine sennights, I wager. I envy you not, brother.” Njal scuffed the sodden rushes on the floor. Fleas peppered the air above the rotting shrubs. “’Twere I speaking marriage vows, I’d prefer Catriona the Housekeeper to Catriona the Pure to wife.” A muck-caked lad no higher than a holly bush dumped a tray bearing two trenchers covered by a mass of gooey, grayish matter on the table. Ruard shuddered as the odor of the food attacked his nostrils. “I vow if she’s as rancid as this meat I will not consummate the marriage this eve.” Ruard’s lips thinned. “Assign more men to work on the bathhouses, for I would have them completed on the morrow.” “And will you force your people to the soap?” “Aye.” He recalled the lavender-scented women at Cnut’s court. The fresh meadow fragrance of

Norse women. The spicy aroma of harem women. He’d sniffed naught but rankness at Castle Dunsmuir. The doors to the hall banged open, and the resounding crack dulled the clamor in the chamber. “Your bride is here.” “Am I to rejoice she has deigned to arrive?” Ruard gritted his teeth, but the anger he’d suppressed surged, his hands fisted, and every neck tendon strained. He had battled long and hard for Dunsmuir Castle and the two score farms and villages adjoining the fortress. By Odin, his bride and people would know their place before winter set in. The few meager oil lamps on either side of the castle’s entrance did little to lift the shadows darkening the smoke-hazed hall. A fierce, icy gust sent the rushes concealing the filth of the uneven stone floors into a flurry, a mangy dog snuffling a peasant’s footsteps lifted his jaw and howled, and a crackle of white split the midnight sky. Thunder boomed as the long-promised storm ruptured overhead. All eyes turned to the new arrivals. Ruard trained his gaze on the party, searching for a glimpse of the woman he would take to wife. His mouth dropped open when he glimpsed the lone female in the center of a group of armed warriors. “Never have I seen a woman so dissimilar from her name.” Njal drained his goblet. “’Twere me naming her, she would be Catriona the Siren not Catriona the Pure.”

Ruard barely registered Njal’s words. He had hoped for a biddable wife who had all her teeth, did not drool, and performed her wifely duties without complaint. A plain, humble woman. He had no use for a luscious goddess who drew every man’s attention. For every male in the hall, every serving boy, every wizened elder, every warrior gaped at the beauty as she glided across the hall. Ruard had no use for a flame-haired nymph with breasts as ripe as melons and ruby lips begging for kisses. Nor for a wench whose supple hips beckoned a man’s hands. Nor for a maiden with a stubborn chin tilted just so in rebellion. Nor for a woman whose flashing eyes and narrowed gaze spoke of naught but trouble. He squeezed his randy, aching cock, willing it to subside, and waited until his bride stood in front of the high table, her hands folded at her waist, before he acknowledged her presence. Her lips flattened and he knew she understood his displeasure. “You are late.” Rurad stood and slammed his hands onto the table. He stabbed his arousal against the wood’s edge and a sharp lance of pain did the deed. His prick went flaccid only to rise like a battering ram when she threw back her head, firelight danced across her wavy tresses, and her nostrils flared. Twining her fingers so tightly together the skin at her knuckles went white, she spoke, her voice soft and musical, “Forgive my tardiness, my lord.”

’Twas plain from her mocking tone she cared not a whistling wind for his forgiveness. Before Ruard could utter a reply, a man dressed in the garb of a monk stepped forward. “Storms delayed us, my lord.” No male less resembled a man of God than the one who stood before Ruard. Broad, tall, fleshy, he wore a brown robe made for a man half his girth and height, and the hem of his tunic barely scraped knees as thick as oak trunks. The man behind the priest stepped forward and tugged his helm off. Ruard stifled a hiss when he recognized the knight. He fingered the cold steel of Heiðir Slayer, the sword named Dragon Slayer by both his Christian and Norse enemies. He clenched his jaw before inclining his head. “Ulfric, what brings you to Dunsmuir?” He had no liking for the Lord Ulfric, third son of the Earl of Tees. Though he called King Cnut liege lord, Ulfric had been late to raise his sword to aid Ruard and his brothers when they had fought border battles against King Máel Coluim of Scotland. Ruard’s marriage to Máel Coluim’s niece, Catriona, had been arranged to formalize the tentative truce between the two sovereigns as Castle Dunsmuir’s lands rode the border betwixt the two kingdoms. “Cloak your anger,” Njal murmured, his hand brushing his beard, his voice too low to reach Ulfric’s ears. “Play the welcoming lord.”

Ruard gave his brother an imperceptible nod without budging his focus from the unwelcome lord. He folded his arms. “I am to witness your vows to the Lady Catriona.” Ulfric bared his teeth, but no laughter lit his clear blue eyes. “I will not delay you on your journey. The vows will be said this night. Njal, send a boy to fetch the priest.” “The king sent his own holy man.” Ulfric angled his head at the monk. “I would have the local priest as well as the king’s man preside over the ceremony.” None would gainsay the vows he and Catriona the Pure said on this day. Ulfric shrugged. “As you wish.” Ruard ordered the castle steward to fetch food and drink. He assisted his intended bride onto the dais, careful to keep a loose hold on her delicate fingers, and reluctantly released her hand before taking a seat on the bench. His manhood surged when her hips brushed his thigh. He willed his cock limp and shot his intended wife a sidelong glance. She had the pinched look of one who had suffered through a poor harvest season. Yet she was Máel Coluim’s niece, albeit through a brother’s handfast wife. By royal rights she should be plump and spoiled. According to the villagers, the Lady Catriona had never graced Dunsmuir’s threshold, though she had inherited the castle and lands that stretched to the

east coast of Northumbria. Lands that became his once the marriage was consummated. After pouring wine into a goblet, Ruard offered Catriona the vessel. “Must we marry this eve, my lord?” A smattering of freckles dusted Catriona’s arrogant nose, and her small hands curled tightly as she hissed the question. Too surprised by her boldness to formulate an answer, his gaze swept to her lap, the proud tilt of her chin as she stared straight ahead, and returned to a wrist bared when the sleeve of her cyrtel slipped to the side. Faint marks the color of heather blooms ringed the flesh at the base of her palm. Ruard frowned. “Must we, my lord?” Irritation slashed heat across his brow, and he took a deep breath hoping to still his rising temper. And regretted the action immediately. Catriona smelled of spring, fresh and green, and she radiated the heat of a dozen meadows warmed by a blinding summer sun. Her head grazed his upper arm, and when she rearranged her skirts, her hair slid a silken caress over his forearm. Ruard’s prick thickened. Her lips moved and he was so bewitched by the sight of even pearly teeth he heard not a word she said. ’Twas only when Ulfric straddled the bench on his right Ruard registered the fury in her voice and the question she’d asked. “Aye.” He would have her to wife this night. “We marry this eve.”

“’Tis custom to say the banns thrice.” Ruard caught Catriona’s chin and tipped her head back so she had to meet his gaze. “We marry when the priest arrives in this hall.” Anger lit the rich brown depths of her eyes. A rosy hue dusted her cheeks. Ruard would’ve sworn flames licked his fingertips, but ’twas the hot air from her snort that singed his flesh. His cock wept with greed and his sac hardened. The look she gave him shouted defiance. He would not tolerate a disobedient wife. The thought of taming her, seeing her flaming curls draped on his bed as he thrust into her tight virgin channel, had his prick straining his breeches. The ale-sotted castle priest chose that moment to announce his presence. “My lord?” Ruard had Catriona trapped by his gaze, and the smell of her this close, all sweetness and delight, the feel of her soft flesh, the nervous lick of her pink tongue to the corner of her lips, sent any vision but that of her, glorious and naked, out of his head. “Marry us priest. Now.” “Brother—” Njal, always the mediator, stepped forward. “Nay. Not a word,” Ruard growled. Catriona did not sway from his gaze though her lips flattened. “What of the banns, my lord?” “Lady, I have waited a sennight for your arrival. We will wed forthwith. Read the banns thrice first priest.”

Her bottom lip quivered, but she wrenched her chin out of his grasp, and squinted at the priest. “’Tis customary to say a mass.” “’Tis the custom.” The priest stumbled forward. Ruard’s neck hairs bristled. “Wed us at once. Mass will wait for the morrow.” “Mayhap you needs see the marriage contract.” Catriona glared at Ulfric, who pulled a scroll from his pouch and set the wax-sealed and tied vellum on the table. Ruard untied the ribbon binding the frail paper. All had gone quiet in the hall and he knew every pair of eyes focused on him. He scanned the words penned. A muscle in his cheek twitched. Rage coursed through his veins. Njal elbowed his side and whispered, “Restraint. Recall the lands coming to you.” He reached across, took the scroll, glanced at the writing, and muttered a curse. “King Máel Coluim demands all witnesses to the vow present in your chamber during the consummation.” “’Tis an insult. All are to witness the consummation? A bloody sheet will not suffice?” Ruard’s mind raced. *** Catriona had hoped for a cruel warrior with foul breath who stank. A man ’twould be easy to kill. A dull lout with a vicious temper. A man ’twould be easy to poison.

Not a man with golden hair, sky blue eyes, whose shoulders dwarfed any she had ever seen. At first sight, she thought him the Norse god her cousins and sister spoke of constantly, Thor, the God of Thunder. Truly he must be the thunder god, for her heart had not stopped pounding since she laid eyes on him. Her chin still stung from his touch, her flesh so afire she had the urge to set the cool goblet to her face and neck. She swallowed hard, studying the slop-splattered table. Dunsmuir was not as her papa had described. ’Twas no prize bounty. The stench from the castle had reached them before they breached the far gate. Why did Ulfric covet this land? The aroma of meat long spoiled wafting from the cold trencher on the table made her throat close. ’Twould be easy to slip the pouch of poison tied to her skirts into the Lord Ruard’s food, he would never taste the bitterness. Catriona flinched when the lord grasped her hand. She looked to their joined flesh, his skin browned to a deep almond hue, hers pale as the snow that would soon surround Castle Dunsmuir like a siege army. His hold was strong, and where their palms met, his pulse throbbed, warming her bruised flesh.

How am I to kill him? I can feel his heart beating. I can hear him breathing.

The memory of her sister’s thin body shackled to Carden Tower’s dungeons walls welled nausea up her throat. His life for hers. ’Twould be done. Catriona didn’t resist when the lord pulled her to

stand beside him on the dais. She stood mute and unseeing as the priest spoke the vows. The crowded hall blurred when she uttered the oath. All went silent when the lord declared the words that bound them together. She marveled as his voice rang out, the sound richer and stronger than the roar of the sea battering Carden Tower’s thick curtain wall. The curtain wall that guarded the dungeons where Ulfric’s men held her sister Gæierla prisoner. “My lady.” Catriona blinked when the lord tugged her to face him. “’Tis a Norse custom to exchange rings as a symbol of our union.” He looked to his brother who took one long stride forward and dropped two gold bands into the lord’s cupped palm. He slipped the cold metal on her finger, the gold shackle glistening in the hazy light of the castle’s two fires, and Catriona felt as if weights had been laid on her shoulders. The lord turned her hand over, their eyes met, and the fierce expression on his face swelled her throat shut. His lips brushed her palm before he laid the other ring on her flesh. Flames licked from her palms warming her insides, pooling liquid heat low in her belly, and she yearned to crawl into his arms, to tell him all, plead him to champion her and Gæierla.

Tis some mad enchantment. Some magik curse from the ring.

“Lady Catriona?” His soft whisper penetrated the spell holding her body hostage, her mind prisoner. Grinding her teeth so hard she feared one would snap in two, Catriona placed the ring on his finger, and risked a peek at him when the metal refused to slide over his thick knuckle. Her heart turned over in her chest at his piercing stare. The amber in his blue eyes spewed the molten heat of a dragon about to roar plumes of fire. His hand covered hers and he helped her push the band down his finger. She knew not how they came to be seated at the high table. When yet another disgusting trencher appeared, Catriona yearned for nothing more than a crisp apple or mayhap a carrot. Though her belly rumbled, never would a morsel from the fetid trencher slide through her lips. She peered at the food trying to determine if any of the mess looked familiar. “Neither Njal nor I can identify the contents of the cook’s pot.” Catriona near jumped out of her own skin and her heart threatened to fly out of her mouth. She twisted to face the lord, unprepared for the onesided smile he flashed, amusement crinkling lines at the corners of his eyes, and the quick wink he shot her. Unable to contain an answering smile she wished for one of the miracles King Cnut witnessed when he attended the papal coronation.

