Page 45 of Lord of Fire and Ice

There, standing with his back to the door in the fragrant steam, was Brandr Ulfson. Wearing nothing but an iron collar and his glorious skin. He turned when she entered, but she couldn’t make out his expression. Without a word, he started for the door to the cooling room.

“Brandr, stay,” she said, wishing she wasn’t covered in muck and grime. She’d have run to him and wrapped her arms around him otherwise. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

“I haven’t been slacking, if that’s your worry.” His voice was drawn as tight as a bowstring.

Usually he didn’t sound that strained unless she was naked as well.

“No, of course not.” She unfastened her brooches and peeled out of her overtunic, mildly surprised when he didn’t come help her undress. It had seemed to be one of his favorite pastimes. “You work circles around most of my people.”

“That’s why I wear your collar, isn’t it, princess? A thrall is made for work, and that’s all.”

“After last night, I beg to differ,” she said with a smile. “You’re made for many other things as well.”

“How satisfying to be useful.” He turned and continued toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To the cooling barrels,” he said gruffly. “I’ve had enough.”

The door banged shut behind him. Katla stared after him for a moment. Was he angry with her for some reason? Then the steam of the bath house curled around her, and she realized he was probably just overheated from being in the bath.

Who knew how long he’d been sweating on the hot benches, waiting for her there in the birch-scented steam?

She hoped he’d wait in the cooling room for her and offer to dry her off again. Her body tingled at the prospect of his rubbing a towel over every bit of her clean skin. The last time he did that, she was sure he’d have taken her right there on the cool, smooth floor if she’d only have let him.

This time, she would.

***

Brandr didn’t waste any time in the barrels of tepid water. He didn’t want to chance still being there when Katla emerged from her bath, all sweat slick and rosy. Even though he was determined not to bed her again, Katla naked and drenching wet might be more than he could resist.

His clothes were still slightly damp when he stepped out of the bath house. The evening breeze that swept down from the high peaks was brisk. He followed his nose back to the longhouse where the night meal was nearly ready.

Katla’s youngest brother, Haukon, had slaughtered a pig that morning, and Inga had roasted it all day in a pit outside the longhouse. Brandr still managed to sneak in a lesson in sword work with Haukon each day. The lad was willing but not especially gifted. Nevertheless, the discipline of regular drill had made him a better worker in other respects as well. Katla hadn’t scolded him for idleness in several days.

Unlike Einar, who still disappeared whenever the threat of physical labor reared its head.

The savory smell of roast pork set Brandr’s mouth watering. He made himself useful hauling large wooden trenchers piled high with meat from the outside pit to the warming stones by the interior meal fire. Inga would keep it ready to serve till the guest of honor arrived.

Brandr managed not to cross paths with Katla as the household gathered to welcome her newest suitor, but he couldn’t keep from watching her walk back to the longhouse from the bath house. She was dressed like a fine lady in a fjord-blue overtunic that complemented her fair skin. The brooches at her shoulders this evening sparkled with precious glowing amber embedded in the worked silver.

“Freya’s tears,” he muttered and shook his head. It made sense she’d favor gems connected with the lascivious Norse goddess. Freya was frankly calculating about her bedmates. After overhearing her conversation with Finn, Brandr knew Katla was as coldly strategic about who shared her bed, and for how long, as the love goddess ever thought about being.

Did she really think a husband would give her a choice about using a thrall as a bed slave once she wed? Did she think Brandr would allow himself to be used now that he knew he was nothing to her? His brother’s iron crown waited for him in Jondal if he could only find a way to have the iron collar removed here. It was high time he focused on earning his freedom.

Instead of following Katla into the longhouse, Brandr hung back on the edge of the crowd, watching Einar and Haukon escort her newest suitor up from the wharf.

Otto Sturlson was a flamboyant figure, swathed in exotic silks and ermine. A Spanish blade encased in a heavily embossed shoulder baldric bumped against his back. His neck was ringed with a dozen gold chains, and jewels glinted from each of his fingers.

Brandr recognized the breed.

The man was a trader. There were plenty of his sort plying the waters between here and faraway Byzantium. Shrewd, gifted with languages, and dangerous when they needed to be, Norse traders could be found in every European port.

But as fine as the man’s clothing and weapons were, he was clearly past his prime. Flesh hung from his wiry biceps where muscle used to be. Brandr wondered if he had the strength to wield the magnificent sword he carried. His hair was iron gray, and when he flashed a horse-toothed smile, Brandr’s stomach curdled.

Clearly Sturlson was done trading and wanted a snug fire to curl up beside while he waited for old age to claim him.

Katla had already buried one husband. What were her brothers thinking, trying to match her with such an old man?