His Captive Bride (16 page)

“Do you wish me to stop?” His breathing was ragged. “Say it. Tell me that you wish me to stop.” He began sliding the fragile garment from her shoulders, peeling the damp fabric away from her breasts, exposing her to the night wind, to his kisses.

She was perfection in the darkness, her naked skin dusted with cool silver and hot gold by moon and fire. He shaped her breasts in his hands, stroked her nipples with his fingers, teased with tongue and teeth until a string of oaths tumbled from her lips.

“I... I...”

“Wish me to stop,” he supplied, since she seemed unable to recall the words.

Her eyes were shut tight, her breathing harsh, her skin sheened with sweat. And the only word she said was his name, fierce and urgent. “
Hauk.
”

He drew her into his arms again and their mouths met in hungering kisses, both of them shaking, the fever between them almost unbearable. He pressed his lips to her ear. “There are many exquisitely sensitive places on a woman’s body,” he whispered, “and a wise husband takes the time to find them all. One...” He nipped a spot just below her jaw. “By...” He nuzzled the curve of her shoulder, easing her down toward the sand. “One.”

He lowered her onto her back, stretched out above her—and flinched when her thigh pressed against the rigid evidence of his desire for her.

She froze in his embrace, her eyes opening wide. She blinked as if suddenly awakened from a dream. “Nay! I—”

“
Avril,
” he groaned, closing his eyes.

She fought against his hold. “Nay! Let me go!”

Her frantic words cut through him, cold as steel—and though her gaze was still dark with passion, her lips swollen from the shared ardor of their kisses, he did not argue with her. He let her go.

She stumbled to her feet, snatching up her cloak and gathering it around her, backing away from him. “I
cannot
...” She could not seem to breathe, shook her head wildly. “I cannot stay here!”

The words came out as a choked sob.

Then she turned from him and ran.

Hauk lurched to his feet, almost chased after her, stopped himself. The ocean breeze quickly cooled the sweat from his body and cleared the fog from his senses. By Loki’s dark daughter, what had he been doing? How had one kiss—
one kiss
—led to so much more so quickly?

Nei
, he did not want an answer to that question.

He had merely been satisfying a physical need that had become painfully sharp. Showing her the pleasures they might share together. She was his wife.

Ja
, she was his wife—and it was time for
both
of them to accept that fact.

He kicked sand over the cookfire to douse it, snatched up his weapons and pack and set off to follow her. There was no need to complicate this difficult situation with any sort of emotional... entanglement. But it was his responsibility to persuade his bride to stay willingly, to please her and see to her happiness.

And there was no need for them to keep denying their mutual desire.

Avril’s passionate response to him tonight erased any doubts: She
did
want him. Just as intensely as he wanted her. He had
not
been wrong about that.

But he had gone too far, too quickly.

As he strode down the beach after her retreating silhouette, he muttered an oath, not relishing the impossible task he faced. With Thorolf missing, he had to watch over his reckless bride more closely, stay with her every moment. But he also needed to allow her time to adjust to her new life, to this place, to him.

He needed to go slowly. Resist temptation.

He would simply have to be strong.

Ja
, he thought derisively, unable to take his gaze from her slender shadow ahead of him. As strong as a man parched with thirst trying not to sip from the brimming, sweet, beautiful cup so close within his reach.

~ ~ ~

Thorolf stood in the shadows a safe distance from Valbrand’s
vaningshus
, waiting. Patient. Running his thumb along the smooth glass surface of the slender flask in his hand, he reminded himself that he had worked and planned for this a great many years. Another few hours would not matter.

Especially if it meant adding sweet vengeance to sweet freedom.

After his humiliation at the
althing
, he wanted the former almost as much as the latter. The
vokter
had thwarted him for the last time.

And this time he would pay.

At last, the woman returned, garbed in a hooded cloak—but Valbrand was only a few steps behind her.

Thorolf bared his teeth in a frustrated snarl. How like Valbrand to ruin his plans. Again! Just when Thorolf learned that the
vokter
had unexpectedly left his new bride alone, he unexpectedly returned to her.

As if he were purposely foiling Thorolf’s plans.

But that could not be. He could not know. No one knew.

