Page 20 of Lord of Fire and Ice

She allowed herself a small smile at this acknowledgment of her accomplishments. It pleased her even more than when he called her comely. Her appearance was none of her doing, so she could hardly take pleasure in an accident of nature. But the success of her steading was due to her hard work and management. And Gormson had noticed. Her cheeks warmed at his praise.

“So I expect you’re clever enough to know finalizing the contract is the last time a woman has real power in a marriage,” Albrikt said.

“When you put it like that, there’s very little incentive for me to take another husband.”

“I didn’t make the world, but that’s the way of it. Besides, your brothers have told me you’ve sworn to marry. So you want to negotiate the best possible terms from me. I understand that.” He clinked the rim of his drinking horn with hers. “And respect it.”

“We are far from finalizing terms or anything else.”

Albrikt speared a plump sausage with his knife. “Your brothers have already admitted they want my land on Stord. What is it you want from me?”

“I don’t know you well enough to know if you have anything I want,” she said tartly.

A trencher groaning under the weight of food was plopped down before her.

“Surely from among all that, you’ll find something you want, my lady,” Brandr said.

“That’s enough from you for this evening,” she warned.

He bent in a mocking bow before he came around the table and took his station behind her.

Gormson turned and shot Brandr a glare. “When thralls speak out of turn on Stord, we remove their tongues.”

Katla would never allow such a cruel thing, but she hoped Brandr was eavesdropping from his place of subservience. It would serve him right to stew a bit.

“This one is new to the iron collar,” Katla said. “He hasn’t been thoroughly schooled in his duties yet.”

Albrikt grunted and shoveled in a large bite of chicken. “A sound whipping would teach him quick enough.”

“The son of Ulf is the first thrall I’ve ever owned, so if he offended you, the fault is mine.” Katla picked at her own trencher, unsure where to begin so as not to topple the mound of food onto the table. “Obviously, his training is far from complete.”

“The son of Ulf?” Albrikt turned around to give Brandr a more thorough inspection. “Ulf of Jondal?”

“That’s the one. Ulf the Ruthless. The man who killed my husband.” Katla took a long draught of ale. She rarely drank to excess, but she suspected this night might call for it. “But Ulf is dead, so I took his son as my thrall to avenge the death of my husband.”

Albrikt stared at her for moment, his pale eyes darkening as his pupils widened. Then he chuckled.

“Katla the Black. And here I thought you were named for your raven hair.” He slammed his palm on the table and loosed a full-throated guffaw. “Now I see they meant your heart. Enslaving the son for the deeds of his dead father! That’s an idea I’ll remember and use as the occasion calls for it.” He laughed again. “I like you, woman. We’re well suited, you and I. You remind me of me.”

She arched a brow at him. “I think it should remind you not to anger me.”

“Noted,” Albrikt said with a gruff nod. Then he turned to Brandr. “A friend of mine was on the Orkney coast when Ulf Skallagrimsson’s ship went down in that storm. He told me your father wailed like a little maid before he sank for the last time.”

Then Albrikt fell to his meal with renewed relish and an occasional chuckle.

Katla sensed Brandr stiffening behind her and hoped he’d control himself. If he insulted or, Odin help her, attacked a guest, she’d be honor bound to punish him, despite the provocation. To distract him, she lifted her horn for him to refill and was glad to see him tight-lipped but struggling to bridle himself.

“Pay him no heed,” she whispered to Brandr.

“I will if you will.” He shot a glare at Albrikt but stepped back when Katla waved him away.

An insult to a thrall was not uncommon, but Albrikt’s other words seared her mind.

Enslaving the son for the deeds of his dead father.

She’d thought it the logical course when her brothers first dropped Brandr across her threshold. When it was put so baldly, enthralling the son of Ulf did smack more of cold vindictiveness than honorable vengeance.

She reminded Albrikt of himself. The last thing she wanted was to be like this warrior from Stord. Not that he was a bad sort, even though he did take an unnecessary swipe at Brandr, knowing a thrall had no recourse. He was no different than many other men she knew—shrewd, strong, and ruthless.