Avelynn (17 page)

When I arrived at the exact spot where Alrik had materialized out of the mist, the beach was deserted save a few squawking and circling gulls. He hadn't arrived yet. Thank the gods
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I was exhausted and that made me feel scattered and on edge. I trudged to the clearing where Bertram and I had last made camp and tethered and wiped down the horse. I rolled out my bedding, tucked Alrik's knife beside me, and collapsed into a sound sleep.

When I woke, the sky was dark and the full moon, stoic in a swirl of ever-changing clouds, illuminated an empty beach and bay. The water, inky and endless, blurred into the expanse of sapphire sky.

I scanned the beach in both directions. No boat, no Vikings, no Alrik. Only sand and driftwood. He said he'd be here. He said he'd come back. I moved a little way down the beach, looking for any evidence of landfall—footsteps, a fire pit—but found nothing. Did he think I wouldn't be here? Or did something happen to prevent him from returning?

I searched the cold, indifferent water. What if he did make landfall but landed in the wrong spot? Was there even now, somewhere along the coast, a conflict happening, swords and shields clashing, Alrik fighting for his life?

I lit a large fire. If he had yet to arrive, he might be searching the coast for the right inlet. The fire would guide him.

Arms crossed, I stood staring at the ocean. The tide was out. Perhaps they were waiting until daylight. I frowned. But they'd been here before; surely they knew the bay was free of boulders and debris. I studied the taciturn water. The moon was brilliant, illuminating much of the land surrounding me, but its radiance couldn't penetrate the jet-blackness of the ocean. Maybe he would be here in the morning.

Like a thread that begins to unravel, so did my thoughts. He'd been here before. I remembered him saying they had stopped here for rest and to replenish their supplies—that they were on their way to Ireland. But what if he was hiding their true intentions? All his men had been armed to the teeth when they arrived here. There could be no doubt that Alrik was leading a war band. But what were they doing on the western edge of England when every other Viking was supposed to be holed up in East Anglia or Northumbria? The vision I'd had at Avalon returned unsought to my mind: the raven, the blood—Alrik's ship, the sail. I thought about the dream I had had that morning in the forest, the sounds of shields clashing thundering through my mind. Was Alrik scouting for the coming war? Would he return on the morrow with a hundred warships to launch an assault on Wessex? Lost in naive lust and folly, I'd never questioned his motives. Concern had seemed unwarranted—there had been only one ship, and they had left peaceably. I'd been reckless and foolish.

The blood drained from my face. Gods, what was I doing here?

 

TEN

It was time to leave. I kicked sand onto the fire, suffocating the flames. The musky traces of burnt wood dissipated into the darkness. I ran back to the clearing, gathered my satchel, and rolled up my bedding, tying it haphazardly to the saddle. I reached for the reins but stopped dead.

“Going somewhere?” Alrik's hand held the horse's bridle.

I stifled the scream lodged in my throat. “Yes,” I stammered, taking a step backward. I had tied my sword to the other side of the saddle, but his knife hung from my belt.

His eyes flashed to my side and then back to my face. “You are alone, unprotected.” He took a step closer.

“But not helpless.” My hand rested on the hilt of the knife.

He stopped. “You think you can sting me, little bee?”

I crouched, ready.

“I did not come here to fight.”

“Then why did you come?” I asked.

“To be with you.”

“Where are the others?”

“My crew? Out there.” He pointed to the ocean. “I did not want anyone interrupting us this time.” He flashed a devilish grin, sandwiched between a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He took another step closer. I withdrew his knife, its blade gleaming in the radiant moonlight.

“What is all this about?” he asked.

“Why were you here?”

He furrowed his brow.

“Last month, what were you doing on the west coast of England?”

