“For now,” she said.
“For now,” he agreed. “One more thing. Alinor has chided me up one side and down the other for my treatment of you. She says I embarrassed a lady of good breeding and that I must humble myself afore you with contrition.”
Esme had to smile. “Was that an apology?”
“Yea, ’twas. Do you accept it?”
“I do accept, and despite your crude treatment of me, I must offer my thanks for rescuing me. If you had not removed me from the abbey, I would be in my father’s hands by now.”
He nodded his acceptance of her thanks, then added, seemingly as an afterthought, “Just how thankful are you?” He was gazing pointedly at the cluster of rose petals surrounding her hidden breasts.
“Not that thankful,” she said with a laugh as he got up and prepared to leave the chamber.
She thought she heard him say, just before the door closed after him, “Being a champion is not all it used to be.” He was probably talking to his dead brother, Vagn, which was his practice of late.
If Toste only knew how much she appreciated her champion, he would not give up so easily. Lucky for her he was a dimwitted Viking.
You want her to do WHAT?…
After dinner that evening, Toste sat in a cozy semicircle in the upper solar of Ravenshire before the hearth, chatting softly with those around him. In the corner was a foul-mouthed squawking bird, which somehow contributed to the homeyness of the scene. His latest favorite expression, taught to him by Tykir, no doubt, was, “Ye gotta love a Viking!”
No one wanted to retire yet. There was still so much catching up to do, and a lingering relief that at least two Viking soldiers had survived the Battle of Stone Valley. Tykir kept grinning and Alinor kept touching Toste and Bolthor, as if to make sure they really were alive.
With Toste were Eirik, Eadyth, Tykir, Alinor, Bolthor, Eirik’s two oldest daughters, Emma, who was twenty-four, and Larise, the widow of a Jorvik merchant at twenty-six. And, of course, Esme, who sat beside Toste, giving him a totally new view of who she really was.
I lusted after her as a nun. Now I lust after her as a lady. What next? If Vagn were here, he would say ’tis past time I got my ashes hauled.
Attired in a sapphire-blue gown edged with silver braid borrowed from Eadyth, she looked like the lady of high station she was.
Esme was apparently larger in the chest area than Eadyth. Every time she moves my eyeballs practically bounce out of my head. If past experience proves true, I would guess that her breasts would fit perfectly in my big hands. Aaarrgh! Stop gaping, Toste, lest you embarrass yourself. Toste wasn’t sure if it was himself or Vagn talking in his head.
Her long hair, black as a raven’s wing, was held back off her face with a twisted silver circlet and hung down to her waist.
Of course, that just made Toste think of other times and places where her hair might lie loose. Like on my bed furs.
Her thick-fringed eyes matched her gown, snapping with blue fire whenever she glanced his way. She might claim to have forgiven him, but her eyes and stiff demeanor told a different story.
I ever did like a battle, m’lady. Do not challenge me with your haughty looks, or you might just find out what a Viking soldier can do with his… weapons.
Well, that was certainly mature, Vagn said in his head.
When did I ever aim for maturity? he answered his brother. You are supposed to be having a rousing good time up in Valhalla. Swive a few Valkyries for me, brother. And go away. People are starting to think I am demented. I am starting to think I am demented.
“Who are you talking to, Toste?” Eirik asked.
“Barmy as a bat,” Abdul opined.
That is for sure. “No one,” he replied.
The men sat with legs outstretched and ankles crossed, sipping at cups of Margaret’s and Eadyth’s mead; Sister Margaret had gone to her bed long ago since she planned to rise early and return to the convent under armed guard. The ladies propped their feet on little wooden footstools known as Widow Makers.