Tatiana March Read online

  “What do you suggest?” Erskine asked.

  “Single combat. You and I. Fight to the death. The men on both sides are free to swear allegiance to the winner or leave to seek their future elsewhere.” Laird Olaf paused, and then added in a harsh, strained voice. “If you defeat me, Lady Brenna will be yours.”

  Erskine lowered the visor to close his helm. His harsh laugh boomed inside the steel sphere. “I accept your gift of handing Kilgarren and her mistress to me without a battle. Come and meet your death.” Brandishing his sword, he sent his horse into a sudden surge forward.

  “You have no helm,” Brenna cried to Laird Olaf. “I’ll get it for you.”

  “No,” her husband replied.

  Her heart beat so hard it shook her entire body as her earlier thoughts whirled through her mind. This was what Laird Olaf had planned all along. Not a clash with an army too powerful to beat, but a fight between two men, one to live, one to die. Either he was seeking a quick, clean end with an enemy sword slicing across his neck, or he believed that the lack of helm would provide an advantage in the combat with Erskine.

  To learn the answer—and her future—she had to stand aside and watch.

  Chapter Seven

  Olaf saw Erskine charge. That instant sealed his fate. The fate of Kilgarren. The fate of Lady Brenna. If Erskine had dismounted and insisted on a combat on foot, the odds would have favored the larger man, with greater reach and power. On horseback, Olaf had the advantage. He doubted Erskine had any idea of what a horse like Thor could do.

  The lack of helm, although it exposed a weakness, gave Olaf unimpeded vision and the ability to turn his head quickly, following the movements of the enemy. He waited for Erskine to get close. Then he urged Thor up on his hind legs. The front legs of the bay stallion beat the air, kicking, connecting with the opponent’s horse.

  Erskine’s coal-black gelding whinnied in panic, prancing out of control, so that for an instant Erskine lost sight of Olaf through the narrow slits in his visor. Olaf took aim. His sword had a sharp tip, and he jabbed it between the breastplate and the spaulder that protected Erskine’s right shoulder and upper arm. Blood seeped onto Olaf’s blade. It was a minor injury, but it might be enough to rob the huge knight’s blows of some of their strength.

  Before Erskine could recover his bearings, Thor edged closer again and bit the other mount on the neck. The crowd had fallen into silence, and the terrified whinnying of Erskine’s horse, mixed with the thud of hooves and the creaking of leather and the clanking of swords, saturated the freezing air with the violent sounds of war.

  Olaf had expected a long, bloody battle, but Erskine’s black gelding, not used to being attacked by another animal, bolted and threw his rider. The burly knight fell to the ground, the crash of steel drowning out his roar of pain. Olaf gave Thor a command. His front quarters rising and falling, the horse leaped forward to stomp on the fallen enemy, hooves pounding against plate armor with a hollow clatter.

  Erskine writhed, slipping on the thin layer of snow, attempting to scramble up to his feet. He managed to roll over to his side, propping his weight on his left arm. As Thor came down again, Erskine rammed his sword up into the horse’s gleaming neck. Thor made no sound at all, instantly folding his forelegs to allow the rider on his back to slide safely to the ground.

  An icy fury filled Olaf as he saw the crimson stream of blood spurting onto Thor’s shiny coat. He might have offered to spare Erskine’s life, even though they had agreed on a fight to the death, but the loss of Thor, a valuable destrier, his faithful companion in countless battles, stripped him of any inclination to mercy.

  Moving fast, keeping the advantage of better vision and more agile movement, Olaf circled Erskine, who had managed to haul himself up to a crouching position. As Olaf waited to secure accurate aim to thrust his sword through the slits in Erskine’s helmet, something tangled in the sabatons protecting his feet.

  Olaf stumbled forward, falling to the frozen earth.

  In front of him, the burly knight raised his sword with both hands.