Ruard leaned low to her ear and her gaze slid sideways to try to read his face. “Njal has secreted bread, cheese, wine, and apples in our chamber.” “Apples? Truly?” Her mouth watered and she looked at him as if he held the keys to Christ’s kingdom. “I have yearned for an apple for nigh on three sennights.” She closed her eyes remembering the tart-sweet taste of her favorite fruit, and blinked when his finger brushed her neck. A frown chased his brow. He took her hand and pushed her sleeves up to bare her wrist. “How come you by these bruises, my lady?”

Chapter Two Catriona the Pure might have been Catriona the Proud, for she had stood tall and unflinching during the ceremony. Only Ruard had felt her fingers trembling and heard the hitch in her breathing when her tongue tangled the vows. Njal had taken the seat on his left and Ulfric the one adjacent. “I see not why Ulfric need be seated at the high table. He is but a third son.” “Must I remind you I am Njal the Peacemaker? ’Tis your wish for Ulfric to depart on the morn, no?” Ruard folded his arms and glared at this brother. “Think you he would not tarry for spite if offered any excuse?” Letting out a long sigh, Ruard rolled his eyes. “I bow to the wisdom of Cnut’s peacemaker.” “I like not this proclamation sealed by King Máel Coluim.” Njal broke a burnt loaf in two. “What if Catriona is not a maid?” Ruard’s teeth snapped together. “What of it?” “The laws of this land are not familiar to me.” Ruard’s gaze swept the room. The crowd grew louder with each downed mug. ’Twas not likely he could avoid the whole hall crowding the bedding chamber.

“If your lady is no maiden, the lands may be forfeit.” “A quick cut of my arm, a bloody sheet.” “Nay. We know not the local custom. Mayhap the women cleanse her after?” Njal shook his head. “Mayhap Ulfric and the men check your flesh for a cut?” “Many a bride has been saved by the blood of a pig or fowl.” “I will see to it,” Njal promised. Ruard did not intend to allow any man to ogle Catriona’s bountiful breasts, or strain to see if the flame curls on her head matched those between her legs. His glance dropped to her lap as if he could discern the answer to that question by staring long and hard at her clothed mound. She sat motionless, her hands folded at her waist, and made no attempt to use her eating knife. “My lady? Gifting him with an honest smile, one of the two she had bestowed this eve, she whispered, “I await the apples my lord.” He pictured her full lips, the red apple, her biting into the flesh and his prick ran juices aplenty. Ruard drew in her fresh spring scent, and his sac fired hard and tight, rocks of molten stone ready to spew. One of the local ladies cleared her voice, rose, and went to whisper in Catriona’s ear. Catriona squared her shoulders and set her hands on the table. “’Tis the withdrawal time, my lord.”

Her words fell on his ears but did not penetrate the lust-fogged haze coating his mind. Ruard stood and his eyes followed her swaying hips as she glided to the staircase. Never had he seen a female move with such grace, such promise. His prick battled the linen breeches, straining at the cloth, fighting to stand tall and proud. His mind’s eye filled with visions of Catriona, naked, under him, her legs wrapped around his waist, pleading for his touch, his kiss, his demanding possession. “Shutter your face, brother. Ulfric watches like the hawk he is. All can see your desire. Be seated.” Ruard took his brother’s advice and sat abruptly. The local female noblewomen rose to follow Catriona up the stone staircase. “I like this not.” Njal drained his goblet. “Who plots what? ’Tis no happenstance Ulfric is to witness the consummation of your marriage.” “Did you procure the blood?” “While you and your bride whispered to each other. You did not notice my absence?” Njal wore a mocking grin. He knew where Ruard’s thoughts lay. Swiving. “I have had two pouches set under the bed furs.” “Not one but two? Am I piercing a maidenhead or gutting a pig?” “One is the oil the harem master used with virgins. Catriona the Pure looks terrified enough to scream. The oil will ease your way and mayhap dull her pain.”

Ruard’s eyes rose to the rafted ceiling; in his lust he had forgotten Catriona’s pain. “I will not have other men viewing my naked bride.” “Be of ease brother. Your lady’s maid has found a curtained bed. ’Twill ensure a modicum of privacy.” “You and our men must surround the bed. No one draws the curtains.” Reluctant though he was to take Catriona so publicly, Ruard knew he could not risk losing Dunsmuir. “’Tis needs be done this eve.” He ground his teeth together. In truth, though his cockstand had not subsided, taking his wife’s maidenhead while Ulfric and a score of others listened to her whimpers held no appeal. He remembered her fingers trembling during the priest’s blessing and vowed to shield Catriona from the gawkers. A roar erupted from the lower tables. Ruard glanced in the direction of the noise and lurched to his feet, sword in hand. Half of the men in the hall were drunk and most owed loyalty to none. The shouts and calls grew bawdier with each passing moment. Spilled ale soaked the rushes on the floor, smoke spewed from the dying fires, and the scent of urine held pungent sway. Ulfric’s warriors surrounded the young lord as he drank from a horn, and then tossed it onto a table. Ulfric raised his sword and shouted, “Time for the pricking.” Within seconds Ulfric and his men had Ruard and Njal surrounded.

“’Tis a defiant wench you take to wife.” Ulfric rocked on his heels and sent Ruard a sly glance. “She refused to confess to the monk. Mayhap she will refuse your prick?” Ulfric signaled and his men separated Ruard from Njal, wrestled his sword away, and pulled his hauberk off. Though his fists met a half-dozen jaws, Ruard was soon stripped naked and thrust into the air riding on the shoulders of the men thronging the hall. Lewd cheers bounced off the walls, the men rushed up the stone staircase, shoved him through the chamber doorway, and straight into one of the local matrons. Her hand stroked his cock, and she squeezed him at the base before shouting, “By the gods, he has seed aplenty.” A woman shrieked, the crowd tittered, someone pushed Ruard in the direction of the bed, and he tripped over the rushes and crashed through the velvet curtains surrounding the bed to land on the straw mattress. *** The women had stripped off her clothes, brushed her hair till her scalp tingled, and settled her on the mattress under the sheets. The cold linen sent shivers up her spine, gooseflesh popped on her arms, and Catriona crushed the sheets between her fingers and bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She looked at the green canopy covering the bed, but her eyes refused to focus. The other women had tried to stop her from drawing the curtains around the bed, but one of the local noblewomen, a Lady Carlton, had come to Catriona’s aid. Praying for the strength to survive the consummation, she near jumped off the bed when a din of shouts, whistles, and thumps rent the murmur of female conversation. She heard a woman attest to the lord’s virility. How did the witch know her husband had seed aplenty? Before she had time to ponder the source of the woman’s knowledge, the curtains parted and her husband fell onto the mattress. Ruard’s leg was brown against the whiteness of the sheets. Catriona stared at his sinewy thighs, mesmerized when the ropey muscles bunched. Someone drew the curtains lining her side of the bed apart. Ruard covered her body with his, reached one arm to set the velvet back in place, and shouted, “Njal, to me.” Catriona heard his brother’s voice, but Njal spoke Norse and she didn’t understand the commands he roared. She flinched when gnarled fingers snaked through the curtains and pinched her forearm. Ruard growled, grabbed the hand, and twisted the bony wrist until the man screamed in agony. A weight sank onto her chest, she couldn’t draw in enough air, and panic bubbled up her clogged throat. She struggled, squirming and wriggling and

trying to dislodge the heaviness depriving her of precious breaths. “Desist, Catriona. To me, look to me.” Ruard grabbed her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Ride her hard!” “Prick her well!”

I cannot do this. I cannot.

“You can. You will. Do not listen to them. Look to me.” His lips moved on her ear and then he drew back, his gaze trapping hers.

I am speaking my thoughts? ’Tis the magik?

“Are you a maid?” “Suckle those tits!” “Bite her buds!” Whistles punctuated the men’s raised voices. Stomping and cheering broke out and one man broke into song, then another, and another. Ruard shook her again. “Look to me, lady.” All thoughts whirled like snow in a blizzard and she couldn’t get away from his searing stare. He smelled of pine forest and smoke, and his hands threw out the heat of a roaring blaze where their flesh connected. He squeezed her shoulders. “Catriona. Are you a maiden?” She stared at his fingers, so brown against her pale skin. His forearms were slightly furred and tightly muscled with not an ounce of spare flesh. The outline of a fire-spewing dragon was drawn on the cusp of his shoulder. This creature, this man they called the Dragon Slayer, would protect her.

The thought formed with such surety Catriona ceased struggling. The blue ink proved irresistible. Catriona traced the dragon’s wingspan with her forefinger. “Lady, you must listen to me.” His eyes were the shade of a summer sky, blue and bright and dazzling. His hand cupped her neck and his fingers brushed her cheek. “Are you a maiden, Catriona?” “You impugn my honor, my lord?” She squared her shoulders. “I am a maid.” The room had grown so quiet that when a log in the fireplace snapped, Catriona jumped. She realized all the men and women listened to her vehement pronouncement and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Njal, one of your bawdy songs would not be amiss.” Ruard glared at the curtains. When his brother burst into song, a wicked limerick about plucking an apple, Ruard rolled into a sitting position, lifted Catriona onto his lap, and whispered, “We will do this fast my lady. Cup your palm.” The faint hint of yeast from the ale he’d drunk earlier scented his hot breath, and the slight puffs tickled her ear. His throat worked when he spoke and a dusting of golden stubble feathered his chin. She felt as if the whole world had slowed, as if her mind had gone on hiatus because no longer were her thoughts hers to command. He shaped her hands into a cup and poured oil into her palm.

“My lord?” She had wed a man whose mind did not function. Why else would he oil her palms? “I know not what you wish.” “To spare you pain, my lady.” He guided her hand to his man part and Catriona near swallowed her tongue. She jerked away from his erect manhood, the sheets covering her breasts fell, and oil spilled down her belly. When she snatched at the covers, Ruard tugged the cloth from her grasp, and rolled on top of her. He was heavy and hard and hot, and she wanted to shove him away and at the same time wrap her arms around his back and press him closer until they were joined everywhere. “’Twill be over quickly my lady.” “I know,” she whispered. He drew back to stare at her, and she frowned when his naked body settled between her legs. His man part poked at her belly. She glanced down, fear lodged in her throat, and she could not draw a breath. Catriona twisted, desperation strengthening her limbs as she shoved at his chest and dug her nails into his flesh. “Nay. Follow my lead, lady.” His hand captured her wrists and one arm held her fast. His manhood poked between her thighs and she froze before babbling, “’Twill not work, my lord. ’Tis too big. Why are you spreading the oil there?” She let out a squeak when his fingers pushed between her womanly folds. The room had gone quiet again.

“Sing.” Ruard’s shout near scared the curls off her head. She yelped when he rubbed a spot that made her insides clench. “My lord.” She freed her hands and tugged a lock of his hair. “What are you doing?” He pushed a finger inside her and she went stock still when he poured liquid from a pouch all over her womanly curls. “What are you doing, Lord?” Catriona recognized Ulfric’s mocking tone. “Njal!” Ruard bellowed. Voices burst into song. Ruard rose on one elbow, grasped Catriona’s hips, covered her lips with his, and thrust. She opened her mouth to protest the sharp pinch and his tongue swept in. The heat the caress generated could warm an entire castle, set forests and meadows to flame, strike white-hot bolts to her curling toes. How could a mere tongue work such magik? Her eyes drifted closed and she gave over to the mastery of his kiss, following his lead when he cradled her face between his hands. Catriona caressed his jaw, touched the tip of her tongue to his, and fair melted away when he suckled lightly. He nibbled on her lower lip, she sipped the corner of his mouth, and when his hand covered her breast, she moaned. Ruard went rigid immediately, and then he lifted his lips and stared straight into her eyes. Never had she been so close to a person. Their breath mingled, and she couldn’t tell if his breathing fed hers or hers his. Beneath her palms,

his flesh throbbed and his hot skin sent sparks to her nipples. They burned and ached, and when he licked the seam of her mouth, she tangled her fingers in his hair. He rolled her nipple between his fingers and the slight tug made her desperate for more, more, more. More of him, more of his weight, more movement. She wriggled her hips. He muttered something and slid down her body, and his man part cleaved out of her. “Nay,” she whispered grabbing his arm. “Stay.” “Nay,” he whispered back. “’Tis better this way.” When he thrust back inside her pulsing channel, she sighed, and wrapped her legs around his waist. ’Twas delicious the way he filled her, his manhood stretching her, and she knew she’d never be empty again. Flames licked at her core, heating her from scalp to heels. He took her mouth again and began moving, his tongue and man part creating an inferno deep inside her. They mated faster and faster, his body pounding hers, and just when she thought she would die from sheer wanting, she convulsed. Shudder after blissful shudder made her go limp the moment he stopped moving and collapsed on top of her. The men were still singing, but Catriona only heard his rasped breathing, the drum of their hearts beating chest to chest.

