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The temptation to laugh filled him, but he tempered it. Both knew the man would never be able to best him in any test of skills or strength, but Rurik respected his attempts to intimidate. More interesting, the words and fervor told Rurik much about his true opponent in this confrontation—the lady Margriet.
Rurik bowed to the man and nodded. “You have my word that no harm will befall her while in my care, old man.”
He peered up at Rurik, apparently considering his pledge, and then nodded with a grunt. “Ye’ll do.”
With all the pride of a Highland warrior, the man reached out and offered his arm. Rurik stepped over to his and clasped arms, shaking it. “What are you called, old man? And what is your place here?”
“I am called Black Iain and I tend to the flocks.”
His hair may have been black at some point in his life, but Iain would be more suitably called Gray and Balding Iain now. A commotion, beginning inside the main building and spreading to the yard, interrupted any more conversation. His hand moved to his sword as Rurik turned to face the trouble. As he watched the group of women exit from the convent, he knew a sword was not necessary for this.
The weeping crowd held at its center the woman of whom they spoke. She alone did not cry or make a sound as they moved toward him. Now though, a nun’s veil covered her waist-length black hair and most of her face. Her eyes, the palest blue Rurik had seen, were luminous against her pale skin, at least the skin he could see. The nun’s clothing back in place, Rurik contemplated for the first time that mayhap she had truly taken her vows.
Shaking his head at the waste of it, he whistled to his men and nodded at the gate. Ceasing their antics, Sven and Magnus crossed to the gate and gathered the rest of the men together. Finally, after days of waiting, first for her acquiescence and then for her preparations, their journey would begin. Meeting her gaze over the heads of those around them, Rurik was struck by the sudden vulnerability he spied there. While secure within the convent’s safety, Margriet seemed fearless. Now, when about to enter into his care, her brave face slipped and he was certain that the others were keen to it, too.
Making his way to her, he easily pushed the others out of the way and Rurik took her arm. Guiding her toward the gate, he nearly did not notice when she planted her feet and stopped moving with him. Annoyance grew once more and he turned to face her.
“No more delays, lady,” he demanded. “I thought that was clear in my instructions. An hour, no more, to finish your preparations.”
“Sister,” she said, her lips pursed in an enticing and yet mutinous manner, at once beguiling and infuriating him for his reaction. “You may call me ‘Sister.’”
Silence reigned as everyone quieted to await his response. In spite of the habit and veil, he was still not certain of her standing, but decided to give her the benefit of his doubt. “Sister, then. There are only a few more hours of daylight and I want to take advantage of every moment.” To get you as far awayfrom here as possible and then discover your truth.
Her next action surprised him. She stepped toward him and leaned in closer, until he had to bow his head to hear her words. “I would beg a few more minutes to say farewell to the Reverend Mother.” Margriet met his gaze and he noticed tears gathering there. “I have lived here longer than I did with my father or mother and I beg your leave to speak to her privately before departing here.”
Rurik lifted his head and looked at those who stood watching. Taking a breath in and letting it out, he fought the urge to strike out needlessly. Aye, he and his men had waited for nigh to three days while the woman before him thwarted his attempts to carry out his task. Aye, he wanted to be quit of this place and be on his—their—journey north. But, from her actions thus far, Margriet demonstrated that she clearly did not want to return to her home. Or perhaps the tone of the summons from her father or some words within it were the cause of her hesitancy. Regardless, he would rather be her escort than her warden.
Rurik took a different tact—and turned towards the chapel. “I would like to speak to your reverend mother myself. Perhaps if I assured her of your safety, you would feel less concern over this parting?”
She shook her head vehemently, making the veil wobble a bit to one side. “Nay, sir. She said that you terrify her and she wishes not to speak to you directly.”
“Make haste then, la…Sister. ’Tis long past our time to be on the road.”
Not wishing to give her the complete victory, Rurik turned and strode to the gate. Crossing his arms over his chest, he met the stares of his men, daring them to utter a sound. Wise men that he knew them to be, they did not. Instead they made themselves busy with the final adjustments to the pack horses.
Wise men indeed.
