Fires of Winter

  But Garrick had locked the door, which she had not counted on, and before she could throw the heavy bolt, he was behind her. She screamed when he hefted her in his arms and tossed her over his shoulder, rendering her breathless, but only for a moment. She kicked and twisted until he nearly dropped her as he made his way back up the stairs. A sound whack to her behind did not stop her struggles; it only increased them.

  In his chamber, he kicked the door shut, then crossed the room and dumped his bundle on the bed. He stood and watched her scramble away from him to the foot of the bed, poised to jump if he pursued her. A cynical sneer played on his lips and he made no immediate move for her.

  “From one extreme to the other, eh?” he remarked, his hands on his hips. “And here I thought you would fit comfortably between the two.”

  “You speak in riddles,” Brenna said warily, relieved to see he was not blustering with rage.

  “Do I? Explain to me then about your performance of a few minutes past. What was that all about, mistress?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said defensively, holding her chin high.

  He shook his head, letting his hands drop to his sides. “I should know better than to expect honesty from a woman. I should have realized you were playing me falsely. You were just too obliging, which puzzled me, but then I was not expecting tricks from you. Nor did I expect you to run from me again like a frightened virgin. What game do you play, Brenna? Explain the rules to me.”

  “I play no games. Do you really expect me to open my arms passively to you?”

  “Yea, our last encounter did lead me to believe you would.” He grinned at her.

  “Conceited cur!” she snapped, her courage returning twofold. “Have you forgotten that you lied to me that last time? You said you would not take advantage of me, but you did. And ’twas only my curiosity that allowed you to.”

  He laughed derisively. “So ’twas curiosity that made you turn to me in passion.”

  “You lie!” she gasped. “You woke me, Viking, not I you!”

  “But you did not try to escape. And by Thor, ’twas you who would not let me go and who brazenly taunted me to continue. Do you deny that?”

  She shrugged, then grinned impishly. “You could not understand that, could you? You see, for you the act was completed, but I found it lacking.” At his dark scowl, she quickly added, “’Twas not your fault though. It just took me longer to solve the mystery.”

  “The mystery?”

  “Yea, to reach the end, as you did. To find out what made the act so desirable. How is that for honesty, Viking?”

  “And you did enjoy it?”

  “Yea, I admit it.”

  He frowned at her and demanded, “Then why in thunderation did you now run from me?”

  “Just because I enjoyed it once, Viking, does not mean I crave it again, as you men forever do. My curiosity has been appeased, and so I can do without a repetition of the act.”

  “The act!” he grunted, thoroughly vexed. “There is a better word for it.”

  “What?” she sneered. “Surely not lovemaking, for there was no love in what we did. Not for me, and especially not for you. You, the man, do not even participate. You have readily admitted ’tis only your body that craves release. So do not come to me for that release, when any woman will do.”

  “But I have come to you,” he replied, a decidedly wicked smile turning his lips.

  Brenna’s eyes clouded with fury. “I refuse! I will not be used to satisfy your body’s cravings!”

  “So you refuse,” he said lightly, the evil smile still on his lips. “That will not stop me from having you.”

  Her eyes lit up with cunning. “’Tis fortunate, I suppose, that your body does not get these urgings often. But tell me, do you, the man, ever seek a woman?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Not even Morna?”

  She expected to arouse his anger by her question, and possibly even to suffer a reprieve because of that anger. But she did not expect the icy rage that contorted his features and sent a cold chill down her back.

  “How came you to know of Morna?” he asked in a deadly calm tone.

  “Have you not learned that you should never do battle with an enemy until you know all you can of him? I made it a point to know of you.”

  “You consider me your enemy?”

  “You are certainly not my friend or ally. So, yea, we are enemies.”

  “Nay,” he returned coldly. “We are master and slave. We make war with words, not weapons. And now I grow tired of the words.”

  “You will let me leave, then?” she asked hopefully.

  “Yea, you can leave—after the act, as you call it, is finished.”

  Garrick’s sudden leap across the bed took her by surprise, and in a panic she jumped away from him. But she was not quick enough and he grabbed her foot, holding it secure while the rest of her tumbled forward to land flat on the floor. The impact knocked the breath from her, and her elbows, which hit hard, smarted terribly and brought tears of pain to her eyes. She cursed herself silently for allowing the glistening drops to well up and make her eyes glassy. A woman’s weapon, tears; she would not use them to aid her cause.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Would it matter?” she snapped.

  “Are you?” he repeated harshly.

  “The only thing that hurts is your grip on my foot!” she lied, quickly wiping her eyes on her palms. “Release me, damn your hide!”

  “Nay, Brenna,” he said softly. “Not yet.”

  One hand holding her ankle, he moved his other hand up her calf and lifted her nightdress. When she kicked out at him with her other foot, he laughed and grabbed it too, then twisted her until she was forced to turn over on her back. He was crouched at the foot of the bed, holding her ankles, one in each hand. She stared in disbelief as he slowly started to stand, pulling her legs up with him as he straightened.

  “Cease, Garrick! Stop it, I say!”

