Garrick stopped at the door, an amused smirk on his face. “We have not tangled yet, Brenna Carmarham. But when the time comes, I think I will enjoy it.”
She forgot the dog for a moment and snapped, “So will I, Viking!”
Garrick laughed heartily and looked at the animal on the bed. “Guard her well, dog.” He grinned, then closed the door, leaving the girl and the beast alone.
Achill wind coming in through the balcony door woke Brenna. She shivered, then quickly tucked her cold bare feet under her shift. As she lay there tucked in a ball for warmth, the door opened and Brenna looked up. Garrick stood there holding a large tray of food. He ordered the shepherd out, then kicked the door shut with his heel and put the tray down on the table.
“What have you against fresh air, mistress?” he asked sourly, not looking at her, and opened the balcony door.
“What haveyouagainst a little warmth?” she returned flippantly.
Suddenly he grinned at her. “I fear you will perish come winter, girl, if you think this fine weather is cold.”
She shivered at his words. Howwouldshe bear up come winter? Being so far north, the long, cold months would be nothing like those she enjoyed at home. And if what both Wyndham and Garrick told her was true, there would be no sun during that time to help melt the snow away.
“Come and eat, mistress,” Garrick said, pulling the two new thronelike chairs over to the table.
“Have yourguestsfinally departed?” Brenna questioned, saying the word with the disgust and loathing she felt.
“Yea, my household has returned to normal. We will eat first, and then we will talk.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “About what?”
“You and your new life here—what will be expected of you. ’Tis time we settle things.”
Oh, Lord! She sensed another battle was at hand, and in truth, she was not up to it. Would she always have to lock wills with this man? She had yet to have a day of peace since the day her father died, and she did so yearn for one.
Brenna sighed and joined Garrick at the little table. He had brought two large bowls filled with the normal daily breakfast, a porridge made of oatmeal. There was also warmed leftover pheasant and a full loaf of hard barley bread for them to share. When Brenna reached for her tankard and found warm milk in it as before, she grimaced.
She shot Garrick an accusing look. “What am I thought to be that I am given milk like a babe?”
“I have milk myself, mistress,” he replied, raising a tankard like hers. “’Tis thought to be a healthful drink.”
“I hate milk!” she snapped. “Are women not allowed wine or mead here?”
He leaned back in his chair, a little smirk on his lips. “Yea, they are. But slaves are not.”
She had a strong urge to throw the warm milk in his face to wipe away that smirk. She wondered briefly how he would react to that, then decided it would not go well for her. She damned the fates again, then attacked the meal, anxious to be done with it altogether.
Garrick watched her silently as he ate, noting the high color on her cheeks. It did not take much to ignite her temper. Just the mention of her new status was enough. He had never known a woman with so much misplaced pride and arrogance. That she belonged to him was something he had yet to decide he appreciated.
He remembered how she looked when he came late in the night and found her curled in a small ball on the bed. Her face had been so childlike, her beauty so unreal. But then he recalled how she looked when he found her below yesterday—all spit and fire, wildly defiant. Even then he had to admire her beauty, the fiery sparks reflected in her silver eyes, the high color of her face caused by her fury. He was angered to his very core to find her arguing with his mother. But then he stopped to listen to her words describing the ordeal she had suffered, what she had lost at the hands of his father. Some of his anger died then, but was quickly rekindled when she threatened his brother.
To think that a slave of his would dare to accost his family! Then to have his mother defend her, to stay his hand from the beating the girl deserved. Still, it was fortunate that his mother was there, for as infuriated as he was, he would surely have hurt the wench seriously, only to regret it later.
“Well, are you going to lay your law down on me now?”
Her saucy question made him smile, which brought his dimples out. “Will you accept my law?”
“I will hear you out first, then you shall have an answer,” she replied in a toneless voice.
“Very well,” he said, leaning back in the chair again. “To begin with, there will be no more tantrums of the kind you have shown me thus far.”
“I do not throw tantrums, Viking. I speak my mind,” she returned calmly.
“The word Viking on your lips is a curse, mistress. I will hear it no more.”
“I will not call you master!” she hissed, saying the word with loathing.
