Page 19 of Lord of Fire and Ice

A grease fire sputtered on the central hearth, and Inga, the girl whose job it was to turn the spit, was trying to beat it out with one of the sheepskins. With another determined slap of the rug, Inga quelled the blaze, turning the air gray and hazy with even more smoke now that the flames had died.

The girl had been Osvald’s bed slave, but Katla had freed her when he was killed. Inga asked to be allowed to stay on as a freed servant, and she’d become one of Katla’s best workers. Right now, Inga was the only one who seemed to be trying to keep some semblance of order.

Katla bit her lip to avoid shouting for quiet. Shouting was unbecoming.

No one had waited for her arrival before being served. As she walked down the long room, she saw trenchers piled high with glistening chicken cooked in beer, root vegetables glazed with honey, and barley bread slathered with butter.

Her people raised their horns to her, drinking to her health as she passed, but her brothers were the founders of this feast. Finn obviously wanted to impress her suitor with a lavish display, not mindful the bounty she’d laid by with such care would have to last till harvest. When the last carrot was gone and the last barrel of barley meal was spent long before the new crop could be harvested, what would her brothers do then?

She shot Finn a glare that should have lit him aflame. Perhaps later, she’d have Inga beat him with a rug.

There was a stranger in the seat of honor next to her empty place. Katla knew without being told this was Albrikt Gormson of Stord Island. He had the solitary look of a man who commanded other men and demanded their unquestioning allegiance.

In that, they were cut from the same cloth. She, too, was alone and firmly in charge.

Most of the time.

Katla could tell Albrikt was a formidable man among a race of formidable men. His russet hair gleamed with oil, and his beard was neatly braided. A wicked scar snaked across one of his cheekbones, turning a corner of his mouth up in a habitual sneer. It demolished any chance Albrikt would be considered handsome, but that was low on the list of masculine attributes she needed in a husband.

A warrior, this one.

Osvald had been a farmer. She’d tread warily till she learned if Albrikt was the sort who wore his power lightly or if he felt the need to grind others down with it.

His eyes were so pale, they glinted like a wolf’s, feral in the dimness. A silver armband bound the thick muscle of his bared sword arm, and his tunic was trimmed with ermine. He was a man of wealth, if the richness of his garments were any indication, and obvious physical power.

How on earth had her chuckleheaded brothers ever managed to reach even a tentative agreement with this man? Especially such a lopsided bargain that had him giving up his much-larger estate for her?

“Glad you could join us, sister,” Finn said. “You certainly made us wait long e—”

“A wait well worth it.” Albrikt cut him off without apology, rising to his full, impressive height. “Katla the Black, your brothers told me you are a good steward of your late husband’s wealth. I respect wisdom and industry in a woman, but they failed to mention that you are also exceedingly comely.”

She dipped in a low curtsey. Albrikt Gormson’s words were fair enough, but they didn’t make her belly flutter like Brandr’s rousing confession.

I burn to kiss you. Everywhere.

She forced herself to focus on the man who’d presented himself to court her, instead of the one who was trying to seduce her.

“Welcome, Albrikt, son of Gorm.” Katla swept around the table to take her place at his side, careful to face forward, but she watched him from the corner of her eye as a mouse would give heed to the cat lolling by the fire. “I trust the food is to your liking.”

“Everything is to my liking.” Now that the formal introductions were over, he obviously felt he could address her with more intimacy. He imbued the word with unmistakable meaning, and in case she had any doubt, he followed it up with a slow perusal of her profile, not stopping at her chin.

Since her brothers didn’t seem to mind the man ogling her in public, she’d have to ignore it. The man was her guest. She couldn’t make a scene.

“I’m sure my brothers showed you the extent of my possession. My husband left me a snug holding,” she said, taking a small sip of her ale.

“Your brothers couldn’t show me that.” Albrikt barked a short laugh. “Just what every man wants in a wife—a snug holding. I’ll look forward to that tour.”

She bit her tongue.

Her nape prickled, and she lifted her gaze as the doe raises her head when she senses an arrow is on the string, aimed for her heart. Brandr Ulfson was leaning against one of the longhouse’s massive support posts midpoint along one wall.

His deep brown eyes were riveted on her.

She jerked her gaze away.

“You have missed my meaning, sir,” she said to her guest, her tone clipped and icy.

“Mayhap.” Albrikt leaned toward her. “And mayhap you wanted to distract me with wondering just how snug your holding is. You’re a cagey one, Katla. No one without a level head between her ears could make a small farm like this one support so many mouths.”