by Amy Faye
It was a welcome change from the attitude she'd had before, constantly putting him under scrutiny and criticizing his every move. Gunnar knew exactly why she was angry, understood it completely, but that didn't mean he wanted to hear it either.
It would hurt, he knew instinctively, even as he decided to sit up and get onto the bench seat beside him. There was no good reason to get up in it, nothing to be gained from it, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to do it anyway. Nothing to be gained from laying there on the wooden floor, either.
And besides, he wanted to be up. Wanted to be able to see what Deirdre was seeing, wanted to feel right again. Even if it hurt, it didn't matter. He turned over, then used his hands to push himself up to his knees. The pain was there, but since he expected it, the sting hurt a little less.
Looking out back he could almost imagine what she was seeing. A few hundred yards back, he could almost make out the bodies of two-score Englishmen who had stopped them when the hills pressed together. The hills were too steep, and fell off too much. Like small cliffs. There would've been no other way through the countryside.
It was as good an ambush location as he could have asked for, but someone must have realized what was happening because as far as he could see no other wounded had joined them in the cart, and they were moving again within the day.
Gunnar let his eyes wander again, to Deirdre's hair, to her face. To the smooth ivory skin visible above the neckline of her dress, and the valley in between her breasts. He forced himself to look up. She could have caught him looking at any time. But as he did, something caught his eye. A shock of red, brighter than her hair.
"You're hurt," he said softly. She turned slowly, giving him a curious look.
"No, I'm fine," she answered, an eyebrow still raised.
"There," he said, leaning across the cart. He touched a spot on her chest, trying to ignore how aware of her body he was feeling. She recoiled slightly at the touch.
"Ah! Oh, that? That's nothing. Little scratch, it'll be gone in a couple of days." She shrugged.
"I should have protected you," he said softly. He set his jaw and looked out the back of the wagon. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."
For a long time neither of them spoke, just watching the road pulling away behind them slowly.
"Gunnar, it's only a scratch," she finally said, catching him looking again.
"All my life, I've been a quick healer. Didn't realize how quick until I was eighteen years old. You can't hurt me, nobody can, not unless I'm chewing that stuff you gave me."
She looked at him a moment, then looked out the back, not sure how to respond. So he continued.
"If I could trade being stabbed through the gut to save it for someone else, sure it'll hurt, but…"
He trailed off.
The silence seemed to stretch out again, filling the air, neither of them really sure what to say. Both of them trapped in their own heads.
He finished his thought minutes later, long enough that Deirdre had to take a moment to realize what he was saying.
"But for you, I'd say it's a little different."
"Why is that," she asked, already knowing the answer. "Because I can cure you?"
"No," he said, surprised to hear the words coming out of his own mouth. "Not because of that."
"Or is it because I'm a woman?"
He smiled faintly. "If you knew some of the women from the places that I'm from, you might not think that way."
She frowned, clearly annoyed at the answer, but Gunnar wasn't about to let that stop him.
"So what, then?"
"Because you're important. The most important woman in the country."
"Because I'm a witch, then. There are plenty of us, from what I've heard. Loners, but there are plenty who are better than I am, smarter and better trained. More experienced."
"Because you're you," he answered. The words hung heavy in the air, and it shut Deirdre right up. No response to that.
The thought brought a smile to his face, and he turned back to the road, watching the weather change. It might be that the clouds would be cleared by the time they stopped to make camp for the night.
Deirdre said something softly, and Gunnar didn't catch it. She repeated herself, louder. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He thought about it for a moment before answering. "I care about what happens to you. More than others."
"Do you mean 'I love you?' " He wasn't sure what he heard in her voice, but Gunnar had already started to say it. There was no excuse for backing out now.
He kept looking out the back of the wagon. Did everything have to be spelled out? He took a deep breath. No, he couldn't keep lying, and he couldn't keep making excuses for himself.
"What if I did?"
Thirteen
The question caught her off guard, and Deirdre immediately knew that she shouldn't have asked it. She knew he could have said yes. But she'd gambled that he wouldn't. It had seemed like a sure thing, at the time.
The thought that he could have said 'yes' was completely foreign, and yet once the initial shock had passed, Deirdre realized how obvious it had been.
He couldn't keep his eyes off her, but it had been easy to write that off as just being impatient to get what he wanted. To get his "curse" removed. The fact that she was surprised also forced her to confront her own thoughts.
Sure, he was handsome. Sure, he made her think about men, made her think about being a woman. But that was just because she couldn't help feeling bound up by the situation that she was in.
Right?
The feeling of his eyes on her burned as she hesitated, unable to take her eyes off him. It was just because she had her freedom taken from her, that made her want to experience all the things she was missing out on. The words made sense. It fit neatly into her mind.
Something told her that wasn't all there was to it, and as if to prove her wrong her body started moving almost entirely without her consent. She watched as if she were a passenger as she moved across the wagon, leaning in, and then felt the press of her lips into his.
