Page 19 of The Blue Viking

“I came into my bedchamber to inform you that I will not be a prisoner in my own keep. I had enough of that with the MacNabs. I will not abide similar treatment from Vikings … whom I gave good welcome into my home, I might remind you, muckle-head.”

“I would not exactly describe it as welcome,” he pointed out as he hitched up his braies, then pulled a brown tunic over his head and gathered it at the waist with a wide leather belt. The tunic was an old one but of the finest wool fabric made by Alinor, his friend Tykir’s wife. The embroidered thistle design along the edges in shades of green and yellow was still visible. “Know this, m’lady witch, my guards have been given precise orders to ride your tail like fleas, everywhere you go, even to the garderobe. And that order stands till the blue mark is gone from my face … and mayhap even beyond that, for there is still your punishment to be dealt with.”

She huffed with disgust and murmured something under her breath that sounded like “We shall see about that.”

“I’m ready if you are,” he pronounced then, having slipped on a pair of half boots and attached his scab-barded sword to his belt.

“Ready for what?” she choked out.

“To have my blue mark removed. What else?”

“I thought that perchance you might want to break your fast first.” Her eyes shifted from side to side as she spoke.

Rurik immediately tensed with suspicion. “You do have the antidote to remove the blue mark… do you not?”

“Well, not exactly.” She looked everywhere but at him.

“What exactly do you mean? How will you remove the mark?”

“I do not know.”

Aaarrgh! She does not know. Is the woman demerited? What kind of witch is she anyhow? Three long years of searching for her and she tells me she does not know. Through gritted teeth, he asked, “How did you put the mark there?”

“I do not know.”

I swear, I am going to kill her… and take great pleasure in the act. Does she know how close she is to death? “How do you plan on fulfilling your part of our proposition?”

“I do not know.”

Rurik counted to ten inside his head, Einn, tveir, rr, fjrir, fimm, sex, sj, tta, nu, tu. Only when he’d regained his calm did he speak. “Well, I know something, wench. Best you explain yourself, and quickly, or I am going to hold the world’s biggest witch-burning. And guess who will be tied to the stake?”

Maire cringed, but to her credit, she did not cry or beg for mercy, as most women would. “Fanned fires and forced love ne’er do well,” she said, instead.

“What in bloody hell does that mean?”

“You cannot force things that come naturally.” She must have sensed his rising temper, for she quickly explained, “The answer will come to me when it comes … naturally.”

“Are you barmy?” Rurik felt like pulling at his own hair, a wee bit barmy himself.

“It’s like this …,” she began.

Rurik groaned inwardly. Every time a female began with, “It’s like this …” it was a certainty that her man was not going to like what she was about to say. Not that I am Maire ’s man. No, no, no. I am definitely not her man.

“… I was angry with you that time that you… that we … uh …”

“Made love?”

“Coupled,” she said with a becoming blush.

He grinned at her discomfort, despite the seriousness of their conversation. So much of his life depended on the removal of that damned mark… his marriage, his reputation, everything.

“In my anger, I wanted to lash out at you, but I also needed to go away with you, far from the Highlands, for a time, leastways. But as you will recall, you declined my request… in a most rude fashion, incidentally.”

“Rude fashion?”

“You laughed at me.”

“I did? And for that you marked me for life?”