  But he continued to lift her up off the floor, up and up until he had her dangling in the air above the bed. Brenna was torn between whether to use her hands to brace herself, or to try to push her nightdress back in place, for it fell about her head, baring her limbs for his view. Before she could decide, though, he lowered her gently on the bed till she lay on her back. But he kept her legs raised and slowly spread them wide.

  When he fell to his knees, she tried to pull away from him, but he yanked her back. Then in a swift movement he dropped her legs over his shoulders and fell forward on top of her at the same time, pinning her legs high with his arms so that she could not lower them. He did not even need to remove his short robe, for it had opened with his exertion, and his throbbing member pressed against her, searching for the moist cavern of her womanhood.

  “You are a depraved beast!” she gasped.

  “Nay, I am determined to have you, Brenna, that is all,” he murmured.

  She glared at him murderously. “So far you have only gained my anger, but if you force me now, Garrick, you will have my hatred as well. ’Tis not a pretty thing, my hate. You will never find peace with it.”

  His answer was to plunge deep within her, bringing tears to her eyes again at his brutal onslaught. He took her without mercy, quickly, while she whispered her loathing in his ear. When he finished, he let her legs down one at a time and then moved to her side. The moment he released her, she scrambled off the bed as if it burned her and ran from the room, slamming first his door and then her own down the corridor.

  Garrick pounded his fist into the bed. “Loki take her!” he growled.

  What he intended as a pleasing encounter had turned into a hollow victory indeed.

  The first snowfall was long in coming, and did not occur until late fall. With it came a storm that lasted a full week, froze lakes and ponds and left snowbanks four and five feet in height. The land was blanketed in dismal white, and few were wont to brave the icy wind and falling snow. Garric
k was one of the few. He had been gone a fortnight before the snowstorm began, and even with it finished, he had yet to return.

  On the very day the winds settled, Anselm came to Garrick’s home, bringing with him an extra mount, a fine-bred silver-coated mare. His wife had told him (as related to her by Linnet) that this particular animal had belonged to the Lady Brenna. For three long months now he had brooded over the raven-haired girl. His own son’s displeasure with her did not make him feel any better. He regretted giving her to Garrick, for though he had not come to see her personally over the months, he feared she had not fared well with Garrick’s dark moods.

  Anselm had given the girl to Garrick with the hope that her spirit and beauty would turn his mind from the bitch who had changed a cheerful young man into a cold cynic. When Garrick sought out the girl’s sister, and then a month later spoke at length with the aunt, Anselm assumed his desire to learn more of the girl was a promising beginning, and soon he would have back his son of old. But after that, Garrick’s foul disposition did not improve, it actually worsened. Why, Anselm could not guess. Now Garrick took to the hills for weeks at a time, and Anselm saw little of him.

  Garrick’s absences grew more lengthy, and this last trek north had already extended to three weeks. Though Anselm had begun to worry slightly over Garrick’s welfare, he would wait a few more days yet before he began a search, as Heloise had nagged him to do ever since the snowstorm started.

  “Ho, old man, where are you?”

  Erin came from the back of the stable, wrapped from head to foot in a cloak of multicolored furs. “I hear you,” he grumbled in his crusty voice.

  Anselm eyed him with displeasure. “I see Garrick still wastes his furs on you servants.”

  “Aye, we’re warmer clothed than the poor souls you own,” Erin replied, grinning.

  Anselm would not have taken that remark from anyone else, but he was genuinely fond of old Erin. He had served Anselm’s father, and now his son, and for many years they had enjoyed heckling one another good-naturedly when they met.

  Anselm grunted, repressing his humor. “I brought a new filly for your stable. Have you room?”

  “Have I room, indeed,” Erin mumbled, taking the reins of both horses. “Of course there’s room.”

  “She is not for Garrick, mind you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nay, she’s a gift for the Celtic wench,” Anselm said gruffly. “And you be sure and tell my son that when he returns.”

  “By the saints!” Erin cackled. “Since when do you bestow such fine gifts on a slave?”

  “Never mind that, old codger. Where is the girl? In the quarters below?”

  “Nay, she lives in the house.”

  Anselm was surprised by this news, then he chuckled. “Mayhaps I was not such a fool after all.”

  “Do you ask my opinion?” Erin returned, his old eyes alight with laughter.

  “Get about your work!” Anselm barked, and made his way to the house.

  Brenna was in the cooking area, where she spent most of her waking hours, since it was the warmest and most pleasant place in the house. On the table were the remains of her breakfast. Beside it was the rabbit she had started cutting up for her dinner, but had left on the chopping board.

  With Garrick off on a hunting trek, Yarmille had come to stay. She drove Brenna mad with her insistent demands. But a week past, the older woman had returned home, and when the snow came, Yarmille did not come back. Without her authoritative presence, Janie and Maudya stayed in their quarters, and Brenna was not wont to venture from the house to seek them out. Not even Erin came to keep her company, for he had brought her enough provisions from the storehouse to last a fortnight, and preferred to keep to his warm stable.

  Brenna had reached the point where she would almost welcome Yarmille’s return. Even though they did not communicate, Yarmille’s constant chattering to herself was amusing, at times enlightening.

