The Enchantment (11 page)

“Thrash you, Serricksdotter,” he sputtered, swiping water from his face. “I came here to make peace—to offer you friendship.”

“I have no need of the sort of
friendship
you offer.” As she stood in the entrance, the lowering sun set her hair ablaze with red and violet fires and cast a golden glow over her skin. “All I want from you, Woman-heart, is a blade-meeting.” Light filtered through her tunic, outlining her womanly curves with excruciating clarity, and suddenly his urge to throttle her was intensified by a number of other burning urges.

“A blade-meeting,” he echoed, raking her visually, edging closer. Then he unleashed at blunt range the full force of the unique sensual power he possessed. His eyes shimmered with iridescent lights and male heat flowed from him in palpable waves. “And nothing else, Long-legs?”

Silence stretched taut between them as she braced against that unnerving onslaught and summoned all her nerve to counter the alarming trickle of excitement in her middle.

“There is one more thing I would have of you,” she said, her voice low and resonant. When his shoulders relaxed one degree and his mouth began to curl, she broadened her stance and delivered her final thrust.

“Victory.”

He reacted as if she'd smacked him with icy water again. His face went crimson, veins appeared in his temples, and his arms bulged menacingly.

Then, before her disbelieving eyes, he forced his shoulders to deflate, forced his clenched fists open, and lowered his massive arms to his sides. Venting a harsh breath, he set his jaw and leaned back on one leg, scowling at her.

“Heed my advice, Serricksdotter,” he growled. “Save both your strength and your pride. Give up this blade-fighting nonsense before you get hurt. Wash yourself.” He gestured to her appearance with exaggerated male disdain. “Put on a decent kirtle . . . comb your hair . . . and behave like a woman.”

Aaren blinked.

That was it? She'd defied and enraged and offended him . . . and he told her to get a kirtle and a comb and behave herself? His scorn struck her warrior's pride, sparking a blaze in her stomach that erupted upward, igniting her heart and tongue.

“Why don't you fill your hand with iron and make me, Woman-heart?” she hurled angrily. “You think I should behave like a woman? Well, there's only one way to make me: fight and defeat me. Until then, why don't
you
try behaving like a
man,
Skirt-clinger?” She took a reckless step closer to him, then another, using his own tactic against him—prodding him with her anger. “Take up a blade and defeat me.
If you can.
”

Emotion twitched in his jaw muscle and smoldered deep in his eyes. But he mastered and shunted his anger aside yet a third time, stalking closer and glowering down at her.

“Oh, I'll defeat you, Serricksdotter.” His voice rolled like approaching thunder. “Make no mistake about that.”

“When?” She braced for a cuff or a shove.

But his only response was a smile that was both fierce and knowing. An instant later, he was striding down the path to the village, his wide shoulders swaying, his long hair ruffled by the breeze. She followed with her eyes, feeling the rhythm of his gait rasping her already frayed self-control.

“When?”
she shouted at his broad back—though she might as well have been talking to the air, since he was already out of hearing.

Frustration swelled in her veins. “Wretch!” she muttered furiously. “May you outlive your teeth by a score of years . . . water the straw when you sleep . . .” She cursed him with nine plagues, then jerked back into the bathing house and slammed the door behind her. Drawing another bucket of water, she tossed some of it on the glowing rocks, releasing a boiling cloud of steam that matched the one billowing inside her.

What manner of man was he . . . so huge, so strong, so obviously born to fight . . . yet so reluctant to use those coveted advantages of size and power in battle? He wouldn't lift a blade, wouldn't join a raid or defend his jarl's honor. And he wouldn't raise a hand to a woman—not even one who doused him with water!

He was “soft” on women, they said. At least that made sense; the village women were certainly soft on him. They apparently found him enjoyable . . . him with his sun-bronzed face, mischief-filled mouth, and bluer-than-summer-sky eyes that seemed to see straight into a woman's bones. She scowled and shifted uncomfortably as the memory of that bold, caressing gaze bloomed in her mind.

And the way he talked—she'd never imagined that mere words could assault a body so. He obviously claimed his word-skill from the Mischief-maker, Loki, himself. No doubt he spun similar word-webs around the rest of the women in Borger's village and that was why they—

He had plied his sly word-skill and his wretched flesh-magic with her because in his mind she was a woman, not a warrior. She groaned aloud. As long as he thought of her as a woman, he'd never take a blade to her. And if he didn't, neither could anyone else.

The possibility of being denied the opportunity to fight appalled her. She wanted to fight—had to fight. It was her
destiny.

She had to make Jorund Borgerson acknowledge that she was a warrior and deal with her as one. And there was only one way to manage that, she realized. Provoke him. He could be angered; she had seen the emotion flaring in his eyes. She would just have to goad and challenge and annoy and confront him until he forgot both her sex and his own fear of battle and reached for a blade to silence her.

Determination released a hot tide of relief in her. No more treacherous word-snares, no more bone-melting looks, no more losing herself in his blue-eyed smiles. From now on, when Jorund Borgerson saw her coming, he wouldn't see a woman . . . he'd see
trouble.

