The Warlord's Wife (11 page)

“And when will that be?” Lida fluttered her eyelashes, restraining the tide of outrage growing below the surface.

“When she is grown. I insist you stop being insolent.”

She turned her shoulders to face him directly. “She will never be in command of her own person. She will go from her family’s house to her husband’s house or to a house of God. She will never be without an owner to command her about and demand her submission. Letting her decide to braid or not braid her hair seems like a reasonable amount of personal freedom over her life. She obeys me in all things that matter. Explain to me then, why, Jarl Magnus? Why does she have to have her hair forcibly braided because it suits me?” This conversation had nothing to do with ribbons.

“Eat your meal. It has grown cold.” The jarl turned away from her.

She drank some water and pleaded with her limbs to stop quivering.

***

Magnus strode into his private chamber. This madness between him and his wife would end tonight. He bolted the doors behind him. His wife was abed, the coverings yanked up high to her chin. He began to disrobe, his eyes on her as he deliberated as to how to proceed.

For two days, as he’d inspected his holdings, storage houses, and recently completed construction projects, Magnus had insisted his wife remain at his side. He’d introduced her to his people, presenting her with a full accounting of all that she was now mistress over. Whenever the moment suited him, which it usually did several times a day, he planted his seed deep within her. This was when her true manipulative nature had become apparent to him.

He had been dissatisfied after he took her on top of his worktable in his council chamber before the midday meal. She had not responded in a way that pleased him. She didn’t looked at him but rather turned her face away, blatantly refusing his kiss. She declined to show any sign of her pleasure, even though he could feel her channel spasm and tighten. Instead she held her breath, locking in the sounds of her arousal, stealing what he had rightfully earned.

This eve, before he would allow her to rest, he would put an end to this pathetic display of defiance.

“Look at me, wife.” The entire day, she had answered him with nothing more than a sharp glare. “Look at me.” He mounted her, caging her with in his limbs. She looked him dead in the eye and pushed up on her elbow. Her lips hovered beneath his, about to gift him with a kiss, a tender offering of submission and apology for her insipid behavior toward him. It was long overdue. He held still, waiting, anticipating the taste of her lips.

She turned her head and rolled over onto her stomach, making of fool of him yet again.
Damn her.

Magnus would teach his sullen wife. If she wanted to act like a limp piece of flesh, he would treat her like one.

Magnus reared up on his knees, yanking his wife up with him. Coiling her braid around his wrist, he pulled her head back and took her without mercy.

A light sweat soon coated her lower back. In the reflection of the looking glass, he watched her face, searching for signs of her pleasure as her core contracted.

She didn’t make one sound. He withdrew and she collapsed forward onto the bed and slowly drew the linen sheet over her body. She had stolen from him again, keeping locked within her what was rightfully his.

“Your sullen manner does not please me, wife. I thought you above such pathetic displays of womanly weaknesses.”

“Nay,
husband
, I am naught but a woman and naught but your whore,” she said, her face turning into the pillow.

“You do not know the meaning of the words you have spoken.” Magnus rose from the bed to clean himself.

“I know the term. I know what I am. I am only at a loss as to why,” she said into the pillow. Her voice was heavy with fatigue, which stirred in him a sentiment he was unfamiliar with: guilt.

“Why do you care what my manner is?” she continued. “Why did you select me as your wife? I have nothing that cannot be had from any other of your household whores. Why not go to them? Your seed once a day is more than enough to plant your child within me.”

“If you think I treat you as my whore, you are mistaken. Yet, if you prefer the title ‘whore’ over that of ‘mistress of this house,’ it shall be so.” Magnus tugged back the bed linen. This sullen display was nothing more than female manipulation, her weapon of choice. He had naught to be guilty for. She was attempting to control him.

Magnus shut his eyes and slept. Leastwise, he wanted her to believe he slept.

***

Lida enjoyed spending time in Katia’s chamber in the morning. Tero had been right, as he was with most things. The light in this chamber was lovely. This morn, as on many others, she sat at her daughter’s window seat embroidering, allowing her mind to wander.

Aching for a connection with Magnus was a hopeless affair. It was astonishing that she could spend so much time with a person and yet feel more alone than ever before.

The door burst open and Janetta, the newly appointed nurse, entered with a huff. On catching sight of her mistress, she corrected to a more sheepish expression. “Good morn, Friherrinna.” She curtsied. “I beg your pardon, I had only left the child for a moment. I went to the kitchen—”

“Do not worry yourself, Janetta,” Lida said. “Never hesitate to summon me. I was simply sewing alone in my chamber. I thought the two of you had departed for the stables or I would have been happy to bring my embroidery to the nursery sooner,” Lida said, trying to reassure the flustered young nurse.

