Malice Striker by Jianne Carlo Read Free Book Online

seemed to all titter at once. A bead of perspiration rolled down in a slow fall between her breasts. Her forehead dampened.
    “How fared you this day, wife?”
    Folding her hands in her lap, she turned to face him. “I trust you will be the judge of our efforts this day, my lord. I know not your preferences as to food and drink, and beg you not to take offense did we err in the preparation of the feast.”
    “Worry not wife.”
    She jumped when he rubbed her forehead. Had she soot from the fire there? Skatha yearned to turn to Lady Gráinne to ask for her interpretation of Lord Brökk’s actions, but instead clenched her jaw.
    “I will take no offense even should you feed me nettles, lady.” He captured her hand again and laced their fingers.
    The rough tip of his thumb slid up and down the back of her wrist, singeing her flesh with each slow, rhythmic stroke. What was he about? His touch sparked confusing reactions. At one instant, she wanted to leap out of the chair and flee the hall, and in the next, she yearned to purr like a contented tabby and snuggle closer.
    He brought her hand to his lips and set his mouth and his tongue to the soft underside.
    She held her breath, while wave after wave of scalding flames licked from her curled toes to the roots of her unbound hair.
    “You smell of apples, wife.” He suckled the heel of her palm. “You taste of apples here. Elsewhere too?”
    She could not answer, being too stunned, too filled with tempestuous longings, to form words. Apples? Taste? Elsewhere? What could he mean?
    “Lord Brökk. ’Tis of utmost import that I inform King Kenneth of the marriage vows.” Lady Gráinne’s terse tone spoke not of a plea, but a command. “He must know that they were spoken freely.”
    Skatha shivered when Lord Brökk snorted and released her hand.
    “Worry not, Lady Gráinne. Word has been sent to King Harald and also to the king of the Scots. ’Tis not so, Olaf Longface? Did not messengers leave on the morn-tide?”
    “Aye. Word and evidence of the Lady Skatha’s purity were dispatched to Harald Bluetooth and King Kenneth.” Skatha could not tell which man answered the jarl’s question.
    “My thanks, Lord Longface, but I must also send a missive. The king charged me with Skatha’s safety, and I would not have him take me nor Sumbarten Abbey to task.” Lady Gráinne’s snapped words silenced the head table and, indeed, the entire hall.
    A log fell in one of the hearths, and the muted thud boomed like low thunder. The silence carried a density not unlike a storm about to break with a flurry of lightning cracks. A shiver snaked up Skatha’s spine.
    Not a breeze lifted the heaviness weighting the air in the chamber. She dared not blink, dared not inhale, dared not fidget, for beside her, Lord Brökk had tensed, and she no longer heard the soft sighs of his expelled breaths.
    Had Lady Gráinne offended Lord Brökk?
    “Write your missive abbess, and I will have it sent on the morrow.”
    The aroma of roasted boar and hot apple cider infused with cinnamon and cloves wafted to her nose moments afore the steady drum of footsteps reached her ears. The kitchen boys and wenches had begun to serve the food. Skatha allowed a small sigh of relief to escape her lips, but sniffed, searching for the last sign of a successful feast, the doughy scent of freshly baked loaves.
    “Hilda, did you prepare the cottage?” Lord Brökk’s growled question startled Skatha.
    Only by linking her fingers under the table did Skatha refrain from reaching for Lady Gráinne. What trouble brewed? Lady Hilda had been absent from the keep all day and ’twas the only reason the meal preparation had gone without mishap. She had hoped Hilda had decided to stay at the neighbor’s for some time, a sennight mayhap. But the witch must have returned in time for the náttverðr. Skatha could not remember ever disliking another female the way she did the Lady Hilda.
    “Aye, my lord. All is ready.”
    Skatha