Dark, Devastating & Delicious!: The Marriage Medallion / Between Duty and Desire / Driven to Distraction

Brit woke weak and exhausted. She found herself in a large wooden room, bare rafters overhead. The windows were small and set high up. Thin daylight bled in through them. Very carefully she turned her head.

She saw a big, round-bodied stove in the center of the room, the chimney rising through the rafters above. And a pair of long, plain benches on either side of a plank table made of whitish wood—a deal table, she would have bet. Deal was the pale wood that came from the Norway spruce. There were oil lamps set in sconces on the walls. She lay on a bench-like bed built into one wall. Her blankets? A nest of furs. Someone had dressed her in a soft cotton nightgown.

There was a woman—a slim, straight-backed woman with white hair. She wore a thick, coarsely woven ankle-length tan dress and good-quality rough-terrain lace-up boots. She sat on a high stool at the far end of the room, her back to Brit. She was working at something that looked as if it might be an old-fashioned loom.

Brit licked her dry, cracked lips. Was this real? Was this actually happening? Or was it just another of her endless, swirling dreams?

She sat up. Her shoulder throbbed, her stomach lurched and her head spun, but she didn’t lie back down. “Valbrand?” she managed to croak out through her parched throat. “Eric Greyfell…?”

The woman rose and came to her. “There, there. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

She remembered that kind, wrinkled face, those loving eyes. “I… I know you. You took care of me.”

“You’ve been very ill,” the woman said as she guided Brit back down and tucked the furs around her again. “We feared we’d lose you. But you’re strong. You will recover.”

It came back to her then: the Skyhawk, the forced landing, the death of her guide. “Rutland… my guide?” Maybe that part—the part where she saw the guide dead—was only another of the fever dreams.

The kind-faced old woman shook her head. “What can be done has been done.”

“But I…”

The woman had already turned away. She went to the stove, dipped up liquid from an iron pot with a wooden cup. Cup in hand, she returned to Brit’s side. “Your guide’s body was sent to his family in the valley just south of this one.”

So. That part was real. Twin tears dribbled down the sides of her face. “My fault…”

“No. What fate has decreed, no mere mortal can alter.”

“It wasn’t fate, it was my own arrogance, my own certainty that I could—”

“Here.” The woman bent close again, lifted Brit’s head and put the cup to her lips. “Drink. This will soothe you.”

“But I—”

“Drink.”

Brit lacked the energy to argue further. She drank. The warm, sweet liquid felt good sliding down her dry throat.

“There,” said the woman. She set the empty cup on the floor. It must have tipped. Brit heard it roll beneath the wooden ledge that served as her bed. The woman ignored it long enough to carefully smooth Brit’s furs again. “Rest now.” She dropped out of sight as she got down to reach under the bed. In a moment, with a weary little grunt, she was on her feet, cup in hand. She started to turn.

“Wait…” The old woman faced her again, one gray brow arched. “My brother. I want to see him.”

The woman shook her head. “Princess, you know that your brothers are gone.”

“Kylan, yes.” Kylan was the second born. He had died years and years ago, when he was only a child. “But not Valbrand. I saw him. In this room, while I was so sick. His face, the left side, it was… badly scarred.”

There was a short silence. The fire crackled in the stove. Then the woman said, “A dream, that’s all. A dream brought on by your fever.”

“No, he was here. He—”

“Prince Valbrand is dead, Your Highness. Lost to us. Surely you knew. He was taken by the mother sea a year ago this past July.” The woman spoke so tenderly, with such sincere sympathy.

Brit opened her mouth to argue further, but then the woman leaned close again. A silver medallion dangled from her neck. It must have swung free of her dress when she bent for the cup. Brit couldn’t resist reaching out and touching it. It spun a little on its chain, catching the firelight. The sight made Brit smile.

The woman smiled, too, the web of wrinkles in her face etching all the deeper. “My marriage medallion.”

Marriage? Brit frowned. And then she sighed. “I have one, too.” Brit pressed the place where her medallion lay beneath the nightgown, warm against her breast. “From Medwyn, my father’s grand counselor. But mine’s only for luck.”

“Ah,” said the woman, a strange and too-knowing expression on her wise, very lived-in face. “Sleep now.”

Brit did feel tired. But she had so many questions. “Where am I?”