His whiskers tickled, but the feeling of her lips on his was electric, setting her on edge. What was she doing? She should stop. She had to stop, and she shouldn't have done it in the first place.
Finally under control again, Deirdre sat back, her own eyes wide. He looked surprised, unsure how he was supposed to respond. She wanted to say that wasn't how he was supposed to respond, that it wasn't how she imagined it.
She wanted to say that she hadn't meant to do it, too, and the two thoughts battled in her mind. How could she have wanted a reaction to something that she didn't want to do? He should have kissed her back, fiercely putting his hands behind her head and kissing. Passionate, fiery.
Gunnar's entire personality was dark and controlled passion. She could see it, all the time, boiling just under the surface, and it wasn't hard to figure out why she was so fascinated by it.
It was the essential expression of mannishness, she thought, and created a mystique around him. The fact that he'd come from some far away land, a place she had only heard vague stories about as a little child seemed like it should matter. That they used to tell stories about wicked vikings who would come and take naughty children away.
Here the boogeyman was, right in front of her. What on earth was she thinking about? If Gunnar's reaction wasn't what she'd wanted, it was at least what Deirdre had expected. But now here she was going on and on in her head about stories she hadn't thought about in years, not even after she had been taken away by the same men that her mother had tried to scare her with as a little girl.
She blinked and tried to refocus, and she didn't see Gunnar moving until she felt his whiskers brush her lips again, felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her up nearly standing. She could feel the hardness of his muscles, the strength pulled tight through his whole body as he pulled her in.
Her thoughts vanished, replaced with memories of the visions she had seen when s
he had sat in that tent, trying to figure out what to do about Gunnar's immortality. What it would feel like to be under these muscles, to be moving with him as he plowed her.
She tried to push the thought away, but it came back again, forcefully, and she had to put her hand on Gunnar's chest to separate them.
"Are you okay?" His voice was deep and gruff, and she could hear the arousal in it, could feel it in the tenseness of his body even as he tried to give her the space that she so desperately needed.
"I don't know if this is—"
"I'm not asking you to give more than you're prepared."
She slipped out of his arms and sat down, trying desperately to calm herself, to pull herself out of the moment. The road continued pulling away from them, the wagon gently rocking with the soft rolling of the packed dirt beneath them.
Gunnar sat back down. She couldn't help paying attention to him, making sure that he wasn't hurting himself.
She wanted to kiss him again. The thought hit her out of nowhere. She wasn't surprised at it. She knew herself, knew her own mind, but it came at the same time as noticing something else, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She only knew that the taste of his lips, the feeling of his body—she couldn't get enough of it.
As soon as the thought came it was gone, replaced with that very feeling as she lowered her own arms around him, slipping into his lap sideways. She could feel him stirring beneath her. That was what made him a man, she realized.
As soon as she realized it, she couldn't get it out of her head. That was what she had thought about, fantasized about, imagined. What would it feel like for him to put that inside her? What would it feel like for him, when she pleased him? Would he reciprocate?
She didn't have much time to imagine what it would feel like. He broke the kiss, both of them breathing hard, and before she knew what was happening he had pulled one of her plump breasts free of her dress, claiming the bud of her nipple between his lips and sucking hard.
She didn't know when she had run her fingers through his hair, but now she closed her hand around his head, encouraging to take it deeper. The thought that anyone could have seen them, that they were anything but private, only seemed to drive her to greater pleasure.
She could feel him growing still harder, pressed against one of the soft cheeks of her ass. When she pulled him away gently, letting him take one last nip at her before pulling away, she could see the need in his face.
She knew that she had the same expression on her own face, the same arousal. But she couldn't—not right now. Not when there was so much at risk, and when she had so much to lose. Both of them did, and that was what scared her so much.
She realized with a start that she was completely ready to give him what he wanted. Give him every part of her, deep down to her core. But now was not the time, in the back of a covered cart with a pair of delirious soldiers lying beside them. She covered herself again and took a deep breath.
"Is something wrong?"
"Not now," she said softly.
"Later?"
Deirdre saw him twitch, saw the way that his muscles had all coiled up like a mountain lion about to strike. Then she looked at the men on the ground—if they weren't unconscious, then they were very convincing fakers.
Then she turned back. Lying, denying the obvious, seemed impossible now.
"Absolutely later."
It was only after Deirdre had moved away, until he had cooled off, that she started looking at him again. Not the way that Gunnar wanted to be looked at. Not the way that she had been looking at him, like a woman looking at a man.
"What?"
She didn't answer him, but when she stepped across the wagon again, she didn't look like she was going to do something he would like.
She pulled away a bandage, unwrapping. His stomach didn't hurt. He hadn't realized it, caught up in the moment. In the delicious sensations that had overtaken him when she had kissed him. But he couldn't feel a thing.
He twisted experimentally, earning him a disapproving look from Deirdre as the spot she was examining moved out of view. His side felt better than it had in days. Better than he remembered it ever feeling before.