  On one occasion, Brenna discovered that Yarmille harbored a deep, abiding hate for Heloise, and that hatred reached out to include both of Heloise’s sons. This Brenna found confusing, since Yarmille worked for Garrick. She wondered if Garrick was aware of Yarmille’s true feelings.

  Brenna dropped another log on the fire, then leaned back in her chair and stared at the flickering flames. She hated to admit it, but she actually missed Garrick. When he was around, she lived in a constant state of apprehension, not knowing when he would demand something of her, or if she would comply or not. When he was there, she never noticed how the hours dragged by. She was alert at all times, alive as she had never been before. And at night, merciful Lord, she was a bundle of nerves at night waiting and dreading for Garrick to come for her again. But he never did, not after the night he had raped her.

  She was bitterly hurt by his treatment of her. Perhaps she could have forgiven him if he had been tender like before. The one night he had been gentle and she had softened to him, it had been wonderful. She could not forget the beauty of it, or the pleasure, like no other, that he had given her. Afterward he had held her possessively, as if he might really care for her, and she had reveled in the closeness they shared.

  But that last time, for him to be so cruel—God, how she hated him for it. She had escaped the house the next day, and tried to dispel her anger with a wild ride on the fastest horse Erin would allow her. It had helped to a degree. She actually felt a little better when, returning, she came across Coran and offered him a ride back to the house. She remembered that now with a grin.

  He had shook his head sternly, eyeing her horse with apprehension. “I will walk, Mistress Brenna,” he informed her.

  “What are you doing out here in the fields?” she asked, walking her horse beside him.

  “Avery and I were sent to find a cow who wandered from the pasture.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yea, Avery is taking her back now.”

  “Come on, Coran,” she coaxed him. “I cannot bear to see you walking when ’tis unnecessary. ’Tis a good distance back to the house yet.”

  “Nay,” he refused again.

  Finally she guessed at his reluctance. “Have you never ridden a horse before?”

  He shook his head and lowered his eyes to the ground. Coran was only a year or two older than Brenna. A lanky youth with a pleasing face, he never grumbled over his enforced servitude. She liked Coran and couldn’t help laughing at his reluctance.

  “’Tis time you learned, Coran. Now come on. I will think you do not like my company if you refuse again.”

  Finally he relented with a sheepish grin and she helped him up behind her. Brenna had not felt so carefree in ages, and with a mischievous glint in her gray eyes, she dug her heels into the horse and they shot forward. Coran grabbed hold of Brenna for dear life, mumbling prayers in her ear. But Brenna laughed heartily and spurred the horse on, making Coran grip her that much tighter. She did not see the rider on a hill who sat in a black fury and watched her antics with Coran. She didn’t care about anything except that her mood was made lighter for a little while, at least. But it didn’t last. As soon as she saw Garrick’s angry countenance, and found that no apology was forthcoming for his harsh treatment of her, she was enraged again herself.

  Brenna sighed wistfully. For two long months he ignored her. Then he began to go hunting and stayed away for days. When he was home, he would come in very late. She would wonder then if he had been with Morna. Or perhaps he had gone to Janie or Maudya in their quarters. Mayhaps his father’s women—slaves, even Cordella—were more to his liking! Brenna would pace the floor at those times, building up a fine steam. She told herself she had every right to be upset. She could be sleeping instead of waiting for the master to find his way home.

  One night in particular, when Garrick was overly late for the third night in a row, Brenna went to bed to spite him. He finally came home in a wild, drunken mood, and despite the fact that his food was simmering over the coals, he woke her and dragged her down the st
airs to serve him.

  His attitude was belligerent and brooked no refusal, but Brenna was too furious to fear him. She filled a large wooden bowl with steaming soup, then dropped it on the table, spilling half the contents over him. She knew it pained Garrick, but the fact that he didn’t show it cooled her temper. He dismissed her then and she left him quickly. Not a word was said of it the next day.

  Brenna started at the loud pounding on the door. She felt her pulse quicken, for only Garrick would knock like that. He would wonder why the door was locked. Indeed, all the doors were bolted and had been ever since she went for water one morning and found a stray dog slaughtered and left on the stoop. Yarmille had turned white when she saw the dead carcass but she said nothing, leaving Brenna to wonder who would do such a thing.

  She opened the door wide, prepared to tell Garrick why she had locked it. But it was Anselm standing there, wrapped in a heavy fur jacket, which made him look twice as huge as he was. Seeing him gave her a shock, but it took only a second for the white-hot fury to flash in Brenna’s eyes.

  She did not think twice before she ran for the table and grabbed the long knife she had used earlier to butcher the rabbit. In her blind rage she was careless. She turned to attack, only to find Anselm behind her. He grabbed her wrist, and with his other hand, pried open her fingers until the knife dropped to the floor. He then swung her away and she fell back against the chair by the hearth, nearly knocking it over.

  She stayed there, breathing heavily, and watched him pick up the knife, then look about for any others before he closed the door. When he faced her, their eyes locked, mellow blue with stormy gray, and it seemed like hours before he finally moved again. Undaunted, he walked over to the table, pulled the long bench out, and straddled it.