“You are where you wished to be, among the ones they call the Mystics.”

“How long have I been… sick?”

“This is the fourth day.”

Her plane had gone down on Monday. “Thursday? It’s Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“How did I—?”

“Eric found you. He brought you to us.”

Hope bloomed, a small, bright flame, within her. “Greyfell found me—in Drakveden Fjord?”

“That’s right.”

“But then, it must be true.” The woman frowned down at her, clearly puzzled. “I saw him—Eric Greyfell—in Drakveden Fjord, where I crashed the Skyhawk. Valbrand was with him, I swear he was. Wearing a black mask. And there was this guy with a crossbow…” She laid her hand over the thick bandage on her shoulder. “Someone shot him before he could—”

“Hush.” The woman’s warm wrinkled hand stroked her brow. “No more questions now. Sleep.”

“My father. My mother and my sisters… they’ll be so worried….”

“Word has been sent to the king that you are safe with us.”

The questions spun in her brain. She needed the answers. But the woman was right. There were too many to ask right now. She could barely keep her eyes open.

“Sleep,” the woman whispered. Something about her was so familiar.

“Please… your name?”

“I’m Asta. Medwyn’s sister. Eric’s aunt.”

So, Brit thought. Medwyn’s sister. She should have known, of course. Medwyn had told her of Asta, and she could see the resemblance around the eyes and in the shape of the mouth. “Asta.” It was pronounced with the As like twin sighs: Ahstah. “It’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. Now sleep.”

“Yes. All right. I will. Sleep…”

* * *

Brit heard the playful giggle of a child. She opened her eyes in time to watch a mop of shiny blond curls disappear over the side of the sleeping bench.

A few seconds later the curls popped up again, along with a pair of china-blue eyes and a cute little turned-up nose. The eyes widened. “Oops.” The small face popped out of sight again. There was more giggling below.

Brit grinned and whispered in a dry croak, “I see you.”

More giggles. And then the little head rose into view once more. The rosebud mouth widened in a shy smile. The child raised a thumb and pointed it at her tiny chest. “Mist.”

“Hello, Mist. I’m Brit.”

“Bwit.” The child called Mist beamed with pleasure. “Pwincess Bwit.”

“Just Brit will do.”

“Just Bwit. Bwit, Bwit, Bwit…”

“Mist,” Asta chided from over by the stove where she sat with two younger women, a circle of children playing some sort of game with sticks and a tiny red ball at their feet. “Leave Her Highness to sleep.”

“It’s all right.” Brit winked at the child and pulled herself to a sitting position, wincing at the sharp twinge from the wound in her shoulder. Sunlight slanted in the high slits of the windows. Late morning, Brit thought. Or possibly early afternoon. She let her head fall forward to stretch her stiff neck, and her tangled hair fell over her eyes. She speared her fingers in it to shove it back.

Ugh. A serious shampooing and a little intimate contact with a decent conditioner would do wonders about now. Not to mention a long, hot bath. She heard a growling sound—her stomach. She could eat half a polar bear, or whatever they were serving here in the Vildelund. But first, water. A tall, cool, glorious glass of it.

However, she hesitated to throw back the furs and go looking for a drink in her thin borrowed nightgown with all these strange women and children in the room. “I wonder, could I have some water?”

“Of course.” Asta set aside her sewing and went to the big wooden counter against one wall. The sink was there, complete with an ancient-looking pump faucet. Asta pumped clear water into a tall cup and carried it to Brit.

She drank. It was absolute heaven going down.

From her seat on the floor, Mist giggled some more. “Bwit fuhsty.” Fuhsty, Brit figure out, had to mean thirsty.

Brit swallowed the last of it. “Was I ever. Thanks.” She handed Asta back the empty cup. The women by the fire were watching her. She gave them a nod. “I seem to remember you two being here while I was sick…”

“I forget myself,” said Asta. “Your Highness, my daughters-in-law, Sif and Sigrid. Mist, whom you’ve met, is Sif’s youngest.” She named off the other children. Two were Sigrid’s and two, Sif’s.

“Great to meet you all.” Brit turned to Asta again. “And now… what’s for dinner?”

Asta’s smile was wide and pleased. “Your health improves.”

“It certainly does.”

