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“As I expected.” Tyr cracked his knuckles. “Mercia doesn’t really wish to marry anyone. She pretends she does—even claims she’s still waiting for the perfect match. A jarl from the southlands made a generous offer for her hand last year, but she refused. I believe she wants to be left alone, to be able to do whatever she wants. If she pursues a man in love with another woman, she has little chance of being claimed.”

Marteinn tapped the handle of the knife sheathed in his weapon belt, itching to strike. What right did anyone have to accuse him of being in love with another woman, true or not? “You know little of my history.”

“Half the country is familiar with your story.” His eyes narrowed in challenge. “If you wish to attack, do so.”

“Tis not my intention.”

“What is?”

Perhaps the jarl would put an end to Mercia’s games if he knew the truth. “Did you see who left the table first last night?”

“Aye.”

“Then there is no mistaking who made an inappropriate move.”

“That may be, my friend, but Mercia is an innocent.”

He laughed. “Determined is a better description for that vixen.”

“You committed to a contract to serve me,” Tyr said, ignoring his comment. “Consider how long a year truly is before you decide to take vows of celibacy like a bloody monk. Choose a woman and bed her quickly to end Mercia’s misdirected affections.”

“Her affections were perfectly aimed, milord.”

Tyr climbed to his feet, smirking. “There may be another way …”

Marteinn stood. If the jarl knew something, he’d listen.

“Reciprocate.”

“What?”

“If the wench asks for a kiss, give her one. If she wants to go for a walk—go. Pursue her like there’s a fire lit under your arse. She’ll relent.”

Of all the crazy ideas he’d ever heard … It just might work.

“You can lead a horse to water …” Rachelle started.

“He’s a jackass,” Mercia finished.

“Tis true. Then why have you chosen Marteinn over every other man in the Trondelag? He isn’t titled, owns no lands, and generally appears to be in a constant state of anger. Surely, if you reconsidered your feelings for Jarl Halvar, he’d make a second offer, maybe a better one.”

“He constantly reeks of mead and horse dung and staggers about like he’s drunk. Why should I consider bedding a man of such undesirable traits when there is someone like Marteinn walking among us?”

“Mercia!” Rachelle looked surprised.

“Oh …” She waved her hands at her. “Don’t act so delicate. I’ve been burned by the passion between you and your husband. I only wish to have something equally special.”

“Jarl Halvar is young for a man with such power and influence—wealthy and handsome. And I’m sure, after he bathes, doesn’t smell like dung.”

“He’s red haired, a bad omen if I’ve ever seen one.”

“I rather admire his coppery beard. And I’m sure his temper matches his coloring.”

Mercia rolled her eyes. “What are you saying? He’s angry or passionate?”

“Perhaps both.”

“Another man who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.”