She had refused to answer him when he had asked her why.
Ylva had laughed when he had mentioned it and patted his arm. “As warriors we both always know how to escape,” she had told him. “And a woman alone often has good reasons to know the fastest way to escape.”
Arne thought about the way she had feared him earlier and knew Ylva was right. While he would never attack a woman in that way, Gemma had no real reason to trust him. And most women who looked at him saw only a monster. Was she worried about that here? Tonight? He could at least reassure her he would never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it off the field of battle.
The wood in the shed had been well-prepared for the following summer and would burn well, as would the peats. As long as they were here, however, he would need to continuously refill the wood supply and return in the spring to replace the peats. Despite the cold weather, the work soon had him sweating, so he pulled off his kirtle and shirt, and wiped his brow with his arm.
He looked down at his gloved hands. Life was easier in winter when he was able to cover up. The scars marring almost every available patch of his skin were a reminder of how Ingrid had betrayed him, but also of the way he had betrayed Tormod. A secret which still ate at him. The scars turned him into a hideous creature, the sort parents warned their children about. Nevertheless, Gemma had never warned Caelin away from him, and the boy had never seemed to notice his scars.
As he lifted the axe to split some of the larger pieces of dry wood, he remembered the first time he had seen her. It had been near dusk on the shore at Car Cadell. Gemma had stood up onboard thebyrthingbeside Ylva, and Lord Cenydd and his advisor, Anwyl, had bowed.
Arne had been transfixed at the sight of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the Norse clothing she’d borrowed from Ylva not initially telling him she was a Briton.
Her dark hair cascading down her back in loose curls had inspired him to want to run his hands through it, reawakening feelings towards a woman he had not felt in years. Then Ylva had stumbled ashore, distraught about Björn, and he and Ulf had left almost immediately, sailing through the night with Gemma and Caelin to Kirkjaster before setting off to retrieve their brother, not knowing whether they would find him alive or dead.
As they had travelled through the darkness to Kirkjaster, he was entirely aware of her presence. The fact that it was because of her and her son that Ylva had left Björn on the battlefield alone was perhaps what had turned him against her from the start. Sheand Caelin had walked across the isthmus at the darkest time of the night while he and Ulf had portaged thebyrthingthemselves. Thankfully, it was smaller and easier to manoeuvre than a longship, but he had resented every moment that kept him from going to rescue his brother. Resented this mysterious woman who Lord Cenydd valued above Björn.
It had only been when they arrived at Kirkjaster that Aoife had finally told him who she was. The Britons’ princess. Rhun’s sister. Not Gemma at all, but Princess Maithgemm. And, therefore, not for him. He had said nothing when Tormod had agreed to shelter her, seeing only another beautiful woman from the past that Tormod had forgiven despite her previous sins. It seemed as if only he had sensed what danger she brought to Kirkjaster. Everyone else seemed to fall under her spell.
He wondered when exactly she had escaped that morning. She must have taken advantage of the focus on Aoife, and had also avoided the guards, allowing her and Caelin to escape undetected. This more than anything made him suspicious of her.
He took a deep breath of the chilled night air and looked out through the open door. The forest was not too far south of their position, but the shieling sat on barren moorland, visible for a great distance from the north. The smoke from their fire would be seen from the sea-loch to the west. Their presence would not be a secret, although the heavy snow would shield them adequately, at least for tonight. He could only hope the weather would delay anyone coming to see who was there long enough that they would have left before they arrived. Besides, they had no choice. They would freeze to death with no fire. He lifted the axe and let it fall.
“Arne.”
The axe missed and thudded into the stump instead of the log he was about to split. Gemma was peering into the dim interior. A shaft of moonlight coming through the doorway behind her fell on his bare chest. He considered grabbing for his shirt, but didn’t. Shehad said he wasn’t a monster earlier. Maybe it was time to show her just how wrong she was. With the moonlight from the doorway behind her, he couldn’t see her face and was glad he didn’t have to see the expression of disgust or even fear that was surely on it.
She turned away before she spoke, and he knew he had repulsed her.
“Your food is ready. If it sits any longer over the fire, there will be nothing left of the broth.”
“I will be in soon.” He brought the axe down hard on the log he had missed and sent parts of it flying in all directions. When he looked back at the door, she had gone. He returned the axe to its hook and stacked the last few pieces of wood in a basket to take inside.
Spending the night alone with her out here on the moors might prove fatal. If her kin had arranged to meet her, they would not be best pleased to find him here. Maybe he should leave. But Tormod had tasked him with ensuring her safety and he would do as his jarl had commanded. More than that, even though he tried to tell himself he didn’t… he believed her.
When he went inside, she looked up at him immediately. He didn’t miss the flash of fear that crossed her face, fear of the monster she’d seen in the woodshed. But that fear was replaced by a timid smile as he placed the basket of logs in a safe place.
“If you bring me a bowl, I will give you the last of the broth.”
He picked up the last bowl on the table and held it out towards her. She ladled broth carefully into it, her awkwardness with every task reminding him that until last summer she had been a princess, not required to fulfil any such basic tasks for herself. She watched as he lifted the bowl to his lips, but before he tasted it, he stopped. Why was she watching him so carefully? He eyed the broth and took an experimental sniff.
“You taste it first,” he ordered.
She frowned, clearly confused. “I’ve already had mine.” She gestured towards another bowl on the table. It looked like it had contained the same broth, but she could have easily added something to the pot after she and Caelin had eaten. His mother kept various poisons to deal with vermin. Perhaps Gemma had stolen one of them when she took the food.
He lifted his bowl to her mouth and she pulled back a little, frowning. “I won’t taste a single drop until I have seen you swallow some.”
“But—” She shook her head, then sighed and held out her hands. He handed the bowl to her, the rough, scarred skin on his fingers brushing against hers. He saw her shudder at the feel of his skin and drew his hands away. The last thing he needed was a reminder of his hideousness. She took a small sip, and he watched until she swallowed. She held out the bowl. When he did not take it, she looked at him. Her tongue ran over her top lip, catching the last drop of the broth. He forced his thoughts away from the images it conjured for him of what he might rather she was doing with her tongue.
“More,” he said, his voice gruff.
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “But there is not much—”
“More.” He no longer knew whether he wanted to drive home his suspicion of her, or to torture himself by watching her mouth. It was his suspicion that came across to her as her shoulders slumped, and she quickly did as he asked, never taking her eyes off his until she had swallowed more of the broth. He hated that he had caused the sadness in her eyes, but he wasn’t ready to risk trusting her, no matter how much he hurt her feelings. This time, when she held the bowl out and lowered her eyes to the floor, he took it, careful not to touch her at all this time. He drained it in one gulp — she had not been lying when she had said there wasnot much—then put the bowl on the table. She didn’t move, and he wondered what she was waiting for.
“What is it?”
“Was it… was it all right? I know I am not a good cook.”