Thorolf paced restlessly across the grass, gripping the flask. By Kvasir’s blood, if he had to waste one more
day
on this accursed rock, he would go mad. He was not a sheep, like the others, so satisfied with their placid, peaceful, dull little lives. He was meant for more.

An entire world of new places and pleasures awaited him beyond the boundaries of Asgard. And he meant to enjoy them all. The elders and the
vokter
and their laws could burn in Hel for all he cared. He had lived too long under their rule.

But he would not have to endure much longer. Freedom was tantalizingly close now.

He literally held it in his hand.

The thought cooled Thorolf’s ire as he turned to stare at Hauk’s cozy clifftop home.

Valbrand was always saying he wanted change. And his wish was about to be granted.

All Thorolf needed was one of the
utlending
women. That was why he had taken part in the Claiming voyage in the first place.

He was not about to test his potion himself. Not after failing in the past. He was reasonably certain that he held in his hand the answer that the men of Asgard had sought for centuries. The elixir would bring him wealth and acclaim throughout the world, make him a king. A god.

Yet there was still a chance, however small, that it might prove to be a deadly poison.

He meant to find out—with the help of Valbrand’s pretty bride.

The thought made Thorolf smile. All he had to do was keep his temper in check, and he would succeed. Patience was the key.

Patience.

He could wait one more day. Turning, he walked down the grassy hill. He would move his boat and conceal it better, now while he still had the cover of darkness.

Then he would return here. The
vokter
could not watch over his bride every second. She would be alone at some point.

And Thorolf would be here, lying in wait.

His smile widened. On the morrow, Hauk Valbrand would lose his new wife.

T
he sun felt glorious after yesterday’s rain. Josette could not help but sigh as she relaxed against a tree, warmed by the shimmering rays, a basket of fresh-picked berries in her lap. A pair of horses grazed a few yards away, and Keldan lay stretched out on the grass beside her, eyes closed, one hand behind his head. He still had traces of dark juice on his face and chest.

Their morning ride had ended with the two of them picking their breakfast fresh from the fields—and their berry hunt had ended in a laughing berry battle.

Smiling, Josette popped one of the sweet fruits in her mouth, its taste as refreshing as the breathtaking view from this hilltop. From here, she could see the entire island spread out in an endless, colorful expanse: fields dotted with bright wildflowers, the western forest a rumpled blanket of leafy green; lavender mountains rising in the distance; streams glinting here and there, streaks of silver amid the darker, lush shades of the meadows.

A gentle breeze warmed her face, rustling the branches overhead. It was so pleasant here. So peaceful.

So difficult to keep her mind on the task she had been assigned. She was
supposed
to be gathering information about the island’s location. Avril would be expecting her report tonight, at the celebration in town.

But thus far, Josette had no useful contribution to make to the captives’ escape plan.

Feeling guilty, she ate another berry and looked down at Keldan.

Yesterday’s drenching rain had kept the two of them inside his
vaningshus
—so it was not actually her fault that she had been unable to carry out her assignment. After all, they could hardly understand each other.

Although that had not kept them from enjoying a most agreeable day. They had played draughts, and chess, and a game he said was called
hneftafl
, which involved colored stones and a decorated board. After a leisurely supper, he had worked at his carving and she had fallen asleep listening to the rain and the sound of his deep voice humming a Norse tune.

When she awoke this morn, she realized he had once again carried her to bed and retreated to spend the night on the floor on the opposite side of the chamber.

Josette chewed at her lower lip, knowing that this friendly companionship growing between them should make her uneasy. He was still a stranger to her, and as powerfully built as any warrior she had met.

Yet, despite their language differences, she already felt as if she knew him somehow.

There was such a playful quality about him. Something so endearing about that hint of a smile that always curved his lips, about his unfailing cheerfulness. He seemed to take such pleasure in making those around him smile, both the people in the town... and her.

Watching the wind ruffle his black hair and the sun warm his tanned skin, she felt an unfamiliar sensation inside her, like hot ribbons whirling together, all ticklish and shivery.

Mayhap it had something to do with the fact that she liked him. She had never enjoyed a man’s company so much.

As if aware of her gaze on him, he opened his eyes. His crooked grin widened.

