Chapter Five

Snow fell outside the window of Tinnie’s chamber, the first of the season. She lay in her bed within the warmth of her husband’s arms and watched the lazy, fat flakes spin down. One thing she had learned of her husband: he was very good at keeping her warm through the long, northern nights.

Nearly a month had passed since that evening he had come to her chamber and won her leave to stay. He had returned almost every night since, and Tinnie had learned to accept him. An honest woman at heart, she had to admit it would be difficult not to accept such a man.

Thinking on that now, she turned her gaze from the window to look at him. He slept still, the blue eyes that seemed to see so much safely closed. The rest of him she found fully pleasing to look upon.

From that moment he had drawn his tunic over his head, Tinnie had stood in awe of him. True enough, she had observed the warriors of her father’s clan all her life, but none like this. Kissed by the sun of far climes, presumably garnered on his voyages, his skin was golden everywhere—nearly everywhere. The blond-white hair, even that of his beard and that on his chest, curled in interesting patterns. The gold chain he wore around his neck, the only thing he left on when he removed all else, bore a small, beautifully worked reindeer, and he had another such beast—this one tattooed—on his left shoulder, just above his heart.

She had not asked about them then. She had been too overwhelmed—too frightened—to focus upon such things. For she saw also the weapon of his manhood, and understood what he meant to do with it.

Yet he had been gentle with her, incredibly gentle, that night and each he had come to her since.

And she endured.

Nay, but that was not fair—she understood now the intimacies that passed between husband and wife and knew some brought a form of pleasure. She refused, however, to allow herself to indulge in that—much.

As if her regard had the power to wake him, he stirred and the golden eyelashes fluttered. His eyes came open.

Windows to the soul, someone had said. That was true of Claus. She had learned to read his emotions, the confidence when he looked at his warriors, pride when he looked upon this wealthy place he had built. Doubt and caution, most times, when he looked at her.

His happiness, so she told herself repeatedly, was not her responsibility. Had he cared for her happiness when he destroyed her home, threatened her people, and dragged her away from all she loved? Did he care now?

Well, aye, a little bit.

They gazed into each other’s eyes for a score of heartbeats before he smiled and said, “Good morning, Missus.”

It was not endearing that he called her that, Tinnie told herself firmly. He was not endearing.

Would he reach for her now? Sometimes he did, in the mornings when they lay together so warm and naked. She readied herself, denying that she felt any anticipation for the touch of his broad hand on her breast, her thigh, or parting her legs, nor for the caress of his warm lips.

He seemed to glean her emotions from the look in her eyes. His smile faded. “You need not look so much the determined sacrifice, Missus.” He sat up and the covers tumbled around him. Tinnie had an absurd desire to touch the reindeer tattoo that danced across his skin, but fought it back successfully. She had never made any move toward him and would not start now.

“You bargained for my obedience, not my affection,” she reminded him.

“I hoped for both.”

Tinnie lowered her gaze. Claus grunted and climbed from the bed to walk naked as he was to the window. Helpless to prevent herself, Tinnie watched him. “It is snowing,” she whispered.

“Ja—the very first. There is magic, so I always think, in the first snow.”

“I do not believe in magic.”

“No? Is it one of the things your priests forbid?” He added in a mutter, “One of the many things.”

“Snow, no matter how beautiful, heralds a long, hard winter.”

He glanced over his shoulder—and caught her gaze on his buttocks. “Winter, it is not so bad. Much fun we may have with the games and the skiing. Much fun we have with the Yule. Green boughs brought into the hall—holly, like your name”—she had told him soon after their arrival that her name was but a form of the ancient word for that plant—“and a great Yule log.”

Pagan celebrations, Tinnie thought, with a tremor of disquiet. He could not expect her to participate. But he added gently, “You will enjoy, I promise. And once the children come—”

He broke off. She had beheld his disappointment, when last her monthly came. He wanted children badly. Well, so did she.

Determinedly, as though dismissing that thought, he turned from the window and began to don his clothing. No intimacies this morning.

“I have a surprise for you today, Missus,” he said. “My friend Sigurd passes through on his way east. He brings something—a gift.”

Tinnie stared at him solemnly. Claus loved to give gifts and was generous with the wealth he had gained. He particularly enjoyed giving things to her.

“I have all I need.”

“This you will surely want.” His eyes sparkled. “Get dressed, Missus, and come see.”

****

Many months had it been since Claus had seen his friend, Sigurd, companion of his childhood. Sigurd and his family always passed through at this time of year on their way to join Marja’s family for their winter visit. And Claus had sent word what they should bring.

They met outside amid the snowflakes, Tinnie wearing the fine cloak he had given her, with the white fur inside. How Claus wished he could present her to his old friend as his wife in truth and not in duty. But she stood as usual, wrapped in her dignity, somehow apart from Claus though she was right beside him.

That was, until she saw what Sigurd held in his arms.

Not a babe, no—Claus had not yet succeeded in giving her that. But perhaps something else to love.

The pup, just old enough to leave his mother, was all gold and white, with darker points on his muzzle, prick ears, and tail. He poked his head up from Sigurd’s arms, and Claus observed a miracle.

His wife smiled.

Not at him, granted, or even at Sigurd, but it made the first time Claus had seen delight fill her eyes. The beauty of it squeezed his heart.

“Och!” she exclaimed.

“A fine hund pup,” Claus told her, “companion for you, I thought. Sigurd raises some of the best anywhere.” He added cautiously, “You like?”

She reached for the pup as she had never reached for him. The chubby bundle of warm fur came into her arms and nestled against her breast.

“He has blue eyes.”

“They might turn hazel,” Claus warned, “or he may yet keep them.”

Sigurd, who possessed little of the Gaelic tongue, began to speak then, giving news along with his regrets that he and his family could not stay. Not until Sigurd walked away was Claus able to ask Tinnie again, “You like the hund pup?” He could see that she did, but he wanted her to say it, to thank him for something.

She nodded. Color not caused by the bright, snowy day flew into her cheeks.

“It is good,” he said, “that you have a protector always by your side, for the times when I am away.”

She raised her gaze to his. “Away?”

“Off raiding.” He waved a hand at the longships in the fjord below.

All the pleasure fled her eyes. It was as if she had forgotten in the joy of the moment who he was—what he was.

“What will you call him?” he asked, trying to recapture the remnants of her happiness.

“Frost,” she decided. “I will call him Frost.”

And no colder, Claus thought, than her feelings toward him, in her heart.