Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] Read Free

capability in running Hawks’ Lair and trading her own products in the marketplace of Jorvik—the best honey and mead and beeswax candles in all Northumbria?
    It nettled Eadyth to have to come on humble knee before the handsome, smooth-tongued Lord of Ravenshire. As if she cared whether his finely chiseled features could melt the hearts of maids from Yorkshire to Strathclyde! Or that his slick words could cause a saintly nun to lose her inhibitions. She wanted no man for husband, and certainly not this ill-clothed brute in his crumbling castle who looked down his arrogant nose at her in barely suppressed disdain.
    St. Bridget’s Breath! The thought of entering the bonds of matrimony made her cringe with distaste. Bonds! That was the all-important word here. For all these many years, she had refused to become chattel to any man.
    But now she had no choice. Time was running out. The best she could do was strike a deal for the best betrothal agreement, one that would benefit her prospective husband but allow her to retain her freedom. Would the Lord of Ravenshire agree?
    “Mayhap my ears play me false, my lady. Did you ask for my hand in marriage?” When she nodded and defiantly lifted her chin, he snorted with disgust. “’Tis unseemly that you act on your own behalf.”
    “Who would negotiate for me? My father is dead. I have no family.” She shrugged. “Are you so strait-laced and fearful of your manhood you cannot deal directly with a woman?”
    Eirik sat up straighter, a muscle twitching angrily in his square jaw at her challenge. “You tread on dangerous ground, foolish lady. Heed me well, I fear you not, nor any man or woman . You ask for direct dealings. Well, you shall have them. I tell you directly—my answer is ‘Nay.’ I am not interested in your marriage proposal.”
    Eadyth felt an annoying flush move up her neck and heat her cheeks. Why couldn’t she curb her wayward tongue? Accustomed to dealing with crafty tradesmen and laggard churls, she ofttimes forgot how to be diplomatic. With deliberate care, she banked her rankling temper and forced herself to proceed carefully before speaking again.
    “I apologize, my lord, for my hasty words. The urgency of my situation causes my loose tongue, but, please…please do not refuse my proposal afore you hear the details.”
    Eirik poured more ale into his goblet and sipped thoughtfully, scrutinizing her through slitted eyes, and obviously finding her lacking in the attributes he would seek in a wife. That didn’t surprise her. In fact, she had tried her best not to attract the lustful attentions of men since her one disastrous mistake eight years before.
    “With all due respect, my lady, I have no interest in another marriage—to any woman. Once was enough.”
    “Ever?” Eadyth asked, surprised. “I thought all men feltthe need to breed heirs. Your wife bore you no sons, did she?”
    He shook his head. “My brother Tykir is my heir, and I have no particular desire to propagate my own image.” His head tilted questioningly, as if he had just thought of something important. “Leastways, I would hardly consider you of childbearing age.”
    “Huh?” His comment disarmed Eadyth. It was true that many girls wed by age fourteen, but she had seen only twenty-five winters and was certainly well within the age of conceiving a babe. Not that she wanted to. And certainly not with such a crude oaf as him. But how old did he think she was?
    Aaah! she realized suddenly, touching her head-rail, it was her silvery hair that caused his mistaken notion of her age—that and the deliberately loose garment which hid her womanly curves. It was fortunate that he had not seen her this morn as she tried to manage the wild, waist-length curls under her wimple, finally resorting to pig’s grease to slick back the unruly mass. Apparently, the lard also managed to hide the golden blonde highlights in the silvery strands.
    But then a sudden thought occurred to her. Perchance