Ruard rose to one side, brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, and said loudly, “Desist, Njal.” He rolled over and she felt bereft at the loss of his heat. He pulled at the sheets, lifting her with one hand, stared at the bloody stain, and smiled. He parted the bed drapes, tossed the linen into the chamber, and ordered, “Everyone out. Now.” Sprawled on the bed, her limbs refusing to obey any command, she stared at her golden haired husband who so resembled the descriptions of Thor.

’Tis cert my dragon slayer husband carries the magik of the Norse gods in his blood. Gæierla will adore him.

Chapter Three “Njal, hang the sheets for all to see.” Ruard listened as the witnesses left the chamber. “’Tis clear. I will leave now. Bolt the door.” “Aye.” Ruard looked over his shoulder at his bride attempting to cover her nakedness with two cushions. He pulled the bed curtains apart, strolled to the far side of the room, and set the metal bar into place. The fire needed replenishing and he wanted a moment to collect his thoughts. He threw in two logs, added a handful of tinder, and glimpsed the emerald cyrtel Catriona’d worn earlier lying on a trunk, her boots stacked neatly to one side. Ruard took the tunics to her, sat on the bed, and asked, “Shall I play maid, my lady?” Twin circles of rose dusted her cheeks. She hugged the cushions close and shook her head, sending her glorious tresses sliding on her smooth skin. He wanted to trail his tongue over the curve of her shoulder, lap the nipples a-begging his attention, and slide into her tight, fiery puss. “You are shivering,” he muttered, casting her dress aside as he lifted her onto his lap. She blushed, the color flowing across her neck and breasts. He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her spine, savoring her curves. Her hair tickled his

nose when she wriggled her luscious rump on his thigh. Ruard liked that she smelled of spring even in the dead of winter. Her hair held all the colors of a blazing fire, every shade of gold and red captured in the riotous waves. Her woman’s curls glistened, beads of the harem oil winking in and out when she tried to dislodge his fingers from her mound. “Desist Catriona. ’Tis my right to caress you.” “There?” She squirmed and he squeezed an ass cheek in chastisement. “’Tis bedsport, Catriona. Does it not give you pleasure when I touch you here?” He grazed her woman’s nubbin, her fingernails dug into his arm, and she hissed like a cat. “Or here?” He licked one rosy nipple; she shivered, arched, and murmured something he couldn’t decipher. “What ails you Catriona?” “I know naught of bedsport my lord.” She bit her lip. “One lady told me to lie still, close my eyes, and let you rut. She said ’twas o’er more oft than not in the time it takes to thread a needle.” “Thread a needle?” Aghast Ruard could only repeat his wife’s bald statement. “Thread a needle? By the gods lady, ’twas to spare you pain that ’twas over fast. Thread a needle?” He snorted. “We shall thread the needle for what remains of this night, wife.” Not married for longer than the space of a few hours and already she threatened his manhood. By

Odin, he’d plough her till daybreak. She’d not have any cause to complain of his loving. Ruard rolled Catriona onto her back. Her tits mounded and rounded, and his mouth watered. He weighed the heavy curves, rubbing his thumbs over the buds pearling to his touch. His cock slid on the oil coating her woman’s hair and her woman’s spice wafted to his nose. He traced the circle of her areola with his tongue; her fingers tangled in his hair, and she pressed him to her breast. Greed had him mesmerized. He latched onto one taut nipple and grazed the point with his teeth, sawing lightly. She squirmed, her skin slipping and sliding on his cock. His sac contracted, and Ruard struggled to slow his pace, to think of weapons, training, to not bury his face between her legs and lick her secret bud until she screamed his name. Sweat coated his forehead; he kneaded one breast, tested her folds with a finger, and nigh roared when he found her slick and ready. When he thrust two fingers inside her, Catriona locked her legs together, near breaking his wrist she squeezed so hard. She bit his shoulder and shuddered when he slid another finger into her sheath. Ruard cupped her face and smiled when her eyes glazed over and she worried her lower lip. Color bloomed in her face and she tossed her head from side to side, mewling low in her throat. His prick throbbed and he withdrew his fingers.

Ruard gripped her bottom, lifted her off the straw, and eased into her heat, not wanting to hurt her. Ecstasy coated his pores, her walls clutched around his length, his balls tightened like hard walnuts, and he pumped his all into her, his seed erupting hot and plentiful as her puss milked him dry. His lungs burned, he couldn’t catch his breath, and it took everything he had not to collapse on her, not to sniff her nape, not to lick the salty sweat from her neck for he knew his wayward member would rise again if he tasted her flesh or inhaled her woman’s spice. He groaned when she whimpered and her muscles clenched his half-hard prick. He wondered how long it took to thread a needle. Ruard preened when she blew out a long sigh and her nostrils flared ever so slightly. His wife had found her pleasure twice this night and by Thor, she would find it again before the night ended. Dawn found him studying his bride’s face, her beautiful features in repose sweeter than honey, and as tempting. Her lips pouted even in sleep, the plump lower lip twitching as she dreamed. She slept like a babe, curled into a tight ball with her knees grazing her full breasts, hair tousled on the bed cushion, the locks catching the golden rays of the sun peeking through the wooden window shutters. Her fingers clutched the cushion and once again the faint purple marks on her wrist drew his

attention. He tugged at the sheet, checked her other hand, and found a similar bruise. Had the reins of her horse snagged her hands in a fall? Had Ulfric provided a steed too strong for his delicate bride? She had been delightfully responsive to his loving. ’Twould be no chore to bed his bride and get her with child. If she could set Dunsmuir Castle to rights, find a way to make the food palatable, erase the stench… Ruard sighed. Any Norse woman he knew could resolve Dunsmuir’s problems in less than a sennight, but the Mercian women he had met since arriving on this land played, danced, and were sadly idle. No doubt, with her beauty, all had catered to her every whim. He sighed again. Mayhap he could find a Norse housekeeper on his next sailing. Loathe to leave his tasty morsel of a wife, but knowing he must find answers to the questions plaguing his mind, Ruard laced his hauberk and sheathed his sword. He tucked the furs firmly around Catriona’s shoulders and left the room. A disharmonious orchestra of snores, grunts, and the sound of at least one man spewing the contents of his belly, reached Ruard’s ears before he gained the landing halfway down the steps leading to the hall. He grimaced when the stench of ale, unwashed bodies, and vomit assailed his nose. Few stirred when he made his way through the tangle of bodies, benches, ale horns, scattered rushes, and animals. Though the morn was grim with gray

clouds blanketing the sun, he welcomed the crisp air, devoid of the perfume of human waste, when he strode through the castle’s great double doors. He spied Njal leading two mounts out of the stables and hurried to meet him. “Wipe that grin off your face, brother.” “I stood guard o’er your chamber door last eve. ’Tis some comfort to know one of our pricks is well drained.” Njal handed him the reins. “And not by a hand.” Ruard chose to ignore him. “We ride out this wintry morn?” “The morning gift for your bride.” Njal mounted his steed. “Did the excess of the marriage bed steal your reason?” Heat scaled Ruard’s neck. He had indeed forgotten the gold gyrdel he had ordered from the blacksmith. “She came to me a maid.” “Are you not pleased?” “Aye.” Ruard wedged his feet into the stirrup and straddled his steed. “What ails you?” Njal kneed his stallion into a trot once Ruard was astride his horse. Ruard shook his head. “That Máel Coluim demanded all be present for the consummation. Ulfric. A holy man who looks more warrior than monk.” “’Tis enough to make a man leery of his back.” “Aye.” Njal kicked his horse into a gallop and, with the roar of the wind down the narrow path through the copse, they could no longer converse.

Ruard bent low over the saddle, as ’twas their custom to race to the village. Winter had declared victory over the lingering fall days. No longer was the air balmy, but an icy dagger stabbed across the rolling hills, and a white frost sheet stole the green from the last grass clumps clinging to the black soil. Njal beat him to the first village hut by a scarce stride. The exhilarating gallop left both warriors panting and they slowed to a halt. “’Tis wondrous. Your people’s welcoming smiles.” Three farm workers tossing loaded burlap sacks from a cart to the dirt in front of the village alehouse halted their labors to glare at them. “I understand this not. In all our battles, remember you one where the villagers didn’t strive to please their new master? Remember you a single one?” Ruard studied the grim faces of the villagers. Two squat elderly women marked a cross on their wrinkled foreheads when the brothers rode past. A matron shielded three children behind her wide skirts as they reached the village crossroads. “You were not with us when Cnut first took the north. Word of Norse berserkers who pillaged, plundered, raped, and stabbed babes spread like fire after a long drought. Many villages fought to the last man standing. ’Twas not unusual for a brother to kill a sister to spare her Norse raping.” “’Tis not the same with Castle Dunsmuir.” “Aye. But ’tis nigh on nine sennights these lands have been leaderless. When a man has none to answer to for so long, ’tis nay easy to accept

another’s rule.” Njal turned into the lane leading to the blacksmith. Halting when thick smoke billowed from the smithy’s lean-to, Ruard met the man’s green eyes, and dismounted. “Good morn.” “My lord.” Of enormous girth and stature, the blacksmith scrubbed a soot-dusted palm over his face. Beads of sweat dropped from his cheeks to hiss onto the hot metal in his other, gloved hand. “The piece is ready.” When the smith presented the gyrdel, Ruard could not disguise his surprise. Exquisite and delicate, the chain could have been wrought by the finest artisans of Napoli. When he paid the smithy twice the agreed-upon price, the man’s expression went from a barely disguised sneer to jaw-dropped. “’Tis not the coin we discussed.” “Aye, but ’tis the coin the craftsmanship is worth. When we travel to the king’s court in the spring, my wife will be the envy of all the women.” “I thank you, my lord.” The smith wore such an expression of disbelief Ruard had to stifle a chortle. “Mayhap the smith will turn the tide in your favor,” Njal remarked as they headed back to the castle. “Naught like coin to inspire sudden devotion.” Would Catriona be pleased by the gift? Would it inspire her devotion? A sudden notion made Ruard blurt, “Know you how long it takes to thread a needle?” ***

Catriona woke to a swallow’s shrill cawing. She stilled every limb. She’d learned to listen before moving, to peek through slotted lids before opening her eyes. Where am I? All at once, the events of the last few sennights flooded her mind. Ulfric’s invasion of Papa’s keep, her steward and friend stabbed to death, blood flowing over the tunic she had sewn for him. ’Twere not for the arrival of King Cnut’s warriors, mayhap she and Gæierla would also be dead. Lord, keep my wee sister safe. Let not Ulfric’s men harm her. She heard a thud followed by the snapping and hissing of a fire. Castle Dunsmuir. Her eyelids flew up and she focused on the green canopy. Aware of the sheets scraping her nipples, her nakedness under the linen, she sat up and memories of the night had her blushing from head to toes. Hiding her face with her fingers, she tried to stop the vivid images of Ruard’s hands between her thighs, the oil, his man part, the breathless ecstasy he’d wrung from her.

Forgive me, Gæierla.

Ruard’s tender care of her, his easy smile, the way he made her forget all the horrors last eve, made her want to weep and scream at the same time.

How can I feel joy when Gæierla is cold and hungry? She stared at the bed furs.

I have lain with him. He has been inside of me.

The door flew open with a resounding bang. Catriona froze. Boots stamped in the direction of the bed. She could not take in air and the roar of her galloping heart filled her ears. “Catriona?” The curtains parted and her Thor-god husband’s handsome face appeared. “How fare you this morn, wife?” She couldn’t move a limb, and her fingers refused to obey the command to loosen their deathgrip on the furs. He had the loveliest smile, the bronze of his flesh showing the snowy white of his even teeth. He tugged off his gloves, dropped them to the bed, and his cold hand cupped her chin. “What is amiss?” How could his chilled flesh provoke the flames rushing through her insides, warming the very core of her? “Catriona? Are you ill?”

I am all a fever.

