by Gina Conkle
“And freckles,” she sighed, hugging her stained underdress against damp breasts. “Skalds don’t wax on about those either.”
The fire outlined his long, powerful legs covered in oft-mended wool trousers. Brandr’s bare feet, long and beautifully arched, stepped quiet as a cat across the earthen floor.
Her heels inched backward the more he advanced on her. “I’m simply saying brown eyes are nothing to sing about.”
One glimpse at the bed and her limbs turned rusty. Lying with Brandr was much more than two bodies rubbing together. The island changed that. Questions tumbled in her mind. Once free, where would she go? How much longer would Brandr watch over her? And the most pressing of all, would he promise to have sex with her alone for the rest of their lives? Simple questions really.
Her bottom hit the wooden wall. “In Frankia, many women have brown eyes. They—”
Brandr touched her lips with one finger, the smell of river water on his skin. Black hair fell loose around his freshly shaved jaw gleaming smooth and kissable.
“Your eyes are the color of earth. Without it we don’t eat and trees can’t grow,” he said. “We’d have no place to stand unless you prefer rocks. I don’t. I’ll take fertile and brown. It’s the softest place to land for a man like me.”
She gulped. His rough voice gentled her all the way to her toes.
Tiny flames danced in Brandr’s eyes. “You’re nervous again.”
“Uh-huh,” she nodded, tasting salt on his finger.
He braced a hand on the wall beside her head. “Why?”
Her gaze went to two leather bags on the floor. One, Brandr’s belongings. The other, the paltry remains of the treasure hoard he’d found in the pool. She’d cut off excess leather and retied the bag. As soon as Lord Hakan’s man showed, they’d take their portion and Brandr would go his way, and she would go to hers. The old silver coins and dented bronze pieces didn’t shine so brightly anymore.
A lump built high in her chest. Had been there since they left the island. Her arm holding the linen against her body squeezed hard. “I want to go with you.”
“To bed? You can’t miss it. It’s the biggest thing in the longhouse.”
She giggled. “It’s the only thing in the longhouse.”
Brandr had dragged the massive bed closer to the fire pit for warmth. While she bathed, he’d sat on the eiderdown bed to unlace his sleeping fur. Task completed, he snapped the heavy fur over the bed the way washer women snapped fresh linens.
The Viking made comfort out of starkness. He’d repaired their boat and rowed them back to Lord Hakan’s farm. When no one was there to greet them, he roamed about the lonely longhouse, cleaning up broken pottery shards and building a fire. He soon trapped two rabbits and cooked a stew with pearls of barley and wild onions in the remains of a large broken cauldron split in two.
When she’d grumbled about her dirtiness, he unearthed a coopered tub from the barn with gaps between its slats. As the sun slipped low in the sky, Brandr heated water in the other half of the broken cauldron and tightened the tub’s iron bands, producing a fine bath. She soaked in hot water, and he cleaned himself in the river. She was done with rivers and streams for a while.
His lids drooped lower. “I’ve already been inside you. Why so unsettled?” He brushed wet curls off her shoulder.
Too many men had used her. Men had said worse, yet her cheeks warmed at his bluntness. “I’ll thank you to remember this is different.” Air hiccupped in her lungs. “We’re different.”
The back of his hand skimmed her shoulder. “Last time, I was rough.” His voice dropped to a near-whisper and he kissed skin he’d just caressed. “Tonight will be different, shirin-am…I promise.”
Her skin prickled on his deep-timbered promise. This wasn’t about one night. She wanted all of his nights.
His breath smelled of mint, the leaves he must have chewed because he knew he’d kiss her. They barely touched yet her limbs grew heavy. Brandr traced a lazy line down her arm to her waist. His calloused palm slipped behind her. She jumped when four fingers slid into her bottom’s cleft.
Her head lolled sideways on the wall. “Sheeran-am? What does it mean?”
The linen undergarment abraded tender nipples, slipping lower from its purpose to drape her. Brandr kissed one faded freckle after another on her shoulder. She was powerless to insist on conversation as he whispered foreign words against her skin.
Brandr rooted out a lock from hair falling down her back and pulled it over her shoulder. “Persian for my sweet.”
He concentrated on the red coil, his thumb and forefinger straightening the curl all the way to its tip. Firelight caught rare gold strands. His curious touch could be the wick showering sparks all over her body. A pulse teased soft skin between her legs, and the flesh folds felt heavy.
Still, she had to know.
“Do you promise to lay only with me for the rest of your life?”
The curl sprang free. “You’re unsure of your future.”
“Yes. Especially with you.”
Brandr’s lids dropped low. Both hands traced arcs across the tops of her breasts. The round curves brimmed over loose cloth she was about to drop. Her arms were heavy and her nipples begged to be touched. Wetness trickled between her legs. She fidgeted, pressing her thighs together, the pressure adding to her misery.
He scowled at his fingers caressing her. “I’m not the best man for you.”
A small line slanted between his brows. If she read him right, the Viking didn’t like how much he craved her breasts. His nostrils flared, and his mouth opened as if he’d devour those curves and not stop.
“That’s not the answer I’d hoped for,” she said weakly.
A shadow passed over Brandr’s face. “I want to be, but I’m not.”
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