The Enchantment (26 page)

“How bold are you, Garth Borgerson?” she whispered. “Bold enough to hold me with more than a hand?” Heat flared in his eyes at her unexpected challenge and he pulled her to him . . . wrapping her with his strong arms, folding her to his hardened warrior's frame.

It was like sinking into a mountain hot spring . . . feeling his presence lapping around her, his warmth invading her garments, and his strength claiming her. She melted against him, nuzzling her cheek against the coarse woolen of his tunic and the smooth leather of his jerkin, and sliding her arms around his waist. It was wonderful, having Garth's body pressed tautly to hers . . . all she had hoped . . . and so much more.

They stood embracing, silent. Then Miri raised her face to his in helpless wonder, and ran her tongue along the groove of her lips, staring at his. The sight galvanized Garth and for the first time in his manly life, he was seized with the desire to merge his mouth with a woman's. He held his breath and lowered his mouth onto hers.

It was soft and moist and sweet—so incredibly sweet. It was like honey-cakes . . . like sips of Frankish wine. The pleasure-shock radiated along his nerves and rattled his very sinews. By the time he raised his head, he could scarcely see. He was drunk with the taste and feel of her. It took a full minute to realize she was slipping from his arms. He staggered, then planted his feet and focused on her.

Her eyes were shining and she had caught her reddened lower lip between her teeth. When he made a move toward her, she jerked back a step and whirled—running for the women's house. He stood, roused and wanting, in the cold night. But after that first blast of disappointment faded, he began to grin. She wanted him. He drew a deep breath and turned back to the hall, fingering his newly sensitive lips, his heart soaring like a nighthawk on the wind. On the wings of his thoughts, he sent Jorund all the help the gods of Asgard might be willing to spare. Halfway to the hall, he paused and cast a glance up at the night sky.

“And you, White Christ—wherever you are. Your friend Jorund could use your help, too.”

M
UCH LATER, DEEP
into the night, Marta crept from her pallet in the darkened women's house and donned her thick woolen cloak. Slipping out the door, she hurried toward the long hall, pausing in the moon-shadows to search the commons and the buildings around her for signs of others who might be abroad at such a late hour. The quiet extended, unbroken, and she hurried on to tug open the massive door of the hall and dart inside. The great iron hinge creaked and she froze, scarcely breathing as she lowered her hood and glanced about at the limp and snoring forms of the warriors and villagers that littered the benches and floor.

Most of the torches had sputtered out, but there was still enough light to see Leif Gunnarson propped against the wall on his mat of straw, beneath the ragged fleece she had found for him. His shaggy head was leaned back against the wall and his eyes were closed, but as she stole closer, his eyes opened and fixed on her as if he had heard and tracked her movements from the moment she entered the hall. He did not move a muscle.

“What are you doing here?” he said quietly.

“I . . . I don't . . .” Her throat tightened as she looked into those clear gray eyes that seemed to see into her very heart. She didn't know why she had come . . . except that there was an ache in her heart and she felt a compelling urge to be near him and to have him look at her the way he was now.

“Go away, little Marta,” he said with an odd huskiness to his voice.

“But I . . .” She couldn't swallow, could scarcely speak. Tears welled in her eyes, turning them into shimmering pools in the dim light. For days now, he had demanded she leave him alone, had rebuffed her kindnesses, and met her brave mien and even temper with unrelenting disdain. But there was always something in the way he looked at her—an ill-hidden longing, a tender edge to his gruffness—that tugged at her heart. And it was to that hint of protectiveness, to that suggestion of wanting, that she instinctively turned tonight, as her fears overcame her.

“Did you see what happened to my sister Aaren?” she whispered, her voice clogged with unshed tears.

“I saw.” His eyes traveled gently over her pale face and silky hair.

“I am afraid for her.” Tears spilled down her cheeks and her chin quivered. She suddenly felt empty, standing there, needing something she didn't understand from a man who seemingly had nothing to give her.

Leif watched his curvy and courageous little keeper—the solace and the torment of his captivity—struggling to control her tears, and his whole being was thrown into turmoil. He was torn between his desire to comfort her and his desire to protect her, between his raging need for her gentle strength and his dread certainty that he would only cause her heartache. It took all of his self-possession to force his body to remain still; he had no strength left to guard his tongue.

“If your sister has but a small part of your courage, Little One, she is in no danger.”

Marta held her breath as she searched his taut features, sensing how fiercely he held himself in check. She shook her head slowly, her eyes luminous and haunting. “I am not brave, Leif Gunnarson. I must not be—for I am afraid of what will happen to us all.”

The sight of her standing there, overcome by tears, struck the final blow in his battle against his own desires. He flung the fleece aside. Two crouching steps were all his chains would allow—but they were enough. He hovered over her, straining at the ends of his bonds, and raised one huge, battle-hardened hand to wipe away her tears. His touch only seemed to produce more tears, and he groaned and cupped her face between his hands.

“Little Marta, do not cry,” he said hoarsely, running his callused thumbs back and forth over her soft cheeks. When she looked up at him with that awful blend of misery and maiden-hunger in her eyes, he felt as if he'd taken a battle-blow to the chest . . . he could scarcely draw breath. When she leaned toward him, he just managed to grab her shoulders and push her back to arm's length. His heart pounded and his gut churned.