“Bah-wee soup,” announced Mist.

“That’s barley,” Asta explained.

Brit wrinkled her nose. “I was thinking more along the lines of steak and eggs and hash browns.”

“Your stomach isn’t ready for solid food yet.”

Brit sighed. “Barley soup it is.” She gave Asta a big smile. “And would you go and tell my brother I’d like to see him now, please?”

It seemed, for a moment, as if the room was too quiet. Then Asta spoke carefully. “We talked of this earlier. Perhaps you’ve forgotten. Your brother is—”

Brit waved a hand. “Never mind. I remember. So, if my brother’s not available, could you track down your nephew, Eric, please? It’s imperative that I speak with him.”

Sif and Sigrid shared a look. Asta suggested, “Eat first. See how you feel.”

Asta dished up a big bowl of broth with barley and cut a thick slice from a loaf of dark bread. She carried it over to Brit on a wooden tray.

By the time she’d eaten half the soup and taken a bite of the bread, Brit was ready to call it quits on the food front. “I guess I sort of miscalculated how much I could eat.” Also, she was tired again. This convalescing thing was so inconvenient. She handed Asta the bowl. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, Your High—”

“I wonder, could we dispense with the ‘Your Highness’ routine?”

Asta looked pleased. “I would be honored.”

“It’s Brit, then, all right?”

“Yes. Brit. Good enough.”

“Now, if you could just get me my clothes and—”

Asta was gently pushing her down. “All that can wait. Rest, now. You’re not ready to get out of bed.”

Brit found she tended to agree with Asta. So annoying. She felt tired to the bone. She didn’t have the energy to get dressed—let alone to deal with Eric Greyfell. She gave Asta a rueful smile. “Sorry, but there’s one thing that can’t wait.”

Asta brought her a pair of clogs and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders as the women by the fire continued with their needlework and the group of children played their game and little Mist sat on the floor near Brit’s sleeping bench, sucking her thumb and watching wide-eyed.

It was hard work, even leaning on Asta, to get all the way to the door and out into the crisp afternoon beyond. The thin sunlight, after the days inside, seemed blinding. Brit hardly had the energy to glance at the village around her—more long wooden houses, all grouped together along a single dirt street. There were pastures and paddocks behind the houses. Beyond the pastures, a thick forest of spruce flowed up the surrounding hills.

Asta noted her interest in the village houses. “Here we live in the old Norse way. In traditional longhouses—long, one-room dwellings where we eat, sleep, work and gather with our friends and family.”

Each house had a small garden to one side of it. The pastureland beyond the gardens was dotted with karavik and sturdy, long-haired white Gullandrian horses. According to the map Medwyn had drawn for her, Drakveden Fjord wasn’t far to the north. If she followed the fjord west, she should come to the site where her Skyhawk had gone down.

Not that she had the slightest inclination to go looking for it now. But someday soon. When the annoying weakness left over from her illness had passed.

At the end of the house, they reached a wooden lean-to. It had a sliver of moon carved into the top of the door. Just like in the old days in America, Brit thought. Was the moon on the door the international symbol for outhouse? She grinned to herself.

“Something humorous?” Asta wondered.

“Nothing important. And I don’t think I’m going to ask how you handled this while I was so sick.”

“We managed,” Asta replied with her usual sunny smile. “I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

Brit went in and shut the door. When she came out, Asta was waiting, as promised.

Brit forced a smile. “You are my hero, Asta, I hope you know it.”

“I am honored to be of service.”

“I have to ask, though I know it’s going to make me sound like your classic ugly American—don’t you ever think about putting in a bathroom, maybe adding electricity?”

Asta shrugged. “Here we live simply. It’s a hard life, yes. But that is our way. We believe the simple life builds strong character and a clear mind—now come. Let’s get you back to bed.” Asta offered her shoulder. Brit accepted it gratefully. Slowly they shuffled back inside, where Asta helped her to get comfortable and brought her warm water from the stove and a soft cloth to wash her hands and rinse her face. Brit was already half asleep again when Asta began checking the dressing on her bandage.

“Asta?”

“Hmm?”

“About my brother…”

“Shh. Sleep.”

“Sweep, sweep, sweep,” chanted Mist, over by the fire now with the other children.

Brit gave in and did as she was told.

