Hush fell upon them as Olav took his stance, dropping his arm low, the tails of the rope trailing to the dirt.
Magnus fixed his gaze on the horizon.
Odin is watching. He sees and approves.
There is nothing to fear—only pain to be endured.
He regretted nothing.
A sudden gust fluttered through the far-off forest, shivering birch and oak, and the wind brought a gull’s cry.
Then, there was a swish of air.
Magnus stiffened. Where each knot struck, his flesh protested.
There was a pause as Olav adjusted his position, and Magnus braced for the second lash. It came harder than the first, taking the breath from his body.
The third fell quickly, and he jerked with clenched teeth, the hollow inside him fist-tight. He stiffened, waiting for the next. When it came, he grunted, straining against his bonds. The sixth saw him groan in earnest, for flames darted hot beneath the skin.
Among the crowd, there was a gasp and a stifled whimper. Several of the watchers had turned away.
By the ninth, it took all his discipline to keep from crying out.
He was no stranger to pain. Hadn’t he enough scars and burns upon his flesh in proof of that? Yet, he slumped.
And then, he no longer counted the strokes.
From some distant place, a woman screamed.
His wrists were still tied, but the beat of the rope upon his back had ceased.
With tears streaming, a sobbing woman held his head.
Modwen?
Her face swam before him, and the world went dark.
He roused to a feeling of stiffness through his body and something wet and heavy on his back. His bladder was demanding relief, but as he shifted, he gasped with pain.
Groaning, he extended his hand. Was there a pot? It was too dark to see.
Instead, he grasped a fistful of soft hair and a warm, womanly shoulder. Someone was lying next to him. She helped him sit up, then placed a receptacle where he needed it. When he was done, she eased him back onto his front. Fleetingly, he thought of a question he needed to ask, but then it was gone. She stroked his hair, and his eyes closed again.
The next time he woke, it was daylight.
“Drink this.” A cup of hot liquid was pressed to his lips—a bitter brew.
Magnus turned his head into the pillow, but commanding fingers clasped his chin, and the cup was presented once more.
“Do as I say. Cats claw and willow bark—for the pain.”
Her Norse was strangely spoken, but he understood.
She fed him a thick broth, spoon by spoon, and although the sun shone bright through the open door, he wanted only to return to where the darkness wrapped him.
Each time he emerged from sleep, she was there—smoothing salve on his tender skin, changing the linens, making him drink or eat.
At last, the urge to sleep passed, and he was able to sit up.
The bed in the forge was not as he remembered it. More pillows had been added, and there was a sweet scent in the air. A jug of water was at hand, from which he took his fill.
He was enough himself to remember there had been a corpse. He sought out the place, but there was no evidence of it now—the stain had been covered over with fresh soil and branches of rosemary.
A moment later, Modwen knelt beside him.
“Better?” She lifted the edge of his dressing. “It’s healing.”
Warmth swelled his chest. Those silk-dark eyes, with only a hint of bruising now. He wasn’t the only one healing.
My wife.
It wasn’t necessary to name his feelings—only to accept them.
She touched his cheek. “Thank you.” Her glance went to where his had rested, under the anvil. “It was my sin, but you took the blame.”
“A husband protects his wife.” He touched his hand to hers.
“You shouldn’t have done it.” She looked thoughtful, forlorn. “I told the jarl that it was me.” Modwen stared at her lap. “He was angry.”
“With you?” Magnus frowned.
“A little, but mostly with you—for being too brave, or foolish.” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know the word.”
He wasn’t sure he knew the word either, for whatever he’d been. There was something he’d had to prove, and it had taken a back full of lashes to do it.
“He said I was foolish, also, for thinking I was to blame.”
Magnus nodded. “He’s right. We’re both foolish!”
She smiled at that.
“You still need to rest. Lie down.”
“Only if you lie beside me.” He shuffled to make room, and she did as he asked.
Her body fitted into his perfectly—the curve of her spine against his chest. The softness of her behind, too, where it was pleasing to him.
He brushed aside her hair, resting his head above hers, listening to her steady breathing as he surrendered to sleep. There would be no more bad dreams.
17
Suns and moons passed.
If he woke and Modwen was not there, he felt her absence keenly. Most times, she wasn’t far. With the doors of the forge pulled wide, she set up her loom where he could see, and within distance of his call.
The hour of her lesson was the longest, during which he would wait for sign of her return. Afterwards, he coaxed her to sit with him and share her learning.
The children crept in, shyly at first, having been told by Modwen not to tire him with their chatter. From his ship chest he brought out a Hnefatafl set—made for playing on the long journey over, it had been a gift from his own sons. Taran inspected each wooden piece, carved with a peg beneath to fit into the board’s holes.
Even in rougher weather, it hastened the passing of time.
Quickly, the two picked up the rules, and he soon left them to battle their wits without him.
The men came also to check on his recovery. Oft, they sat with him outside the forge, saying nothing of consequence but lifting his heart with their easy comradeship.
