The Viking's Captive Princess. Michelle StylesЧитать онлайн книгу.
the Viken are calling for more ale, more meat.’
Thyre drew in her breath sharply, but the maid looked unrepentant, shifting the jug to the other hip and flouncing out.
Dagmar lifted her chin and her eyes swam with tears. ‘I never shirk my work. It just took longer than I thought.’
‘I will have a word with her,’ Thyre said quietly.
‘Thank you.’ Dagmar reached out her hand and squeezed Thyre’s fingers. ‘Far knows there are more than enough women. He trusts your judgement. It is that maid, Hilde, trying to make trouble. She wanted Sven and now she always tries to undermine me.’
‘You can’t go out like that.’ Thyre brushed some of the brambles off Dagmar’s skirt. ‘You must wash your face and brush your clothes down. I will take the jug around until you are ready. The Viken will not notice the difference.’
‘One might. The Viken jaarl’s eyes seemed to follow you everywhere on the beach.’
‘You are impossible, Dagmar.’ Thyre kept her gaze on Beygul as the cat washed its back legs.
‘You are so much fun to tease, Thyre. As if a warrior could ever get past your sharp tongue…you terrify them.’ Dagmar tucked her head into her chin and batted her eyelashes. ‘I promise to take over once I have changed…if your Viken jaarl will permit it.’
Thyre made an annoyed noise in the back of her throat. ‘And do go quickly. I will expect a favour from you one day.’
Thyre picked up the remaining jug and ignored the temptation to smooth her skirt and pinch her cheeks after Dagmar had scurried from the room. She was doing this to help Dagmar, not because she wanted to see Ivar again.
The banqueting hall strained to hold all the Viken warriors. The central fire combined with the torches to bathe the room in a red glow, disguising the threadbare hangings and fading paint.
Thyre worked efficiently, pouring the ale with a steady hand. She managed to sidestep outstretched arms and ignored the playful remarks from various foresters. Several of the maids appeared less inclined to avoid the hands, giggling and boldly meeting the man’s gaze as they perched first on this knee and then the next. One had an avaricious look in her eyes as she toyed with a Viken’s golden torc. Thyre half-expected her to demand a morning gift before she had even bestowed a kiss. Thyre frowned and gestured towards the other tables. Instantly the woman leapt up and started scurrying about. The other maids quickly started putting more effort into their work as well. Thyre gave a nod as the banqueting hall began to hum with activity and purpose once again.
By the time she had returned to the kitchen, Dagmar had failed to reappear so Thyre refilled her jug with mead and started towards the high table. In the light breeze, the torches fluttered slightly, casting their shadows about. Her breath caught as the crowd parted suddenly, revealing the top table and Ivar. As Ragnfast was absent, Ivar sat in solitary splendour, much as a king might survey his court.
He had changed from his seafaring clothes to the ones he might wear at a market town. His fur-lined cape contrasted with the dark red wool and gold braid of his tunic. The leather trousers were moulded to his thighs and left little to the imagination. A pulsating warmth infused Thyre. His feet were encased in soft kid boots and at his throat he wore an intricate golden torc. Everything about him proclaimed that here was a successful trader, a man used to the trappings of power and wealth and not afraid to use them to his advantage.
Thyre bit her lip, gave her head a little shake and broke the spell. She concentrated on carrying the full jug of mead, rather than letting her attention wander again to the way his hair skimmed his shoulders.
‘You left me until last, my disdainful lady.’ The jaarl’s voice rumbled in her ears. It was liquid and golden like the honey that first emerged from the comb. ‘My horn awaits your nectar.’
‘The mead needs to be served at the correct temperature,’ Thyre replied, resisting the urge to tip the whole lot over his arrogant head. This time, he would not kiss her or trap her into some sort of flirtatious game. ‘I had assumed that you would have been well looked after. My stepfather takes pride in producing a good feast, never allowing the horns to go empty.’
‘He has been remiss.’ His eyes danced as he held up his empty drinking horn. ‘Perhaps the women feel that my men are in more need of nourishment than I. Perhaps they fear the Viken jaarl.’
‘Your comfort is important as you are an honoured guest. Are you hungry?’
‘It depends what is on offer. I can afford to be choosy.’ His eyes deepened slightly.
‘Then you are not starving.’
‘I’m ravenous for the right morsel.’ He took a long sip from his drinking horn. ‘I have learnt the value of patience. Why rush when perfection may happen to pass?’
Thyre licked her dry lips and resisted the urge to smile triumphantly. She would best him at his own game. Leaning forwards, she lowered her voice to a throaty whisper as she filled the horn with the golden liquid. ‘Patience is an admirable quality.’
‘Ah, I wait for the right mead and you wait for…’
‘My supper,’ she said smoothly.
His direct gaze met hers and a half-smile crossed his lips. ‘Very good. You are learning. Practice makes perfect. Shall we cross more than verbal swords?’
Thyre knew that she didn’t want just one night. She wanted more—a life, watching her children grow up and a husband who respected her. The Viken wanted a flirtation. However, she could also not rid herself of the image Dagmar had planted in her mind—the Viken’s limbs entwined with hers, and his soft words rustling against her hair.
Thyre inclined her head. ‘You are here and my stepfather has decreed we feast, so we feast and your horn is filled with ale. There is no time for anything else.’
‘But I should like to learn more about you. What are you waiting for? What dreams haunt your beautiful eyes?’
Thyre resolutely kept her gaze away from his bow-shaped mouth. ‘My opinion means very little except where the production of bread or cloth is concerned. My entire life is here at the farm. I have no wish to look beyond its horizons. Where is your horizon?’
‘The ever-changing sea makes an admirable horizon.’ His gaze narrowed and became focused on her eyes. ‘Is there something? Is there something about my face that offends? You seem to be looking in the middle distance.’
‘No, I am trying to make sure that two of your warriors do not come to blows over Hilde, one of the serving maids.’ Thyre snapped her fingers over her head and gestured. Hilde screwed up her face, but obeyed Thyre’s unspoken command. ‘There, she has gone back to the kitchen and your men are friends again.’
‘You avoided the question.’
Thyre regarded the savage markings on his face more closely. Without them, he would have been breathtaking. She knew Dagmar wanted physical perfection, but she saw the dignity in the scarring. Whatever he had been through must have caused considerable pain. It might even pain him still, but he did not hide away in solitude, he went out and met the world head on. ‘Your scar adds to the character of your face.’
His eyes assessed her. ‘Many find it hard to look on.’
‘What caused the scarring? A sword fight?’
‘An encounter in my youth with a wolf—I objected to becoming his next meal.’
‘Did the wolf survive?’
‘For many years his silver pelt has graced my bed.’ He gave a lopsided smile. ‘I made sure of that. He died with my sword in his neck.’
‘Then the scars are honourable and should be worn with pride.’ She paused, becoming serious. ‘My mother taught me that it is how a man behaves, and not the way he looks, that matters. She had a disappointment early