Page 88 of Viking in Love

“Sizzling charms? I like that.”

She did swat him then on the chest with her free hand. “How are things going with Dunstan?”

“Precarious?”

She tilted her head to look up at him. “How so?”

“He wants a portion of Larkspur land to build a monastery.”

“Uh-oh!”

“You got that right. Mine is not a big estate, and the last thing I need is a horde of monks nearby, watching my every move.”

“Will he take the land, regardless of your wishes?”

“Probably not. I am trying to convince him that the southern border of Larkspur, which is mostly moors, is not conducive to farming or raising cattle or grape growing for wine, which are the usual sources of income for the churchmen. Besides, I warned them of Scottish reivers who covet aught of Saxon ownership and of Vikings who consider the golden chalices and silver plate of the clergy fair game.”

“I am scared.”

“For whom? Me or yourself?”

“Both.”

He squeezed her closer. “Naught will happen to you whilst under my shield. That I promise.”

“And yourself?”

“I have been playing these cat-and-mouse games with King Edgar and his cohorts for years, and King Edwy afore him. I will not let them take what is mine.”

They were back at the keep now, and he had managed to distract her with their conversation, but he could feel the tremors of fear in her brave body.

“How do I look?” she asked.

She had plaited her hair, then formed the braids into an intricate coronet atop her head, no doubt to soften the wildness of her red hair. The pale skin of her face was rather golden today from the sun, which caused a few more freckles to emerge. Instead of the Saxon attire she usually wore—and thank God she was not wearing breeches—she had donned a belted Viking undergown of pure white linen, covered by an open-sided green calf-length apron, embroidered on the edges and held together at both shoulders with brooches of gold in the pattern of writhing dragons.

“You look just fine. Wonderful.”

Breanne knew that she should not let his compliments go to her head, but pitiful as she was, she did just that. “You do not need to go that far, scoundrel.” She flashed him a shaky smile, then squirmed out of his embrace and walked ahead of him to the open door of the solar, which was empty, except for Archbishop Dunstan and Father Edward, who would be staying at Larkspur as chaplain and tutor for the children.

Dunstan was sitting in an armed chair, his head bowed as if in prayer. Father Edward was doing likewise, telling his beads with a soft murmur from his seat on a bench near the window.

“Your Grace?” Caedmon said.

The archbishop’s head shot up, his eyes alert. He put up a halting hand when they started to enter the room. Staring at Breanne, he asked, “Are you in the midst of your monthly courses?”

She gasped. It was the last thing she had expected from him. From any man, actually. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me. I will not be in the same room with a woman having the bloody flux. ’Tis unclean. A mark of Eve’s sin on all women.”

Flustered by the outrageousness of Dunstan’s observation, Breanne replied, “I am not unclean.” Her hands fisted as she was scarce able to restrain her temper.

“Sit then.” Dunstan motioned to the two other chairs in the room. “You do not need to stay, Caedmon.”

Oh, nay! I cannot handle the archbishop alone.

“I stay,” Caedmon insisted.

Thank you, gods. She shot Caedmon a glance of thanks, but he ignored her.