Page 5 of Viking in Love

CHAPTER FIVE

O ink, oink…there are pigs, and then there are PIGS!…

Breanne, straddling the top of the pigsty fence, paused to discuss some ideas with the Larkspur woodworker.

“Methinks that the lintels of the doorway leading to the keep, as well as the eaves of all these outbuildings, should have a particular design—even the stables, the chicken coop I am going to build next, and, yea, the pigsty. Mayhap matching the twining larkspur carvings that abound in the great hall’s wood trim.”

“Huh?” Efrim said. “What be larkspur?”

Breanne smiled. “Larkspur is a flower…delphinium. Look out in the fields beyond the castle. They are filled with wild larkspur, no doubt the reason for this estate’s name.”

“You are not decorating my pigsty with flowers.”

Breanne jerked and almost fell off her perch, saved only by the strong hand that grasped her upper arm, then yanked her off the fence and to her feet. It was the loathsome lout of the big…arrogance. Caedmon of Larkspur.

Efrim had the good sense to scoot away.

“Your sty fence was broken and the pigs were running wild,” she snapped, bending over to place her mallet and a handful of nails into a wooden work bucket. When she began to straighten, she looked over her shoulder…and caught Caedmon staring at her buttocks.

“You really are a loathsome lout.”

“Thank you, m’lady.” He made an exaggerated bow from the waist.

“’Twas not a compliment.”

“Coming from the likes of you, it is.”

She bared her teeth at him. “You belong on the other side of this fence with the other pigs.”

“Dost think so?”

If he were closer, she would have given him a mighty shove to place him exactly there.

As if reading her mind, he folded his arms over his chest and said, “If I go over that fence, so do you.”

“Loathsome lout!”

“You are repeating yourself.”

“Donkey dolt!”

“Irksome shrew!”

“Troll!”

“Harpy!”

“Stinksome warthog!”

He lifted a hand high and sniffed at his armpit. Apparently satisfied at his smell, he smiled at her. And, oh, it was a dangerous smile. The kind that lured women to do things they should not. “I am capable of repairing my own fence.”

“Now you will not have to. Are you not the lucky one?”

He muttered something under his breath about luck and women. She suspected there were several foul words involved.

“I was just being helpful.”

He arched his brows.

“I was bored.”

“And you could not go sew a tapestry, or stroll through the gardens, or strum a lute?”

“Bor-ing! I but wish to be useful. What harm is there in that?” Her eyes shifted to the right. Uh-oh! Now, she looked everywhere except to the right.

He, of course, had to glance at that very place on the far side of the bailey, which she was avoiding. “Do my eyes play me false? Could that be a fine-garbed woman on her knees planting something up against the castle wall? A prickle bush! God’s breath! Those are the bushes that snag on horses when riding through a forest.”

Breanne sighed deeply. Of course, there was a woman in fine garb, the gunna pulled up to her knees, the hem tucked into her belt. “That is my sister Drifa. She likes growing things, especially flowers. That is a wild rosebush she is transplanting.”

His eyes widened. “A noble Viking princess is crawling around my bailey, digging in dirt, planting a prickle bush?”

Nay, ’tis a dragon building a nest. Idiot! Of course it is a woman, my sister.

The woman stood and walked over to a wooden wheelbarrow. Digging a shovel into the contents, she then emptied it onto the spot she had been weeding.

“And that is…?”

“Manure.” What a dolthead! Does not even recognize animal waste, even when it smells to high heaven.

He put his face in his hands, counted to ten…then twenty, before inquiring in the sweetest voice he could muster. “Where did she get the manure?”

“Your cow byre.” What? You thought she was digging in your privy?

“Of course. How foolish of me not to know that.”

That goes without saying. “You have plenty.”

Something seemed to occur to him then. “Is this a jest? Did Geoff or Wulf put you up to this flummery? Are they off somewhere watching us, laughing their arses off?”

“I never met your comrades afore today.”

“Oh.” He seemed disappointed at her answer. “What are you doing here then?”

“That was not polite.”

“I ne’er claimed to be polite, nor do I aspire to such. Why are you and your sisters here?”

I wonder what he would do if I punched him on his lofty chin. “We were just passing and thought to stop and visit.”

“On your way to…where?”