  From behind Olaf came a squeal of fury and the surge of a brown horse charging with the last of his strength. One front hoof slammed into Erskine’s head, dislodging on the visor on his helm and sending the huge man toppling onto his back. Up and down, up and down, the horse’s hoofs flew as Thor reared high and came down again, using his entire weight to crush the enemy skull trapped inside the open-fronted helmet.

  The smell of blood permeated the air. When finally the body on the ground stopped twitching, the horse stilled, steam rising from his nostrils into the freezing air, the sounds of his rasping breath cutting through the horrified silence of the crowd. With a sharp whinny of victory, Thor fell down on his buckling legs and slowly pitched over to lie on his side.

  Olaf struggled up to his feet and went to the horse. Despite the heavy plate armor that limited his movements, he squatted down to stroke Thor’s long nose, soothing him. He whispered words of gratitude, words of praise to the faithful animal, crooning softly until the last spark of life went out in Thor’s dark, moist eyes.

  Rising up again, Olaf stood with his head high, the blood-streaked battle standard flapping on his left arm. He lifted his sword toward the sky. “Kilgarren,” he said. Not a shout but a word spoken quietly, with certitude and permanence.

  He faced Erskine’s men and let his gaze drift over the rows of them. Young and old, the soldiers were only marginally better equipped than his own. The first sank down on one knee. Then another. Soon the ground thudded with the sound of men demonstrating their respect and obedience as the conquered enemy army surrendered to his command.

  Only then did Olaf turn back and search the ranks of his own men for Lady Brenna.

  Clumsy in her big boots, she ran up to him and threw herself into his arms.

  He clutched her close and let her shed his tears for Thor.

  * * *

  Lady Brenna had been to Castle Erskine before, and she’d always told herself a separate kitchen wing was impractical. Surely, rushes on the floor just created a mess, and tapestries on the wall gathered dust and cobwebs. Seven bedchambers were more than anyone would ever need, and garderobe shafts were a luxury easily done without.

  But now she was willing to admit that she’d been wrong.

  They had left Robert in charge of Kilgarren Castle. Brenna had a feeling that the steward might marry Martha, once he worked up the courage to ask. Ian and Alistair had followed their laird and had taken over the armory and the training of troops, leaving Laird Olaf free to focus on being the leader of his people.

  Today marked their first week in their new home. Brenna had disrobed and was lying on her stomach in the darkness of the canopied bed as her husband leaned over her, lazily stroking her back.

  “Who were those two men who rode up today?” she asked.

  She’d been talking to the seamstress when the strangers arrived. Erskine was a widow, and his wife had left a chest full of gowns in satin and velvet and fine wool. Brenna had never been interested in fashion before, but then, she’d never been in love before.

  “They were messengers from the King’s Arrow.”

  “The King’s Arrow?” Brenna craned her neck to stare at her husband over her shoulder. “What does he want with us?”

  “I sent him a letter,” Laird Olaf replied. “The King’s Arrow has the Stenholm estates now, and I asked him for something I’d left behind in the days of my youth. Those two men brought it.”

  “What is it?” Curious now, Brenna tried to twist around to face him.

  Stenholm pressed his palm to her back to halt her motion. “Guess,” he said.

  As Brenna pondered the possibilities, something smooth rolled between her shoulder blades. Muffling her startled cry against the pillows, she suppressed a shiver of pleasure.

&nbs
p; “What was that?” she asked.

  Laird Olaf didn’t reply.

  Instead, she felt cool metal inching along her buttocks, then pooling in the tiny dimple at the base of her spine. “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

  He pulled aside the heavy velvet curtains to allow the glow of light from the fireplace to shine over them and slipped a sheet of parchment on the pillow in front of her.

  “Read,” he ordered.

  Arching her spine, Brenna braced up on her elbows and studied the text. “One long chain of pearls,” she read. The smooth, cool object rippled down her back again, then rolled up to her neck and slithered down her shoulder to form a lustrous heap over the pillow.

  “Read the next line,” Laird Olaf prompted.

  Her eyes returned to the finely crafted letters. “Gold bracelet set with rubies.”