Josette felt warmth flood her face, embarrassed to have been caught studying him with such rapt interest. She shifted her attention to the basket of berries in her lap.

Barely stirring, he picked a tall blade of grass and reached up to tickle her cheek with it.

“
Gress
,” he said.

She did not look at him, but smiled as she stared down into her basket. This was a game they had devised, to teach each other their native languages. “
Gress
,” she echoed, before translating the Norse word into French. “Grass.”

“Grass,” he repeated in his thick accent. “Josette...” His voice turned serious as he sat up. “Happy here?”

She glanced at him, sitting there beside her with a hopeful expression and a blade of grass in his fingers, this gentle Viking who liked to make furniture and hunt berries for breakfast and laugh with her beneath a sun-drenched sky.

“
Ja
,” she admitted softly. It was one of the first words he had taught her. “
Ja
, Keldan. I know I should not be, but I
am
happy here with you. No one has ever...”

Keldan looked at her earnestly. She did not know why she kept talking, when he could not understand. Mayhap it was
because
he could not understand that she felt she could tell him the rest.

“No one has ever made me feel special the way you do,” she continued, blinking away the dampness that suddenly filled her eyes. “In truth, no one ever had much time for me.”

She dropped her gaze again, shaking her head. “But I am supposed to be helping Avril. Giselle needs her.” Her throat tightened. “I have to find out from you which direction we will have to sail to get... to get...”

She felt Keldan’s hand lightly touch her chin.

“To get home,” she finished, her heart beating hard as he tilted her head up.

His dark eyes held as much gentleness as his touch.

“Josette,” he murmured, “home here now. Stay.” He added another word that she did not realize he had learned yet. “Please.”

Her lower lip trembled. She could not find breath to respond.

His fingertips slowly glided along her jaw, downward... coming to rest over her pounding heart,

“
Hjerte
,” he whispered, taking her hand and placing it in the center of his chest.

She could feel his heart pounding as fast as hers. Their gazes met and held.

“
H-hjerte
,” she repeated, whispering the word in her language as he leaned closer. “Heart.”

He kissed her, a gentle brush of his mouth over hers. It was the first time he had ever kissed her.

The first time any man had kissed her.

And it felt as warm and sweet and tender as the sunlight that dappled the meadow. He tasted of the berries they had gathered, his lips a soft, intriguing contrast to the muscles flexing beneath her hand, so hard and solid and male. The shivery-hot ribbons spun tight within her, and when he lifted his head all too soon, the sigh that escaped her carried a longing that was new and confusing to her.

And tantalizing.

The sound he made was a deeper echo of hers; she could feel it rumble through his chest, could feel him breathing fast and shallow. He dusted kisses over her chin, her nose, her forehead.

“Josette, home here,” he whispered. “Home.
Hjem
.”

Her senses danced like the leaves overhead, warmed by the sun, by his caress, by the yearning in his voice that so matched the feeling inside her.

And all she could think was that the word for home sounded rather like the word for heart.

“
Ja
, Keldan.” She sighed, whispering the word against his mouth as he lay back in the grass, drawing her with him. “
Hjem
.”

~ ~ ~

Avril paced in front of the hearth, examining Hauk’s collection of weapons and entertaining thoughts of mayhem. Floyel’s small hooves clacked on the stone floor as he followed at her heels.

“Must you do that?” she bit out, halting in her tracks and turning to give him a stern look.

The little reindeer bleated loudly, his brown eyes large and innocent as he gazed up at her. 

She sighed. “I am sorry.” Bending down, she scratched beneath his furry chin. “Poor little Floyel, I should not snap at you. It is not
your
fault I have been trapped in here all day.”

She moved restlessly to the open windows, where late-afternoon sun and warm, fresh air poured in to brighten the chamber. The weather was ideal for exploring, and she had planned to do just that today, to go and find Hauk’s ship. But he refused to let her go riding—or anywhere, for that matter—alone.

He had offered to accompany her wherever she might wish, but she had declined. She could hardly take him along as she searched for his boat.

And she thought it best to keep as much distance between them as possible.

She turned away from the window, suddenly awash in memories of last night.

His hands in her hair. His mouth, hot and ravishing on hers. The way she had trembled with wanting, parted her lips, reveled in the fierce strength of his arms around her. She had lost herself in all of it—in
him
—for one wild moment... and then another, and another...