Questions, questions, questions! “Uh, I am not certain. You should ask Tyra. ’Tis some distant kin of her husband.”

“As distant as my kinship?”

That chin is looking very tempting. “You are the rudest man I have ever met.”

“You have not traveled much then. I can name at least three ruder men.”

Do not punch him in his arrogant chin. He would probably punch me right back. She exhaled whooshily, tired of this verbal sparring. “Do you offer us hospitality, or not?”

He hesitated, then asked, “For how long?”

“One day, or two, or so.” Or fifty.

“The ‘or so’ is what bothers me.”

The man was too astute by half. “All we ask is a few days of your hospitality and protection.”

He straightened abruptly. “Protection…that is the first I have heard of protection. What do you need protection from?”

I best keep my mouth shut or I will trap myself with ill-chosen words. She waved a hand airily. “This and that.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, beautiful blue eyes framed by sinfully thick lashes. “By the by, your sister mentioned being the widow of the earl of Havenshire. When did that villainous poor-excuse-for-a-man expire?”

Breanne could feel heat coloring her face. “Recently. He disappeared recently. And, yea, he was a villain.”

“How did he die…assuming he is dead? Lord Havenshire was not that old, as I recall.”

“Well, no one really knows.” Except us. “He went out one night to visit his mistress and never came back.” How easy a liar I have become. “But his horse did. Return, that is.” Brutus is out in your stable right now. Go check. “Road rogues no doubt murdered him for his purse.” Whew! Lying is hard work.

“They found no body?”

She shook her head. I need to get away from here and his too-perceptive questions.

“Where is the earl?” he demanded abruptly.

She jumped. “No need to yell. I already told you, he is dead.”

“Mayhap he is still alive.”

“Mayhap. Nay, he is more likely dead.” As a fence post.

Just then, Ivan and Ivar, their guardsmen, stepped out of the stable, came over, and stood, legs braced, on either side of her. While she was thankful for this means of changing the subject, she could tell that Caedmon was not happy with their presence. “Go away. Shoo!” she said in a whisper.

But the thick-headed fools did not budge.

“’Tis one thing to ask for hospitality. ’Tis quite another to bring armed men into my keep.” Caedmon threw the words at her like stones, and his one hand went to the hilt of his short sword.

Her guardsmen did likewise.

She motioned for the guards to halt their aggression, then told Caedmon, “They are harmless.” Unless provoked. Then, you should see how good they are at lopping off heads. Eeew!

He gave them a thorough scrutiny. “Hah! Harmless as starving bears.”

Or head-loppers.

Ivan, the guard closest to her, growled, not unlike a…well, bear. Ivar bared his teeth, not unlike a bear, as well.

“I meant that they intend you no harm.” Turning, she scowled at her guards. “Ivan, Ivar, go. I am safe. You must needs help Tyra prepare to leave for home.”

After they departed, reluctantly, Caedmon asked, “Dare I ask, who is Tyra?”

“My sister…your kinswoman by marriage.”

“Ah, wife of my close kinsman, Adam the Healer.”

“Your sarcasm is not pleasing, m’lord.”

“And I do yearn to please you. I am not a m’lord.”

“M’troll, then?”

He grinned. “And where is this Tyra going?”

“Home. To her husband at Hawkshire.”

She could tell that he wanted to ask why they did not go with her. So, she quickly attempted to get his mind on other things. “You are bleeding,” she observed.

“Huh?”

“Your face.”

“Ah.” He put a hand to his chin, then looked at the dab of crimson on his fingertips. “I cut myself shaving.”

“Three times?”

“’Tis fortunate I am that it was not more. Every time you began that incessant pounding my hand wavered.”

“Oh, so it is my fault you are so clumsy? Not your ale excesses?” She reached into a side placket of her braies and pulled out a linen cloth. She was tall for a woman, but he was taller; so, she had to go on tiptoes to reach his face, which she began to minister to.

He inhaled sharply.

“What? Did I hurt you?” I should be so lucky!

“Nay. ’Tis your scent.”

She tilted her head to the side in question and just scarcely refrained from lifting her arm to sniff, as he had.

“You smell like flowers.”

She nodded. “My sister Drifa’s rose-petal soap. Would you like some?” I could stick some down your slimy throat.