His golden brows met. The straw sank when he set his hip on the bed, and reached for her hand. “You are chilled.” He rubbed her hand between both of his. “How come you by the marks on your wrists?” The question iced her feverish brain. Gæierla.

“Did Ulfric do this?” He knows? The shock paralyzed her. How? When? She nodded, unable to command her tongue to do anything but cleave to the roof of her mouth. “The monk told me Ulfric gave you a steed you could not control. He said you did not fall when the stallion reared.” Thoughts jumped will he nill he, bobbing like apples in a water barrel. What to do? “Speak to me, wife. Has the monk spoken the truth?” Swallowing around the constriction in her throat, she focused on the strong line of his jaw and nodded. His fingers caught her chin and he forced her to meet his gaze. His eyes seemed to pierce into her soul, and she prayed for strength. His brow creased, but he appeared appeased for the moment. “I will see to a new, gentler mount for you. And you will not ride alone until I am satisfied you can control your horse.” She focused her gaze on her twined fingers and gritted her teeth. Until he is satisfied? Even her papa’s most stalwart knights acknowledged her skills with horses. “The monk stays for the winter. He has a decree from King Cnut to that order.” Catriona wanted to scream: He lies - he is Ulfric’s man. But she had no proof of the monk’s deceit. Anger racked a shudder through her body.

Ruard reached over and hauled her into his lap. He gathered her close and cupped her bare shoulders. “You are shivering. ’Tis my negligence. I took not the time to build the fire this morn.” That the warrior all called the Dragon Slayer had a care for her warmth startled her so ’twas all she could do not to blurt all, to tell him of her sister, to chance trusting him. He leaned over to the bottom of the bed, grabbed a fur, and draped the soft skin to cover her exposed flesh. “Here, wife.” He handed her a cloth bundle. “’Tis your morning gift, my lady. I am well pleased with my bride.” She glanced up and the smile he wore settled like a cozy blanket over her confusion and fear. The last gift given her had been from Papa shortly before he died in battle. The keys to Carden Tower. Undoing the bow, she fixed her eyes on the bright blue ribbon hoping for a signal from the Lord above. The gyrdel took her breath away. Delicate, intertwined gold links, a mother of pearl clasp ending in the finest cross she’d ever seen. But beneath the gyrdel lay the prize she truly wanted, the keys to Castle Dunsmuir’s larders and spice chests. ’Tis all she needed to free Gæierla, the spices to hide the poison in her husband’s food.

Chapter Four Her woman parts still all a-flutter from her husband’s lusty bedding after giving her the morning gift, Catriona never made it to the hall until the watery sun claimed its mid-heaven position. She walked through the hall wearing the gyrdel, swinging her hips so the keys clinked, an unspoken declaration of who had the running of the holding from this day onward. She relaxed her clenched hands flexing her fingers. Her thoughts rushed one way then another, Gæierla, Ruard, their joinings, the tender way he held her, the poison in the pouch, Ulfric, Gæierla. What to do? She scanned the great hall, the two fireplaces, the narrow porch to one side, the rounded corner at the far end leading to one of the towers. The magnificence of the structure brought her to a halt. ’Twas a holding of great value and import. As was her husband, Viking though he be. Stop being such a wilt-o-wheel. She stiffened her spine. Papa would have none of this wallowing in murky water. I am lady here. None can gainsay me. I have power and I will use it. The stiffness in her shoulders eased as she spotted her friend, Helene, waiting for her near to the dais. Daughter of the Earl of Northumbria,

Eiríkr Hákonarson, Helene had had the misfortune to be visiting when Ulfric had arrived at Carden Tower. Knowing the men to be sworn enemies, Catriona had claimed Helene as maid and kept her close. “Tell me all you have found.” Catriona knew Helene would have spent every waking moment since their arrival assessing the castle workers and the rest of the holding. Side by side, they ambled toward the kitchen, keeping their voices low, not that the dozen or so castle workers lolling in the hall took the slightest notice of the two women. “None but a handful of the servants are worth keeping. The new cook rules the kitchen and he will not yield to any. ’Tis common gossip you will find the larders and spice chests empty. The two women who serve the hall are naught but tavern wenches.” Had Ruard availed himself of the wenches? Catriona squeezed her lips together, but the question burning in her mind erupted from her mouth nonetheless. “Do all the men use the wenches?” “Nay. None of the Norse warriors have touched the wenches, as ordered by Lord Ruard.” Catriona blinked rapidly trying to halt the sudden flow of moisture blurring her sight. She squeezed her eyes shut. Did the order apply to Ruard too? Or had he wanted the wenches for himself? A wave of fury slashed color to her cheeks and had her hands fisting once again. She vowed to

learn every wench bedsport trick, to seek instruction if need be. Her husband would not bed another female. “Catriona? What is amiss?” Helene tugged the sleeve of Catriona’s brown cyrtel. “’Tis naught of import—where are the warriors?” “All are hunting, save the king’s men.” “Good. ’Twill give us time to inspect the keep.” Helene yawned and cupped a hand over her open mouth. “Beg pardon, Catriona. I slept little last eve.” All at once, shame and fear had her stomach roiling. “Where did you lie your head?” Catriona halted and clasped Helene’s hands. “Forgive me, my friend. I should have arranged for your safety.” “Worry not. The captain and his man kept guard o’er me last eve. And the lord’s brother ordered his men to keep all at bay from where we slept.” Catriona sent a silent thank you to the Lord that two of King Cnut’s personal guards had been ordered to stay by her side until she dismissed them. Captain deGrecy and his soldier had flanked her on the journey to Dunsmuir and thwarted many of Ulfric’s attempts to get her alone. “Mayhap the Lord deigns to look over us once again.” “The Lord abandons not even the worst sinner.” Helene’s faith had never wavered, unlike Catriona’s.

“’Tis true I know.” She sought to divert a discourse on the teachings of the church. “What think you of my grydel?” Helene cocked her head. “’Tis exquisite. I have not seen this one before.” “Nay. ’Tis my bride gift.” Catriona could not stop the heat scalding her cheeks. “And your lord has given you the keys to the castle. ’Tis a most promising start as lady here.” “You speak wisely, Helene. I must make haste to right the wrongs of the keep.” Catriona linked elbows with Helene and the two women resumed their slow strolling. She glanced at the halfshuttered windows adjacent to the fireplace and knew she had but few hours to accomplish her goals. “Continue. Tell me all.” “The kitchens are a mess.” Helene grimaced. “’Twill take a full day to scour every surface. The steward is steward in name only.” “Why think you that?” Catriona paused at the entrance to the kitchens. “The new cook procures everything.” “The new cook?” Catriona frowned. “How long has he seen to the meals?” “Five sennights.” “’Tis a remarkable feat to switch a duty of such import from steward to cook in so little time.” Catriona flicked a speck from her skirt. “Another’s hand is in this, Helene. A cook cannot command without a sword’s support.” “’Tis my thinking as well.”

Helene’s appraisal of the kitchens proved accurate. The cook’s surly attitude fired Catriona’s temper, but she held her tongue. When she opened the larders to find three meager potato sacks, a half-empty bucket of shriveled carrots, and a pile of rotting onions, Catriona choked back a scream of frustration. “The flour has weevils.” Helene stooped to examine a sack. “’Tis to be cert the ale and milk will be sour, the butter rancid, and the meat beyond spoiled. Dunsmuir was without a lord for nine sennights. How did this come to pass so soon?” She shook her head. “Where are the tapestries? The polished chairs? The wooden plates? The brass goblets? Papa said Dunsmuir’s riches dwarfed that of ours tenfold.” Helene curled her hand around Catriona’s wrist. “Ears listen.” “Aye. Let us see the spice chests.” A smidgen of spice remained in each drawer. Enough for both women to identify by scent and color what the chests had contained. Helene inhaled. “Cinnamon, cloves, turmeric—” She clamped her hand to her mouth. “What?” “I wager the salt jars are empty. ’Tis a fortune the new lord has lost.” “Aye.” How would her husband take this news? “And ’tis plain someone else has found it.” Salt mixed with sand half-filled one jar. Catriona ordered a kitchen boy to sift the twain

into a burlap bag, and fetch the salt sack to her chamber, for salt was too precious to chance the meager store vanishing. And the soiled jar needed a thorough cleaning. A tour of the entire castle revealed woefully few pieces of furniture and, save for three tattered tapestries clinging to the rough brick walls for support, no other signs of wealth. They found not a single pewter mug, not one glass goblet, not a woven bed cover in any chamber. Catriona’s ire grew with each new discovery. Catriona’s mind churned as they wound their way back to the master’s chamber. Once the door closed, she turned to Helene. “’Tis sad to use knights to do a woman’s work, but I need seize control of the keep at once. And this eve I must see you settled in a chamber.” She held up a hand when Helene started to protest. “Nay. We must begin as we seek to continue. I will have none gainsay my orders. And none will gainsay the king’s man, deGrecy. Will you send a boy to fetch him?” While Helene saw to that chore, Catriona took inventory of the chamber. ’Twas large with one wall of shuttered windows through which faint rays of sunlight chased dust motes. Two men and a scouring brush and soap would expunge the lingering musty odor. When her dowry carts arrived, the tapestries and rug furs would lessen the starkness of the room. Am I mad to think like a newly wedded bride? Ulfric swears he will kill Gæierla if we do not wed.

But what prevents him from killing both of us once we have wed and he has Dunsmuir? Catriona jumped when the door opened, her hand clamped to her chest, and let out a long breath when Helene strode into the room. “DeGrecy is sparring in the keep. He will be here shortly.” Helene linked her hands at the waist and Catriona knew before she spoke what worry furrowed her brow. “What of the poison? And your husband? Can you do it—” Placing two fingers against Helene’s lips, Catriona whispered, “I will not let Ulfric win. And I will find a way to get Gæierla to Dunsmuir. I am lady here now. Ulfric cannot corner me.” Helene nodded. “DeGrecy will thwart him, ’tis true. But what did you do with the poison?” “Hidden in the chest.” Until she could empty the pouch into a garderobe. “I have decided to tell Lord Ruard who you are, Helene.” “’Tis not necessary. When deGrecy leaves for King Cnut’s court he can take me to Scalling Castle.” “Nay.” Catriona shook her head. “’Tis too dangerous. Lord Ruard must know, and then he can assign you a guard. If Ulfric even suspected who you are…nay ’tis the only way, Helene.” A thunderous pounding made both women flinch. “’Tis deGrecy. Stay whilst I speak with him.” Captain deGrecy readily agreed to assist her in forcing the castle workers into clearing out the rotted rushes, to re-organizing the hall benches,

and to moving Helene into her new chamber. Satisfied, Catriona bid Helene accompany deGrecy and requested she oversee the making of fresh bread. Catriona made her way to Lady Carlton’s chamber. The woman had helped her last eve when all the other noblewomen wanted the bed curtains open. Mayhap she had found a local woman to call friend. *** “And how do you plan to keep Ulfric away from the castle on the morrow?” Njal slowed his mount to a trot once the two brothers drew ahead of the rest of the hunting party. “We hunt on the morrow and the morrow after that. We hunt until he lingers here no longer.” Ruard gave the terse answer without thought. Catriona had kept him in their bed too long this morn. But he could not refuse her sweet flesh. What mischief had Ulfric stewed during the long hours he swived his bride? When he’d finally descended to the hall, the back of his neck had itched the way it did before an ambush. And half of Ulfric’s men had gone missing. Ruard suspected his distraction had resulted in more conspiring to relieve him of his holding. “And what of rain? Snow?” Ruard scanned the dismal sky and eyed the shadowed globe looming at the horizon. He groaned, recalling that the sun had been blood

tinged early on the morn. The air was thick with moisture and ice. ’Twas cert to either sleet or snow on the morrow. “We spar.” Njal glanced over his shoulder. “They approach.The monk is near Magnus’s equal with the crossbow. Know you many holy men with warrior skills?” And few rivaled their brother’s skill with that weapon. “Nay. I want him watched.” Castle Dunsmuir came into sight. Even as he knew ’twould take the winter to set the holding to rights, Ruard couldn’t stop the fierce pride blasting through his insides as he looked upon his property. No wooden structure Castle Dunsmuir, but built of stone and mortar. The twin towers glistened gold under the rays of the fading sun. The murky waters of the moat shuddered under a stiff breeze, making the castle’s reflection undulate and shimmer. “’Tis a holding to be proud of even if it stinks.” Njal’s mount pranced sideways impatient at being halted. The wind changed direction, Rurad braced for the stench from the rotting rushes in the hall. Njal sniffed. “I smell bread baking.” “Nay.” Ruard took a shallow breath and saliva washed his mouth. “’Tis indeed similar to that fragrant aroma.” Noticing a line of boys toting buckets of water from the well to the great hall, he kneed his steed and sped through the bailey to the castle steps. Dismounting, he threw his reins to one

of the bucket boys, and then raced up the stone stairs. Before he reached the massive mahogany double doors, they opened. “Welcome, my lord.” The steward’s usually droning voice held a jovial note. Ruard peered at the man’s face. Was that a smile cornering his dour steward’s thin lips? The heavenly scent of a fattening loaf captured his attention. He glanced in the direction of the kitchens and blinked. “’Twould seem your bride should have many names, Catriona the Siren, Catriona the Housekeeper, nay, Catriona the Miracle Worker.” Njal clapped Ruard on the shoulder. “If you could add Catriona the Cocksucker to that, then you have won a prize indeed brother.” He barely heard Njal. His gaze swept the hall, taking in all the changes. The louts who normally lolled on benches drinking ale, farting, and spitting, had been put to work. Every single man had been corralled into labor, scrubbing floors cleaned of the rushes, moving the benches into lines, and smoke no longer filled the massive chamber because three men cleaned each fireplace. Striding forward, Ruard halted at a table, tugged off his gloves, and slid his fingers on the wood. Clean. No grease. He couldn’t stop his lips from widening. Turning, he addressed the steward. “Where is my lady?” “In your chamber, my lord.”