“I see.” He turned and walked away from me. I could hear the scraping of steel across flint. Sparks flashed in the darkness like fireflies blinking. A flame surged, having caught on a bundle of kindling neatly arranged under a tripod of waiting billets. He sat down on a fallen log. “You mean to interrogate me?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.” He removed his sword and leaned it against the log and then unclasped his belt, placing it beside him. “I was visiting your fine country on my way to Ireland.” He removed his cloak and placed it on top of his belt. “We had been raiding the coast of Francia all winter, and I had agreed to sail to Dublin to help my brother quell an uprising come spring.” He reached behind the log and pulled out a conveniently stashed bedroll, which he arranged on a patch of lush ferns near the fire. He then grabbed a second roll, placing it directly beside the first. “I decided to stop for a fresh meal, since we needed to make repairs to the boat.” He slid off the log onto the woolen blanket and pulled his tunic up over his head.

Devoid of a shirt, his flesh drew my eyes. His chest, golden and smooth in the firelight, progressed from massive and wide at his shoulders to slender and chiseled as it merged with the rippling muscles above his waist. He leaned forward and removed his boots and socks.

“Thinking this part of the coast uninhabited, imagine my surprise when we heard drums.” He slid off his trousers, revealing long muscular legs glinting with fine, flaxen hairs. In only a pair of baggy linen shorts, he crossed his ankles, leaned back, and draped his arms across the top of the log. He smiled. “I met a beautiful woman and came back to see her again.” The air was cool and crisp, and his nipples stood tight and erect. “Come. Sit beside me.” He patted the vacant blanket. “You are cold.”

Fully dressed and wrapped in my cloak, I was not cold, but I was trembling. I stood frozen. “Are you here to start a war?”

His eyebrows knitted together. “I am here to see you. Nothing more. Once this night is done, I am bound to return to Ireland.”

I alternated between hesitation and compulsion until I was certain my insides would tear apart. Why had I come? Even if I did believe him, what was I hoping to accomplish with this tryst—a fast and furious tussle in the grass? On the surface, and in an entirely selfish, impulsive manner, Ealhswith's advice to live before ceding to marriage with Demas certainly had its appeal, but was it really worth it? I felt cheated. What was one night compared to the rest of my life? Could it possibly make any difference?

Shadowy leaves rustled softly in the light breeze. Beyond the brilliance of the fire, the forest disappeared into a void of shadows and secrets. It was here that we had first kissed—a kiss that had sent shock waves through my body and pulled me back a month later, like a moth to a flame.

Heedless of consequence, I had sneaked and connived, stealing away in the middle of the night to be with him. I had spent a month longing for him, waiting for him. I'd endured a bear and a witch and risked the potential wrath of my father and condemnation from my people. All to stand here, petrified, conflicted, and out of my right mind with desire.

I took in the scope of his beautiful, muscular body. My legs, iron anchors weighed down by doubt, plowed slowly through the sand.

He stood. “Trust me. I will not hurt you.”

I stopped in front of him. His hands smoothed the hair away from my temples and stayed there cupping my face. “Do not be afraid.”

“I'm not,” I lied.

He drew me close. Our lips touched, and the kiss blossomed like a rose unfurling in the summer sun. After a month of imagining, I was finally here, engulfed in his arms, and for a wondrous moment time slipped away.

He pulled back and regarded me with critical discernment. “This will not do.” He lifted an edge of my cloak, letting the hem drop from his fingers. He unclasped my brooch, and the heavy wool slipped from my shoulders. Folding it neatly, he placed it on the log. His steady hands removed the corded belt from my waist.

“I see you kept the knife.”

“I brought it back for you.”

“It is yours now, Seiðkana.”

I'd forgotten his term of endearment. “You're not afraid I might turn you into a frog?”

He smiled. “No, but I will think twice before angering you.”

I remembered the tempest and the churning river, the raft with Ingolf's body speeding downriver, but as he helped me shimmy out of my kirtle, pulling it over my head, thoughts melted away.

“You are the most enticing present I have ever unwrapped.”

He nuzzled my neck, sending walls of inhibition crashing down around me. I drew in a sharp breath.

My underdress came off rather suddenly, and I found myself on the ground, Alrik straddling my thighs, his hands braced on either side of my body.

He leaned down. “My beautiful Seiðkana.” His tongue traced my lips, and I met him boldly, my own brushing and grazing his. He groaned and opened his mouth to mine.

