Death Blow by Jianne Carlo Page A

she stared at the coarse grass. Then she met Grelod’s stare and nodded.
    “I believe ’twould be best for you to take your handfast wife to the tent prepared for you, Konáll. We will o’ersee the feast on your behalf.” Thōrfin dismissed him with a wave.
    What had Nyssa done to earn Grelod’s wrath? Konáll had ne’er seen the woman in such a temper and judged ’twas best to leave at once.
    Thōrfin, on the other hand, appeared both amused and pleased.
    Konáll knew one certainty; ’twas some peculiarity he did not understand about a handfast wife as opposed to an ordinary wife. His temper, famed throughout the Jomsvikings for its slow boil, simmered. Konáll forced a smile to his face.
    “I bid you all good eve. At first light of dawn we will come to your tent to plan the invasion.” Konáll bowed, cupped Nyssa’s elbow, and urged her into a quick march.
    The second they cleared the milling soldiers and turned onto the path leading to the cliff top he said, through gritted teeth, “Before we reach the summit I had best have, as Queen Grelod ordered, an explicit accounting of the vows and the consequences of the ceremony you orchestrated. And understand this, Nyssa. If you have cheated me out of any aspect of the marriage contract, when I seize Castle Caerleah, I will claim it as mine and cast you aside.”

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
    Nyssa’s ire surged. She shook off his arm, glared at him, and snapped, “Worry not, Viking. The only one who gains naught from a handfasting is the female.”
    Konáll’s stoic expression ne’er wavered save for a slight tightening of his jaw when she called him Viking. He liked that not. She fought a grin. Viking he would be from this moment on.
    “’Tis a weakness of yours—the inability to walk and talk at the same time?” He set his hand to the small of her back and urged her on.
    She trudged up the narrow path. His palm slipped lower and brushed the swell of her buttocks with each step. All at once ’twas difficult to breathe, but the trail had narrowed and steepened, and that explained the heat bursting from her pores and her lightheadedness.
    “I am waiting.”
    Nyssa curled her fingers. In an attempt to shake off his hold, she lengthened her stride, but his hand pressed into her flesh like a hot forge. She concentrated on the summit and the torch flame flickering there, before saying, “’Tis a tradition from the Highlands and the Orkneys. A man and a woman handfast for a year and a day. They live as husband and wife during that time—”
    “As true husband and wife? With the rights of the marriage bed?” He fair growled the question.
    “Aye.”
    “And what of the lands you inherited that are to be mine to rule by our marriage contract?” Warmth skipped o’er her nape and a sweet tingle crawled from one shoulder to another when his hot breath met her flesh. She had not realized how closely he followed her.
    “They remain yours.” Her voice wobbled, she swallowed thrice. “At the end of the year and a day, if the handfasted couple agrees they do not suit, they are both free to marry another. ’Tis as if the vow saying had never been done.”
    Nyssa bent forward to climb the last few steps to the cliff top. She straightened and shivered when a fierce breeze assaulted her cyrtel and whipped the fabric to one side. The flames from three oil lamps hanging from tree branches to the left of a large, stripped tent, dimmed and then blazed after the wind died. The slight fishy aroma of whale oil tangled with the brine of the ocean and the venison haunch roasting below them. Her stomach grumbled.
    “There is food, ale, and wine in the tent. Later, someone will bring us a platter from the feast.” He leaned in and sniffed her ear.
    At once she took offense. “I scrubbed my skin clean. I do not stink any longer.”
    He chuckled, white teeth gleamed in the faint light, and crinkles formed at the corners of his deep blue eyes. “You smell like a siren.