For two strides, Ruard tried to control his impatience, then he snorted, and raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He would have the blacksmith make her another gyrdel. He would find every apple in the valley and feed them to her, one by one. He had wed a treasure. Uncaring of the audience in the hallway, he threw open the door to their chamber, and near swallowed his tongue. For there by the fireplace, immersed in a large wooden tub lay his bride. Cheeks pinkened by the warm water, her red-gold curls piled high on her head, his wet wife gifted him with a shy smile. “I bid you welcome, my lord.” His prick had hardened into the steeliest sword. His bollocks tightened as though in a vise. He slammed the door shut. Pulling his tunic over his head, Ruard growled, “How long does it take to thread a needle, wife?” When the cloth no longer hid her from sight, he glimpsed her open-mouthed confusion. “How long?” He untied the rope keeping his breeches in place and chucked off his boots. His cock stood tall and proud, the crown already weeping for her puss. “We bed again?” Catriona shot him a smile so bright he had to blink. “Aye.” ’Twas the only word his mouth could manage, it watered so much at the thought of suckling her breasts. “I needs first wash the stink of the hunt off my flesh.” “’Tis the work of a wife bathing her husband.” Ruard near melted from the inferno blazing in his groin. When she reached for the drying cloths

lying nearby, he flew across the chamber, snatched the warm fabric, and held it up for her. She ducked her chin and stood. Envying the water clinging to her skin, Ruard groaned, his prick harder than boulder, his sac throbbing and aching. He gobbled her up, nigh inhaling her rosy flesh, the round mounds of her breasts, the pert nipples abegging his mouth, tongue, and teeth. He wrapped the cloth around her and buried his nose in her hair. By Thor, even her smell made his cock glisten with moisture. Mindful of the taint of deer’s blood on his body, he drew back, kissed her forehead, and said, though the words cost him untold agony, “’Tis not necessary, wife. I can wash my flesh.” Throwing back her head, her brown eyes narrowed, and she lifted her chin in a way fast becoming familiar to him. “’Tis my duty, my lord, and I will not shirk from the task.” Who was he to argue? Though he did wonder at her fierce tone. Tying the cloth over one shoulder, she picked up a smaller fabric rectangle and waived at the tub. “My lord?” Folding himself into the wooden barrel he said, “Ruard. I would have you call me Ruard when we are privy.” “Aye my—” She blushed the rose deepening in her cheeks but met his stare head-on. “Ruard.”

Chapter Five You are no wilting bluebell. ’Tis only flesh. Such flesh. His broad shoulders, the slick skin skimming his ribs, his magikal man part…her insides caught a-flame. Catriona could not stop staring at the thick, pulsing rod. The way his flesh burned red, then wept, then slapped against his belly, had her smoldering. She licked her lips recalling the wondrous feelings his tongue had wrought. The fire his mouth had burned into her breast. Picking up the soaping cloth, she flinched when he growled, “Be quick wife, I’m all afire to tup you.” Smiling, she dunked the fabric into the water, worked up a lather on the bar of soap, and scrubbed his thick neck. “May I wash your hair, my lord?” “Ruard. Wash any part of me you wish.” He caught her chin, and when she looked into his eyes, the blaze burning therein made her stop breathing. “Say my name, Catriona.” His eyes held her captive. Had she seen any that breath-stealing blue? “Wife. To me. Speak my name.” “Ruard.” Lord, he possessed magik for in that instance all she yearned for was his man part inside of her, his arms around her, his weight bearing sweet pleasure on her.

“What think you now?” His hold on her tightened and the look in his eyes sent a trickle of moisture to her woman parts. “Of you,” she replied, unable to stop the words escaping her lips. “By the gods you are mine. Mine and no other.” She gasped when he stood, rising like the Thorgod dragon slayer he was. When he snatched her up in his arms, her stomach went all-aflutter, and she could scarcely draw air. “Speak to me. Are you sore? Do you hurt? I need to sheathe myself in your heat Catriona, but I wouldst not cause you pain.” He strode across the chamber hugging her close to his chest. He smelled of horse, leather, and soap, and she wanted to burrow into his flesh, lick the golden hairs on his chest, touch her lips to his and drown in his kiss. When they tumbled onto the bed, she felt his manhood probing between her thighs. He shook her. “Catriona. To me. Do you hurt?” “Aye, I burn, but if you would but kiss me, my lord—” His tongue delved into her mouth and she gave over to the magik, following his lead, touching him where he touched her, licking where he licked. The fires he built inside her rivaled paradise; she had no thoughts, no direction save where he took her, no consideration at all, only a burning ache to have him fill her, put his man part inside her. “Ruard.” She buried her fingers in his hair. “Fill me. Make the magik happen.”

The blue in his eyes disappeared and they seemed blacker than midnight. He cupped her bottom, lifted her hips off the bed, their eyes met, and he plunged into her. She near swooned from the ecstasy. ’Twas delicious the feel of him inside of her and, when he started the rhythm of the night afore, she cried out, unable to stopper the pleasure bubbling through every pore of her skin. “Ruard.” She grabbed his shoulders, her hips lifting to his, flesh slapping flesh. His sac battered her woman’s parts, his manhood ramming a spot designed for heavenly bliss. She shattered, wrapping her legs across his back, nibbling his neck, loving the zing of his sweat, the spice of his smell. Time passed; she had no idea of how long they stayed joined, his mouth at her neck licking every so oft, his hot breathing washing heat waves over her throat, the phrases he murmured burning her cheeks. “Ruard?” “Aye, my beauty.” His words caused a glow from within. “’Tis Norse you speak? What means this word elsking?” “Aye. ’Tis Norse. ’Tis a term for a man to call his bride.” Catriona near melted under the heat of his stare. Her chest heaved. Be not of faint heart. Press on. He is a good man.

“Have you bedded the hall wenches?” Catriona choked back a moan for ’twas not what she had intended to say. He devoured her with his fierce gaze. “Nay. Why do you ask this?” “Beg pardon, my lord.” She stared at his navel, marveling at the beauty of his body, not daring to glance lower. Foolish girl. Flatter him, praise his warrior skills. Uncert of her wayward tongue, she clamped her lips together. “Look to me, Catriona.” He tipped her chin so she had to meet his eyes. “I want none but you. You are wife to me and I will not dishonor you. Not here at your own demesne.” At others? At the king’s court? Where? She wanted to batter his chest. Breathe. Bind him to you. Speak of his manliness. Then tell him of Gæierla. Do what you must. “My thanks, my lord.” He caught her chin hard again. “R- u- a- r- d. Say my name.” “Ruard.” His smile made her belly flutter and her woman parts ache. He took her again and again, and they missed the evening meal. Hours later, they supped on apples, cheese, and bread. As he fed her a particularly fragrant morsel of cheese, he asked, “How did you work the miracle in the hall?” “’Twasn’t a miracle, my—Ruard.” He gifted her with the smile of the gods, his blue eyes teemed

with amber, the skin around them crinkling, and his lips curving. She fair swooned, his touch, his hot stare, the sounds of his rasping breath, the smell of his warrior aroma, all contrived to flood her senses, and make her giddy and warm and deliciously safe. “’Tis mostly deGrecy’s work.” He frowned, one brow quirked. She hurried on. “The new cook controls the keep my lo— Ruard. And he will not obey my commands.” When he made to rise, she blurted, “We needs replace the cook.” She hesitated. “I have a plan my—Ruard. Will you aid me?” Taking her hand, he brought it to his mouth and then kissed the center of her palm. “Your wish is my command. Speak to me.” She wanted to howl with joy. Could any woman ask for a better mate? Yet her next words would test him. Before her faint heart claimed her, she told all. Ulfric’s invasion of Carden Tower after Papa’s death, his threat to kill Gæierla, his plans to kill Ruard, wed her, and gain Dunsmuir, though she avoided mentioning the poison pouch. His face showed no expression as her tale unfolded and she held her breath at the end, twining her fingers to hide their trembling. “I thank you, Catriona.” Blinking away the moisture wrought by her recounting of the horrors, she stared at him. “Thanks? My—Ruard?” He hauled her into his arms and their gazes tangled. “I thank you for your trust.”

I trust him.

Swiping away a lone tear streaming down her cheek, he whispered, “All will be well, wife. I will see to your sister and Ulfric.” She told him the cook, not the steward, procured all for the castle, and his eyes narrowed. “The cook has the castle’s coin. I will see to him.” “My mind is dazed. I forgot Helene.” The look of fury that crossed her husband’s face when she told him of Helene’s birthright made her stomach clench. “’Tis madness for Helene to be unguarded.” Lurching to his feet, he then carried her to the bed. “Know you what Ulfric will do, should he discover the truth?” “’Tis the reason I tell you now.” His eyes narrowed, and the rage pulling his brows together made her heart skip a dozen beats. “You and Helene will remain in this chamber until I return. I will post guards.” A shiver ran across Catriona’s shoulders. Though she had never seen a berserker in full fury, she knew her husband barely had his anger in check from his jerky movements, the way he tested the edge of his dragon slayer sword. I must empty the poison in the garderobe this morn. He need never know what I had thought to do. ***

Ruard found Njal in the hall. “’Tis the Dragon Slayer I see before me. What is amiss?” Dawn’s faint light filtered through the shutters before Ruard finished telling him the all of it. “Where is Ulfric?” “He and his men have set up camp near the forest. I have guards watching them. Ulfric is the king’s man.” Njal tugged on his beard. “He is well situated at court. ’Tis not wise to slay him outright.” Njal donned his hauberk. Ruard fingered the hilt of Heiðir Slayer as he waited, relishing the feel of the cold steel. His nostrils flared. That Ulfric should chain Catriona and her sister in a cold, dank dungeon, that he had bruised her flesh, that she had been denied food, water; fury rioted within him, his flesh boiling in the icy morning air. “He touched Catriona.” Strapping his sword to his side, Njal glanced at him. “He dies then? What of his men?” “None can live. First send a man to throw the cook and the monk into the dungeon.” Njal signaled, two men hurried to him, and he gave the order. The brothers took the stairs at a dash. Snores, grunts, and the occasional thud of a man falling off a pallet, were the only sounds breaking the silence of the great hall.

“Something is amiss.” Ruard halted when the two men sent to fetch the villains charged across the chamber. The warriors skidded to a halt, one said, “The monk and the cook vanished last eve, lord.” “Find them,” Ruard commanded and dismissed the men. “How plan you this raid?” “The Picts are sworn enemies of Cnut,” Ruard answered. “They raid Ulfric’s camp and take the blame for his death. We remain in Cnut’s good graces, and my wife and her sister are safe. The monk and the cook die.” “’Twould be best if you remain here and let me do this. None can gainsay your—” “Ulfric will draw his last breath with my sword in his heart.” Snow flurries as thick as white bear’s pelt swirled in a gust, momentarily blinding Ruard or perhaps ’twas the wrath boiling his blood that hazed a red inferno before his eyes. “Not another word.” “When do we ride?” “Now.” The battle was fierce but short. Ulfric had not expected an ambush from his host. Scarlet coated Heiðir Slayer as Ruard stormed through Ulfric’s guard cutting a path to the warrior. “Cnut will hunt you down for this,” Ulfric’s shout rang above the clang of steel meeting steel. “He will destroy you and yours.”