In a shorter time than he thought possible, the lady approached, followed by the younger woman she’d tried to pass off as herself. A chuckle nearly forced its way free as he noticed that both still dressed in habits. Rurik stepped back and allowed them to pass, watching as his men guided and assisted them onto the horses brought for their use on the trek north.
After a few more minutes while the lady’s belongings were secured to her horse, they were at last on their way.
Margriet fought the urge to look back and lost the effort. The place she’d called home and the people who had become her family when her father exiled her to Caithness grew more and more distant. Now her battle was to keep the tears that burned her eyes and throat from falling. After a final glance and a deep breath, she turned back and aimed her gaze at the road ahead.
Slipping another of the herbs into her mouth and chewing it against her stomach’s distress, she struggled to focus on her future life instead of the past. Grabbing on to the thought that this unexpected intrusion into her life might actually hasten the inevitable and that thought impossible, Margriet realized that this was the first time in so many years that she would see the world outside the convent, and see her home and the sea. The thought of crashing waves and surging water shot a burst of hope and excitement through her and she tried to smile at it. Something good would come of this chaotic beginning after all.
The sun’s light penetrated the thick canopy of trees surrounding them and fell onto the damp ground in scattered shadows. Though this part of the road was not new to her, the views of it were. As each of the men leading their group passed in and out of a sunbeam, their bodies were outlined in shimmering gold. Try as she might, she also lost the battle gawking at such male beauty.
In spite of her years of living in the convent, in spite of her previous weakness and the cost of it that was still to be paid, Margriet allowed herself the pleasure of inspecting the warriors who escorted her. At least those introduced to her.
Each one was appealing in his own way, and to a man, they’d inherited the height of the Norse warriors of long ago. Magnus, with his dark hair and eyes that made him appear mysterious and nearly dangerous, except when he smiled and the illusion disappeared. Sven, the opposite in coloring, allowed his wheat-colored hair to fall freely down his back and she’d noticed that his eyes were the color of the blue sky at sunset.
The trees swayed in the wind and the light shifted to surround the leader of her escort. Rurik—he’d told her without telling her his family’s or father’s name. It was not an uncommon name in Kirkvaw or the Orkneys so there was no way to associate him with one family or another unless he revealed it. He resisted when she frowned at the lack of forthrightness and she let it go for the moment. Her father would send only a reputable, trustworthy man and there would be time enough while they rode north to ferry across the sea to her Orkney home to discover his connections. For now, she watched as he rode ahead of her, both guiding and guarding their traveling party.
Margriet’s stomach trembled and her breath hitched as she remembered his strength and his closeness and, most especially, his green eyes that changed from the color of the leaves now surrounding them to the color of the emerald she remembered on the hilt of her father’s battle sword. When the object of her reverie turned as though he’d heard her thoughts, she met that intense gaze and truly lost her breath.
Although certain only a moment had passed by as she stared at him across the distance, Margriet feared others had noticed her perusal. She forced her eyes from his and shifted on her mount. Such scrutiny of a man was unseemly for a nun and she must remember her disguise or it would be of little use and protection for her or Elspeth.
When she next dared to raise her eyes, Rurik still watched her. It was his turn to break the connection that stretched then and he said something to Magnus as he turned away. It seemed that she was the subject of whatever comment had been made, for Magnus moved his horse to the side of the path and allowed the rest to pass him by…until he reached her side.
“Sister,” he began. He did not seem to trip over the word as his leader did. “Rurik asked if you are well enough to increase our pace. We have much distance to cover before the light fades.”
“Well enough?”
“You were ill…before,” Magnus stammered as many men did when confronted by a female and certain ailments. She sat up a bit taller on her horse and cleared her throat.
“Tell Rurik to fear not, I will keep pace with him.”
Magnus smiled then, exposing a pleasing countenance of masculine angles and lines that framed a wide brow and strong chin. His eyes widened in what seemed to be merriment and then, after a brief nod, he rode back to Rurik. From the shared laughter and the glances, Margriet knew for certain that she’d done something untoward. She thought on her words, but could discern nothing amiss in them.
She would never understand them.