The next time she woke, Eric Greyfell was sitting in a chair about two feet from her nest of furs.

She blinked, then muttered, “It’s about time you showed up.”

He nodded, one regal dip of his head. “My aunt informed me that you wished to speak with me.” And then he just sat there, looking at her.

They were alone. The high windows were dark and the lamps were lit. “Where is Asta?”

“My aunt, as you may have deduced, is something of a healer. Her skills are needed elsewhere tonight.”

It occurred to Brit that she’d met Asta’s daughters-in-law and grandchildren. But she’d never seen a husband. “Your uncle?”

“He died several years ago.”

She had assumed as much. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

He shrugged. “We live, we die. That is the way of things. For my uncle’s death, the time of mourning is long past.”

“I see. Well, a good thing, right—I mean, that grief passes?” Sheesh. Talk about inane chatter. She was filling in time as she worked her way around to what was really on her mind: Valbrand.

And the little detail no one seemed to want to talk about—the fact that he wasn’t dead, after all.

Greyfell said nothing. The fire crackled in the stove and Brit stared at Medwyn’s son, wondering how best to get him to admit that her brother was alive—and to convince him that he should bring Valbrand to her. Now.

As she debated how to begin, he watched her. She found his hooded gaze unnerving. “Why do you look at me like that?”

“Like what, precisely?”

She wished she hadn’t asked. “Never mind.”

He stood and came closer, until he loomed over her, his deep-set eyes lost in the shadows beneath the shelf of his brow. She stared up at those shadowed eyes and wished he hadn’t come so near. She felt like a total wimp, lying there in somebody else’s nightgown, weak and shaky and flat on her back.

She sat up—fast enough that her head spun and pain sliced through her shoulder. “Listen.”

“Yes?”

His shoulder-length ash-brown hair had a slight curl to it. He wore it loose, though it seemed it had been tied back—in the fjord and that time he stood over her when she was so sick. Now it looked just-combed, smooth and shiny. He smelled of the outdoors, fresh and piney and cool. She didn’t want to think about what she smelled like. She clutched the furs close to her breast, as if they might protect her from his probing eyes. “Look. I just wanted to talk to you about… well, I mean, my brother…” She waited. Maybe he’d give it up, tell her the truth that everyone kept denying. Maybe he would see in her eyes how badly she needed confirmation that Valbrand lived.

Maybe he would realize that she could be trusted.

But it wasn’t happening. He said nothing. She let out a low groan of frustration. “Can we skip the lies and evasions, please? Will you just let me speak with my brother?”

His mouth softened. He lifted his head a fraction, and the lamplight melted the shadows that hid his eyes.

Kind. His eyes were kind. They gleamed with sympathy. She hated that—his sympathy. It made her doubt what she knew in her heart. And it made her soften toward him. She didn’t need softening. She was weak enough already.

He spoke so gently, each word uttered with great care. “You must accept that your brother is dead.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Brit clutched the furs tighter and wished she didn’t feel so tired. She wanted to keep after him, to break him down, to get him to admit what they both knew was true. But how?

Her mind felt thick and slow. Weariness dragged at her. All he had to do was stay kind and steady—and keep on with the denials. Eventually she would have to give up and go back to sleep.

She spoke softly, pleadingly, though it galled her to do it. “I saw him. In the fjord, with you, I’m sure of it, though then he was wearing a mask—but here, when I was sick, I saw his face. Please stop lying. Please stop implying that I was too sick and confused to know what I saw. Please admit—”

“I cannot admit what never happened.” His deep, rich voice was weighted with just the right measure of regret. He seemed so sincere. She could almost begin to believe he spoke the truth. And to doubt what her eyes had seen…

“He was here. I know it.”

Gently, so regretfully, he shook his head.

She swallowed. Her mouth was so dry.

And this was a subject better pursued when she was stronger. “I wonder. Would you mind getting me some water?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

He went to the sink. While he pumped the water she tried to come up with some new approach, some brilliant line of questioning that would make him open up to her. She drew a complete blank.

And he was back with a full cup. “Do you need help?”

“Thanks. I can manage.” She held out her hand, pleased to see that it hardly shook at all. He passed her the cup. She drank long and deep, sighing when she finished.

He was watching, the slightest of smiles tipping the corners of his mouth. “Good?”