“And who will live to tell him?” Because they had caught Ulfric and his men off guard, none wore mail. Ulfric missed a parry. Ruard slashed a wide gash on each of his forearms. Blood spurted from the wounds and Ulfric stumbled. “’For the bruises on my wife’s wrists.” “The bitch.” Ulfric regained his footing and raised his weapon above his head. Ruard moved in and slit the other man’s belly. “For denying her food.” Ulfric grabbed the gaping flesh and glanced up. Ruard smiled seeing the knowledge of death in Ulfric’s eyes. The warrior’s knees buckled, and his sword slipped from his bloodied hand. Positioning the tip of Heiðir Slayer at Ulfric’s heart, Ruard asked, “Why?” “I am a third son.” A ghostly gray washed over the warrior’s bronzed flesh. “Land.” The minute he rammed his sword into Ulfric’s heart, the hunger for revenge cleared Ruard’s berserker lust. His glance swept the meadow now carpeted with red stained snow. All his men still stood, but none others. The full score of Ulfric’s guard were either dead or in the last throes of life. Njal sheathed his sword. Ruard swiped his blade on his breeches and strode to his brother’s side, his mind on what must be done next. “See you to Catriona’s sister. I will see to the Picts. Need you more than a dozen men?”

“’Twill suffice. Guard your temper, brother. All eyes will be on you.” “I am no court jester. I labored long and hard for Dunsmuir. I will not lose my holding.” The brothers parted ways, Ruard heading north to the Pict settlement, Njal riding hard for Carden Tower and Gæierla. Fortune smiled on Ruard and they encountered a band of Picts cantering along the border not an hour’s ride from Dunsmuir. Even so, by the time they slaughtered all, transported their bodies to Ulfric’s camp, piled them into a ditch, and set fire to the lot, dusk had settled on the land. As he rode across the drawbridge the castle gates opened, and he glimpsed the completed bathhouse. ’Twould take a night of rutting to slake his hunger for his wife, but he could not go to her stained with the blood of battle. He sent a page to fetch a change of clothes, wound his way to the bathhouse, and made quick work of washing his body. Clean and refreshed, he took the stairs two at a time and sprinted down the hall to their chamber. He dismissed the guards with a nod, and threw open the doors to find the two women sewing by the light of the blazing fire. He watched Catriona thread a needle in less time than it took him to draw a deep breath and swallowed a string of curses. Catriona set the thread wheel and the needle on a low table, rose, and curtsied. “My lord, I bid you welcome.”

He had to be inside her. “Leave us.” Not even glancing at Helene, he fixed his glance on Catriona noting the roses in her cheeks, the nervous twist of her hands, the rapid rise and fall of her full breasts. The moment the door creaked shut, he spun about, slid the bar into place, and strode the distance between them. He hauled her tight to his chest, captured her mouth, and drank in the sweetness of the mead she’d had earlier. Her arm curled around his neck, she made a purring sound, and suckled the tip of his tongue. His prick near burst through the breeches he wore. She pushed against his chest, her small hands exhibiting surprising strength, and tore her lips away from his. “Wife?” By Odin he was ready to explode. “Are you whole?” Her fingers traced the high plane of his cheekbone; she pulled at his tunic and tried to peek at his chest. “What happened? Where is Ulfric?” “After.” He nuzzled her neck, set her on the bed, pulled his tunic over his head, and untied his breech rope. Shucking off his boots, he growled, “Remove your cyrtel or ’twill be in tatters.” “You wish to tup?” Her eyebrows rose. “I have to tup.” He crawled onto the bed, unlaced her dress, and bared her breasts. “Mine.” Firm, full, soft, the pink nipples pouting for his mouth. He kneaded her breasts, his cock near ready to spurt, his balls on fire. Waves of lust

crashed across his groin as his tongue lapped the taut buds and she purred for him again. He drew on her breasts, wetting her skin. Her hands tangled in his hair as she pressed him closer. He settled between her legs, no thought filling his head but the velvet clamp of her walls around his cock. He pushed up her skirts and skimmed his palm over the silken flesh of her belly. His hand slipped between her thighs and his eyes squeezed shut when her cream covered his fingers. “By Freyja, you are ready for me, elsking.” Lifting her hips off the sheets, he touched his prick to her center, and plunged his pulsing hardness to the hilt. She wrapped her legs around his waist and arched. He groaned as she took all of him into her. He rode her at a gallop, his cock driving fast and furiously, battle lust raging through his loins. Gritting his teeth, he slid his hand down their joined bodies, found her nub, and pinched lightly. She cried out his name. His sac contracted tight against his groin, and his seed burst forth in fiery explosive spurts. Her muscles squeezed his manhood and he thrust again and again until she shattered into a myriad of sweet convulsions, and he collapsed, his hot, sweaty chest meeting her supple flesh.

Chapter Six “’Tis magikal.” Catriona drank in the bathhouse. Thick pine walls framed a wide chamber. To one side steam wisped above a pile of smooth rocks glowing orange-yellow over a pit of charred logs. Flames from hanging lamps flickered needles of light across the rippling surface of an oval pool dug into the ground. Stooping, she dipped her hand into the clear water. “’Tis hot. How?”

I have wed a man of great worth. And great appetites. A man I trust.

He had ridden her thrice before bringing her here and she had yet to receive replies to her queries. She was sore tempted to grab his tunic and demand answers.

A good, irritating man of great worth.

His gold hair glistened like a burnished halo and she couldn’t resist smoothing a wayward strand. He turned her around and began unlacing her cyrtel. “We dug a canal where the brook enters Dunsmuir’s forests, the water goes through the fire pit, feeds into the pond, and then we dug another canal so the water runs downhill to where the brook leaves the boundary of our lands.” “’Tis clever, my lord.” Her dress puddled on the stone floor. She jumped when he lightly slapped her buttocks.

“Ruard, wife. You screamed my name loudly enough this eve. Cert you can say it softly to me now.” Heat scaled her face. Catriona worried her lower lip for she had indeed cried out his name like a prayer litany when she found her pleasure. “Ruard, you have not spoken of what transpired this day.” “Patience wife. I will tell you all.” He carried her into the water, settled her between his bunched muscular thighs, her back to his chest, and began his tale. ’Twas hard to concentrate for he fondled her all the while, nibbled on her ear, licked and nipped her nape, and she had to fight to comprehend his words. “Ulfric is dead?” She twisted in his arms her heart beating like a falcon’s in full flight. “Aye and all his men. Njal left for Carden Tower. Your sister arrives within the sennight.” Joy flooded her soul. And I thought to poison him. Lord, hear this vow. I take this man to husband willingly. I will see to his every need. Obey his every command. *** Nigh on a sennight later, Catriona yearned to strangle Ruard with her bare hands. “I will,” she vowed, resisting the urge to stamp a foot. “I am lady here and this keep will be run my way.”

“My wife will not cook for the castle.” Ruard folded his arms across his chest. “Sewing I will allow, supervising the running of the holding I will allow, but you will not cook for the castle.” She hated sewing, and threaded a needle only when there were no other duties to perform or when imprisoned in her own chamber. “And will you eat this swill?” Waving at the cold oats lumped into a soggy burnt trencher, she continued, “Look closer, the weevils are still swimming.” He peered at the half-congealed goo. “By Odin I see them.” Ruard shuddered and pushed the stale bread away. “I cannot visit the village because you have kept me prisoner this sennight.” Her cheeks flamed. “We have sampled a dozen cooks. All have produced swill. If you would but let me supervise.” She did stamp her foot then. “Nay. I will not have it said my wife is a cook. ’Tis for your safety you are confined to the castle.” “I see not the danger. Ulfric and his men are dead. You hobble my work here as lady of the keep.” “Lest you forget, the Picts fired the blacksmith’s cottage last eve. You will not go to the village.” “Fine then. I have already sent for deGrecy. He and his men will help me set the kitchens to right.” “DeGrecy is no longer necessary. I will not have him at your side.” Ruard stood, braced his hands on the table, and leaned down so their noses near

bumped. “I will dismiss him and his man this morn.” Pushing at his chest she said, fair hissing the words through her lips, “By King Cnut’s command they are not yours to dismiss.” “Then you will dismiss them.” He pulled her to standing. “What do you do?” “We will find deGrecy now.” “Nay.” She dug her heels into the wooden platform. “Catriona. Cease.” Helene nudged her waist. “The hall. All watch.” A quick glance around the chamber made Catriona grimace and cold reason dulled her ire. She ducked her chin, staring at knotted wooden floor while praying for patience. “I beg you, my lord. Give me this one day to sort matters. I vow not to cook. I will simply supervise the meal.” “I will assist her, my lord.” Helene rose. Just then the hall doors burst open and in strode Njal, helm in one hand, Gæierla tucked on a hip in the other. Catriona’s heart soared as she carefully studied her little sister. Two braids, two small elfin ears, one long nose, two wide eyes, one pointy chin, and a mouth with a perpetual smile. Her gangly legs peeked from under too-short, too-shabby skirts. Gæierla’s long spindly arms jerked as her gaze met Catriona’s, one clutching a cloth sack to her chest, the other around Njal’s brawny neck. One booted

foot drummed Njal’s thigh as Gæierla squirmed in his hold. “Sweetling.” Catriona fair flew off the dais and darted through the crowded hall. When she reached Njal, she held out her arms and her grinning sister tumbled into her embrace. Hot tears blurred her vision and she had to blink to focus on Gæierla’s thin features. “Are you well sister? They did not harm you?” Smoothing Gæierla’s fat golden braids, Catriona squeezed her tight and sniffed her hair. “Look,” Gæierla ordered leaning back and digging in her sack. She held up a ruby apple. “Njal gives me all I want. He let me swim in a brook. ’Twas icy but he gave me a sweet smelling soap. See?” She put her wrist to Catriona’s nose. “’Tis sandalwood from the east. I know not whom to wed now, Thor or Njal.” Catriona laughed and swung her sister around and around and around. She had been so afraid the stay in the dungeons would shatter Gæierla’s fiery spirit. “I love you.” She sensed Ruard’s approach before his hand cupped her shoulder, and she half-twisted to meet his gaze. “I bid you meet my sister, my lord.” She set Gæierla on the floor and gave her a hard stare. The sprite remembered her manners. Holding her skirts, she sank into a curtsey, and bowed. “My lord.” The apple fell to the floor. “Odin’s toes, come back here, you damned fruit.”

“Gæierla.” Catriona glared at her sister. “Young ladies do not curse. For recompense, you will give me your sack and the apples go to the kitchens.” “’Tis not cursing Catriona, ’tis knightly speech.” Gæierla’s grin widened as she added, “My lord Njal knows Odin well.” Helene approached the sprite and relieved her of the cloth bag and retrieved the apple from the floor. “I do believe your sister is overexcited to see you again. And I would wager this entire keep she merely repeats the words learned while journeying with warriors.” “Aye. I take the blame for this and will make you all the sweetest atonement.” “So says Njal the Peacemaker.” Ruard squinted at his brother who had the grace to duck his head. “You will answer to me for this on the morrow. As for now, I bid you welcome, little sister.” Ruard caught Gæierla up in his arms and held her so their gazes were level. “How many summers have you seen?” “Seven. You look like the god Thor.” Gæierla wound a lock of Ruard’s hair around her finger. “’Tis gold like the sun chariot he rides through the sky. I like storms. Make it thunder, god Thor.” Ruard’s eyes crossed. Njal chortled. “I envy you not, brother. Your new sister has the makings of a scald. She can recite every saga that mentions Thor. I fear you will be commanded to perform oft.” “Aye.” Gæierla clapped her hands. “Make it storm, god Thor.”