Of course, part of her problem was a lack of experience and a dreadful lapse in judgment during her only experience! One aspect about herself that Margriet had discovered was her ability to learn quickly in new situations and circumstances. This journey would give her the opportunity to learn about men and how they acted with each other and toward women they were supposed to respect. She already knew how they treated the common woman without protection.
When those in front of her and Elspeth, who was at her side, moved faster, Margriet urged her horse to follow the pace. Adjusting herself carefully so as to not scare her mount and not fall to the ground, she lowered her head and concentrated on staying seated. Oh, she’d ridden a horse before, but not on such a journey as this, with experienced warriors who looked, from their easy manner, as though they lived on horses.
The afternoon passed at an agonizingly slow pace and soon she held on to the reins with every bit of her strength. Surely, he did not mean this as retribution for obstructing his plans? When it seemed like several hours had passed and still they rode on, Margriet was ready to consider that Rurik would show no mercy now that she was in his control. Soon, as her body tightened with pain, she was ready to beg for that which he seemed unwilling or unable to give.
“Sir!” she implored in as loud a voice as she could manage. “Sir!”
Various voices carried her message forward until she heard his order called out. Every muscle in her back and legs screamed as she tried to straighten up on the paltry cushion that was failing miserably in its attempt to protect her bottom from the abuse of the ride. Her previous practice on the nearly lame pony at the convent could never have prepared her for riding this mount at this gait. Mopping her brow once more of the sweat that gathered there, Margriet lifted her head and watched as he made his way back to her side.
“I confess, sir,” she began as she wiped her brow and face again with the edge of one sleeve, “I confess that I have no experience in traveling at such a pace and I beg you to allow me…us…a short respite.”
If she had been looking away at that moment, Margriet would never have seen the look of triumph on his face at her words. Then a moment of confusion followed and he simply nodded. What had he thought she was ready to confess? His words clarified it for her.
“Lady,” he said and then paused. Clearing his throat, he met her gaze and began anew. She could see his jaws clenching as he formulated his reply. “Sister, there is no need to beg. Simply ask for what you need and I will seek to fulfill your needs.”
Her lovely mouth dropped open a bit and her pale-as ice eyes widened at his words. Then he observed a revealing blush creep up onto her cheeks and felt his cock harden.
Sweet Freya’s tits! But she was gorgeous when agitated!
He should be asking for her forgiveness but instead his body continued to react to the momentary flash in her eyes that revealed so much to him. He’d learned to read a woman’s expression long ago and hers said that Sister Margriet had more knowledge of the arts of love than a nun should have.
He could swear that she understood all the meanings in his words, which definitely bore more than one. From the way his men shifted on their horses, trying not to look openly at either of them, he knew they had as well. Her mouth closed and she swallowed several times; his view of her lovely neck was unfortunately obscured by the religious garb she wore. Finally she pushed words out and he hoped for another confession from her lips.
“A short rest, if you please,” she said. “I can no longer feel my legs, sir,” she whispered so that only he could hear. Most likely, she had not noticed the other men practically falling off their mounts to listen.
Rurik surveyed their surroundings, and considered the distance traveled and still to go before they would camp for the night, and nodded. Safety was his concern, and with the loss of several hours already, he was not truly happy about stopping now. He glanced at the other young nun and noticed her pale complexion. They were not seasoned travelers at all.
He raised his arm, signaling the men to pause. He watched as several rode off ahead and behind, taking up positions meant to guard their party from any surprises approaching them on the road. Rurik slid off his horse and handed the reins to one of the other men so that he could assist the women from theirs. He reached up to lift her from her place on the horse’s back when she shook her head.
One thing he’d learned early in life was that some wanted or needed to make every situation more difficult than need be and that there was no way to change their predisposition to such an attitude. Margriet— Sister Margriet—seemed one of those very people. Rurik stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest, watching her antics as she tried to dismount on her own.
’Twas clear that her legs would not obey her commands to move. She shifted on top of the horse and he allowed her to try until her actions caused her mount to sidestep nervously. Rurik stepped closer, took hold of the reins and brought the horse under control.
Gunnar’s daughter had a stubborn streak. ’Twas clear from the way she struggled to move legs that were clearly not going to move on their own. Although she glanced at her companion once or twice, she would not look at him. Stubborn and prideful.
