But that last time, for him to be so cruel—God, how she hated him for it. She had escaped the house the next day, and tried to dispel her anger with a wild ride on the fastest horse Erin would allow her. It had helped to a degree. She actually felt a little better when, returning, she came across Coran and offered him a ride back to the house. She remembered that now with a grin.
He had shook his head sternly, eyeing her horse with apprehension. “I will walk, Mistress Brenna,” he informed her.
“What are you doing out here in the fields?” she asked, walking her horse beside him.
“Avery and I were sent to find a cow who wandered from the pasture.”
“Did you?”
“Yea, Avery is taking her back now.”
“Come on, Coran,” she coaxed him. “I cannot bear to see you walking when ’tis unnecessary. ’Tis a good distance back to the house yet.”
“Nay,” he refused again.
Finally she guessed at his reluctance. “Have you never ridden a horse before?”
He shook his head and lowered his eyes to the ground. Coran was only a year or two older than Brenna. A lanky youth with a pleasing face, he never grumbled over his enforced servitude. She liked Coran and couldn’t help laughing at his reluctance.
“’Tis time you learned, Coran. Now come on. I will think you do not like my company if you refuse again.”
Finally he relented with a sheepish grin and she helped him up behind her. Brenna had not felt so carefree in ages, and with a mischievous glint in her gray eyes, she dug her heels into the horse and they shot forward. Coran grabbed hold of Brenna for dear life, mumbling prayers in her ear. But Brenna laughed heartily and spurred the horse on, making Coran grip her that much tighter. She did not see the rider on a hill who sat in a black fury and watched her antics with Coran. She didn’t care about anything except that her mood was made lighter for a little while, at least. But it didn’t last. As soon as she saw Garrick’s angry countenance, and found that no apology was forthcoming for his harsh treatment of her, she was enraged again herself.
Brenna sighed wistfully. For two long months he ignored her. Then he began to go hunting and stayed away for days. When he was home, he would come in very late. She would wonder then if he had been with Morna. Or perhaps he had gone to Janie or Maudya in their quarters. Mayhaps his father’s women—slaves, even Cordella—were more to his liking! Brenna would pace the floor at those times, building up a fine steam. She told herself she had every right to be upset. She could be sleeping instead of waiting for the master to find his way home.
One night in particular, when Garrick was overly late for the third night in a row, Brenna went to bed to spite him. He finally came home in a wild, drunken mood, and despite the fact that his food was simmering over the coals, he woke her and dragged her down the stairs to serve him.
His attitude was belligerent and brooked no refusal, but Brenna was too furious to fear him. She filled a large wooden bowl with steaming soup, then dropped it on the table, spilling half the contents over him. She knew it pained Garrick, but the fact that he didn’t show it cooled her temper. He dismissed her then and she left him quickly. Not a word was said of it the next day.
Brenna started at the loud pounding on the door. She felt her pulse quicken, for only Garrick would knock like that. He would wonder why the door was locked. Indeed, all the doors were bolted and had been ever since she went for water one morning and found a stray dog slaughtered and left on the stoop. Yarmille had turned white when she saw the dead carcass but she said nothing, leaving Brenna to wonder who would do such a thing.
She opened the door wide, prepared to tell Garrick why she had locked it. But it was Anselm standing there, wrapped in a heavy fur jacket, which made him look twice as huge as he was. Seeing him gave her a shock, but it took only a second for the white-hot fury to flash in Brenna’s eyes.
She did not think twice before she ran for the table and grabbed the long knife she had used earlier to butcher the rabbit. In her blind rage she was careless. She turned to attack, only to find Anselm behind her. He grabbed her wrist, and with his other hand, pried open her fingers until the knife dropped to the floor. He then swung her away and she fell back against the chair by the hearth, nearly knocking it over.
She stayed there, breathing heavily, and watched him pick up the knife, then look about for any others before he closed the door. When he faced her, their eyes locked, mellow blue with stormy gray, and it seemed like hours before he finally moved again. Undaunted, he walked over to the table, pulled the long bench out, and straddled it.
“I mean you no harm, girl,” Anselm’s words came out gruffly, and he cleared his throat before he continued in a softer tone. “Can you understand me? Have you learned to speak my language yet?”
Brenna did not blink an eye at his question, but remained perfectly still. She watched him suspiciously. What reason did he have to be here when Garrick was away?
Anselm fiddled with the knife in his hands, his head bent as he watched the long blade gleam in the firelight. “I expected no less from you,” he said in a soft whisper.
Brenna frowned. What was he talking about? She had to strain to hear him as he continued. “I should not have come, I suppose. ’Tis too soon for you to forget what I did, or to understand why. I hated your people, girl, for what they did to my son. When you have a son of your own, you will understand. Garrick could forgive them, for he learned compassion from his mother, but I could not. We are a proud and vengeful people, but I was wrong to exact my vengeance from you and your family, who were not to blame.
“’Twas your northern Celts who held my son prisoner in a murky dungeon for nigh onto a year, and he only a youth of ten and seven then. They denied him nourishment, except for gruel not fit for dogs. They tortured him for sport, but were careful not to kill him, for ’twas their intention to use him against other Vikings who came to raid them. When Garrick escaped and returned to us, he was but a shell of the boy he was. It took over a year for his full strength to return and the scars to heal.”
Anselm finally looked up at Brenna, his blue eyes sad. “I know you do not understand what I am saying, girl. You hear my voice, but do not comprehend my words. ’Tis just as well,” he sighed. “I like you, girl. I admire your spirit and I regret that I took you from your land. You will never know this, though, for I am a man with fool pride like any other. I could never say these words to you if you understood them. But I can at least try to make amends and hope that one day you will no longer hate me as you do now.”
Brenna was tempted to speak to Anselm in his own tongue, to let him know she understood every word he said. It would give her some satisfaction to humiliate him thus, but she was reluctant to give up the one secret that might help her when she was ready to escape. Besides, she was disturbed by what her own people had done to Garrick and could see why Anselm might want revenge (even if she could not forgive him for what he and his men had done in her land). After all, Garrick had risked being captured when he chose to raid her people. Still, he should have been killed when taken, not kept to torture just for sport.
Anselm stood up and dropped the long knife on the table. Brenna watched it fall, then looked quickly back at the huge Viking.
“Aye, I know you would run me through if given the chance.” Anselm spoke again with his customary gruffness. “But do not try it. I have no wish to die yet, not with many years of fighting before me, accounts to settle, and grandsons to see and hold before I join Odin in Valhalla.”
Anselm moved to the hearth to warm his hands by the fire. It was as if he was daring Brenna to run for the knife on the table. Either that, or he was showing that he was willing to trust her. Wisely, she stayed where she was.
Still he continued to speak, perhaps clearing his conscience. “Ever since I first laid eyes on you, girl, you have weighed heavily on my mind. But I see you have fared well here in my son’s home.” He glanced at her slyly. “Aye, you have fared well, while Garrick’s moods have a darker edge to them. Are you the cause?” Suddenly he grunted. “Bah! As if you would answer me even if you could. I am seven times the fool for talking to a wench who knows naught of what I say. And even more of a fool to give a prized horse to a slave girl. What possessed me to make such a decision—ah, ’tis done. Garrick will not like it, but mayhaps he will allow you to ride the silver mare when he learns she was yours in your land.”
