The Viking's Woman (32 page)

“What!” This time she did not stutter; the word lashed out with all her fury. It wasn’t enough. She struggled against his hold, managing to claw at his
chin and kick him in the shin. He swore savagely, catching her arm and wrenching her around. She fell in a tangle of her mantle, and he came down quickly, straddled over her hips.

Her temper rose to salvage her from complete humiliation. “Truly, if there is a God in heaven, you will rot beneath the stroke of some battle-ax, you will slowly molder and decay, you will—”

“Do go on,” he encouraged.

“Get off me!”

“What? Now? Why, I am enchanted to discover how you feel beneath me. It’s interesting to discover what it would be like to be the man for whom you so eagerly shed your clothing.”

“I did not shed my clothing for Rowan!”

“You would tell me that Rowan performed the deed?”

“No! Of course not. I—”

“Ah! I’ve got it at last. You came here and shed your clothing and cast yourself into the water to play the seductress, just in case I, your legal lord, should wander by. How intriguing a thought. Especially after last night.”

“I did not—”

“Careful, careful, lady!” He leaned nearer, and she did not know if the gleam in his eyes was from amusement or fury, or some other emotion altogether. “I rather like the sound of that. And I don’t like the sound of my other suggestions half as well.”

She opened her mouth, then allowed it to fall shut. The leaves of the great oak above her cast shadows over them both. He picked up a lock of her damp hair, winding it around his finger. “An early-morning
tryst with my wife beneath the shade of an ancient oak, in the coolness of a bubbling brook … it does hold a certain appeal, don’t you think? Rather tickles the fantasy?”

“No!”

“No! My heart is broken. Alas! Within my bed lies a lifeless log, when I know that I married a woman of vibrance and passion. Does she exist only for others now? Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I shall have to speak with young Rowan to discover—”

“Stop!” she whispered.

He arched a golden brow. She lifted her chin. “A tryst with my dear lord and dearly beloved husband sounds like a—a fantasy indeed!” she choked out.

A gleam of deviltry touched the blue of his eyes, and she wanted to strike out as just the corner of his lip twitched with humor. But before she could raise a hand against him, he was on his feet, casting his mantle aside, unbuckling his scabbard. The sword fell to the ground beside her with a heavy thud. He tugged off his boots, stripped away his hose, then his tunic and shirt, and she twisted to her side and glanced longingly at the sword.

His bare foot landed on her hair, and her eyes shot to his. “I promise if you even think about bringing a weapon against me again, I shall carve my initials and the emblem of the Royal House of Vestfald upon your backside!”

She choked out in fury, leaping to her feet, flying against him. He caught her and fell with her, his laughter filling the air as they rolled to the water’s edge. Her mantle had fallen free, and she lay between the chill of the water and the sizzling heat of
his body. She writhed beneath him, trying to free herself from his weight but bringing herself into deeper, further contact with him instead. She swore vehemently, which caused him to cast his head back in laughter.

“What would you have of a Viking? You have labeled me, and I give you what you desire! Let nothing stand in my way. I will take what I want and have it by the grace of my sword, lady. And I shall have no more cold creature beneath me again, but all the rage and fire and sweet passion that is due me in turn!”

“I owe you nothing! Bastard—”

His eyes met hers, alive with blue flame, with passion. And his whisper touched her cheek. “Take care, milady! Take care! Convince me that you longed for me and no other.”

She inhaled sharply, longing to tell him to go to hell. Her anger was as fierce as his.

Nevertheless, she wanted him too. Her traitorous body wanted him in the stream, in the coolness of the water, in the breath of the day, in the shadow of the oak. She trembled, feeling again the strength in his arms, in his touch, in the power of his chest. Aye, she wanted him. She wanted the passion and more. She wanted the comfort of his arms. She wanted the tenderness of his whisper. She wanted the man she was coming to know.

The leaves rustled, and the brook bubbled softly by them. She felt the cool peace of the day keenly and, against it, the seething currents that had erupted between them.