The young, dark-haired nursemaid, who was dressed in an overly tight fitted bodice and belt that thrust her breasts up high, much like her mother Klara, smiled in relief. “I was gone for but a few moments. I would not think to disturb you in the master’s chamber. I only wanted to fetch Katia a few carrots to feed her favorite horses.”

“Splendid.” Lida bounced up to her feet. “Shall I join you?”

Janetta tilted her head down. “I beg your pardon. Master Tero requested you in his council chamber. At your convenience.”

“Very well.” Lida patted the young nurse on the shoulder. “I shall go speak with Tero and then come find you in the stables. Have a pleasant time, you two.”

“Mama.” Katia handed her a drawing of two kittens. “Give this to Tero for me.”

“Lovely, Katia. How did you blend this color?” Lida asked.

“Jarl Magnus gave Tero these.” Katia showed her mother a collection of small earthen vessels with colored ash and powders to make water paints—truly a rare treasure.

“Oh, my love,” Lida said. “You must take extra care with this gift.”

“I will, Mama,” Katia said.

After Janetta had taken her daughter’s hand and led her out of the chamber, Lida wandered down the stairs to the steward’s chamber on the main level, deep in thought. Her husband continued to make no sense to her. The colored pastels were yet another rare gift . . . If Katia’s presence bothered the jarl so very much, why all the thoughtful gifts?

Lida tapped on the frame of the open door to the large, warm, and inviting study. “Janetta said you wished to see me.”

Tero looked up from his correspondence. Everything was neatly arranged on top of his large desk. Lida had come to understand that everything in Tronscar had its designed purpose and place, including her.

“Thank you for coming, Mistress Lida.” Tero stood formally to greet her. “May I fetch you refreshments? Some wine, perhaps?”

“Nay, my thanks, Tero. But do not let me stop you.”

“Nay, I thought . . . Well, you . . . We have not spoken in many days and I . . .” Tero spoke with his tongue in knots. It was the first time Lida could remember seeing him nervous.

“Is something the matter, Tero? Did you receive a letter from Finland? Is that why you have summoned me? Is it my mother?” Lida grew worried with the steward’s rare display of skittish behavior.

“Nay, nay, everything is well. I wanted to have a frank discussion about your . . . your comfort in Tronscar.” The pained expression on the man’s face made no sense.

“I am comfortable, Tero. As you see. I have more ridiculous gowns than any woman could possibly wear.” She held up the side of her dark blue silk gown, a luxurious garment with fur-lined cuffs and collar. It was a gown more fit for a royal wedding than selecting the fish menu for the evening ahead. “So why not tell me what is bothering you, my friend?”

Tero was a silver-tongued devil to be sure, but he genuinely cared for Katia and continually plied them both with additions to their wardrobes, soap selection, and jewelry collections, plus hair combs and all the other useless bits. He was thoughtful to the point of obsessed.

“Well, you have been wed to the jarl for over a full moon cycle and I only wish . . . to be of service in supplying any special requests. Perhaps a specific sweet cake from the kitchen?” Tero no longer looked her in the eye.

“Tero, are you trying to ask me when my female courses are to begin? Is this your important assignment of the day?” She lost the softness in her voice, replacing it with impatience. Not for poor, hardworking Tero, but for the barbarian that employed the fine steward.

“Apologies, Friherrinna,” he muttered.

“
Lida
, Tero. Simply Lida, if you please. My thanks, but you can shove the Friherrinna bit up your . . . your . . . nose. You may tell your almighty jarl that if he wishes to know his wife’s monthly schedule that he may ask me himself. I do not need his steward to log down my cycle’s dates in his ledger.” Lida began to storm out.

“I shan’t record it,” Tero said meekly.

“I have a hard time believing that, Tero,” Lida said. She turned to the exit, only to find the jarl filling the door frame. She stared blankly at him. She was beginning to get very good at that.

“So?” He raised his eyebrow, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited.

“So?” she answered.

“My whores make mention of when they bleed, so that I may make other arrangements.”

“Is that so,” she said, borrowing a healthy portion of Klara’s sarcasm. She stepped to the side to walk around him.

“We have been wed for more than a month.” His words stopped her. At the opposite end of the room, poor Tero was trying to look busy with papers.

“I have slept little,” she said in a low, even tone, attempting to hold on to a small measure of privacy. “And I traveled a most taxing voyage across the gulf, away from my homeland forever. My body is trying to adjust to my new situation.”

“You will tell me when you are expected to bleed,” he growled at her.