There was no way of knowing what had caused it, but somehow the healing that he had grown so used to had gotten unstuck. As if it had never been gone in the first place, he thought. It was strange to think of it that way, because he had hated it for so long that wanting it back felt wrong somehow.
All the same, he couldn't deny that was exactly how he was feeling. Thankful.
"What did you do? To bring it back? Is this some magic of yours?"
The look she gave him was all the answer Gunnar needed. She was as surprised as he was, and he wasn't sure whether or not he had expected her to answer. She had barely caused a blip in it, and that was after four days of breathing in her herbs and thinking about it. Three straight days she had sat there and told him to his face that she didn't have an answer. That maybe there was no answer.
Even the fourth day, with the answer she had given him it had been tentative. She was unsteady, and he could see it. But she'd managed to cause a blip, and that was more than he had ever done.
He let out a long breath and sat back, let her poke and prod him. It felt absolutely normal—not sensitive or painful, no matter where she touched or how hard. Except when she used the point of her nail, which he squirmed away from, laughing softly.
"What are you looking for?"
"How is this even possible? You were nearly dead. I saw you. It kept getting worse, even."
He shrugged. "It's a talent."
It wasn't the answer that she wanted, but it was the only answer Gunnar had. He had thought the same as she had, and it was as surprising to him as anyone that he'd somehow kick-started his healing again.
The thing that surprised him was that he didn't care whether it was back or not. If not, then he would be able to spend more time with Deirdre, more time excusing himself from doing what he needed to do.
If he were healing again, then it was time to get back to work.
Gunnar stood up and tested the strength of the ropes around his arms. They had tied him well, but with the fighting and nearly pulling his shoulders clean out of his body… they strained loudly as he pulled. With a little effort, he'd be able to get free.
"What are you doing? You're not thinking of trying to go back now, taking over the band?"
The smile Gunnar gave her was not in any way reassuring. She sputtered for a moment, stammering. Then she seemed to think of exactly what she wanted to say.
"You shouldn't," she began, which earned a raised eyebrow from Gunnar. "It's too soon. They'll be raiding soon. You want to have a night on the road, when someone getting hurt won't damage the next days' raid. And—and such quick changes could certainly cause a rift in the group, between those who supported you, and who support him."
Gunnar sucked in a deep breath and sat back down. She was right. He hadn't thought of any of that, and yet here was an outsider and a woman who was telling him the basics of his business. The giddiness of realizing that he wasn't worthless, not any more, it had driven him a bit mad with excitement.
No, waiting was the right way to go.
"But what about my wounds? Wouldn't they realize that I'm uninjured?" He leaned forward, so that they could speak without being heard outside. "If it were my decision, I certainly wouldn't leave myself with the prisoners. Like a wolf among sheep, no way."
Deirdre nodded and considered it.
"Couldn't you just lie down and pretend?"
Gunnar's face split into a broad smile. "Not in the least! I'm terrible at pretending."
"So… hm." She sat back, thoughtful. He watched her, entirely different thoughts on his mind. Thoughts that, he admitted, had nothing to do with pretending to be injured. Thoughts that had very little to do with retaking control of the band he had put together for this raid.
"I could be re-injured," he offered finally, managing to
pull his eyes away from her enchanting body. "If that helps."
The look Deirdre gave told Gunnar that he hadn't been particularly helpful, but then she seemed to change her tune. She turned, reached behind her seat, and a moment later came up with a knife.
"We take this," she said softly, "and then…"
He took the meaning immediately, and nodded.
"Definitely. Okay."
He lifted his arms. When he didn't feel the knife stabbing into him he turned to her. The expression on her face was one he hadn't seen before. It seemed to happen more as he got to know her, the opposite of what he was used to seeing in women.
They usually became easier and easier to predict, but Deirdre seemed to change and shift, so that predicting her moods was like trying to wrestle a snake.
"I can't. What if I—"
The knife slipped out of her hand and clattered to the ground.
"We'll see how pretending goes, then," he said. He tried to make his smile warm and comforting, but he knew well enough that it probably hadn't worked.
He picked the knife up, and considered for a long time whether or not to take it for himself. If he reclaimed control, then it would be meaningless to keep it. If he failed, then it would be taken from him. If he never challenged Valdemar, then what use would it be?
Instead he leaned past Deirdre, her smell leaving his head spinning, and found the cubby where she had hidden the blade, and dropped it point-first down. She could grab it in an instant, if she had the need, and as he sat back Gunnar decided that it was well enough hidden. Even knowing it was there, he couldn't see it from the outside.
She looked upset, practically panicking. What was he supposed to do in these situations? Gunnar frowned, tightened his jaw. There were things he knew how to do, and things he didn't, and dealing with women's problems—like it or not—were something he had no experience with.
"What's wrong?"
She gave him a wide-eyed look, as angry as any she had given him, but it slipped away as she was retaken by melancholy. Gunnar thought about pressing the matter, but then he decided against it. When she was ready to talk, when she wanted him to know what she was thinking, then she would tell him.