She stared at him, then slowly she cupped his cheeks with her hands, meeting the fire of his eyes
with silvery sparks of her own. But then she drew his head down to hers, and she touched his lips with a sweeping, savage kiss to defy any demand of his. She flicked her tongue tauntingly, seductively, against his lips, then she delved past the barrier of his teeth and played a hostile, sensual duel with his tongue. Her fingers entwined into his hair, and she pressed her breasts high and excitingly against the roughness of his chest.

A guttural groan escaped him, shattering the quiet of the day. And then she felt the peace no more, not the coolness of the water, nor the shadow of the oak. His lips seared her throat and her breast, and she was pressing against him, and then kneeling with him, their lips entwined. She stood and felt the roughness of his face against her belly, against her thighs. She cried out softly and moved sensuously down upon him, using all of her body to stroke him, then kissing, nipping his shoulders, rubbing her hair and head slowly down the taut, rippling planes of his belly. She hesitated just briefly, but then the fantasy seized her, and she gripped the fullness of his thrusting shaft between her palms and nearly jumped at the heat and size of him beneath her touch. His whispers encouraged her to further boldness, wantonness—wickedness, perhaps—but it didn’t matter. She didn’t remember her hatred or the bloodshed or anything that stood between them. She knew only this man, this lover, and the sweet, savage things he had evoked inside her, and the startling, swift beauty that could come from it, sweeping away thought, indeed stealing consciousness, even moments of life. She moved
upon him with her kiss, with the lap and stroke of her tongue, the caress of her mouth.

Fierce, hoarse sounds escaped him. He gripped her shoulders, shuddering fiercely, then he pulled her up and against him, and his mouth covered hers voraciously as he bore her down. He parted her thighs ruthlessly, and parted her still further with the questing stroke of his fingers, then both consumed and filled her with the hot, wet thrust and lave of his tongue until she was nearly delirious, sobbing for him, barely aware of what her words demanded. He obliged, dragging her fully beneath him. She cried out, startled as he entered her with the driving force of a huge, majestic machine, blazing his way in, filling her, becoming a part of her. His lips covered her cry, his warmth swept her into the vortex of his desire. Lightning seemed to fill her as thunder shook the earth, and the very ground pulsed around her and within her. She was swept to Valhalla and beyond. The ecstasy rose within her until pleasure was nearly pain, and still he brought her higher. Then the sun seemed to blaze and burst within her, and she was filled with a stream of the man, even as the dazzling beauty exploded around her, and night reigned supreme.

Seconds later the daylight returned. Her eyes fluttered open, and she discovered Eric at her side, leaning upon an elbow, carefully studying the paleness of her face.

Suddenly the coolness of the water and the air seemed to strike freshly upon her. She shivered and tried to move, but her damp hair was caught beneath him and she could not.

He touched her face, drawing a line down her cheek, and she tried to twist from him. He would not allow her to do so. “Why did you come here?” he demanded.

“To please you, obviously!” she snapped, and then she was instantly sorry, for the Nordic winds seemed to touch his eyes again. A swift tick appeared at the base of his throat, and she said quickly, “I—you’ll not, you’ll not—”

“I’ll not what?”

Her eyes fell. They lay naked still, bathed in the brook and in the sheen of their mating, and yet the distance between them was suddenly and incredibly vast. “You’ll not hurt Rowan?”

He pushed away from her, rose, and walked into the brook. The water came only to his knees, but he sank into the coldness of it, his back to her. Then he rose, ignoring her, and walked, naked and confident and careless, to the shore. He swept up his shirt and slipped into it.

“Eric?” she whispered, rising up slightly on an elbow, a sudden fear seizing her again.

He pulled on his tunic and laced the leather strands, then glanced her way. His eyes flicked over the length of her naked body, half in the water, half out of it. “Rowan was never in any danger of my wrath,” he told her flatly. “As I told you earlier, I trust his sense of honor, even if yours is nonexistent.”

She started as if he had slapped her. Tears stung her eyes, but she spun away from him, walking blindly into the water herself. Still his harsh words followed her. “I told you once, a woman will never influence
my actions, not even by so sweet a display as that you have just offered.”

She did not want to see him. She wanted to sink beneath the water in her misery.

And so she stayed there. Stayed, her back to him, letting the water rinse her hair and chill and cleanse her body. She closed her eyes and waited, praying that she had waited so long that he had gone.