Catriona had never seen men retreat so fast. One moment Njal and Ruard were there, the next gone. Gæierla had fair bamboozled both men with her demands for thunder. The sprite collapsed into sleep ere the men left, curling up on a pallet in Helene’s chamber. “She is safe now, Catriona.” Helene tucked a plush bed fur around Gæierla’s shoulders and feet. She kissed her sleeping sister’s cheek. “Methinks she is unaffected by her imprisonment.” “Aye. Gæierla’s spirit is undaunted. I warrant she had Ulfric’s men dancing to her every whim.” Helene squeezed Catriona’s shoulder. “And I give you any odds she will have Ruard and Njal wrapped around her tiny fingers within a senninght.” “For cert.” Catriona shook her head. “My wee sprite can command warriors and lords with the mere flutter of her lashes. I fear she will pester the hair off Ruard’s head for she truly believes he is her Thor.” “Aye, but methinks she is also smitten with Njal the Peacemaker. His name falls oft from her lips and she seems well on her way to composing a scald’s tale of the treaty he negotiated in the Norse lands.” Helene drew the wooden shutters closed. “She should sleep in my chamber.” Catriona could not stop inpecting her little sister and checking for any sign of illness or weakness. “I am loathe to leave her.” “For shame, Catriona. Your Ruard deserves your attentions this eve. For ’twas his command

that rescued Gæierla, his sword that cleaved Ulfric.” “Aye.” Her thoughts raced to other matters, Ruard combing her hair with his fingers, Ruard’s kisses, his magik tongue. “’Tis naught but pleasure to give my husband the attention due him this eve and for others to come. I will show him how much I appreciate his valor and honor. By Odin’s toes, this keep will shine this night, and the food will rival that of the king’s court.” By the evening meal, the women were exhausted but pleased with their efforts. “’Tis beginning to look like a worthy holding.” Catriona surveyed the gleaming walls, the fresh rushes. “’Twould not surprise me if your lord confines you to your chamber again.” “He did not forbid me deGrecy.” One sniff and Ruard would know Catriona had used the king’s man to set the castle workers to task. A hind of deer roasted on the kitchen spit and the fragrant venison perfumed the great hall. Helene cocked an eyebrow. Catriona slitted her eyes. “He forbade me to cook and I did not.” “Nay, you scrubbed pots and floors. ’Tis clever you dress so finely this eve. He will never suspect that not a half-hour hence you wore the grime of a kitchen boy.” Catriona hurried to her place at the dais before the men entered the hall and glanced up when an icy gust heralded the opening of the hall’s doors.

Ruard fair dominated the doorway, his head scraping the top of the frame, his golden hair glistening against a dark blue tunic, his shoulders so wide and muscled that he had to turn sideways to clear the one open door. Gæierla will never believe him not the god Thor. To her relief, Ruard greeted her with a grin. His gaze swept the high table before he took his seat. “Where is Gæierla?” “Asleep, my lord. She could not prop her eyes open.” Groans of delight filled the hall when the kitchen boys carried platters of sliced deer to the tables. Catriona engaged Helene in conversation hardly daring to take a breath or eat a morsel, waiting for Ruard to voice his disapproval. He ate gustily and spoke in low murmurs with Njal. After Helene signaled the boys standing along the hall to bring the sweet, treacle for the hall, apple pie for Ruard, Catriona finally relaxed. *** “The village look to you for direction since the firing of the smith’s hut.” Belly full, well content, Ruard sipped his ale. “Aye.” “The blacksmith’s rage works to our favor. Think you ’tis a sham?”

“Nay. The man lost his babe and wife in the raid. He seeks revenge. ’Tis plain he is mad with grief.” Ruard kept his voice as low as Njal’s. “’Twas my wife or her sister, I would slay all who partook in the raid. Double the guard on the females. They are not to leave the hall, not even to venture to the keep.” “Ah, I see why you did not take Catriona to task for cooking.” “If cooking keeps her busy within the castle, I yield.” The blacksmith’s loss had struck terror to Ruard’s core. Since the cook and the monk disappeared, his men had been harried by arrows while hunting and patrolling. Cattle had gone missing, and then there was the deadly raid on the blacksmith’s cottage. “She knows not the dangers out there.” Ruard stared at his wife’s profile. He hated her being out of his sight. His skin prickled if any man, even Njal, touched her. He wanted to pummel deGrecy senseless every time he caught the man speaking with Catriona. “I will not take chances with her life.” “Think you the smith leads us to Dunsmuir’s lost riches this eve?” “Aye. ’Tis plain all in the village know where it lies. The smith has nothing left to lose.” Njal drained his ale. “Catriona will not wake when you leave?” Ruard grinned. “My wife sleeps like a bear in winter.”

Though the slightest caress puckered her nipples even in slumber. This eve he planned to cover her mound with honey and lick her flesh clean. His happy cock leaked a wet trail on his belly. The more he had Catriona, the more he craved her, the more time he spent in her company, the more empty he felt when she was not at his side. He liked not the churning emotions she inspired, and could no longer deny his petty jealousy. Ruard wanted his wife for himself. *** Njal and Ruard met the blacksmith at the forest’s edge when night was fullest under a sky so heavy with cloud not a single star twinkled. “Well smith, what have you to say?” Ruard eyed the newly-wrought sword the man sharpened. “I will lead you to Dunsmuir’s riches.” ’Tis what Ruard had expected. “Follow me.” The smiths’ horse took off. Ruard dug his heels into his mount and it sprang into a canter. The three men circled the forest and raced up a narrow trail through a hilly range strewn with massive boulders. Snow fell in soft, wet clumps, the ice melting on contact with the ground. The path grew muddy and slick and they slowed to a trot. “None have traveled here this eve,” Njal muttered. “Aye, no hoof prints.”

The blacksmith had good hearing. “They plan to remove all on the morrow.” “Who?” Ruard spurred his horse into a faster pace until he drew alongside the smith. “The monk and the cook.” Ruard raised his brows and let his mouth hang open. “The monk and the cook?” “Twas no Pict raid that killed my wife and babe. ’Twas them.” The blacksmith’s voice coarsened in agony. “I want revenge. They are mine. I would have your word now, my lord.” “Done.” Ruard cared not a grass blade for either man. “The monk is a nobleman,” the blacksmith stated. “You will hang,” Njal warned. “So be it. I have naught left to live for.” Soon they came to a limestone outcropping with a gaping mouth. The smith had come prepared; he lit two torches after they dismounted and led them into the bowels of the cave. Coin, brass goblets, tapestries, jeweled plates, rings, and richly carved furniture, tables, chairs with embroidered cushions met Ruard’s gaze. Next to him, Njal chuckled. “Your luck holds, brother. ’Tis a fortune.” “How did they move all this without any knowing?” The smith snorted. “All knew. Ulfric chased every castle worker off Dunsmuir. Those that didn’t leave were killed. The steward lost his son when he

tried to stop him. The tavern keeper’s wife was raped.” “We will avenge every death, every rape,” Ruard vowed. “The monk and the cook are mine.” Grief and rage had sharpened the black in the smith’s green eyes to needle points and Ruard knew the man would not rest until he avenged his family’s deaths. “When will you kill them?” “As soon as I return to the village. They are hanging from the stocks.” “How did you capture them?” “The tavern keeper came across a pit with burned bodies this morn. The Picts attacked Lord Ulfric and his men. Many died. I knew the monk and cook would flee to the cave and waited on the trail.” They parted ways with the smith in the wee hours of the morning. “Think you any in the village will believe we knew naught of Ulfric’s schemes?” Njal kneed his steed into a trot. “Nay.” Ruard’s mount pranced to one side and he sank lower in the saddle. “The smith will not hang for killing the monk and the cook. We will add their bodies to Ulfric’s pit and fire it again.” “’Tis a move cert to win the villagers’ loyalty.” “Njal the Peacemaker approves?” Ruard shot a glance over his shoulder. His brother nodded. “Aye. ’Tis time you learned the value of peace, Dragon Slayer.” Dunsmuir Castle’s towers tipped the horizon.

The pride that assailed Ruard when he glimpsed his holding made him slow his horse. An orange glow on the horizon signaled dawn’s breaking. Njal sniffed the air. “Fresh bread.” Ruard took a deep inhale and his stomach growled. “Aye. My wife is busy.” And not in their chamber awaiting his morning swiving. “The village will be safe once the monk and the cook are dead.” “You nag like a Moor horse trader. If my wife agrees to dismiss deGrecy, I will escort her to the village.” Njal snorted. “’Tis sad to see my warrior brother sunk so low into jealousy as to fear a court captain alone with his wife.” “I yearn for the day you take a bride. I will enjoy watching you wriggle like a worm caught in a blackbird’s beak.” For he, the Dragon Slayer, had been felled by soft lips, sweet honey, and his wife’s dimpled smile. He felt like a worm this morn caught ’twixt and ’tween, unable to decide how to impart to Catriona how much he valued her. A notion sprang into his mind. “Send to the cave as soon as the men are dead. I will surprise my wife with the treasure this eve in the hall.” Njal rolled his eyes. “And to answer your query, any can thread a needle in the blink of an eye.” Ruard froze, his thighs tightened around the stallion’s flanks, the horse lifted his broad head and

neighed in protest. He whirled his mount around to face his brother. “What say you?” Nay, none could know what his wife had said. “It takes but the blink of an eye to thread a needle.” A red haze of anger blurred Ruard’s vision. He lunged, dragged Njal off his horse, and both warriors fell onto the muddy ground. “Stop that at once.” Catriona’s roar broke through Ruard’s need to pummel Njal senseless. Halting, his thighs astride Njal’s, his fist drawn back, Ruard glanced up, and saw every single inhabitant of the castle standing in a circle, watching the brothers’ maniacal tussle. Catriona scorched him with a glare not unlike those he’d earned as a knee-high boy from his mother. “By the time you have washed the mud and leaves off your skin and no longer smell like rooster droppings, all the fresh bread will be done.” And thus the day dawned. Not once did she let him near her. Ruard’s prick jumped and twitched all day long. He hoped the treasure would sweeten her mood. She wore the siren’s cyrtel of the first night for the evening meal, the rich emerald color setting the flames in her hair dancing. The veil she wore barely covered her curls. When apple pie appeared at the end of the meal and she gifted him with a small smile, his heart drummed against his ribs. He had fallen in love with his wife. So shocked was he at the notion, that though the pie tasted of soiled sawdust, he didn’t

want to offend Catriona, and so he consumed every crumb. He covered her hand with his. “I have much news to impart when we retire to our chamber,” he whispered. “As do I my lord.” Her hair smelled of spring and herbs, but then he noticed the fresh rushes on the floor. Her gaze followed his. “I thank you for allowing me to decide when to dismiss deGrecy. He has been of much help today.” The man’s name soured his stomach. DeGrecy. A sharp pain hit his belly and he grunted. Bile rushed up his gullet. He stood, his knees buckled, he fell. His head cracked on the table’s edge and darkness descended.

Chapter Seven “He is so pale.” Catriona wrung her hands as she watched Helene dabbing foam off the corners of Ruard’s mouth. “More salt,” Helene ordered. “I sent Njal to the village for all. Are you cert ’tis right for him to vomit so?” “Aye he must empty all the poison from his stomach. And his bile has no trace of blood. ’Tis a good sign.” “How could I forget to throw the poison into the garderobe?” “Catriona, ’twas unfortunate. Cease blaming yourself.” The doors flung open and Njal rushed into the room, dumping a burlap sack on the ground. “All the salt in the village. How is he?” “No more bleeding.” Helene rolled Ruard’s eyelids up. “His eyes are almost normal. He will be fine on the morrow.” Catriona sat by her husband’s side that night until the sun’s rays filtered through the slats in the shutters. The pallor hadn’t left his skin and the dark splotches under his eyes had her stomach roiling. In all her years, she had trusted in only two on this earth—Papa and Gæierla. Yet this Viking

dragon slayer had won not only her trust, but her heart. She loved him and had been too craven to say the words. Afraid to sleep, she paced the room on bare feet, not wanting to wake Ruard by donning her halfboots. Her thoughts were more tumbled than the circus of jesters at King Máel Coluim’s court. What if Gæierla had emptied the whole pouch into the pie? She couldn’t bear the thought of life without Ruard. Poor Gæierla. None could persuade her she hadn’t felled her god Thor. Not even Njal whom she clung to, weeping the loss of her hero. Ruard wouldn’t punish her sister, would he? ’Twas an innocent mistake on Gæierla’s part. I am to blame. I should be punished. She fell asleep watching Ruard’s bare chest rising and falling and remembering their nights of bedsport. “Catriona?” A palm covered her hand and squeezed. “Wife mine. Awake.” Jerking up from her slouched position in the chair, she flew to sit on the mattress. “Are you well? Does your belly hurt?” Her fingers savored the softness of his beard stubble. “The color is back to your face. I will say mass twice daily for the rest of my life.” She peppered kisses from one steel-cut shoulder blade to the other. “I was so terrified.”