Neither attributes were what he would expect in a true woman of God. Mayhap that was why Gunnar had exiled her here…? Had he hoped the good sisters would work or pray or beat it out of her? From what he remembered of Gunnar’s daughter, and it was not much due to his age and interest in the pursuit of the fairer sex at the time, her mother had died soon after her birth or the birth of a sibling, and then she was gone.
Thinking back, the struggle for control of the Orkneys exploded about that same time and, with the uncertainty of loyalties and outcomes, Gunnar had been wise to send her south. Now with Caithness awarded to a Scottish earl’s control and Erengisl of Sweden firmly in place as Earl of the Orkneys, her father thought the timing good to bring her home. More likely than not, with an eye to marrying her off.
Hah! Watching her nearly topple to the ground and still not ask for help, Rurik suspected her father would be as surprised as he about Margriet’s vocation to religious life. He reached out as soon as he knew she would land on her arse in the dirt and took hold of her waist. Lifting her off the horse was no more trouble for him than if he was lifting a child. Lifting her was not the problem.
Letting go of her became the problem when he felt the narrowness of her waist and the flare of her hips in his grasp.
No, he thought a moment later, the true trouble was when she struggled against his hold and his hands slipped up high enough to feel the weight of her breasts against them. Margriet noticed; the flaring of her pale eyes revealed it, as did the way she stilled a moment later.
The best thing—well, the most polite thing—would be to release her immediately, but in that moment he did not want to be polite. His body reacted and his blood heated and surged through him, making him want to do that which his ancestors were known for— he wanted to take and pillage.
By Odin’s Seed, he understood the legends of old! His body understood them and stood ready. And when she placed her hands on his shoulders, he nearly forgot everything.
“My thanks for your assistance, sir.”
Her voice broke in to the maelstrom in his head and brought a halt to his wild thoughts. It did nothing for the heat that raged in his blood.
Rurik nodded and lowered Margriet to the ground. He felt the shakiness of her stance and waited a minute more for her to steady herself. Some distance was truly needed and he turned to help the younger woman. Unfortunately Magnus robbed him of his excuse to move from Margriet’s side.
Standing this close, he heard her labored breathing as she tried to take a step. Her stubbornness won out again, for she stumbled against him as her legs gave out.
“Thor’s Breath, la… Sister, let me help you,” he said as he grabbed her shoulders and held her still.
She lifted her head and nodded in agreement, but anger flashed in her eyes at his aid. He released her after a few minutes and placed his arm under her hand so he could walk at her side.
“My thanks, sir,” she said as she lifted her hand from his a few paces later.
Rurik watched as she waddled away from him, still unsteady but moving apurpose. He turned to find the men watching him with as much interest as he watched the woman. Not a good thing.
He nodded at one of the men to follow the women as they made their way off the path, obviously in need of privacy after several hours on the road. Never one to disregard or to ignore his own weaknesses, for they could be the death of him and those to whom he pledged loyalty, he considered why he reacted this way to a nun.
First, he did not expect Gunnar’s daughter to be as old as she was—from his father’s missives he thought her still a young lass.
Second, he did not expect her to be a nun—for the daughter of a man held in such high esteem and with such wealth as he knew Gunnar to have was a marriage prize and not a gift to the church. The sight of her in the religious habit stunned him.
But more than that, he never expected her to be the strong, organized, willful and beautiful woman that she was. From the first moment of resistance to her eventual surrender, Margriet proved herself a proud Daughter of the North. ’Twas obvious from their initial encounter to the last order she gave before she left it, that she ruled the convent. He counted at least fifty nuns and lay people living there and, from youngest bairn to oldest man, they all appeared well-fed and kept. Not an easy task for even the most experienced of stewards, let alone a nun.
Rurik swallowed against the tightness in his throat as he realized the basis for his weakness. Although he’d met her as a nun, his body and his senses saw only the woman under the garb. And the attraction he felt and the desire that filled his blood could only be dangerous.
As his eyes sought her figure as she disappeared behind some bushes, Rurik knew this was one weakness he could not afford.
