Harrik opened his eyes. Light flickered against pale canvas. Outside the wind whistled through the branches of the trees, rustling their new leaves. He lay on a bed of furs. A good fire burned in the centre of the pavilion, scenting the enclosure with smoke…and something else. Something rare and unfamiliar that at once disturbed his mind and made him feel profoundly awake.
Harrik sat up. His hands were not bound, which he would have expected, for surely he was a prisoner. He had no memory of how he had got here. He remembered finding the stone, and seeing the raven, but then all was darkness.
The unfamiliar scent reached him again and he breathed it in. It was like cloves, and like amber, but neither of these. It appealed, like the scent of a good meal just cooked, or, even more, the scent of a woman close by.
Harrik shook his head. It was distracting. If they had left him his hands, whoever brought him here, they would learn they should not, even though they had thought so far as to deny him his sword.
He got himself to his feet, but before he could take a step, the pavilion opened to reveal a woman. The rich scent grew suddenly sharper, as if she carried it with her, and for a moment Harrik felt dizzy. Then he recognized the slim form and the golden hair. This was Wulfget’s woman. What was her name? Had he even heard it?
But it meant that Wolfget held him, and it meant he must be careful still what he said.
The woman, however, spoke first. ‘Welcome Harrik, Hullward’s son,’ she said and her voice was low and clear, and truly did seem full of welcome. Her eyes that reflected the firelight also seemed to hold welcome, but of a very different sort.
Harrik reminded himself again that he was not a boy nor a fool and pushed himself to his feet. He towered over her. She had not seemed so small nor so delicate when he had seen her before as she did now, moving to a table where cups waited with a skin of wine. Harrik stared, fascinated. He had not remembered her skin being so fair either, nor her hands so supple as they lifted the skin and deftly poured the wine, red as blood, red as her gentle mouth, into the cups for them to share.
‘Why have I been brought here?’ he remembered to ask. ‘Where is Wulfweard?’
‘My husband will be along presently.’ She lifted a cup in her pale hand and held it out to him. She seemed luminescent, absorbing the firelight and returning it softened and a more pure white than it had been. Her mouth was so red…had she already drunk some wine? Was that what stained her lips and turned them so inviting a shade?
She saw where his gaze lingered. How could she not? Harrik cursed himself and tried to look away, but she moved towards him with the grace of a doe. Her dress was simple, a plain fawn wool. It outlined her round breasts and a flat belly that had never yet known children. The braided belt served only to draw the skirt more tightly over her full, smooth hips that swayed ever so slightly as she approached, bringing all the scents of wine and spices, smoke and amber with her.
‘Will you drink with me, Hullward’s son?’ she asked softly, her eyes dipped, almost shy as she held out the cup. He should not take it. He must not. There was something wrong here, in the air, in his blood, in this woman’s presence. He tightened his hands into fists. If only he could think what it must be. If only her perfume were less strong, if only she herself were less lovely.
‘Surely there is no harm in sharing what is offered?’ she said with a small smile. ‘I shall drink myself and you will see.’ She lifted the cup to her full and smiling mouth. Harrik could not help but watch the way her tongue parted her red, red lips just a little in anticipation of the wine’s touch. She sipped delicately but long. He watched the way light and shadow played across her throat as she swallowed and. his clenched hands ached to trace the wine’s path down between her breasts to her belly and lower yet, to know what she kept between her round thighs, to hear what she said in love…
‘Now, you drink for me, Harrik.’ She held out the cup and looked boldly into his eyes, her mouth still parted just a little so he could see her white teeth. A drop of wine clung to the corner of her mouth. It shimmered there like a ruby and he stared at it, mesmerized.
The woman noted that his gaze lingered there on her mouth, and her eyes widened, playfully, knowingly. With her free hand, she reached up and wiped the drop away, then held up the tip of her wine-stained finger before him.
‘Drink, Harrik,’ she murmured, her voice rich with promise. ‘Let me know what manner of man you are.’
Slowly, as in a dream, Harrik touched his lips to the tip of her finger. The wine tasted sweet, like honey, and her skin beneath was soft and warm. She sighed at his kiss, her eyes closing in pleasure. He took her hand between his own. It was light as the petal of a white rose and smooth as silk. Like silk, it was sensuous to the touch, inviting the hands to caress it, to press it, to wrap one’s whole self in its luxury.
She opened her eyes and all her pleasure of him seemed to shine in the sparks lit by the fire.
‘Take what you want,’ she whispered to him. ‘It is all before you, and then I will be yours and you will be mine. Come, Harrik my love. Hold nothing back.’
Her words undid him. Harrik laced his fingers in her golden hair and pulled her to him, kissing her hard. Her mouth opened eagerly to his, her tongue touching lips and teeth even as she made a sound like a laugh and threw her arms around him. She tasted of wine, salt and myrrh. Harrik felt himself rise and harden and his blood sang as the whole of her body pressed against him, rubbing, teasing, promising, ready. He could think of nothing else, desired nothing else but the silken warmth of her skin, the salt and sweet of her body. The thought of her surrounding him aroused him as if he were a youth again, and as she laid herself down onto the furs, he knelt as if in fealty and followed willingly where she led.
Daylight faded from the world with painful slowness. Rhian lingered over her sewing while the rush lights and the hour candle burned low around her. She sent Aeldra running for wine, for a posset, for a lavender-rinsed cloth for her brow, pretending that a headache kept her from seeking sleep.
At last, because she could think of nothing else, she sent Aeldra for a bed warmer. Alone, she tried to think. Rhian did not want to tell Aeldra any more than she already knew. When the household discovered Rhian gone, Aeldra would be the first one questioned, and Aeldra would not lie to her lord and lady. To do so was to risk being turned out of the hall to fend for herself in the hedgerows. Which left the question of how Rhian could send the maid away long enough to make her escape. She could not even allow herself be put to bed in her nightclothes, because she would have to dress alone and in the dark afterwards. It would take an age when every second would be precious.
Aeldra, however, solved her dilemma for her. She returned, not with the bed warmer, but with a brown cloak draped over her arms.
‘If my lady were to choose to wear this,’ Aeldra said quietly. ‘Anyone who saw her might think they were seeing one of the serving women instead.’
Stunned, Rhian accepted the cloak, a lump rising in her throat. ‘They will question you.’
Aeldra folded her hands in her familiar way. ‘And I will say my mistress said she went to meet young my Lord Vernus in the charcoal burner’s shed by the well of St Ethelrede.’
‘It will be a lie,’ Rhian whispered.
‘Not if you say it now.’
Slowly, Rhian repeated her maid’s words. ‘I’m sorry, Aeldra,’ she said, laying the brown cloak in her lap. ‘I knew you were my friend, but did not realize how true a friend.’
The maid’s smile was kind. ‘Young women seldom understand such things. Especially when the friend is apt to be exacting and sharp of tongue.’
Rhian glanced at the slash-marked candle beside her bed. It had been burning for three hours, and had been lit at twilight. ‘Is it safe now, think you?’
Aeldra leaned towards the door and put her hand to her ear in a practised gesture. ‘I hear no one.’
Rhian