Page 67 of Lord of Fire and Ice

Her bottom heated at the thought. “Lay a hand on me, Brandr Ulfson, and you’ll have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life.”

He laughed and gave her buttocks a love pat. “You didn’t complain of my hands last night.”

Since it was within reach, she gave his bum a sharp smack. He ignored her.

“Farewell, Finn.” Brandr clapped his free hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder. “I’ll be back with the bride price before you know it.”

“And you’ll be welcome, so long as you don’t try to return the bride,” Finn said with a laugh.

“Don’t just stand there.” Katla pressed against Brandr’s back to raise herself up so she could glare at Finn, but she couldn’t break free from her husband as he stepped into the swaying coracle. “Help me.”

“Sorry, sister. I can’t even see to myself, you know.” Finn slipped the chain that held her all-important keys off her neck and secreted them in the pouch at his belt. Then he loosed the mooring lines of the coracle. “Doubt I’d be any help to you.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Did you not?” Her brother gave the vessel a shove into the deep water of the cove as Brandr deposited her on a small trunk. “I never can tell when you’re joking, Katla. No matter. Safe travels.”

She stood, and the coracle bobbled dangerously. Brandr unfurled the sail.

“Can you swim, Katla?” he asked with maddening calm.

“No.”

The water temperature was so cold, few in the North bothered to learn, since the ability to swim would only prolong dying if a boat capsized. Better a clean, quick drowning than a miserable, desperate struggle against an end that would come in either case.

“Then I suggest you sit down,” Brandr said as the wind freshened and the coracle lifted in the water, quickening in the breeze.

She turned around on the trunk, facing forward so she didn’t have to look at his smug face for another heartbeat.

Chapter 23

“I don’t know what to tell you, Malvar. Women are more fickle and changeable than the sea. She ought to have been ordered to accept the match.” Albrikt Gormson curled his lip in disdain. “Why her ball-less brothers even gave her a choice I’ll never know.”

Malvar Bloodaxe poured wine into two precious goblets of Frankish glass. He usually reserved these special vessels for celebrations. They’d have to do to console his ally in an especially ignominious defeat.

To be turned down in favor of a thrall.

It must gall Albrikt more than liquor on an open wound. If a woman used Malvar so sore, he’d have her tongue cut out and fried up with onions for his night meal.

He handed one of the goblets to Gormson.

“You wouldn’t have sailed across the North Sea to bring me this ill news unless you had a plan to counter it,” Bloodaxe said.

Gormson shrugged. “I had thought to attack the farmstead and so claim the harbor we need, but there’s a signal fire system among the islanders. Katla the Black would receive help in short order.”

Albrikt drained the wine and slammed the goblet down with far more force than the fragile glass would bear. A tiny fracture in the delicate stem bloomed near the bottom of the cup.

A muscle in Malvar’s cheek ticked, but he knew the value of controlling his ire. He simply marked down the ruined goblet to Albrikt’s account and knew, someday, the man would pay for this mistake as well.

“It seems fairly straightforward to me,” Malvar said. “You must send a small party ahead, advancing from the opposite side of the island, to disrupt the signal fire, and then you sail into the cove with three or four longships and overwhelm the residents.”

Gormson shook his head. “It’s not as simple as that. That cursed thrall she married used to be a captain in the Varangian guard,” the Stordman said. “He’s a fierce fighter.”

“One man among a couple dozen sheep.”

“You didn’t see him,” Albrikt said. “He’s is the sort who can rally others, and he has a military man’s eye. There were a number of goodly sized men in the household. I wouldn’t doubt Brandr Ulfson has started training them for defense.”

“Ulfson?” Malvar’s ears pricked at the name.