  The angled facets of the metal made a slow, rolling journey across her buttocks and up her back. Reaching over her, Laird Olaf clipped the bracelet around her right arm. The rubies glinted like plump red berries in the firelight.

  “A gold bracelet set with emeralds,” Brenna read out.

  Her husband traced the piece of jewelry across her waist, turning the gold circle like a wheel, the stones making a slow trail from left to right and back again. Then he clipped the bracelet around her left arm.

  Brenna read the rest of the list, item by item. Laird Olaf teased her senses with each piece before adorning her body with it. By the time they finished, she had three rings on her fingers, a bracelet on each arm, brooches clipped in her hair and a gold chain wrapped around each ankle.

  “They were my mother’s jewels,” Laird Olaf said. “I’ve been told she liked emeralds best. Her eyes were green like mine.” He took the parchment from Brenna and folded it away. “I didn’t ask for them, but my brother’s widow sent them anyway.” He paused, and she could hear the pride in his voice. “They are my bridal gift to you. The list of them shall be attached to the marriage contract.”

  “I have no need for jewels,” Brenna told him softly.

  “In that case, I have something that might please you better.” Laird Olaf swung out of bed, strolled across the floor and opened the door to retrieve a big jute sack from the corridor outside. The sack rattled and clunked as he carried it toward her.

  On the bed, Brenna stretched out her arms and inspected the stones that reflected the flames, like a rainbow fallen to earth and broken into pieces. She had to admit that perhaps feminine trinkets were worth getting excited over after all.

  “Stand up,” Laird Olaf ordered. “And close your eyes.”

  Brenna obeyed. A flat, cold plane of steel pressed against her bare breasts. With a cry of delight, she blinked her eyes open and gripped the breastplate. Laird Olaf spun her around, pressed the backplate in place and fastened the straps to join the two. Falling to her knees, Brenna began to pull more pieces of armor out of the heavy jute sack.

  “Is it complete?” she asked, inspecting the fine metalwork.

  “Every single piece.” Laird Olaf replied. “Try on the greaves to see if they fit.”

  Brenna extended one leg, then the other. Finally, she could be a real knight.

  * * *

  Olaf watched his wife prance about the room dressed in nothing but a steel cuirass around her torso and a pair of greaves on her lower legs. She’d wanted to try on the full suit but he had convinced her that without the barrier of padded clothing underneath, the metal might scrape her skin. The contrast of the steel armor and the feminine curves of her naked body made his blood run hotter than a cauldron of boiling tar.

  He reached for his sword by the bedpost and tossed Lady Brenna hers.

  “Draw your blade,” he ordered.

  She stared at him. “Here? Now?”

  He didn’t speak, merely pulled his weapon from the scabbard and assumed a fighting stance. His wife did the same. Olaf ended the game quickly, clashing their blades a few times before imprisoning the tip of Lady Brenna’s sword against the floor.

  “Do you surrender?” he asked. “Do you accept that I’m your husband, your master, and you must obey my every command?”

  Lady Brenna sucked in a sharp breath, but her eyes sparkled, and in them Olaf could see the thrill of being dominated without needing to fear that she might be hurt. “Yes,” she replied in a breathless murmur. “I surrender.”

  “Do you promise to obey me?”

  “Yes.”

  Olaf put his sword away. “Turn around.”

  Lady Brenna spun away from him. Where armor didn’t cover her, her bare skin glowed pale in the firelight. Gold and gemstones glinted around her wrists and ankles. Brooches adorned her hair, clipping the wild curls into disarray. Her slender thighs rose from the steel greaves that protected her lower legs. He’d never seen a more arousing sight.

  “Bend over.” He voice was so thick he barely managed to force out the words. She obeyed, bracing her arms on the edge of the bed and thrusting out her backside, her hips wiggling in invitation.

