Ice Maiden. Debra Brown Lee

back over his shoulder.

      “I refuse to submit to such a thing! He’ll not touch me.” Rika fisted her hands at her sides and seized George’s gaze. He was certain, if she held it long enough, those crystalline eyes would burn holes right through him.

      Her breathing grew labored, and George was all too aware of her breasts straining at her gown. ’Twas cold in the room, and before his very eyes her nipples hardened against the thick fabric. All at once, he felt something that startled and disturbed him.

      Arousal.

      He shifted on the bench and adjusted his tunic. The thought of bedding such an offensive woman—and one so tall at that—was repugnant. She was everything an alluring maiden should not be: domineering, opinionated, and with a roughness about her that was appalling in one of her sex.

      Aye, should they do the deed, the hellion would likely wish to mount him.

      His mouth went dry at the thought, and for the barest instant he recalled how her braids had grazed his chest the first moment he laid eyes on her.

      Rika stiffened, as if she read his thoughts. Unconsciously she bit her lip, and George’s eyes were drawn to her mouth yet again.

      An unsettling thought possessed him.

      Mayhap heeding Frigga’s cry would be not so disagreeable after all.

      Chapter Three

      The woman disgusted him.

      And intrigued him.

      ’Twas late and the fire in the longhouse waned, smoldering embers casting a reddish glow about the smoky room. George sat on the bench near his bed box and watched discreetly as Rika bested Ottar at some kind of board game.

      She shot him an occasional glance, her eyes frosting as they met his, then warming again in the firelight as she laughed at one of Ottar’s jokes.

      Lawmaker sat with Hannes in whispered conversation, seemingly oblivious to everything around them. But George knew better. The old man didn’t miss a trick.

      Rika had avoided all of them, save Ottar, since the incident in the brew house the afternoon before. At table she’d been silent, and when George caught her staring at him, he’d read something new in her eyes.

      Apprehension.

      It should have pleased him. After all, decent women should fear him. Respect him. But all he felt was surprise, and a mild disappointment he was at a loss to explain.

      ’Twas the talk of consummation that had changed her. Of that George was certain. Her entire demeanor seemed altered since the skald’s matter-of-fact proclamation.

      George ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. It wasn’t his idea, this bloody marriage. ’Twas hers. He wanted no part of it. He was daft to even consider such a proposal. Nay, he wouldn’t do it. There must be another way.

      He scanned the faces of the men still at table, and those seated around the fire on crudely hewn benches. Blowing snow whistled across the moors outside and flapped at the sealskin coverings draping the windows.

      A young woman rose from the central table and caught his eye. She was small and blond, exuding a delicate beauty and an air of sensuality that George found rather appealing.

      She held his gaze while she poured a draught of mead into a horn, then moved toward him with a feline grace. “Are you thirsty?” she asked, and offered him the drink.

      “Aye,” he said, and took it. Were he on his own shores, he’d consider flirting with this one. “My thanks.” He drained the horn and grimaced at the sweetness of the libation.

      “You don’t like it?” The woman pouted prettily.

      “I prefer a stout ale.”

      “My name is Lina,” she said. “Perhaps I can find you some.”

      His gaze slid unchecked over her body, and she giggled. A chill snaked its way up his spine.

      Rika.

      George glanced toward the gaming table and, sure enough, found Rika’s icy stare. Her hand closed over one of the carved stone pieces and squeezed. The message was not lost on Lina, who slipped quietly back to her place at table. Rika released the game piece.

      George marveled at the subtlety of this power play. Aye, all had been told not to speak with him, but the islanders had grown lax on that account these past two days, and Rika had seemed not to care. Until now.

      The uneasiness he’d read in her eyes just moments before had vanished. The old Rika was back. Frigid. Authoritative. Mercenary.

      All a man could want in a bride.

      George snorted and looked away. What in God’s name had he gotten himself into? He had to find a way off the island. Lina had been friendly enough. Mayhap there were others who would help him.

      He studied the small groups of men and women lounging by the fire and settled on the benches hugging the walls of the longhouse. Some smiled at him cautiously. Others scowled. He was an oddity to them. ’Twas clear the folk of Fair Isle didn’t get much company.

      George had lived among them nearly a sennight now, and one fact rang clear from the snippets of conversation he’d been privy to. Some sort of dissention was at work. Not all of the islanders spoke highly of their absent jarl.

      Brodir was his name.

      Even now, in the dim firelight, George saw two camps taking shape—those who were loyal to Brodir, and those who were not. Two of the loyalists sat watching him from their bench by the fire.

      The rougher of the two, Ingolf they called him, honed his knife on a whetstone, turning the blade slowly so that it caught the reddish light.

      The other man smiled wide, revealing a nearly toothless mouth, though by the look of him he could not have been much older than George. Thirty at most. Nay, not even.

      “Whatcha lookin’ at, Scotsman?” the toothless one said.

      George shrugged.

      Ingolf continued to eye him silently, then rose and moved toward him, pocketing the stone but not the knife. The toothless one dogged his steps.

      “Methinks we should join him,” Ingolf said to his friend. “What say you, Scotsman? Might Rasmus and I have a few words?” They did not wait for his reply, and sat one on each side of him on the bench.

      Rasmus, the toothless one, stank of seal oil and mead. George could see immediately that he was Ingolf’s puppet, and would do whatever the man bid him.

      Ingolf wiped his knife on his leather tunic, then held it up to the light. “Think you to wed the tall one?” he said, examining the blade.

      The question caught George off guard. No one had yet spoken to him of this ill-conceived match between Rika and him, but they all knew. ’Twas the talk of the island.

      Mayhap these two, unsavory though they seemed, might help him find an alternative to this sham of a wedding. George searched for the right words.

      “Well?” Rasmus said, sliding closer. “Think you to wed her?”

      Under any other circumstance, George would have wasted no time in teaching these two heathens a few Scottish manners. He could disarm them both in an instant and have them whimpering for mercy at his feet—and he would have done so had he not been outnumbered nearly twenty to one by their kinsmen.

      “Mayhap,” he said, controlling his instincts. “What of it?”

      Ingolf eyed him, and his half smile turned to something more dangerous. “I wouldn’t even dream it, Scotsman, were I in your shoes.”

      Rasmus fidgeted beside him, and let out a depraved little chuckle.

      “But ye’re no in my shoes, now are ye?” George said, and straightened his spine.

      “We