He started. ‘Your whorls are not tattoos? In Bernicia I was told—’
She gave her first real smile. ‘Amazing what people will believe without questioning. How could anyone have venomous snakes for hair?’
Aedan frowned. He’d believed it simply because it was a rumour. He should have thought to question. Or when she was unconscious, to check for himself. Fundamental mistake. ‘It is what I was told.’
‘My mother refused to permit the tattoos as one day I might have cause to change my mind. I railed against her, but to no avail. I was going to make them permanent after I’d fulfilled my vow and won my lands,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Once again I see her wisdom and foresight.’ She picked up a handful of moss and made an imperious gesture. ‘The water, Gael. The sooner my face is clean, the sooner we can depart on the road north.’
Aedan stared at her. ‘I’m not your servant.’
‘No, but you’re my father’s. Why else wouldn’t you have a horse?’
It was on the tip of his tongue to her inform her of the truth that he owned estates and many horses on Ile, but then he decided that it was not worth it. Their acquaintance wouldn’t be longer than strictly necessary. The less she knew of him and his true reasons for the quest to find her and return her to her father, the better.
‘Why indeed?’ he murmured instead. Leaving Mor to guard his reluctant companion, he fetched water from the edge of the mist-shrouded marsh.
She poured it on the moss and began to rub her face. Rivulets of blue and black trickled down her cheeks and neck. He shook his head, disgusted with his blindness. ‘Paint. Such a simple, obvious trick.’
‘But highly effective.’ She concentrated on removing the paint. ‘It gave my face a fierceness that men respected.’
She dried her face on the corner of her tunic. Then, with quick fingers, she undid the tight plaits in her hair so that it hung about her face like a golden wavy cloud.
‘Do I look like the same woman?’
Aedan tried not to gape in surprise. The woman who regarded him had a certain vulnerability to her mouth. Her other features were a bit angular, but her skin was no longer stretched tight from the plaits. Before he’d only noticed the strange whorls of the tattoos; now he noticed her—and very delectable she was, too. Aedan struggled to remember when he had last seen a woman with skin that translucent. It was little wonder that her mother had kept Dagmar’s beauty hidden, surrounded as she was by so many men.
‘It will make it easier to travel unnoticed,’ he said, busying himself with checking the pack. His body’s intense reaction to her was because he’d been without a woman for far too long, that was all. ‘The marsh awaits, my lady fair.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘But there is no need. I have disguised myself.’
‘We must still go through the marshes. The mist is lifting. We need to make the most of the daylight.’
‘Those men spoke the truth. They are treacherous. People have perished. Several of my mother’s men lost their way last spring and only one body was ever found.’ She gave her imperious nod as if she expected him to obey her without question.
Aedan gritted his teeth. She would soon learn he was no brainless servant who would fawn over her every utterance.
‘We go around,’ she proclaimed, tilting her chin arrogantly upwards. ‘To the south, rather than to the north if we must.’
‘My dog has an excellent nose. She got me through them before. She will get us through again.’ He forced his tone to be gentle as though he was soothing a frightened horse. ‘If Olafr believes you survived, he will check all the roads. He will know that you will make for your father.’
She was silent for a long time. ‘Olafr knows that would be my last resort. He might consider the south and Halfdan at Eoforwic. My mother had dealings with him six warring seasons ago. The road south will be difficult, but he won’t be looking for me when I look like this.’
‘Who do you resemble?’
She lowered her brow. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘Your mother may have confided the paint trick to him. You can’t discount it.’
‘I look like my father’s mother except for my hair.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I get that from my mother’s mother.’ She tapped her finger against the dusky pink of her mouth. ‘But you’ve a point. He has obviously been planning this for some time. My mother may have been foolish and confided our secret to him. She was besotted. I underestimated him before, but I won’t make that mistake again.’
‘He knows your father sent me,’ he reminded her. ‘He is searching for the both of us.’
‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘We go through the marshes, even if I have to carry you every step of the way.’
‘I can walk.’
‘I carried you before.’
‘Across the back of a horse, a horse which is presently elsewhere. I can make it difficult for you, Gael. Give in to my sensible request. I tend to win.’
That he did not doubt. Her strong jawline told of an inner strength and stubbornness.
‘It is best that we are gone before they work out their mistake. Before the mist comes down. Unless you wish to throw yourself on Olafr’s mercy, you will join me.’
He whistled for Mor and started off. His heart thumped in his ears. She had to believe the bluff. He couldn’t afford to leave her, but going through the marshes would save precious time and the one commodity he lacked was time if he was to beat Kolbeinn at his game.
‘Are you abandoning me?’ Her voice held a plaintive note.
‘I’m going the way which leads to safety, the only way open to us. Decide—do you want to live to enact your revenge against Olafr or do you wish to die, slowly and painfully?’
‘Wait! I’ll brave the marshes,’ she called.
Dagmar carefully picked her way through the bog with its squelching mud and hidden pools of bad water, following in the Gael’s footsteps, trying not to think about all the tales and legends she had heard about this place.
Old Alf had delighted in reciting them when they skirted around it earlier in the season—tales of unquiet ghosts and elves who lured men into the deep where they drowned. A king’s army had once ridden in and had never been seen again. However, on the days when the mist rolled out, then the sound of their dying cries echoed across the land.
She concentrated on the Gael’s broad shoulders and the way his cloak swung instead. The man moved far too arrogantly as if the entire world should bow to him. Women probably melted under his gaze and populated his bed. She’d encountered the type before. Her body’s earlier reaction to the Gael was definitely a result of the blow to her head. She’d be immune to him from now on.
‘Does your dog have a name?’ she called out when the Gael halted beside a particularly malodorous bog. She was certain he’d chosen to stop there simply to be awkward. The Gael was like that.
The mist had started to rise, obscuring even the limited view. The small wisps of cold resembled humans with outstretched hands. A few loons called out over the marsh, sounding precisely like men begging for help.
‘Mor,’ he answered without bothering to glance back. ‘My dog is called Mor. She is a wolfhound and dislikes imperious people from the north.’
‘I’m not imperious!’
He raised a brow. ‘That is for