produce a priest? Would you wed me and let me bed you without incurring a curse upon my family?”
“Aye,” Fiona said easily. That was how sure she was that there wasn’t a priest within a hundred leagues of here. “Perhaps you could take me back to Man. Our village priest could marry us. I would like to have my father present when I take a husband.”
“There will be no one present but your wizard,” Thorne said, sounding more pleased than he had a right to be. “Dress yourself. I will return shortly with Brann.”
Fiona stared at him in consternation. She couldn’t imagine what Thorne had in mind. Before she could question him, Thorne had pulled on his tunic and was already striding out the door. With shaking hands she donned her coarse homespun, her mind in a turmoil. She had no idea what Thorne intended and was determined to refuse whatever he suggested. She would—
“Fiona. Are you in there, child?”
“Brann! Thank God. Come in. Have you seen Thorne?”
“Aye, I am here at his order.”
“I don’t understand. Why does he wish to marry me? He believes I’m a witch and he doesn’t love me. You told me Thorne would value me, would love me even, but ’tis merely lust he feels for me. I will not wed him unless a priest blesses our marriage. It frightens me to think what Thorne’s father and brother will say when they learn of this. Nothing will convince them I haven’t bewitched Thorne. And Bretta! Dear God! She’ll be livid.”
“Aye,” Brann said, nodding thoughtfully. “There will be danger, just as I predicted.
“Why, Brann? I understand none of this.”
Brann closed his eyes. When he opened them he appeared to be in a trance, seeing and hearing naught but the silent voices that spoke to him in an ancient tongue. Fiona had seen him like this before and she waited patiently for him to speak.
“The Viking is strong. A fitting mate for a woman of your courage and intelligence. No male on the Isle of Man was worthy of you. Your future was revealed to me before you were born. The Viking knows it in his heart but resists. Your combined strengths will produce strong children who will rule the Isle of Man and protect it against invaders.”
“I want to be loved, Brann. Is that so wrong?”
“Love is already present.”
“What nonsense is this?” Thorne said, striding into the chamber. “Love is for dreamers. Pleasureis all a Viking wants from a woman. Are you ready, Fiona?”
He moved into the light and she saw that he had changed his clothing. He was resplendent in a knee-length tunic the color of the blue flowers that grew upon the hillside above her village. It was woven of the finest silk and fastened at the shoulder with an elaborate jeweled brooch. A finely wrought sword was thrust into a scabbard attached to a leather belt cinching his waist. The buckle and hilt of the sword were made of gold and adorned with jewels. His cloak of fine wool dyed a vivid red was held together with a simple gold brooch. He was truly splendid.
“Nay, I am not ready. There is no priest.”
“Come with me. Both of you.”
“Where are we going?” Fiona wanted to know.
“To the village. ’Tis not far. My horse is waiting. I’ve brought a mule for Brann to ride.”
Fiona followed him outside, her curiosity conquering her fear. “Here,” he said, handing her a bundle he’d been carrying. “Hang on to this, you will need it later.”
Thorne lifted Fiona onto the horse’s back and mounted behind her. Brann got himself onto the mule and followed at a slower pace. Though it was well past the supper hour, there was still sufficient light to guide them. Daylight lingered long in the summertime in northern climes.
They reached the village without mishap. Thorne rode directly to the harbor, where several dragon ships were tied to stone piers jutting out into the fjord.
“Wait here,” Thorne said, dismounting.
Fiona watched in puzzlement as Thorne approached a dragon ship and hailed its
“Aye,” Fiona said easily. That was how sure she was that there wasn’t a priest within a hundred leagues of here. “Perhaps you could take me back to Man. Our village priest could marry us. I would like to have my father present when I take a husband.”
“There will be no one present but your wizard,” Thorne said, sounding more pleased than he had a right to be. “Dress yourself. I will return shortly with Brann.”
Fiona stared at him in consternation. She couldn’t imagine what Thorne had in mind. Before she could question him, Thorne had pulled on his tunic and was already striding out the door. With shaking hands she donned her coarse homespun, her mind in a turmoil. She had no idea what Thorne intended and was determined to refuse whatever he suggested. She would—
“Fiona. Are you in there, child?”
“Brann! Thank God. Come in. Have you seen Thorne?”
“Aye, I am here at his order.”
“I don’t understand. Why does he wish to marry me? He believes I’m a witch and he doesn’t love me. You told me Thorne would value me, would love me even, but ’tis merely lust he feels for me. I will not wed him unless a priest blesses our marriage. It frightens me to think what Thorne’s father and brother will say when they learn of this. Nothing will convince them I haven’t bewitched Thorne. And Bretta! Dear God! She’ll be livid.”
“Aye,” Brann said, nodding thoughtfully. “There will be danger, just as I predicted.
“Why, Brann? I understand none of this.”
Brann closed his eyes. When he opened them he appeared to be in a trance, seeing and hearing naught but the silent voices that spoke to him in an ancient tongue. Fiona had seen him like this before and she waited patiently for him to speak.
“The Viking is strong. A fitting mate for a woman of your courage and intelligence. No male on the Isle of Man was worthy of you. Your future was revealed to me before you were born. The Viking knows it in his heart but resists. Your combined strengths will produce strong children who will rule the Isle of Man and protect it against invaders.”
“I want to be loved, Brann. Is that so wrong?”
“Love is already present.”
“What nonsense is this?” Thorne said, striding into the chamber. “Love is for dreamers. Pleasureis all a Viking wants from a woman. Are you ready, Fiona?”
He moved into the light and she saw that he had changed his clothing. He was resplendent in a knee-length tunic the color of the blue flowers that grew upon the hillside above her village. It was woven of the finest silk and fastened at the shoulder with an elaborate jeweled brooch. A finely wrought sword was thrust into a scabbard attached to a leather belt cinching his waist. The buckle and hilt of the sword were made of gold and adorned with jewels. His cloak of fine wool dyed a vivid red was held together with a simple gold brooch. He was truly splendid.
“Nay, I am not ready. There is no priest.”
“Come with me. Both of you.”
“Where are we going?” Fiona wanted to know.
“To the village. ’Tis not far. My horse is waiting. I’ve brought a mule for Brann to ride.”
Fiona followed him outside, her curiosity conquering her fear. “Here,” he said, handing her a bundle he’d been carrying. “Hang on to this, you will need it later.”
Thorne lifted Fiona onto the horse’s back and mounted behind her. Brann got himself onto the mule and followed at a slower pace. Though it was well past the supper hour, there was still sufficient light to guide them. Daylight lingered long in the summertime in northern climes.
They reached the village without mishap. Thorne rode directly to the harbor, where several dragon ships were tied to stone piers jutting out into the fjord.
“Wait here,” Thorne said, dismounting.
Fiona watched in puzzlement as Thorne approached a dragon ship and hailed its
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