Dark, Devastating & Delicious!: The Marriage Medallion / Between Duty and Desire / Driven to Distraction

“Please… your name?”

“I’m Asta. Medwyn’s sister. Eric’s aunt.”

So, Brit thought. Medwyn’s sister. She should have known, of course. Medwyn had told her of Asta, and she could see the resemblance around the eyes and in the shape of the mouth. “Asta.” It was pronounced with the As like twin sighs: Ahstah. “It’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. Now sleep.”

“Yes. All right. I will. Sleep…”

* * *

Brit heard the playful giggle of a child. She opened her eyes in time to watch a mop of shiny blond curls disappear over the side of the sleeping bench.

A few seconds later the curls popped up again, along with a pair of china-blue eyes and a cute little turned-up nose. The eyes widened. “Oops.” The small face popped out of sight again. There was more giggling below.

Brit grinned and whispered in a dry croak, “I see you.”

More giggles. And then the little head rose into view once more. The rosebud mouth widened in a shy smile. The child raised a thumb and pointed it at her tiny chest. “Mist.”

“Hello, Mist. I’m Brit.”

“Bwit.” The child called Mist beamed with pleasure. “Pwincess Bwit.”

“Just Brit will do.”

“Just Bwit. Bwit, Bwit, Bwit…”

“Mist,” Asta chided from over by the stove where she sat with two younger women, a circle of children playing some sort of game with sticks and a tiny red ball at their feet. “Leave Her Highness to sleep.”

“It’s all right.” Brit winked at the child and pulled herself to a sitting position, wincing at the sharp twinge from the wound in her shoulder. Sunlight slanted in the high slits of the windows. Late morning, Brit thought. Or possibly early afternoon. She let her head fall forward to stretch her stiff neck, and her tangled hair fell over her eyes. She speared her fingers in it to shove it back.

Ugh. A serious shampooing and a little intimate contact with a decent conditioner would do wonders about now. Not to mention a long, hot bath. She heard a growling sound—her stomach. She could eat half a polar bear, or whatever they were serving here in the Vildelund. But first, water. A tall, cool, glorious glass of it.

However, she hesitated to throw back the furs and go looking for a drink in her thin borrowed nightgown with all these strange women and children in the room. “I wonder, could I have some water?”

“Of course.” Asta set aside her sewing and went to the big wooden counter against one wall. The sink was there, complete with an ancient-looking pump faucet. Asta pumped clear water into a tall cup and carried it to Brit.

She drank. It was absolute heaven going down.

From her seat on the floor, Mist giggled some more. “Bwit fuhsty.” Fuhsty, Brit figure out, had to mean thirsty.

Brit swallowed the last of it. “Was I ever. Thanks.” She handed Asta back the empty cup. The women by the fire were watching her. She gave them a nod. “I seem to remember you two being here while I was sick…”

“I forget myself,” said Asta. “Your Highness, my daughters-in-law, Sif and Sigrid. Mist, whom you’ve met, is Sif’s youngest.” She named off the other children. Two were Sigrid’s and two, Sif’s.

“Great to meet you all.” Brit turned to Asta again. “And now… what’s for dinner?”

Asta’s smile was wide and pleased. “Your health improves.”

“It certainly does.”

“Bah-wee soup,” announced Mist.

“That’s barley,” Asta explained.

Brit wrinkled her nose. “I was thinking more along the lines of steak and eggs and hash browns.”

“Your stomach isn’t ready for solid food yet.”

Brit sighed. “Barley soup it is.” She gave Asta a big smile. “And would you go and tell my brother I’d like to see him now, please?”

It seemed, for a moment, as if the room was too quiet. Then Asta spoke carefully. “We talked of this earlier. Perhaps you’ve forgotten. Your brother is—”

Brit waved a hand. “Never mind. I remember. So, if my brother’s not available, could you track down your nephew, Eric, please? It’s imperative that I speak with him.”

Sif and Sigrid shared a look. Asta suggested, “Eat first. See how you feel.”

Asta dished up a big bowl of broth with barley and cut a thick slice from a loaf of dark bread. She carried it over to Brit on a wooden tray.

By the time she’d eaten half the soup and taken a bite of the bread, Brit was ready to call it quits on the food front. “I guess I sort of miscalculated how much I could eat.” Also, she was tired again. This convalescing thing was so inconvenient. She handed Asta the bowl. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, Your High—”

“I wonder, could we dispense with the ‘Your Highness’ routine?”

Asta looked pleased. “I would be honored.”

“It’s Brit, then, all right?”

“Yes. Brit. Good enough.”

“Now, if you could just get me my clothes and—”

Asta was gently pushing her down. “All that can wait. Rest, now. You’re not ready to get out of bed.”

Brit found she tended to agree with Asta. So annoying. She felt tired to the bone. She didn’t have the energy to get dressed—let alone to deal with Eric Greyfell. She gave Asta a rueful smile. “Sorry, but there’s one thing that can’t wait.”

Asta brought her a pair of clogs and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders as the women by the fire continued with their needlework and the group of children played their game and little Mist sat on the floor near Brit’s sleeping bench, sucking her thumb and watching wide-eyed.

It was hard work, even leaning on Asta, to get all the way to the door and out into the crisp afternoon beyond. The thin sunlight, after the days inside, seemed blinding. Brit hardly had the energy to glance at the village around her—more long wooden houses, all grouped together along a single dirt street. There were pastures and paddocks behind the houses. Beyond the pastures, a thick forest of spruce flowed up the surrounding hills.

Asta noted her interest in the village houses. “Here we live in the old Norse way. In traditional longhouses—long, one-room dwellings where we eat, sleep, work and gather with our friends and family.”

Each house had a small garden to one side of it. The pastureland beyond the gardens was dotted with karavik and sturdy, long-haired white Gullandrian horses. According to the map Medwyn had drawn for her, Drakveden Fjord wasn’t far to the north. If she followed the fjord west, she should come to the site where her Skyhawk had gone down.

Not that she had the slightest inclination to go looking for it now. But someday soon. When the annoying weakness left over from her illness had passed.

At the end of the house, they reached a wooden lean-to. It had a sliver of moon carved into the top of the door. Just like in the old days in America, Brit thought. Was the moon on the door the international symbol for outhouse? She grinned to herself.