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“So much bravado. Strange how it suits you.”
“Bravado? This is not bravado. This is me. Trying, against all odds, to get through to you.”
“And I have heard you. No more pleasuring. Not tonight.”
“Not tonight, not ever.”
“Ah,” he said, as if he understood. But he didn’t. He was absolutely certain tonight had been only the beginning of the pleasuring they’d share. He didn’t believe for a moment that she meant what she said.
And how could she expect him to? She didn’t believe it herself.
She pointed at the pallet where their things were piled. “You can sleep there. I’ll take the other one.”
“I am yours to command.”
Oh, yeah, right. “Go to bed then.”
“As you wish, so shall it ever be.”
* * *
The hawk dropped from the sky. Its eyes were dragon eyes, burning red. Flames shot from its beak, searing all in its path. She put up her arms to shield her face and a single cry escaped her.
Brit woke sitting up, arms across her eyes. Slowly she lowered them.
The fire was down to a low glow of coals. Her pallet was a mess, the furs and blankets wrinkled and lumped up beneath her.
And Eric was awake, lying on his side, his head propped on a hand… watching her. The medallion hung to the side. His gorgeous chest gleamed at her. His blankets were down to his waist. She’d made a concentrated effort not to look as he got ready for bed. And now, she couldn’t help but wonder…
If those blankets slipped a little lower, would she get a view of what she’d felt against her belly earlier?
She jerked her gaze—and her thoughts—away from where they had no business going.
His eyes were waiting, way too alert, unsettlingly aware. “Bad dream?”
She grunted. It was answer enough. And then she concentrated on straightening her bedding. At first, she tried to do it without getting up. She only made things worse.
“Allow me to help you with that.”
“No, thanks.” At least she’d had the sense—unlike some people—to keep everything but her boots on when she crawled beneath the blankets. She was showing him nothing as she stumbled to her feet and tugged on the heavy pallet until it was reasonably smooth again.
She was just about to slide back in, where it was warm, when he said with infuriating good humor, “Always such an angry sleeper.”
She shot him a look. Always, he’d said. That meant he must have watched her sleep, at Asta’s house….
“Not angry. Restless.” She lifted the covers, got under them and settled them over herself. “Good night.” She shut her eyes.
“Brit?”
Outside somewhere an owl asked “Who, who, who,” as she considered not responding. But in the end, she gave in and muttered, “What?”
“The blond warrior woman, the one called Rinda…”
“What about her?”
“She called you ‘cousin.”’
“Because I am.”
He was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, “She looks like you.”
Brit stared through the smoke hole above. The night sky was cloudy, a deep grayness, hiding the stars. “She’s the image of my mother at twenty-five or so.”
Eric made a low noise in his throat. “I have it. Brian the Blackhearted…”
Brit felt a funny little sadness, a heaviness near her heart. “They called my uncle that?”
“They did. And he was.”
“Blackhearted…”
“Yes. And was he Rinda’s father?”
She could see no reason—beyond a petty desire to goad him—to keep what she knew to herself. “Yes. He raped Ragnild.”
“Ah,” he said, as if that explained everything. And really, it probably did. “So Ragnild wished to meet you.”
“That’s right.” She believes that I’ll somebody bequeen, she thought. But she didn’t say it. Many, after all, believed that Eric would one day be king. If Brit were to be queen, then that would mean…
No. Better not even go there. And besides. Since Valbrand lived, he would most likely be the next king, once all this confusion got straightened out. No way Valbrand would be marrying his little sister. Even in Gullandria, they weren’t into stuff like that.
So much for Ragnild’s dreams.
And what, Brit wondered, was Valbrand doing right now?
Really, there was so much she wanted—needed—to know. “Eric?”
He made a noise that told her he was listening.
“How old were you when you first met my brother?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. But the silence was a musing one. Then he said, “So young, I don’t even remember a time when I didn’t know him. I was two when he was born. And it seems, in my memory, that he is always there. We played together, from the time he was old enough to crawl. And then, for a while, it was the three of us.”
“Kylan, too?”
“Yes. And then Kylan was gone. It was only us two again, your brother and me. From wooden swords to swords of steel. We shared the same teachers, in the classroom, in the training yard. We were blood-bound when I was twelve and he was ten—do you know what it means, to be bloodbound?”
She repeated what she’d read in one of the books she’d found in the palace library about life in Gullandria. “To be bloodbound is to share with another a blood oath of loyalty and commitment. It’s an oath that binds equals, makes them brothers in the truest sense—as opposed to bloodsworn, which binds one of lesser rank to a ruler or a leader.”
“You have it right.”
“I wonder…”
“Ask.”
“Well, did Valbrand ever speak of us—of his sisters and his mother, in America?”
There was complete silence, suddenly, as if the night itself held its breath.
“Eric?” she prompted at last, when she was sure he would never answer.
He said, “It was bad for Valbrand, when your mother left—you three princesses were only babies. He didn’t know you. So your loss he could bear. But the loss of a mother… It leaves a ragged hole of longing, a scar that never completely heals. And then, so shortly after that, for him to lose your brother, Kylan, as well…” Eric’s voice trailed off, as if no words could express how terrible that had been. “I was fourteen when my mother died. Valbrand got me through it. Because he knew. He understood…” Eric made a low sound. “And I haven’t answered your question, have I?”
