Free The Warlord's Wife by Sandra Lake Page B

as the sun, her crown of golden hair glowing. She fidgeted back and forth in a strangely entertaining sort of way, as if her young life bubbled over with excitement. Magnus observed her with growing amusement. He was starting to believe having her aboard was not overly troublesome. Unlike her mother, Katia was well-mannered, did not make much noise, and smiled easily for all. He would ask Tero what he thought a small girl-child would desire. To start, he would have the furrier prepare a third white cloak for the child to match her mother’s.
    In contrast to his forefathers, Magnus would not shamefully horde his coin, as his great grandfather Fibyter was remembered to have done. His family had fled from him because of the filth he forced them to reside in, the thin fabric he provided them with for clothing, and the generally unacceptable way in which he kept them. No, Magnus was a man who learned from his forbears’ mistakes.
    Magnus’s sons and grandsons would remember him with reverence. His fortress was pristine, built for security and ruled with a strict standard of order and cleanliness. Aspects of the design of his fortress had come from the Germans and Romans. Stone and steel cost more and took longer to build, but the result was worth the added price. His stronghold would stand the test of time. Acquiring a worthy female to birth his bloodline had been the right decision, even if she held mysterious sentiment over a poorly crafted garment.
    The girl-child approved of the superior cloak, wrapping herself in the bottom corner, petting the silk lining. At least one of them had some sense.
    “Tero. Fix the child’s hair with Byzantine silk ribbons and place the white wildcat collar around her shoulders. Use the gold cloak pin from Darien, the one with the sapphire.”
    His reliable servants moved swiftly, and in seconds the little girl was transformed from a street peddler child to a child worthy of being his daughter, a daughter of Norrland.
    His wife gazed out over the rippling currents behind his fleet, further insulting him by withholding her attention.
    Magnus cleared his throat loudly. “Tero has a bowl of stew for the child. You may take her to rest below. Mikko will see to anything you should need for the night.”
    “Very well. Come, Katia,” his wife said.
    “Thank you for my ribbons and collar, Jarl Magnus. They are the prettiest presents I ever got given,” the girl-child said in a small, keen voice.
    Magnus was rooted in place, staring at the little girl. She was smiling at him, her arm stretched out, her mother tugging at her hand. He realized he was grinning and immediately stopped, reminding himself that jarls do not grin, especially at little girls. Jarls have no use for little girls.
    With the last of his ships safe at anchor for the night, Magnus descended into his ship’s hold. To his annoyance, he found his wife and her child coiled together as one. A wife’s role was to warm his bed. He had need of her, now, and a child sleeping next to her did not suit him. She had arranged a second pallet of furs a short reach from where she slept.
    After they reached Tronscar, these arrangements would change. He would lay with her two . . . no, three times a day, until she was with child or until he had satisfied his aching thirst.
    By blood and thunder, she incensed him.
“It does not change my love for your father.”
He should have cut the foul cloak into a thousand pieces for insulting him with her traitorous loyalty to her dead man.
    When he had joined with her below deck earlier, she had complied, did as she should, and then she went further, giving him more. He had lost himself inside her when he’d looked at her, tasted her . . . and that brought him back to the frustration of the sleeping arrangements.
    The child was in
his
rightful place.
    He untangled the girl from his wife’s arms and carried her over to the arranged pallet. She stirred, wiggling her nose and swatting at her