His hands explored my flesh. Fingernails trailed, leaving shimmering waves of gooseflesh behind. His caress was purposeful in its avoidance, determined and merciless in its course—a little here, a little there, but always evading where I most craved to be touched. His fingertips graced the tops of my breasts, the curve of my belly, the length of my thigh, until my entire body convulsed with each brush, each touch, each stroke.

“Please,” I begged.

He removed his shorts and guided my hand to him. The torrent of sensation ebbed for a moment while I considered this new development. He positioned my hand, and I wrapped my fingers around him. He slid my hand up and down and let out a deep moan. Fascinated, I reached out with my other hand, studying him. I played with the coarse hairs that cradled him, the tight, rigid sacks that caused him to inhale sharply when my fingers brushed against them. I traced the outline of his stomach and his waist, running my fingernails up along his broad back, smiling when he arched and twisted away from my touch.

“You're ticklish,” I marveled.

“So are you.” He nuzzled his beard into my belly. I squealed.

He sat up with a wide toothy grin. “I wonder where else you are ticklish?” He grazed his beard along my side, from hip to ribs. I screamed and squirmed until his mouth found purchase on a nipple, arresting my breath. His tongue brushed gently back and forth and his hand cupped the moist heat between my legs. I clung to him, my eyes fiercely closed.

“Do you want me?” He held his hand very still, a taunt, a promise of more withheld.

“Yes.” I sounded desperate. I wanted to arch my hips upward into his hand.

A low rumble caught in his throat, and he chuckled, but his next words were thick with hunger and longing. “Touch me.”

I reached a trembling hand back down between his legs. With admirable patience, he instructed me how to stroke him powerfully and then resumed his own ministrations, slipping his finger deep inside me.

“Oh, gods.”

His attention was reverential. His lips paid homage to mine, his hand worshipping my breasts, while his fingers delved into my soul, parting and coaxing my surrender. I lost the last tenuous grasp of rationality. My body shuddered and writhed beneath him, my hips pressing, my hands grasping. I knew only his touch, his mouth, his tongue, and his breath, and I gave back in kind, wanting and needing more until I was dizzy, my fingers and lips tingling.

“I want you. Now.” He lowered his hips, hovering, waiting.

I opened myself to him and he entered me slowly.

I sucked in a deep breath and winced, pushing against his chest as a sharp pain ripped through me. “It's not going to fit.”

His eyes crinkled at the sides. He stroked my hair away from my face. “I will be gentle.” He waited for a response. I nodded.

He was very attentive, reading my body's secret language—stopping when I tensed, resuming when I let go—all the while nuzzling my neck or caressing my breasts, until at last he settled deep within me, filling me, and I thought I might disintegrate into oblivion, melting formlessly into the ground. But then he moved, a primordial rocking that pierced the very core of my being.

I shattered into a million dazzling pieces, ready to float for eternity amongst the stars. But it lasted only a moment, for the pieces coalesced, bringing me back to my ecstatic body, a body on the peak of rapture. He moved faster and deeper. Feeling myself dissolving, desperate for an anchor to this world, I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck and held on. He kissed me thoroughly, stifling my cries.

My hips rose. My body arched. My nails grazed his back. I cried out and merged with the matrix of life, joining the land of the gods.

A strangled cry escaped his own lips, and he collapsed onto the ground, drawing me on top of him. He grabbed one of the bedrolls and wound the heavy wool blanket around us.

We lay there panting, still joined, his pulsing echoing in the throbbing of my own body.

A sated grin fixed on my face, his arms enveloping me, I started to drift off, lost in the embrace of languid contentment.

“Thank you,” he said an eternity later.

“For what?” I stretched and nuzzled closer.

“For coming back.”

“I almost didn't.” I looked past him into the forest's shadows. “I almost left.”

“Why?”

“I was beginning to question my motives … and yours. Several months ago, I had a vision of war coming. I thought perhaps you were here to start it.” I glanced in his eyes but turned away, suddenly shy.

“I told you why I came back.” He got up and added more wood to the dwindling fire. He started to dress.

Was that it, then? Having gotten what he came for, he was leaving? I felt exposed. Vulnerability crept in like a horde of insects crawling and scratching beneath my skin, scampering their way to my stomach, where a large knot was forming.