Father Godfrey had been summoned, so he’d heard, to judge the matter of Modwen’s guilt. He decreed her free of sin, having acted in self-defence. Their god would forgive her. Magnus was glad of it, for he knew the torture of wrestling with one’s fear. He’d spent years pleading for mercy from his own gods.
“Hasten the healing, brother, for you’ve a wife eagerly awaiting.” Steinn winked. “Come Yuletide, I’d wager every bride’s belly will be round and full, so we’ll know if you’ve been slacking!”
Magnus said nothing, but the jest was not lost on him. The friends he’d known all his days were making lives anew. Was there time, yet, for him to do so?
Modwen had lost the man to whom she’d devoted her life, but she hadn’t let grief rule her. She was generous-hearted, brave, and decent, and he wanted to bring ease to her life, protecting and caring for her.
Screwing his eyes tight, he cursed himself.
When would he be honest!
By the deadly fangs of Fenrir, he wanted more than that.
He wanted her physically, as any husband ought. What was holding him back? He’d thought it was a sense of duty to Solveig—an honouring of her memory—but that had been a lie.
With him unable to forgive himself, the depth of his self-blame had broken him. He’d been stumbling blindly, convinced he deserved only punishment. Those who’d murdered Solveig had taken a slice of his soul—but only because he’d allowed them to do so. Wherever she was now, he needed to believe she was at peace.
Before him was a second chance at happiness, and he wanted it. Badly. He wanted to banish the terrible loneliness. He wanted to look into the eyes of the woman he loved and know that she loved him in return. He wanted to show that love through the depth of his kisses and the warmth of his embrace.
He wanted, needed, yearned for Modwen.
He’d sent Alpia and Taran to join the others on the shore, collecting seaweed to be dug into the soil now cultivated on th
e headland. He wanted no interruptions. This time, he’d show Modwen what it meant to be loved by a Viking, and it would be no rushed affair.
He found her at her table, kneading dough to bake on the flat pan over the fire, her long braid hanging down her back, and wearing emerald green—several shades lighter than her eyes. Seeing him in the doorway, she paused in her work, seeming to tremble.
As he came to stand behind her, she didn’t move.
He trailed his fingers down her arm, tracing the slender bend of her elbow, then continued slowly, until his touch was upon the pulse of her wrist. He lowered his mouth to her ear, and she tilted back her head to rest on his chest. He took her lobe between his teeth, tasting her, and his breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck. She shivered. He brushed his lips to her throat, so lightly, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin.
His fingers made nimble work of the gown’s fastenings on either shoulder, and he brought his arms round her, embracing her body through her thin shift. With his mouth buried in the crook of her neck, he pressed into her warmth, drawing her to him. She gave small whimpers at his caress—of her hips, her stomach, and her nip of her waist.
He cupped her breasts and groaned with need.
She was so beautiful, and she was his.
Modwen twisted, taking his lips with her own, and he held her close. She curled her arms about his back, wanting to surrender herself to his kiss and to deepen it, sliding her tongue over his. Fierce and hungry, he left her breathless.
Snatching her up, he held her. An emotion more forceful than lust seemed to course through him, though just as reckless. The longer he drank her in, she felt his excitement grow, and warmth flooded her belly, knowing that he was ready to give himself to her again.
In a swift motion, he took her in his arms, carrying her to the bed. He laid her down, and her heart raced. She could not move, could not think. She knew only that she needed him to make love to her. She wanted to feel the length of his body against hers, and to be naked under the insistence of his mouth and hands.
He remained fully clothed, lifting her shift, then tossing it away altogether. His warrior hands, which worked daily with metal and weapons, were roughly calloused but now gently caressed, handling her with more tenderness than she could have imagined. He made free to explore every soft curve, leaving no part of her untouched. His kisses followed where his fingers roamed, grazing her thighs and belly, becoming more fervent.
When he enclosed her breast’s tip, drawing hard, she felt it deep in her womb—a burning, aching need for all she knew he could give her. Low moans rose from her throat. His tongue teased her nipples, flicking gently before capturing them again. All the while, he clasped her to him, as if he would draw her into his own body entirely.
Still suckling, he reached downwards, stroking through her soft fur. His fingers slipped inside. Her sheath was tight, but he matched each caress with the pulling of his mouth, until she was all slickness, arching against the pressure of his hand. The pure ache of her desire pulsed beneath his fingertip.
When he drew away, he looked at her with an intensity that might once have scared her. Now, she held the mastery of his gaze, wishing him to see her as clearly as she saw him. She wanted to give herself fully, holding nothing back, yielding the softness of her body to his hardness, letting him dominate with his strength. Her fingers yearned to touch the contours of his chest and the rigid muscles of his abdomen.
With swift fingers, she unbuckled his belt, her knuckles brushing the solidity of his manhood. His cock sprang free, rising from the thatch of hair at his groin, and the tip glistened. He was harder than she’d ever seen a man, and thicker, and she wanted him inside her. She held her breath as he slid his hands beneath her thighs, raising her buttocks. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to relax, preparing for the penetration of his arousal.
But it was not his cock that plundered her sex. He was breathing deeply, inhaling her scent, pressing his lips to her fur. Briefly, she struggled, then gasped. He plunged deeply with his tongue, lapping at the source of her cream.