“So I can smell like a rose?” He smiled. “That would go over well when I ride to battle. I can overcome my enemies with rose fragrance.”

Grrrrrr. She smiled back through gritted teeth, despite her best intentions to keep the rogue in his place. “By the number of children inside, most of whom claim to be yours, I would say that a fair share of women, who would enjoy rose soap, reside here.”

“Or women who pass by.”

“Or pass by,” she agreed, knowing full well that he hoped she and her sisters would soon “pass by.”

One bit of blood had already dried. So, she wet the edge of her cloth with three quick darts of her tongue.

“By the rood!” he muttered.

She glanced up to see what he was muttering about.

His gaze was riveted on her mouth.

She licked her lips, assuming she must have something on them. Mayhap wood chips.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“What?”

“Your mouth is…amazing.”

At first she did not understand.

And then she did.

Oh, my! Oh! My! She should have been outraged at his suggestive words. Instead, her heart began to race, and she felt her nipples harden and ache in the most annoying, wonderful way. She could swear there was a dampness pooling betwixt her legs. She tingled, all over, but especially in some forbidden places. Was this lust?

Just barely, she restrained herself from leaping on him, with her legs wrapped around his middle, the way she had seen Tyra do with Adam one time. How he would laugh at that!

But he was not laughing now. In fact, she sensed he was in the throes of his own attraction to her, and it was just as unwelcome.

“Do you blush, Breanne? By thunder, you do!” He seemed inordinately pleased by that discovery.

“’Tis just the sun.”

His gaze dropped to her chest, where her breasts were heaving in and out. When had she gone so breathless? And why? Even worse, at some point she must have leaned forward, still on tiptoe, and was almost breast to chest. How mortifying! As if she would want to touch him. She quickly dropped flat on her feet.

With a shake of his head, as if to clear it, he stepped back to put distance betwixt them.

And then he smirked.

The self-sure lout!

“Two days. Two days I give you and your princess brood. Then you are gone.”

She stuck out her tongue at his back as he began to stomp away, something she had not done since she was a girling.

He turned at the last moment, as if to add something else, another odious order, no doubt. His eyes widened with surprise at having caught her mid-tongue thrust. Then he chortled, “Have a caution, wench, you may find that tongue somewhere not to your liking, but definitely to mine. On the other hand, you would like it, too, methinks.” He winked. He dared to wink at her.

Which caused her to tingle some more.

Therefore, she got immense pleasure when he stepped into a pile of putrid pig waste she had raked for Drifa’s gardening, thus proving what she had said all along about the need for a pigsty fence. She thought about yelling, “I told you so,” but decided to save that for another day. There would be many opportunities that would warrant such words around such a lackbrain.

She could not wait.

As for the two-day limit of their stay, all she could say was, “Hah!”

A woo-ing they did go, a woo-ing they did go, heigh-ho the…

A widow hunt.

There was no other word for the insane journey Caedmon found himself on a short time later. He, Geoff, and Wulf were riding for Heatherby, the estate now owned by Sybil Blakeley, Lady Moreton, recent widow of Edward Blakeley, earl of Moreton. Heatherby just happened to adjoin Larkspur on the southwest, a mere one-hour ride on a good horse. Whilst Larkspur encompassed six hundred hectares of land, Heatherby was half that size. Whilst Larkspur had many fertile hides of yet-to-be-tilled land, Heatherby had a waterway leading to a seaport, albeit at some considerable distance.

Soon after he had talked with the Norse witch—and almost disgraced himself like an untried boyling by being aroused by her kissome lips—a traveling tinker arrived. Ezekial had informed them that the Earl of Moreton had passed away four days ago of a sudden heart seizure. His much younger wife, Sybil, was in deep mourning.

Caedmon wanted to make sure no other land-hungry knight nabbed her afore he had a chance to get his teeth in, so to speak. Or better yet, Geoff or Wulf’s teeth, which were far more suitable. Once Edgar, like all grab-land kings, got wind of this rich land in the hands of an “unprotected” woman, he would be sure to send her a noble bridegroom, which meant some weakling under the royal thumb.

He had no wish to wed again. In fact, he loathed the idea. But he would do most anything to protect what he already had. And a foe ruling Heatherby threatened any surrounding estates.