  “Do you know what I’m about to do?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Olaf slipped his fingers between her thighs and met a valley of slick, throbbing heat. Lady Brenna moaned and arched her spine, the brooches in her hair clinking against the steel backplate. Unable to wait a second longer, he curled his hands over her hips and entered her in one smooth thrust. Instantly, she tightened around him and let out a soft, throaty moan that inflamed his lust.

  He leaned forward and slipped one arm beneath her waist to hold her steady while he rocked in and out of her. They were perfectly matched for height, as if measured for each other. “Tell me if the armor hurts,” he rasped as he kept going, taking her with slow, deep strokes that were too glorious to last longer than a few frantic seconds.

  When he spurted his seed into her, it felt as if his entire body had shattered. For a moment, they almost collapsed on the bed. Then, on the edges of his consciousness, Olaf remembered the armor that might chafe his wife’s skin if she fell. Seeking support from the bedpost, he adjusted his arm around her waist to steady her.

  “My lady knight,” he murmured into her ear. “I know you love your new suit of armor, but you need to take it off so we can get into bed and get some sleep.”

  He helped her remove the pieces of steel plate, and together they settled beneath the covers. Lady Brenna retreated to one side of the bed, the way she always did. Olaf waited. Usually, his wife fell asleep at once, away from him. Later, as the chill of the night penetrated the room, she would snuggle up to him, seeking his warmth.

  “Husband?” she prompted him now, surprising him.

  “Yes,” Olaf replied into the darkness.

  “Do all men ask their wives for obedience?”

  “No.” He suppressed a smile. “They expect to get it without asking.”

  “Oh.” The covers rustled as Lady Brenna eased closer. “And the wives, what can they expect to receive in return...without asking?”

  “Nothing but the husband’s name and the protection it brings.”

  “I see.” The bedclothes rustled and shifted again. A small, cool foot rubbed against the inside of his leg. “Do wives have a right to demand promises?”

  Olaf tensed, full of hope. “What do you want me to promise?”

  “That you’ll never leave me. Never leave Kilgarren. That you’ll always stay.”

  A sense of peace flooded him, as powerful as the physical satisfaction of their fevered coupling. “I promise that I’ll always protect you. Fight for you. Sometimes, fighting for you might mean that I have to ride away. If the king sends for me, I must go. But I promise you two things, my lady knight. I promise that I’ll keep teaching you, so that if I must go, you’ll know how to defend your home while I’m away. And I promise that I�
��ll always come back, just as soon as the king releases me.”

  Soft curves nestled against him, slim arms sliding around him. Warm breath brushed his skin as Lady Brenna pressed her face to the crook of his neck. “What about love?” she whispered. “Can a wife expect to be loved?”

  “No. Wives cannot expect love, nor can they demand it. They have to earn it, just like husbands do.”

  “I have few wifely skills. No cooking, no cleaning, no sewing. I can’t play music or sing ballads or charm visitors.”

  Olaf wrapped his arms around his wife and hauled her close, pressing her breast against his chest so that she might feel the pounding of his heart. “I married you for lands, for a place to call my own, and you gave me those.” He fisted his fingers in her hair, as if to lock her in his embrace. “But you have given me so much more. You’ve given me the gift of your body in passion. You’ve given me the love I’ve sought all my life, the love I feared I might never find. You might know little about cooking and sewing, but you possess the courage and loyalty of a knight. You’ve earned my love a thousand times over by loving me, and my love will be yours till the day I die.”

  Lady Brenna bowed back in the circle of his arms. Although the darkness around them was solid, Olaf knew she was studying his features. “Perhaps I won’t take all your love after all,” she said, a note of amusement in her voice. “I’ll leave a bit to spare.”

  Puzzled, he asked, “And what shall I do with it?”

  She tugged at his arm, pulled it free from around her and grabbed hold of his wrist, guiding his palm to settle on her belly. “Save some of it for your child, whether it be a boy or girl, perhaps with your green eyes and my black hair, or with my brown eyes and hair as fair as sunlight.”

  “A child.” Olaf flexed his fingers over the smooth, warm skin. “Are you certain?”

  “Aye. I am certain.”