“Worry not Catriona. I have eaten spoilt meat before and survived. But we may have to forgo our morning tupping for I fear my limbs will not support my weight.” He cupped her cheeks and Catriona mourned the loss of the warmth of his flesh after she confessed all. She sat up straight, held her spine rigid, and folded her hands in her lap. “’Twas not spoiled meat my lord. ’Twas poison. I…I neglected to tell you part of Ulfric’s plan. I was to poison your food, then Ulfric would petition King Cnut for my hand, we would wed, and then Dunsmuir would be his.” Though his face had lost all color again, no anger showed in his expression. “You did not poison me, Catriona.” She swallowed but met his gaze, her chin high. “Nay. I am to blame—none else. ’Tis all my fault. I beg you not to punish Gæierla.” Catriona loved only two left on this earth and never could she choose one over the other. “I decided to empty the pouch into the garderobe, but I forgot. Before she fell asleep, Gæierla assisted Helene and I with the evening meal. I needed more salt for the pastry and bid her fetch it from our chamber.” “Salt in our chamber?” Brows furrowed he scanned the room. Briefly she explained about the empty spice jars, the sand mixed with salt, and when she began to babble, he touched his lips to hers silencing the words spewing from her mouth.

“She mixed the sacks?” “’Twas my fault my lord. I did not word my request clearly. I simply told her to bring a handful of the white grains in the sack.” Catriona bowed her head. “She is bereft and none can convince her she didn’t kill her god Thor. Her eyes are swollen near shut from crying—” “Hush, Catriona. Your sister is but a child of seven summers. ’Tis an unfortunate accident.” “I will do penance for the rest of my life for this sin. I beg your pardon a thousand times my lord.” She dropped her head to stare at the bed unable to bear accusation in his perfect blue eyes. “When?” She risked a quick peek at him, and held her breath when he smiled at her. “Beg pardon? What?” “When?” “When what?” He rolled his eyes. “When did you decide to throw the poison into the garderobe?” She knew her face and throat had reddened. “After you joined our bodies.” “Why?” “You had been inside of me, Ruard. ’Tis possible I carry your babe even now.” “To me, wife.” He rubbed his thumb across her lower lip and her puss clenched, well trained to his hand like a falcon to her handler. “Do you?” “’Tis too soon to tell, I believe.” She shivered when both his large palms covered her belly.

The bed sheets tented, Catriona stared at his rigid arousal. He reached over to haul her on top of him. “You are too weak, Ruard. I would have you well again before we tup.” “I am well enough to be ridden, wife.” Ridden? She shook her head. “Nay. I have something I needs tell you first.” “Speak to me quickly because I am afire for you.” His busy fingers untied her laces, then he drew her astride his groin, and bunched her skirts to the waist.

Courage Catriona, you are not a bleating sheep.

She pushed off his chest. He glanced at her, one blonde brow lifted. “I have come to love you Ruard, Dragon Slayer.” She stiffened when his muscles rippled under her palms. “I would be your true wife if you will have me, but should you wish to cast me aside, ’twill be so.” “I wish for no other Catriona.” His tone was gruff and as hard as the stone of the castle, but his gaze never wavered. Combing her hair with his fingers, he whispered, “I am well pleased with my bride. You are mine now and will never leave my side.” Lady Carlton had warned her that though husbands liked to hear their wives speak of love, warriors did not. She had also told Catriona of a bedsport activity all men craved. And though they’d tupped oft since saying their vows, and his hands had explored every crevice of hers, she had only been able to hold his man part for fleeting seconds

before he growled and buried his thick flesh in her sheath. “Ruard?” “Catriona?” His hand cupped her neck and he pressed his face to her hair. “You smell of spring in winter—how comes this to be? Do you then smell like winter in spring?” “Beg pardon?” “’Tis naught. What is amiss?” “Have you heard of the bedsport cock sucking?” *** “Are you sotted brother?” Njal stretched his long legs under the high table. “’Tis mid-morn and you fair stumbled down the steps.” Ruard could not collect his thoughts, too many images of Catriona’s ruby lips covering his cock painting his vision. Truly he had found a wife beyond measure. His heart had stopped when she sweetly asked him about cock sucking. And this morn, he choked back a groan as his prick thickened, this morn she had swallowed his seed.

I am besotted by my wife.

He had always sneered at men whose brides led them by the nose. Now he knew what parts women truly led men by. Heart and prick: the worst betrayers of a man’s mind in all the worlds. “Where is my wife?” “Behind you, my lord.” The smell of spring enveloped him as she slid onto the bench. As was custom for a wedded woman she wore a veil, and

glad though he was her unbound glorious tresses were for him alone, he missed the way the fire of her hair brightened the great hall’s shadows. “I went to fetch you food to break your fast.” At her signal, a kitchen boy deposited a wooden plate on the table. “’Tis cured venison from your hunt, eggs, cheese, and bread freshly warmed in the ovens.” He heard not a word, too busy staring at her white teeth, the pretty dimples, and her talented lips. This morn she had taken his balls into her mouth. He had been with harem women, women of the great courts, and never had he acted such the green sapling. When she purred with his cock’s crown between her lips, her nails grazing his sac, his seed had erupted like the fire spewing mountains of Ísland. “’Tis not to your taste my lord?” She hung her head. “’Tis the poison you are recalling. I will taste your food first so you have no cause to wonder—” “Nay, elskling.” He cupped her chin, captured her gaze, and spoke for her ears only. “While ’twould be paradise to eat from your fingers or lips, ’tis I who will be the taster, for you are precious to me.” Her eyes shimmered and he feared ’twould do him in to see her cry. Njal chortled and slapped his hand on the table, jostling the food. “’Tis a pity our brothers Jarvik and Magnus arrive on the morrow, for you are a sight to behold making moon eyes at your wife.”

His face heating, Ruard twisted and cuffed Njal on the jaw. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Catriona’s sudden frown. “’Twill not happen again.” Suddenly ravenous, he gobbled every morsel while Catriona explained her dowry chests had arrived, hence the wooden plates. Had the treasure arrived when he had been laid low? ’Twould please Catriona and show all how much he valued his bride. “Do you hunt this morn, my lord?” The smile she gave him made Ruard’s chest ache and he yearned to cradle her in his arms. “Aye.” He kissed her palm. “Until this eve, wife.” Ruard and Njal spent the rest of the day inventorying Dunsmuir’s lost riches, and discovered King Cnut had not exaggerated the castle’s wealth. The brothers arranged for the carts to be led into the hall at the end of the evening meal. The day took too long to pass for Ruard. To his consternation, during the evening meal Ruard couldn’t stop staring at his bride, admiring her perfect profile, her ready smile, and growing sotted on her spring fragrance. He fed her the choicest morsels from their plate, held the goblet so that she drank from the same spot he did, and touched her as oft as he could. When the kitchen boy brought him not an apple pie but a small gooseberry tart at the end of the meal, he suppressed a smile. “’Tis to your liking my lord?”

“Aye wife. ’Tis a miracle you found berries after so many frosts.” “Captain deGrecy sent them to me. I gave him and his man leave to return to King Cnut’s court yester eve. The berries came by messenger this aft.” ’Twas only by dint of his warrior training that Ruard suppressed a howl, and he had to stuff a huge chunk of pie into his mouth to stop the foolish grin threatening to take over his face. DeGrecy was gone. Catriona had declared her love. Never had tart berries tasted so delicious. Njal cleared his throat, and Ruard glanced up to see him signaling a pageboy. Minutes later, a mule led in the first of the carts. Busy chatting with Helene, Catriona didn’t notice the clopping of hoofs. ’Twas only when a collective gasp went through the great hall that she glanced up. Ruard had fixed his gaze on her and ’twas only when Njal jabbed him in the ribs and growled, “Toast,” that he tore his eyes away from his wife. He captured Catriona’s hand and rose, pulling her to her feet, and brushed his lips over her knuckles. In the sudden silence, he heard her rapid breathing, saw her cheeks lose their roses, and her brows pucker. Squeezing her fingers, he whispered, “All is well wife.” He turned, faced the hall, raised his goblet, and shouted, “I return Dunsmuir’s treasures to their rightful owner, my wife, Lady Catriona.” A moderate cheer rose in the hall. His people needed time to trust him, though the blacksmith’s

endorsement had helped produce smiles instead of frowns. Njal and he had added the monk and cook’s body to those in the pit, and fired all again, ensuring the blacksmith would not hang. Catriona thanked him prettily for her gift and gave all back to him. He would not release her hand and cared not that all saw him doting on his wife. He fed her cheese from his fingers, tucked a lock of hair escaping her veil back under the transparent cloth, and kissed her palm repeatedly. They did not linger in the hall. Ruard carried his bride up the stairs to the accompaniment of whistles, cheers, and shouts. She blushed hotly when he started to strip off her clothes. “Shy, wife?” “I fear I may have been too bold last eve and this morn.” “’Tis what I have waited for all day long. To have you naked in my arms. I find I miss the feel of you, the smell of you, these dimples.” She smiled wider, and when he touched a finger to each indentation, the slight frown puckering her brow vanished. “Did Lady Carlton tell you of the bedsport activity of puss eating?” Her eyes grew round and widened. “’Tis similar, but sweeter. And I cannot wait to give you the pleasure you gifted me with last eve and this morn.” He could see questions waiting to burst from her mouth, so he touched a finger to her lips. “I would give you a wife gift first.”

Reaching under the bed furs, he felt for the cloth package, turned her palm upward, and set the gift in her hand. “’Tis not necessary Ruard, my bride gift suffices.” “Open it.” He stopped breathing, fixed his gaze to her face, wanting to see every nuance of her reaction. Delicate fingers pulled the red ribbon bow apart. She pealed back the linen and stared at the finely wrought gold dragon glittering against the black fabric. With one delicate finger, she traced the tail, the head, and then peeked up at him a question in her eyes. “You give me a dragon, Dragon Slayer?” “I will slay all your dragons, Catriona, for you have claimed the Dragon Slayer’s heart.” Her eyes misted and a bolt of panic struck him. He scrambled for the other hidden gift, caught the wooden box, and presented it to her. “Another? Ruard, ’tis too much.” “Open it,” he ordered, hoping she would understand. Carefully she unlatched the metal clasp, lifted the lid, and laughed aloud. “’Tis a needle. Jeweled and lovely, but a needle nonetheless.” “You will never thread another. Hire others to perform the task.” “Why?” “When I walked into the chamber when you and Helene were confined for that day, you were

threading a needle. It took you but a breath to spin the thread through the eye.” “Women thread needles.” She cocked her head and a devilish twinkle fair danced in her dark eyes. “’Tis not the threading you object to, but that it took but a breath.” Ruard widened his stance and clenched his fists. “My wife will n’er thread a needle again. Not unless she can stretch the threading to take an entire morn, or mayhap a sennight.” ~End~

~ About the Author ~ I’m an Iron Chef America and Law and Order addict who loves to cook, eat, and read. I wish you could burn a ton of calories being sedentary and eating. Don’t you? Married for thirty-four years to an amazing man who still astounds me every single day, I’m also the proud mama of three fantastic sons, all of whom are now of legal age. If only they’d stop changing majors in college… I grew up on the Caribbean island of Trinidad where the population is representative of almost every race and nation on the planet, so multiculturalism oozes from my pores. Though I attended an all-girl Catholic school run by nuns, we were taught all religions, Hinduism, Muslim, Buddhism, and celebrated all the holidays associated with those religions. Did you know many delish foods go with religious holidays? Alpha males, strong heroines, exotic locations, and cultural differences are my forte. And from Monaco, to Trinidad at Carnival time, to rural Washington, to Denali National Park in Alaska, to Sleeping Dog, Texas and Norway in 1028 AD, I’m travelling the world through my books, and sharing my view of it with readers.

My writing career began in 2008, and since then I’ve been lucky enough to have nine books published. Two more, including my first historical, will release at the end of 2010, and I currently have six manuscripts in progress. One of the most rewarding aspects of writing is hearing from readers, and nothing makes my day more than an email from someone who’s read one of my books. I love to hear what tickles someone’s fancy. So far, I’ve heard from readers from almost every continent on the planet. Almost… Find more about Jianne Carlo here: http://www.jiannecarlo.com