Read Online Death Blow by Jianne Carlo - Free Book Online Page B

bordered with an intricate pattern of tiny axes. She recognized the weapon as his from the red thread depicting the three rubies in the handle.
    “How did you take my maidenhead?” Nay. She had vowed not to ask. The heat of trampled pride stamped across her throat and face. Focusing on the rushes, she gritted her teeth and waited for his answer.
    Silence sank dank and heavy on her shoulders.
    Konáll squatted beside her, his familiar male musk scent somehow comforting, and cupped her chin. He tangled his fingers in her hair and kneaded her neck. She met his stare. The sadness in his blue eyes startled a shiver across her nape. Why did he not want to speak of it?
    “’Tis not the time, mìlseachd. We will speak of this later. Make haste in your ablutions and dress. Thōrfin promised the priest he could leave on the morning tide.”
    “I do not understand. You know as well as I there will be no virgin’s blood. The witnesses…” She studied the grass stains on the back of her hand.
    He lurched to his feet. “My brother and Thōrfin will affirm the proof I will provide. Worry not of this, Nyssa.”
    Craning her neck to meet his gaze, she asked, “And what of the Lovsigemann and the priest? I know well the penalty for—”
    “Woman. We have not the time for this. Make haste. Dráddør, my brother, will bring you to me. You have less than an hourglass to make ready.” He strode to the tent’s entrance, raised the flap, and glanced at her. “Bagan One-Eye’s brother, Luther the Luckless, is to marry your cousin, Monette, on the morrow. He has offered a price of ten gold pieces to any who brings him your head.”
    She stared openmouthed at the stained canvas of the tent long after Konáll had disappeared from sight. Men came and went, leaving a wooden tub filled with water. A fist-sized ball of soap floated in the sloshing liquid. Curls of steam spiraled from the tub’s surface and drifted to the apex of the tent. She followed the lazy whorls mesmerized by their twisting ascent, praying for some sign of deliverance, but found none.
    She bathed and dressed, her movements slow and thick, her mind a pace behind her actions. ’Twas wrong to marry Konáll. But what choice did she have? Confess? Tell him the rest of the curse? Doom her people to Ánáton’s vicious rule forever?
    The cyrtel did fit as did the slippers. ’Twas of a fine velvet with a smooth nap, a buttery feel, and of a hue the exact color of her eyes. How had such come about? More magik? Though her fingers trembled, she molded the twin pleats in front of the gown so they draped evenly.
    “Nyssa?”
    The deep male voice startled her. She tripped over her own feet and had to grab the pole in the center of the tent for support.
    “’Tis Dráddør, Konáll’s brother. I have come to take you to him. May I enter?”
    Hardly able to swallow around the rocks clogging her throat, she muttered, “Aye.”
    Were all Vikings giants? For Dráddør stood at least a half a head taller than Konáll and his arms were so massive they reminded her of stout tree trunks. He wore a sleeveless tunic and a brooch of worked copper knotted a purple cloak at his throat. But whereas Konáll wore a grim and dour expression, his brother filled the tent with sunshine brightness and his smile proved dazzling and infectious.
    “Would that the gods favor me the way they have Konáll. He is the most fortunate of men. Ne’er have I envied him more than I do at this moment. Your beauty fair takes my breath away.” He held his arm up. “I bid you welcome, new sister.”
    It had been so long since she had been given even the smallest of courtesies. Absurd though it seemed, Nyssa curtsied and placed her hand on Dráddør’s.
    He squeezed her fingertips. “Your fingers tremble and your face is pale. Is there aught I can do to assuage your concerns?”
    “Have you the power to break curses?” She ducked when he raised the tent flap and motioned for her to precede him.
    “Nay. But