Dixie Browning – Dark, Devastating & Delicious!: The Marriage Medallion / Between Duty and Desire / Driven to Distraction (страница 5)

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.