“Wonderful.”

“More?”

“I would appreciate it.” She held out the cup. Their fingers brushed as he took it from her. It seemed, for some reason, a far too intimate contact. He went to the sink again and she watched him go. He wore heavy tan trousers, mountain boots and an oatmeal-colored thermal shirt. He had a great butt. He also carried himself proudly—like the king everyone thought he might someday be now they all believed that Valbrand was gone.

In Gullandria, succession was never assured. All male jarl, or nobles, were princes. Any prince might put himself forward as a candidate for king when the current king could no longer rule and the jarl gathered in the Grand Assembly for the election ceremony known as the kingmaking.

Since childhood, Eric had been groomed, not for the throne, but to one day take his father’s place as grand counselor. It had been Valbrand, everyone felt certain, who would win the throne. King Osrik was a respected and effective ruler. The country had prospered during his reign. And the people loved Valbrand. That made him the logical next choice.

But then Valbrand went to sea and didn’t come back. And Osrik and Medwyn turned their sights to Eric as the one to claim the crown when the time came. The two had schemed shamelessly. Eric, they decided, should marry one of Osrik’s estranged daughters….

The potential king in question had reached the sink. He stood with his back to her, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, regal even from the rear, pumping water into her cup.

Brit allowed herself a wide grin.

Her father and Medwyn’s schemes kept backfiring. Elli had fallen in love with the man they’d sent to kidnap her. And on Elli’s wedding night, Liv had dallied with the notorious Prince Finn Danelaw. She’d become pregnant as a result. And Eric? After months spent in search of the truth about Valbrand’s supposed death, Eric had come here, to the Vildelund. He’d resisted his father’s repeated requests that he return to the palace and begin preparing for his future as king.

Yes, Brit knew that her father and Medwyn considered her next in line to be Eric’s bride. But she’d made it clear to them that romance wasn’t on her agenda. She was after the truth about Valbrand. Period.

King Osrik and Medwyn had said they accepted that. And if they didn’t, so what? Her father and his grand counselor could plot and plan to their heart’s content. She had a goal. Marrying Eric Greyfell wasn’t it.

“Brit?”

She blinked. Eric was standing right over her, holding the full cup. “Oh, uh, sorry. Just woolgathering.” He wore an expectant look. Maybe he didn’t get her meaning. “Woolgathering is an expression. It means—”

“Purposeless thinking.” Those deep-set eyes gleamed. “Aimless reverie. The word is derived from the actual process of woolgathering, which entails wandering the countryside, gathering up bits of wool from bushes that karavik—sheep—have brushed up against.”

“Very good.”

“And where, exactly, did your woolgathering take you?”

She took the cup again and sipped. She was stalling. She really didn’t feel up to going into it—especially since it would only lead to the part about how their fathers hoped they’d hook up. “It’s not important.”

“Somehow I don’t believe you.”

“Then we’re even, aren’t we?” She drank the last and handed back the empty cup. “You know what? I’m really tired. I appreciate your coming and talking to me.” She stretched out and pulled up the furs. “You don’t have to stay until your aunt gets back. I’ll be fine, I promise.” She snuggled down deeper and shut her eyes. Sleep came almost instantly.

Eric stood over Valbrand’s youngest sister and watched her face soften as she drifted into the land of dreams. She had great courage. She’d sought him out in the wild land of his birth, alone but for a single guide to show her the way. She’d lived through the crash that had killed her guide, emerging unaided from the wreckage of her plane, armed and ready to face whatever waited outside. She possessed spirit and stamina—few survived a hit from a renegade’s poisoned arrow. And he liked her fine, quick mind.

Her eyes had dark smudges beneath them. A limp coil of lank blond hair lay across her cheek. He dared, very gently, to smooth it back, careful of the still-livid bruise at her temple.

She sighed, a tiny smile curving her cracked, dry lips. He felt the corners of his own mouth lifting in instinctive response.

He supposed he was willing to admit it now. His father had chosen well.

Chapter Three

It was much later when Brit woke again. The lamps were out, though night still ruled beyond the high-set windows. The fire had burned low. It cast a muted glow out the stove door window, spilling soft gold light across the table a few feet away. Where Brit lay, in the far corner, the shadows were thickest.