She shut her eyes, unable to stop herself from remembering every vivid detail. The velvet thrust of his tongue along hers. The roughness of his beard against her chin, her throat... her breasts. The heat of his mouth on her naked skin.

She wrapped her arms around herself. God’s breath, her body still felt fevered even now. Last night, Hauk had ignited something within her that she had believed long vanished. Forgotten. Something passionate and reckless that had nearly made her surrender to the husky promises he whispered.

Shaking her head, she struggled to right her thoughts. She had been too exhausted to think clearly last night. Exhausted and vulnerable. And confused by their conversation—by the way he kept surprising her with unexpected compassion and thoughtfulness. And caring.

For a few scorching moments, she had forgotten everything else. A few moments of madness. Weakness. But she could not allow herself to be weak.

Not if she wanted to get home.

Since their moonlit encounter on the beach, they had barely spoken more than a few, tense words to each other—and she meant to keep it that way. She could not let herself view Hauk Valbrand as aught but her abductor. An obstacle to be overcome on her way back to Giselle.

No matter how his touch and his words and his kisses made her melt.

“Saint’s breath,” she whispered miserably. “How am I to ignore the man when I cannot stop thinking about him?”

Floyel, ever at her heels, snuffled at her hand as if in sympathy, before ambling off to plop down on his bed in one corner.

“Thank you,” she said with a reluctant grin as she wiped her moist palm on her skirt. “At least reindeer kisses do not cause me to take leave of my senses.”

Releasing a frustrated sigh, she returned to the chair she had occupied for the past hour and picked up a book. She had dug out the Norse texts again, hoping she might notice something helpful that she had missed before. Thumbing through the pages, she tried to think of a way to sneak out without Hauk seeing her.

It would be difficult, since he had been working outside all day, hammering away at some kind of repairs to Ildfast’s stall. No doubt he suspected she was making plans to escape. He might not even allow her to attend the celebration tonight—and then how would she meet with her fellow captives?

Whispering an oath, she shut the book. This was maddening. She was accustomed to going and doing as she pleased. Having a man restrict her every movement was intolerable. It made her blood simmer, made her feel like doing something rash and—

The door opened and Hauk strode in, his face and chest streaked with sweat, dirt, sawdust. Avril lowered her gaze, partly to conceal her unruly mood... and partly because a different kind of heat shimmered through her blood and curled in her belly.

Curse the man, how could the merest
glimpse
of him affect her this way?

“Where did you get those?” he asked with a growl. She looked up. He was frowning at the books stacked beside her chair.

“I meant no harm,” she said defensively. “Since you will not allow me to venture out, I must pass the time in some way, and I enjoy reading—”

“I never said you could not venture out.”

“I meant alone.” Lifting the book in her hands, she placed it atop the stack. “I am sorry, I should not have gone through your books without permission.” He had every right to be angry with her. “I will put them back.”

“Nay, it matters not,” he said more evenly. Brushing sawdust from his dark-gold hair, he walked over to the rain barrel against the nearby wall. “What is mine is yours now. You are my wife.”

Avril bit her tongue. It was pointless to keep correcting him about that.

He reached for a wooden pipe above the rain barrel, releasing a spigot that let fresh water flow in from outside, where it collected in troughs below the eaves. “If you are bored, milady,” he said above the splashing of the water as it filled the half-empty barrel, “I am willing to entertain you.”

Heat flooded her as she imagined what sort of entertainment he had in mind. “I would prefer to be alone, thank you,” she said coolly.

He slanted her a glance. “I only meant that we might go for a walk. Or mayhap play a game. Chess, draughts—”

“Darts?” she suggested innocently. “It has always been my favorite.”

He arched one brow. “I am not sure it would be wise of me to supply you with small, pointy objects in my vicinity.”

“I might miss the target,” she admitted, unable to suppress a sly grin. “But probably only once or twice.”

A smile dimpled his unshaven cheek. “Why is darts your favorite?” He twisted the spigot again to shut the water off. “It is usually played only by men, by archers.”

“Aye, but it is also one of the few games of skill in which women can compete. And win. Even against men.”