Dear God! Torture and Heaven all at once!
She curled her hips to one side, but he held her firmly to his mouth, hot and thorough.
“Oh!” she cried. “No!” Even as she wove her fingers into his hair, holding his head where she needed him, she whispered, “Don’t stop!”
In return, he groaned, pulling her onto his devouring mouth.
His beard brushed between her legs—soft bristles against pale thighs and the lusciousness of her sex. The smell of her! The taste!
He drank her sweetness, stroking back and forth through silk and swollen arousal, seeking the tender bud. Her soft cries of pleasure were soon transformed to urgent need, driving him on, begging for him to take all that he wanted and more. Ravenously, he obliged, until his head swam, and she bucked beneath him, convulsing in quivering rapture.
She belonged to him, only to him.
As she rested replete, stretching languorously, he cast his garments to the floor, all the time watching. She loosened her dark curls from their braid, so that they fell soft over her shoulders and breasts. He rested his hands on her waist, appraising through half-closed eyes.
Trailing across his chest, she fingered his nipples, then raised her head to lick where she’d touched. She shifted her legs, offering herself, and his temptation was to thrust deep and bury himself within her warmth, but he resisted. He wished to give her a second storm of pleasure, and his release would be too swift if he entered her in such a fashion.
He reached beneath her body, squeezing her rump, and almost cast aside his resolve, lingering there, with her fullness filling his palm.
At last, he slipped his other arm under her back and brought her above him, so that she sat on his lap. With a laugh, she looked down, shaking her hair from her shoulders. She took the root of his erection and directed him to meet her sex, holding his gaze all the while, lowering onto his thickness.
She directed his hands to her breasts, and then rocked, stroking smooth against his shaft. She threw back her head, undulating, building her arousal, pressing his hands harder to her body.
He grasped her waist firm as she rose and fell, encouraging her to take him with greater vigour. Savagely, wildly, she rode him deep, her cries building until she rasped with joy. His own release came just as hot, in surging heat. Together, they burned, and he held on tightly, knowing he would never let her go.
They curled up together on the pallet, and he marvelled once more at her womanly perfection—the fullness of her hips and the softness of her skin. Her lips, swollen from his kisses, and her firm breasts, the tips tender from his attention. Between her thighs, his pleasure and her own, intermingled, and the thought of it made him wish to stir her and begin again.
18
He led her to the clifftops, looking beyond to where the sea was glimmering. He’d meant to speak first, but she found her words before he had the chance.
“If you want to return home, to your other life, to your sons, I understand.” Swallowing, she bit her lip, keeping her gaze on the sinking sun.
They don’t need me, he thought. And what is there for me in Skalanes but memories I’ve never been able to bury?
He wanted to live again.
He wanted Modwen.
To serve her all the ways a husband should. To redeem himself.
He’d give her not only the heat of his desire but the steadfastness of his warrior heart. He’d give her what she truly deserved.
By Thor and Odin, and all the gods, he’d worship her until her body became a part of his. He raised her fingers to his lips and placed a reverent kiss there, then pressed her hand, so soft, to his cheek.
She traced his scar, tilting back her head, and there was uncertainty in her expression. His fault, he knew. He wanted her to know all blame was his. She deserved to hear that, and to know the depth of feeling that grew within him. But how to make himself understood?
He curse
d his lack of knowledge of her language. He’d never seen the need to learn more than a handful of words, and those long ago, in that time when he’d still had the heart to go a-Viking with the other men. He’d no choice but to speak Norse, hoping that she’d feel his meaning.
“My wife, long ago…” A band of iron seemed to encircle his chest, but he drew a deep breath, and then another. “She died.”
Modwen squeezed his hand and gave the smallest of nods.
“The sadness inside—” He brought her palm to his chest, holding it there. He looked deeply into her eyes and saw everything a man could desire—her need for him, and her longing, her respect.
And the same look he’d seen in Solveig’s eyes.
Love. It was love that had crept into his heart, even though he’d done all he could to shut it out.
“Can you forgive?” he asked. He bent his head so his mouth hovered just above hers. His voice was hoarse. “I need you, wife.”
“We need each other, husband.”
And then she was unable to say anything more, for he lifted her off her feet, and his kiss—so tender—left no room for words.
There was a lifetime ahead, and so much yet to share. As the gods willed, their destiny would unfold, and they would face each day together.
Epilogue
The leaves shivered from oaks and birch, nights grew cold, and the animals of the forest sought refuge. All grew still in the woodlands, while Autumn mists swept the purple heather.
The turning season brought fierce winds driven in from the sea, and the folk of Achnaryrie sheltered in their homes. Fortunately, they’d harvested well, and none would lack for smoked meat nor fish. The grain stores would last, and each man had felled his share of timber to feed his winter fire.
Through the first snows, Magnus watched his wife’s belly become high and round, her radiance blooming. Her hair grew thicker and more luscious, and her breasts larger than Magnus’s hands could hold. He warmed her in their bed through the long, dark hours, finding time to learn one another’s delights and comforts.
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