Her question seemed unimportant by then. She was thinking how bad it must have been for Valbrand. And for Eric, too. Brit and her mother had issues—but the thought of Ingrid not being there. That would be way hard to get through. “It’s okay. I can understand why he wasn’t thinking much about his baby sisters.”
“The truth is, he did think of you. And he spoke of you. More and more often as we came into manhood. He spoke of the time he knew would come someday, when you and your sisters would venture across the sea to visit the land of your birth. He spoke now and then of going to visit you in America. But he never quite got around to it. I think, perhaps, there were traces of bitterness, still, within him—bitterness at your mother, for leaving him, for never coming back.”
“Bitterness…” Such a sad word. A word full of might have been, of if I had only, a word heavy with hurt and regret.
“Only traces.” Eric’s voice was warm with reassurance. “Nothing that couldn’t be healed, given time and tenderness. He wasn’t a man to hold grudges, not a man to let bitterness own him. He was bigger… better than that.”
Was.
How easily he spoke of her brother in the past tense. Was it shrewdness on his part, to maintain consistency with the original lie?
Or merely the sad truth?
No.
She’d never believe that. She’d seen her brother. Valbrand still lived. All Eric Greyfell’s clever lies wouldn’t steal the truth she knew in her heart.
She rolled to her right side, facing the dying fire—she would have rather faced the shadows, but her sore shoulder wouldn’t let her. She stared at the glowing embers until sleep closed her eyes and carried her off into dreams again.
The next morning the clouds had cleared away. The sky was the startling blue of a newborn baby’s eyes. They went to Ragnild’s tent for an early breakfast of porridge and jerky.
Eric was ordered to wait outside while Ragnild questioned Brit concerning his performance the night before.
“How well did he pleasure you?” Ragnild demanded. Brit had her answer ready. “He is a lover without peer. I am well satisfied.”
Yeah, okay. The well-satisfied part was an outright lie. But from the kisses they’d shared, she felt justified in making the leap to calling him a good lover.
As for the bit about him being without peer? Well, hey. That was one of the great things about Gullandria. You could call a man “without peer” and nobody would think you were being pretentious.
Satisfied with Brit’s answer, the camp leader allowed Eric to join them in the tent. Ragnild even granted him permission to sit with the rest of them and share the meal, as though he was more than a mere man, fit only to provide sexual pleasure and children.
After the meal Ragnild had a fine mare—white, the cutest gray boots on her front hooves—brought from the camp’s remuda.
“For you, my daughter’s cousin,” said the leader proudly, stroking the mare’s silky forehead. “May she carry you without stumbling, onward to meet your destiny.”
A horse was a very big gift—one that Brit accepted gratefully. A good horse would come in handy during her stay in the Vildelund. Also, having her own horse meant she wouldn’t have to share a ride with Eric to get back to the village. They’d travel faster if they each had their own mount—not to mention that she could skip the forced intimacy of having his body pressed against her back for the next six or seven hours, providing a constant reminder of what she’d promised herself she was not going to do with him.
“Thank you, Ragnild. Does this fine horse have a name?”
“Svald.”
“And that means?”
“Why, whatever you would have it mean.”
Brit took the reins.
Rinda handed her three small, hard apples. “Here, cousin. A few apples always smooth the way between a horse and her new owner.”
Brit offered the apples to Svald. The mare lipped them up and chomped them, then nuzzled for more. Brit stroked her fine, sleek neck and blew in her nostrils.
Eric said he’d help her to mount.
“No, thanks. I can manage.” She grabbed a handful of braided mane and hoisted herself to the horse’s strong back. The muscles of her legs and buttocks complained. But the long soak in the hot spring the night before had helped a lot. The stiffness wasn’t as bad as it might have been.
Brit promised to visit again, and she and Eric set out through the trees.
At the top of the first rise, they paused to survey the rugged, tree-covered land before them. Eric said, “You will have trouble finding those women again.”
“I know the way.”
He smiled. That smile warmed her—intentions to the contrary. “They will move camp now. They’re probably packing things up as we speak.”
“But why?”
“They live free. They can’t allow outsiders to know where to find them.”
“They can trust us. We’d never betray them.”
“We? High praise.” He was grinning.
“I never mistrusted you. I know you’re an honest man—well, except for that big lie you keep telling me about Valbrand.” She put up a hand. “Don’t say it. I don’t need to hear it—and are you telling me I’ve found Ragnild and my cousin only to lose them again?”
“You will see them, in the future. On that I would wager my best hunting rifle.”
“But you just said—”
“That you would have trouble finding them again. I didn’t say anything about them finding you. I’m certain they will, when next they feel a need to seek you out.”
They reached the village at a little past three that afternoon. Asta came running out, followed by her daughters-in-law and a chattering knot of children. There were glad cries of greeting and warm hugs all around.
Mist grabbed Brit around the knees and squeezed. “Bwit, I miss you. Miss you, miss you, vewwy much…”
Brit scooped her up and held her close. “Give me a big squeeze. See? I’m right here—and you are so strong!”