Chapter Four
Elspeth’s soft snore simply reminded Margriet that she was not asleep. Turning to her side away from the woman next to her, she barely stifled a groan as the hard ground revealed another place injured by the hours on horseback. Her hip spasmed and she tried to stretch her leg to ease it. Tempted though she was to try to walk some of the cramping away, the loud snore just outside the small tent spoke of the impossibility of doing just that. When her back joined in with its own aches, Margriet decided to try.
Since the tent was meant to give them a small measure of privacy, it stood only a few feet tall and two paces wide. Trying not to disturb Elspeth, she crawled out from under the blankets they shared and shimmied to the flap of the tent. Since they slept in their clothes, dressing was not a problem, but her hair would be.
Margriet suspected that her vanity over her hair would unravel her disguise, especially since the men and their leader had seen it when she panicked and ran from the convent with it uncovered. Women taking their vows cut off their hair before donning the veils and the presence of hers raised a suspicion about her truthfulness. And that was dangerous. After she braided and wrapped her hair, she reached into her bag and took out a woolen shawl. Draping it over her head, she peeked outside.
The man guarding the tent slept so close that she would have to step over him to get out. His loud snore, now alternating with Elspeth’s gentler one, covered her movements. Her back and hips and legs screamed in pain as she crept over him and took a faltering step away…and into the one called Sven. Luckily, he grabbed her hands and helped her to stand up before she landed on the ground.
“Sister, are you well?” he asked in a soft voice. He glanced at the tent and then back to her. “It is the middle of the night and you should rest while you can.”
At least he seemed to understand how inexperienced and uncomfortable she was on this journey. Not like the brute that led their group. He drove them on and on with a single-mindedness that shocked her. She was used to being in charge and the change in her circumstances was most likely the cause for her troubled state of mind. It was also the condition that kept thoughts tumbling around inside her mind and kept any hope of sleep at bay.
Sven cleared his throat, catching her attention, or rather her inattention, and she nodded her head.
“I need to walk a bit to work out some of the stiffness in my legs, if that is permitted?” she whispered back, trying to assume a meekness she did not feel. Men, she’d learned, liked women to act as though they had not a thought or plan in their heads.
Sven glanced across the camp and then back again. Their leader, Rurik, slept sitting up, wrapped in a dark cloak with his back against a tree. If Sven had not looked in that direction, Margriet certainly would never have spied him there.
Probably his intention.
When Sven held out his hand, she suspected Rurik had given some unseen signal granting his permission. Margriet leaned on Sven’s muscular arm as she let him guide her away from the tent. At first, they said nothing, but as they walked a short distance from the sleeping men, she could not contain her curiosity.
“Your leader does not seem happy about taking me back to Kirkvaw,” she began.
Sven snorted and then answered. “Rurik is not happy about going back to Kirkvaw.”
“What do you mean, sir? Will he not be rewarded for carrying out this task for my father?”
“Aye, he will be rewarded, but not by your father.” Sven leaned in closer as though to share some confidence with her, but his disclosure was halted by a voice from the dark.
“Sven, you should not speak of such personal matters with Gunnar’s daughter.”
Margriet jumped at both the softness and the menace in his voice. Sven merely smiled and nodded at Rurik…and walked away as though silently ordered to do so.
Leaving Margriet in the company of the one person she would rather avoid.
He held out his arm and she placed her hand there. Without a word, he led her in a circle around their camp. Each step seemed easier than the last and finally the cramping in her back and hips ceased. Rurik did not stop guiding her until she drew to a halt when they passed her tent for the third time.
“My thanks, sir,” she offered quietly as they stood next to the sleeping guard. She wondered why he did not rouse or reprimand the man for sleeping through her “escape.” He must read thoughts, for he answered the question she did not speak aloud.
“He is there for your comfort, not your safety. If I thought there was true danger in this area, none would sleep.”
“My comfort?”
“Aye. If you have need of anything, you should tell him.” ’Twas then she noticed that the man did not sleep, but watched her and Rurik from his place on the ground. But the tone of his voice drew her gaze back up to Rurik’s face.
The moon’s light was bright that night, making it easy to see his expression, but that did not make it easy to understand it. Margriet would be willing to swear that he jested, but nothing she’d seen so far in his company spoke of a temperament familiar with anything less than complete seriousness.
