THE TARNISHED LADY By Sandra Hill

Wilfrid and Sigurd were totally unaware of Eirik’s actions.

“Can the king or the Witan do naught?”

“I tried when I met with Edmund, but he says I need proof of Gravely’s misdeeds—not just the word of a peasant—if I want the Witan to act against him.”

“And Gravely never leaves evidence,” Sigurd finished for him.

“I have sent for some Jomsviking knights, old comrades of my father’s, to help us guard the keep ’til we catch Steven. They will not arrive for several sennights, however; so the men we have now must be extra diligent.”

“And the additional men you hired in Jorvik as part of your permanent hird?”

“They will be here in a few days, along with the Viking fighters my cousin King Haakon sends from his Norse lands.”

Eadyth was surprised by his news. He had failed to tell her of sending for troops. But she was even more surprised by the large hand now pressing against her flat belly, its long fingers creeping downward to the apex of her femininity. When he cupped her intimately, she made a small squeaking sound of protest.

“Did you say something, my lady?” Wilfrid asked politely.

“Nay,” she choked out, ” ’twas just a bothersome gnat.”

She turned and glared at Eirik over her shoulder.

He smiled innocently back at her. And began to rub the heel of his hand against her. Heat rushed to her face and swept over her body. She felt open and vulnerable with her legs widespread on the horse’s large back. And then an odd, swelling ache began to thrum. there under his gentle, rhythmic touch.

“I hate you,” she hissed softly.

“Mayhap I can correct that,” he whispered back, and she knew he had been aware of what he was doing to her the entire time.

“Let us see how good an actress you can be now, my lady of the charades.” He turned back to Wilfrid. “I see all the western fields are planted with new wheat.” And his hand lay on her thigh, gathering her gown, bunch by bunch, until its hem lay in her lap, exposing her bare skin.

” ‘Tis the work of your lady wife,” Wilfiid informed Eirik. “Ask her how she badgered me into getting a spring crop in whilst you were away on the king’s business.”

Eirik’s long fingers skimmed the smooth skin of her thighs, then inserted themselves in the hot liquid that pooled embarrassingly between her legs. She would have shot upward off the horse then if Eirik’s left hand, holding the reins, was not pressed firmly against her waist, holding her in place.

“Is that true, wife?” he asked silkily.

She could not speak, just nodded.

All the other men kept glancing surreptitiously at her now that her disguise had been unmasked.

“Why, Eirik, your lady turns crimson with modesty. Did you know your wife had such a humble side to her disposition?” Wilfrid teased.

“Nay, I did not,” Eirik said with a chuckle. “She usually tells me what a dunderhead I am and how there is naught I can teach her about anything. Is that not so, wife?” His middle finger found a spot on her body then that she had never known existed, and he proved she did not know everything.

A red haze bluffed her vision as a sweet, almost painful, need began to build from that bud of sensation he was touching so gently. A new and unexpected warmth spiraled throughout her body. She groaned aloud.

“My lady,” both Wilfrid and Sigurd exclaimed at once. “What is amiss? Are you ailing?”

Eirik removed his hand, and she felt as if she were hanging on a cliff of anticipation. She rejoiced that he had removed his torturing fingers. She wanted to pull them back.

” ‘Tis her monthly time,” he lied unabashedly.

Eadyth sputtered indignantly and ducked her head self-consciously. If she ever survived this ordeal, she would take great delight in killing her husband, very slowly.

“Why do you two not go on ahead with the other men? ‘Tis only a short distance yet,” Eirik offered solicitously. “I will take my lady over to that stream there. Mayhap a drink will refresh her sensibilities afore we follow you.”