But he had not. When she rose at last, dripping and shivering, he was there, on the bank, completely clad and leaning against the tree, watching her curiously. She strode by him with her chin high. She spoke softly, pausing before him in all her naked majesty. “You wanted to know why I came here. I came to bathe away the memory of the night.”

She awaited his fury but none came. The wind rustled around them. “And you gained nothing but the new memory of the day,” he said at last.

She turned away. He caught hold of her arm. Tears were still burning within her eyes, tears she could not understand. He pulled her back to him. “That is why you came?”

She wondered at the tension in his words. Moistening her lips, she gestured toward the tree. “Egmund is buried here. And Thomas.”

He frowned, and she explained, “My captains. My father’s men. Men who watched out for me all of their lives, slain in our battle.”

He stiffened. “Traitors, madam,” he said.

She shook her head passionately. “Nay, never traitors!”

“Then, lady, you defied your king, for you did attack me!”

Again she shook her head. “I did not betray King Alfred! I do have a sense of honor, my lord, even if you cannot see it!”

“I have seen you attempt to betray a marriage betrothal.”

“A betrothal I did not freely enter into! Can’t you understand?” she cried suddenly, passionately. “You have undoubtedly had countless women, willing and no! I was being sold, bartered—betrayed!—into marriage. I wanted—oh, never mind!” She tried to wrench free of his hold but he held her tight.

“Willing,” he said.

“What?”

He smiled. “They were all willing, all my women.”

“Oh!” she swore. “Well, I was not!”

But his mood was no longer playful. He had grown serious, and his words were filled with tension. “Someone betrayed Alfred,” he said very softly. “And me.”

“I tire of proclaiming my innocence!”

He held her still, very tightly. Then he released her, his eyes locked with hers. He walked by her, collecting her clothing where it lay strewn upon the ground, then brought the garments to her, thrusting them into her hand. “I tire, my lady, of finding you running about naked in places other than our own private domain.”

At least the lethal tension seemed to have ebbed away from him. She snatched her clothing from him. “You’ll not find me naked again, you needn’t fear.”

“Ah, but I like you naked. In fact, I prefer you naked. Your temper seems ever so much better when you are so.”

“You’ll not find me naked again,” she repeated. “Ever.”

“I shall, I think,” he said tauntingly, “for I shall make you so. At my will and leisure, of course.”

She choked down an epithet and swung around. His laughter followed her. Her back to him, she dressed as quickly as she could. Then she turned back to him as she fastened her mantle with the brooch, not liking to have him at her back.

He was watching her very curiously again. To her vast surprise he seized her hand and kissed it. Then he backed her against the tree, and his enormous hand cupped her chin, his curiously sensitive fingers stroked her cheek, and his lips descended softly, almost tenderly, upon hers. And when they lifted, he murmured, “Thank you.”

“For—for what?” she breathed cautiously.

“For this morning. The fantasy was more than fulfilled. Tell me, did you really barter again, so fiercely, so thrillingly, for another man’s life? Or was there perhaps just the slightest desire to please me, your husband? Mayhap despite the involuntary nature of this marriage and the horror of a Viking in your bed, you are falling just the least little bit in love?”

“No!” she protested furiously.

“And yet you are so magnificent!” he whispered.

“I shall never, never fall in love with you!” she promised. “Just because you haven’t a horrible stench and I—and I—”

He was laughing again—she was spared from going any further. His lips touched hers once more, softly, briefly. “And you needn’t fear, vixen, I shall never, never fall in love with you.” He was not looking at
her, and he seemed suddenly far away. “Contrary to your belief, milady, I do remember love,” he said softly.

The breeze picked up and whispered by them. Then his eyes focused hard upon hers again. “You have, I assume, fallen out of love with Rowan?”

“I—I—” she stuttered, “of course not!” But she had, and she was blushing furiously, and she didn’t know if she had answered foolishly and foolhardily again, or if she had only managed to amuse him further. “I mean—”

He shook his head. “The boy is safe, lady. Come now. There are petitioners here among the people, and I would learn Alfred’s laws from you.”