Paying the Viking's Price. Michelle Styles

to stoop.

      Everything about her screamed arrogance and inclined to overestimate her own intelligence in relation to his. She was about to learn an important lesson in humility. She’d assumed that he should be kissing her feet in gratitude earlier when she offered to marry him. No, they did this his way. He had made his plans.

      ‘I am happy to show you the stores, but you must know they are depleted after the winter. You may inspect the ledgers and they will show you that they are in my hand.’ Her full lips turned up even more insolently. ‘Can you read Latin? Or do you wish to call your scribe?’

      ‘That is my concern.’ Brand retained a narrow leash on his temper. ‘I very much wish to inspect the entirety of my new lands.’

      He did not believe for one heartbeat that she could read or write. What sort of woman did? She merely wanted to show him up and gain time to remove whatever treasure she had hidden, treasure which now belonged to him. Egbert of Breckon had cut down Brand’s best friend, Sven, while crying for peace. Hrearek had reached him first and cut him down but Sven had been the closest thing he had had to a brother. He could never forgive the treachery that had cost him the one person he held dear.

      ‘I’ve nothing to fear from the truth.’

      He leant forwards so that their breath touched. ‘We start with the ledgers.’

      Her colour heightened, infusing her cheeks with a dusky pink. If she shed the wimple, she’d be beautiful, Brand realised with a start as his body responded anew to her nearness.

      Was there a reason she had deliberately wanted him to overlook her feminine charms? He wanted a willing bed partner, rather than one he’d forced. But then seeing how her breath quickened, she was not entirely immune to him either. Suddenly the possibilities became much more intriguing.

      He raised an eyebrow and the flush deepened. She dipped her head, breaking the contact.

      ‘Very well, the ledgers.’ She motioned to one of the servants and spoke to him in a low voice. The man bowed and hurried off. ‘It may take a little time, Lord Bjornson.’

      ‘I’ve time.’

      ‘Would you like to sit? I’m sure you and your men are thirsty. My late husband was always thirsty whenever he returned to the hall.’ She gestured towards a stool with a little wave of her hand before ordering one of her elderly servants to fetch some mead. ‘Please give us a chance to welcome your lordship properly. Now that we know who you are.’

      The gesture and the words reminded him of his father’s wife and the way she ruled his father’s steading, always making him feel like an outsider with no real right to be there. He’d left that past long ago. He was the lord and master here, rather than the son of a thrall who had no right to be in the hall. He’d earned the right to respect with his sword arm. Brand gave his head a little shake to rid his mind of the memory.

      ‘I have no problems with standing, but my men require some refreshment. The road brings a thirst and hunger. We must have meat.’

      ‘A good leader looks after his men first.’ Her smile did not reach her grey eyes. ‘Meat takes time. We live simply here and it is Lent. Nothing has been slaughtered since Michaelmas.’

      ‘Time we have.’ Brand inclined his head. ‘In due course after I have assessed the supplies, I will arrange for several animals to be slaughtered. My men need to celebrate my good fortune. They expect to feast well.’

      ‘The considerations of Lent mean nothing?’

      Brand considered the question. ‘Should they? My men do not share your religion.’

      ‘As you wish.’ She strode over to where a leather stool rested and sat. A queen or his father’s wife could not have done it better. ‘There appears to be little point standing on ceremony. My late husband used to enjoy sitting.’

      ‘I’m not your late husband.’

      Her neat white teeth worried her bottom lip and for the first time, he saw the shadows in her eyes. ‘No, you’re not. We must all consider you fortunate then.’

      ‘Meaning?’ Brand tried to remember what he knew of the man. Lord Egbert had obviously inspired men to follow him. The men left in the hall were the ones who were either too old or too young to fight. But he knew little of the measure of the man or how he’d dealt with his wife. He had been the one to break the truce. Hrearek was quite clear on that.

      ‘My husband died and you are alive. The hall now is under your rule.’ Her hands clenched together so tightly that the white knuckles stood out. ‘What did you think I meant?’

      ‘Thank you for the explanation.’ He’d allow the explanation to stand for now. But it was clear Lady Edith was no grieving widow. Were her earlier words about not supporting the rebellion true? Lately Halfdan had used marriage between the Vikings and the Northumbrians as a way of ensuring peace, but he’d kept her existence from him.

      Had Halfdan actually remembered about Brand’s plans for the future? How he hoped to marry Sigfrieda? Brand narrowed his eyes. Or was there something else? Something that Halfdan knew about this woman that he had chosen to keep to himself?

      Lady Edith picked up a spindle, looking for all the world like a woman who had plenty of time and fewer cares. However, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead betrayed her nerves. Brand smiled inwardly. Her play-acting skills were no rival for the courtiers at the Byzantium court.

      ‘Shall we speak about the changes to Eoferwic...I mean Jorvik?’ She gave her spindle a fierce twist. ‘I understand King Halfdan has completely remade the city after the Norsemen burnt it to the ground.’

      ‘There we must agree to differ. It was the Northumbrians who burnt the city when they attempted to take it. I was there on the walls, my lady.’

      Her eyes flashed, betraying her annoyance. ‘It was our city. The Norsemen attacked on All Saints’ Day when we were at church. I was there with my mother and father. No civilised person attacks on such a holy day.’

      ‘Your god is not Halfdan’s. Do you respect Thor’s feast days?’

      ‘That is beside the point.’ She gave the spindle a vicious twist and the thread broke, sending it bouncing across the floor. A small cry escaped her lips.

      Brand bent and retrieved it, holding the neatly spun wool in his hand. It was unusual for any woman to speak so boldly to him, but Lady Edith was refreshing. All too often women uttered inanities and deferred to him. Spineless, but calculating. He learnt that lesson well in Constantinople. Lady Edith had already revealed the steel she had as a spine. She was forged from the same metal as his father’s wife and he should never forget that.

      Lady Edith needed to learn that she no longer held any power in this hall. Her intelligence about the halls and its lands being more prosperous than it appeared failed to surprise him. He had seen the richness of the soil and suspected that the sheep grew thick fleeces. The very air breathed fertility.

      For how much was this woman responsible? And how much did she want to unjustly claim?

      Brand had met many capable women in Byzantium who were involved up to their pretty necks in palace intrigue, but he had never heard of a Northumbrian woman doing such a thing. Their priests frowned on it or so he understood. It was a mystery and he disliked mysteries, particularly ones which included beautiful women. Invariably they attempted to use their looks to gain what they wanted. Given the way the spindle bounced and the thread tangled, he doubted if Lady Edith spent much time spinning.

      ‘I wish to learn everything about my new estate,’ he said with a bow. ‘Perhaps we should converse about that while we wait rather than long-ago history which neither of us can change.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ Her pale pink lips curved up into a superior smile. ‘Here comes John with the latest ledger.’

      The servant handed her the book. Lady Edith placed it on the trunk with a thump. With a slight tremor in her hand, she opened the pages