He had been only half-attending and realized that Wulf was addressing him. “I am suspicious of your royal visitors.”

“The princesses?” he asked.

Wulf nodded. “Them, the Arab who claims to be a healer but has the body of a warrior, and the two Norse bears.”

“I agree,” Caedmon said. “I should have kicked them out on their pretty arses the moment they crossed the moat.”

“The guardsmen have pretty arses?” Geoff inquired with mock surprise.

“You know exactly who I mean.”

“I understand your dilemma,” Wulf said. “Hard to refuse hospitality to five women in need, especially the one who has clearly been beaten.”

“’Tis exactly what I thought. I saw finger marks on her neck.” This from Geoff.

“She was married to the earl of Havenshire. You know what an evil brute he was.” Caedmon drew his bottom lip in, thoughtfully. “Now he is dead…or missing.”

“A coincidence?” Geoff asked.

He shrugged.

“Watch your back, my friend,” Wulf added.

He nodded. “For now, I have more important issues to address. Like Heatherby. And the thieves who are stealing cattle from the nothern pasture. We will stop by there afore returning to Larkspur. Once we see what the situation is with the good widow.”

“You should have worn your black wool surcoat with the red samite lining,” Geoff told Wulf.

“Huh? Oh, nay! Do not even think it! I am just along for the ride,” Wulf protested.

“Why? You are perfect for Sybil.”

“I am no more perfect than you are, Geoff. Or you, Caedmon.”

“It would solve your problem,” Caedmon pointed out.

“How? By switching one shackle for another? If I wanted a bride, I would go home and yield to my father’s wishes.” Wulf was the second son of a powerful Wessex nobleman who had betrothed Wulf from birth to a Welsh princess, Gwyneth, who wanted naught to do with him. Not that he wanted her, either. None of them had ever seen Gwyneth, but considering the size of her impressive dowry, and his less-than-spectacular birthright, his maternal grandmother’s pitifully small estate in Norsemandy, they figured she must be horse faced and as round as a barrel.

“Well, we agreed afore leaving Larkspur that one of us would make a bid for the lady’s hand, after a period of subtle but not-too-long courtship,” Caedmon reminded them.

“Subtle?” Geoff snorted.

“He means that you should not stick your tongue down Sybil’s throat on first meeting,” Wulf elaborated.

“Even if she wants me to?”

“How would you know?”

“Women have signals.”

Caedmon speared Wulf and Geoff both with a rebuking scowl. “I meant that we come to express our sympathies. That is all at this point.”

“Oh, please! We must needs do more than that,” Geoff opined. “Once the king gets wind of this windfall, he will have one of his lackeys here posthaste. Or he will come himself to get a taste. Remember what he did with Ordulf’s wife.”

“Well, I ne’er agreed to offer my hand. I am going back,” Wulf declared.

“You are such a lackbrain, Wulf. Do not get your beard in a blaze. Caedmon and I will do all the wooing,” Geoff said. “We will see who comes out the winner.”

Caedmon sighed. Somehow, it did not seem like winning to him. More like a bid for torture.

For some odd reason, an image flashed in his head of a red-haired woman with lips he was determined to taste, afore sending her on her merry way. In fact, he could swear his lips tingled in anticipation. And a certain other body part tingled, too.

Meanwhile, Geoff and Wulf blathered on about different ways to woo a woman, some so crude they could never be mentioned in mixed company. He was heartsick at the prospect of chaining himself once again in wedlock, while they seemed to look forward to this visit. Time enough to think of Sybil or Heatherby when they got there.

“Dost think the king will call us to arms again this year?” he inquired, as a means of changing the subject.

The idiots ignored him and continued their debate, now over whether pinching a woman’s buttocks was unsubtle or not. And how they should be cautious around Sybil not to even mention the word buttock .

“We should resume training on a daily schedule so our men do not soften,” Caedmon interrupted.

Still, they ignored him. Now discussing why highborn women took so long to peak during bedsport and whether Sybil fell into that category and how Geoff once fell asleep in the midst of tupping a countess who took too long to reach her peak.

“Did a woman ever cause your cock to tingle? Just by looking at you?”

Two heads turned slowly to stare at him.

Now he had their attention!