“I dare say, Jarl Magnus,” she said, her frustration getting the better of her sound judgment, “one morn soon enough you will see evidence of it yourself after you rut on top of me.” She swept her skirts aside to step around him.

He grabbed her shoulders and pinned her in place, his nostrils rapidly taking air in and out.

Magnus had never wanted to shake a woman more in his life. “You will learn to tame your disrespectful tongue, wife. Or shall I cut it out for you?” Her cold indifference was infecting him with her wretchedness.

“I recall once hearing you say you did not harm weaker vessels. Or was I mistaken?”

“I have never found a woman in need of so much discipline before. Even in my best stable, a whip is needed to tame a vicious nag.”

“Do it then,” she said, her voice even but her cheeks flaming red with her rising rage. “Who cares for the added strain it will inflict on my system? Be done with it. You are the master; whatever brings you pleasure.” She spoke in her cursedly serene tone. He had liked the sound of her voice when they first wed, but now he wished to prevent her from ever making words again.

Magnus grabbed Lida’s arm and pulled her from his steward’s chamber. He marched her across the hall and began to drag his misbehaving wife up the stairs. “Serviceable and submissive,” he muttered, “that was all I asked.”

“I sooner believe in faeries than the fable of a submissive wife,” he said, more to himself than to her.

“Aye, you will find them with the spirit creature known as the rational husband,” she murmured in return.

He tossed her over his shoulder, taking the steps two by two.

She made not a sound.

He dropped her to the floor of their private chamber and followed her, bending down on one knee. Reaching over her, he pulled the ties out of her hair, yanked off her gold belt, and tore her silk gown down the center of the bodice.

Dropping nearly all his weight on her, he kissed her. She owed him his due and his rightful respect.

Magnus groaned out his dissatisfaction as she twisted her head to the side, refusing his kiss.

“You are my wife! I will have you whenever I please.”

She covered her face with her arms. The sight angered and disgusted him further. He pulled her arms, away, revealing her flawless cheeks wet with tears, instantly draining away his lust.

Pushing up off the floor, he shouted, “The sight of your tears sickens me.”

He left her balled up on the floor, slammed the chamber door behind him, and stood motionless in the corridor, his heart hammering behind his breastbone.

He hated her. That one fact was certain. He hated her for being the root of his own self-loathing. She provoked him and in his weakness, she conquered his self-restraint, turned him wild with savage lust. He had never hated a woman before. But she was his greatest enemy, and his moral center would not allowed himself to kill her, or even beat her. He envisioned tossing her from his chamber window and . . . and then he would have to go collect her from the lower bailey and bring her back inside. He could not live in this chamber without her.

She had conquered him. Oh, how he despised her for it.

Magnus marched down to the end of the corridor to the child’s chamber, relieved to find it empty. He went to the hearth and opened the decorative silver box that rested on top of the mantel and removed the contemptible leather band. He stared at the worthless leather that was at fault for creating this unrest with his wife.. His father had been correct. Women, alluring women, were the world’s greatest threat. His father’s voice echoed in his ears, retelling of the account of evil Eve and her destruction of Adam.
“Women are agents of Satan, sent to test a man’s inner strength.”

Bloody hell, women are unbearable to live with.

He was ashamed that he could not send her away, nor remove her from his bed. His hunger for her consumed him; his thirst for her taste, her sounds, her sweet breath that escaped her at the moment of her climax, was unquenched.

Curse her to Hades.

She tormented him all the way down to his soul. Ensnaring him with a fleeting glimpse of her sensuality, she had enslaved him for life and now punished him by locking it away.

He returned to his chamber and found a half-naked woman huddled on the floor. Her clothing was torn to the waist, her hair in disarray, and she held her knees to her chest. Concealing her face, she said nothing, did not even acknowledge his presence.

He cursed under his breath. Bright red marks marred the delicate skin of her back, and she had a long scratch down her spine. A part of him raged to kill the man who had injured her, his mind rejecting the knowledge that it had been him. He had lost control and treated her roughly, and in so doing had injured the flesh of her back. Bile rose up from his stomach.

Crouching down next to her, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She flinched. He had created that reaction. She had proven him a liar—he had harmed a weaker vessel.

At a loss as to what to do next, he tossed the leather band to the ground. “Conceal the worship of your dead man from my eyes. Do not let me see it again.”

***

Lida spent the remainder of the day alone, abstaining from the midday meal. She bathed and dressed in the plainest gown she could find, soft yellow linen fringed with a sky blue trim. The delicate, loose fabric felt soothing against her sore back.

Sitting on the silk cushion that lined the window seat, she braided her hair slowly. The mindless grooming calmed her spirits.