“Do not come any closer,” he said. When she raised her quivering chin and pressed against his restraining hands, opening her arms to him, he groaned and gave her a shake. There were pride-battles and blood-feuds and long-nursed hatreds between their people . . . there would be only pain and dishonor for her if she was caught with him. He stared at her, wanting yet fearing to want her . . . unable to send her away yet unable to draw her close.

“I am a captive in your jarl's hall,” he said in a tortured voice. “Who knows when the ransom may come . . . my father is not so rich as Borger.”

She answered with her eyes. They shone defiantly through her tears.

“Do you not see, Little Maid?” He gave the chain weighting his arm an agonized shake. “I cannot even stand straight before you.”

“You stand taller in your chains than most men do in their freedom,” she whispered. And the longing that filled her sweet face battered the last of his will to resist. His voice was choked as he uttered one last, feeble objection.

“I . . . have fleas.”

Marta smiled through her tears as she slipped through his hands and pressed close, invading his arms and capturing his warrior's heart.

“Then I will soon have them, too.”

B
Y MOONLIGHT,
J
ORUND
guided his great Norman horse along the familiar trails leading up into the high reaches of the densely forested hills. The rhythmic, muffled thud of hooves kept the passage of time as they left the village far behind and entered a frost-kissed realm of stark moon-silver and night-shadows. The barren trees rustled as they passed, like the old Sisters of Fate, the Norns, gossiping over their time-spinning and fate-weaving . . . trading whispers of portent on the night breeze.

Again and again, he turned in his saddle to search Aaren's bobbing, silent form, welcoming the cold night air into his lungs and overheated thoughts. He had acted on pure instinct, overpowering and carrying her away, and now was somewhat unnerved by his violent response to her challenge and by the potent male pleasure he felt at having conquered her. It had never been his way to force a woman, but Aaren Serricksdotter pulled passions from him he had never experienced before . . . some exhilarating, some tantalizing . . . and some disturbing.

As they rode along, he considered what lay ahead for them and realized that his brash demonstration of power would have consequences . . . probably volatile ones. If the past was any guide, she would be bruised and pride-sore and blood-letting furious by the time they reached his lodge in the mountains . . . just itching for another confrontation. She would snap and snarl like a cornered she-wolf, and he would have to begin the taming process all over again. He let his eyes roam the provocative curve of her upturned buttocks, recalling her helplessly sensual responses, reliving the way she had responded to his gentling touch. And he expelled his lingering tension on a long breath, and began to smile.

When they were well into the forest, he stopped the horses and dismounted, untying her from the saddle and hoisting her onto his shoulder, then lowering her to the ground. She moaned, rousing as he laid her in a pile of leaves at the side of the trail and untied her legs.

“Hold still, Serricksdotter,” he said, grappling with her wriggling feet. “I'm only rubbing some of the feeling back into your legs.” He paused at her strangled gasp of disbelief and gazed down at her. “Unless you'd rather I did more . . .”

When she glared at him, he smiled.

“Not speaking to me, are you?” He made a “tsk-ing” sound. “You were not so word-scanty a while ago, my haughty she-wolf.”

She levered up onto one elbow as he exchanged one foot for the other and gave it a thorough rubbing, which soothed the throbbing. But her relief evaporated when he dragged her to her feet and hoisted her over his shoulder again. An instant later she found herself plopped upright onto her horse, then repositioned astride it.

“Behave yourself,” he ordered, seizing her foot and wrestling it back down when she tried to swing it up and over the saddle. “Or you go right back over the saddle.” Then he picked up the reins and led the horse to his own, where he seized his own reins and began to lead them at a walk.

“Are you not curious about where I'm taking you?”

She refused to answer.

“Since you asked so sweetly,” he declared, with a nod to her narrowed eyes and stony countenance. “To my
shieling
—in the mountains. It is a small summer lodge I built with my own two hands. I've never taken a woman there before.”

“You're not taking one now,” she gritted out, furious that he'd overpowered and shamed her—hauled her about like a bag of turnips before the entire village! “You're taking a
she-wolf,
remember?”

He paused, flashed her an infuriating smile that claimed her response as a victory, and continued, both walking and talking. “It's a tight little log hut—built into the side of a cliff overlooking a small meadow. In summer there are berries everywhere . . . and there's a rock spring for fresh water . . . and plenty of wood nearby . . . a winter's worth, if it comes to that.” He glanced up at her with a questioning look and she returned a snarl.

“You may have pulled Rika's fangs, Wolf-lover,” she warned, “but I still have mine. And if you come near me, I'll use them—I swear it!”

He smiled and strode on. “I have plenty of warm furs for sleeping . . . including some beautiful blue-silver fox pelts that I took on a journey into the far north country. Think of it, Long-legs . . . my warm, silky furs beneath your bare buttocks on a snowy winter's night . . .” She stiffened, feeling an ominous trickle of excitement from her stomach down toward those parts of her she dreaded awakening.

“You'll not strip my buttocks bare,” she snapped. “Not without a loss of blood.”