J
ORUND STRODE ALONG
the path to the village, his blood simmering and his pride aflame. It had been his private plan—a far greater challenge in his estimation—to conquer the battle-maiden's pride and temper with her own desires, then to take her pleasures without the use of force. There was no “Odin” and no “enchantment,” he reasoned; thus, no dishonor in charming the wench and claiming the fierce passion promised in every line and movement of her body. He hadn't exactly expected her to yield to him on the spot; he had known it would take persistence, cleverness, and perhaps even a rousing tumble along with the wooing. But neither had he expected to be doused with icy water, reviled as a skirt-clinger, and told to behave like a man!

Odin's Living Stones—what was wrong with the wench? She didn't respond to him like any woman he'd ever known. She blustered and growled and boasted with all the volatile temper and touchy pride of a— He stopped dead in the middle of the path, scowling as the insight struck.

A warrior.
She truly believed she was a warrior and so behaved as she thought a warrior should . . . proud, blade-toughened, eager to fight. The thought astonished him. A woman who honestly believed she was a warrior.

Godfrey's Blessed Heaven—didn't she have eyes in her head? The sight of her as she had stood in the bathing house, unaware she was being watched, rose within him. No warrior had legs so long and shapely, or a bottom so rounded and firm. His eyes half closed as he searched the memory of her high, defiant cheekbones, and lips so wide and full and colored like ripe apples. No warrior had skin that smooth, eyes that thickly lashed, shoulders that sleek, or breasts that . . . He sucked in a ragged breath.

And no warrior shivered when looking into his eyes . . . or blushed . . . or grew warm and breathless.

His jaw set like granite. She was a
woman,
dammit! And he wanted her as a man wanted a woman . . . on her back, in his furs . . . soft-eyed and eager. He was determined to overcome her absurd mannish pride and tame and claim her.

She wanted a battle? He'd give her one. Let her storm and bluster and rage . . . he'd shrug off her anger and “turn the other cheek.” Let her show him the might in the back of her hand . . . he'd show her the pleasure in the palm of his. He'd rouse the sensuality he'd glimpsed in the depths of those heated amber eyes and use her own passions to humble and defeat her.

By the time he was through, Aaren Serricksdotter would have learned she was a woman . . . not a warrior. And every time she saw him coming, she would ache for another lesson.

T
HE
S
KY-
T
RAVELER
had already settled into the night-cradle of the mountains and drawn his dusk-blanket from the sky after him when Aaren started back to the village. It had taken a long while to sweat the day's tensions from her frame and longer still to wash and tame her hair. By the time she finished, she heartily regretted her refusal to accept Marta's help with the tedious combing. But at last it was done and her clothing, her dagger, and her sense of self-possession were all securely back in place.

She stopped by the women's house to deposit her things, then headed for the small hearth at the side of the long hall to see her sisters. But when she dipped her head through the doorway, she found herself confronting the stares of Kara and Gudrun and a number of other women.

“My sisters,” she said, glancing about the chamber. “I came to see how they fare.”

“They get on well enough,” stout Gudrun answered tersely. “The jarl sent for them to serve ale in the hall.”

The news burst on Aaren's mind like an exploding ember: Miri and Marta in Old Red Beard's hall, serving ale to Borger's hot-eyed warriors! She bolted for the door.

The tables in the long hall were filled with warriors and select men of the village, continuing their celebration of Borger's triumph over Gunnar Haraldson, though with a bit less vigor than the day before. A great log burning in the hearth and the resin-soaked torches hung on posts around the hall provided plentiful light. Miri and Marta passed along the fronts of the tables bearing large metal pitchers and keeping their eyes lowered to avoid the hot male stares that followed them.

“Here, S-Serricksdotter—my horn is empty,” Old Oleg Forkbeard called to Miri, waving his drinking vessel.

“Your
horn
has been empty for years, Forkbeard! What would a comely wench want with you?” Hakon Freeholder called out, generating harsh laughter all around him. “Here, wench—” He pushed to his feet near Miri with an ale-spawned leer and a pelvic thrust. “I've a
full
horn and an empty set of furs!”

When he made a grab for her, she jerked back with a cry, dropping her pitcher and sending ale splashing onto her kirtle and onto the sandal-boots of the men nearby. They shoved to their feet, snarling and shaking their wetted buskins, and Miri shrank back, her eyes wide with horror at their glowering faces. In an instant, a muscular blond form vaulted over the table and between them.

“Blame Freeholder,” Garth Borgerson snarled, “not the wench—it was not her fault.” He turned on flat-faced Hakon with a fierce glare that penetrated his warrior's bravado. The Freeholder's stare retreated and fled . . . only to run into Aaren's. She had arrived just in time to witness the incident and now stood braced near the hearth, her hand on the hilt of her blade.

“I see you like my sister, Freeholder,” she said with icy calm. All talk at the nearby tables ceased as she stepped forward and swung her gaze to Miri, who melted visibly with relief. Aaren looked back to the surly Freeholder, then down at her own hand on the handle of her blade. Serrick had taught her that to clasp the handle of a blade without drawing it was a sign of indecision in a warrior and that to do so created bad luck in the weapon. Thus committed, she had to draw the blade, but did it slowly, coolly.

“Admire my sisters, Freeholder, look your fill. But never be so foolish as to touch one of them.” She rested the point of her blade on the floor between her feet and laid her hands casually across the sides of the blade guard. “The jarl has decreed there is but one man who may challenge me . . . but that does not keep me from challenging one who would take advantage of Miri or Marta.”