Truly, what had she expected? It had been unexpected when the jarl had been gentle and more rousing than boorish. She did not care for his good opinion of her, did she? She needed to stop wasting time wishing for a deeper, more affectionate experience with the jarl. It was never going to happen.

She considered him a respectable leader, but that did not change the fact that she had knowingly wed a haughty, proud, and contemptible man.

Her mother certainly would not have approved of her mocking display to the jarl earlier. Most men, especially powerful men, would have beaten a wife soundly for such an insult. The jarl had shown considerable restraint, now that she thought on it.

Staring at Urho’s leather wristband, she tried to make sense of it all. What did the bracelet mean to Magnus—why had he kept it, and why had he returned it?

Conceal the worship of your dead man from my eyes.
He must believe the bracelet was a symbol of her enduring love for Urho.

Heaven help her. Magnus was jealous.

She squeezed her eyes shut and felt Magnus holding her head in his mighty hands, controlling their kiss, then relaxing his hold to massage the back of her head and neck as his tongue caressed the inside of her mouth. The memory of his powerful growl sent a flood of moisture between her legs.

How could she want him?

He hated her. The way he looked at her could leave no doubt. He hated her, and she hated him. Hated him with a passion—and she had never hated anyone before.

Her mother’s voice softly sang out in her head.
“So near are love and hate, the two most powerful and devastating emotions that control men, nations, life.”
Her mother had spent countless hours poring over ancient philosophy texts. Useless scraps of paper, in Lida’s opinion.

“If you wish to be loved, Lida, you must first love,”
whispered the wind outside her window.
Oh, rot it!
She tossed the leather band across the chamber.

Why are men so hard to figure out?

A dulcet knock on the door startled her from her inner debate.

Klara entered. “Am I disturbing you? The jarl said you are unwell. Shall I send Mikko up with a tray for you?”

“Foolish me. I have lost track of the hour. Where is Katia?”

“Eating her meal.”

“My thanks for alerting me.” Lida brushed the wrinkles from her gown and straightened her shoulders.

“The jarl would have a maid assigned to you, to see after all your private matters. No one knows how to take care of the lady of this keep better than I.”

“So he has sent you to spy on the development of my monthly courses as well?” Lida let out a defeated sigh.

The housekeeper placed her hands on her hips. “’Tis my place to help.”

“I will not hesitate to ask for what I need when the time comes. My thanks.”

“Men, always underestimating us women,” Klara said, shaking out Lida’s torn gown, which she had hung over the back of her chair.

“I fear I will never understand the jarl,” Lida said.

“Shall I enlighten you? Suppose you are an idiot, then suppose you are a man. But I repeat myself.” Klara tossed her hands in the air and settled them back to her hips.

Lida blurted out a giggle.

“At last, the jarl found a hardy wife. ’Tis necessary to survive the black winters of Tronscar,” Klara said. The housekeeper’s company and humorous wit were much appreciated—they might be all Lida had to survive the winter.

“Is that what I am, ‘hardy’? I have never felt more useless in my life. I worked every day on my family’s farm, and, I will admit, I liked it. This wastefulness of one’s time has left me melancholy.”

“Right, and this slaving the day away leaves me so cheerful,” the hardworking housekeeper said. Lida deserved that small barb for her thoughtless complaining. Her friend did not hold it against her, and placed her hand kindly on Lida’s shoulder as they strolled down the long corridor. Klara ran her hand down her spine, and Lida jumped a little when the hand skimmed over her sore back. She turned her face to hide her pain.

Klara’s smile widened, knowing the stupid woman would miss the pleasure that now spread across her face. She had the proof of what she’d suspected: the jarl had beaten his fancy wife. Served the worthless cow right.

Descending the stairs, Klara triumphed internally over how quickly her plan was falling into place. The jarl was displeased with his new foreign wife. Her goal to cleanse Tronscar of this unworthy whore and put into place its rightful mistress—her blood, her daughter—was well within hand.

Klara had arrived in this realm with the intent of becoming the Mistress of Tronscar, yet the weak-willed Knut had only taken her to his bed for a few months. He took her maidenhood, her youth, and set her aside for a fancy, highborn Danish whore.
“A proper wife,”
he called her. Well, Klara may not be able to become the friherrinna of Norrland, but one of her daughters would. The legacy of her family was the only thing worth working for.

Aye, there was still time. She would continue to make sure the jarl was well fed and well bed. She would make ready a new warm body to comfort him when this latest one was swept away with the inevitable winter squall.

Alongside her enemy, the Finnish trash, Klara made her final steps into the hall. There were a number of ways to cleanse this stain from the jarl’s bed. The only question that remained was, what would be the swiftest method?