Rolf did not know the meaning of love until she taught him. “My precious wife,” he murmured near her ear, his breath hot on her skin. “I live to be with you like this. You fill my dreams.”
“No more than you fill mine.” When he was away on one of his trading trips, she felt incomplete.
For a while there was no room for words as feeling took over, filling her senses until she felt as if her body were being lifted to another plane. He smothered her soft moans of pleasure with his mouth, while his hands pleasured her aching breasts. Brigid ran her hands down his back to the hard mounds of his bottom, revelling in the sounds of satisfaction he murmured. Would she ever get used to the wondrous feelings he aroused in her when inside her like this?
After both reached their pinnacle of pleasure, for a long time they lay joined. Did others enjoy the same sense of satisfaction when they lay together? Often, she wondered if what she and Rolf shared was something rare. Brigid had a feeling that it was. From talking with Margret—who also now had a Norseman as a husband—she garnered that it was not always so pleasurable. Some of the other Celtic women also shared their life with a Norseman, but not all were satisfied and complained at times that they would be better off alone, rather than with a man who liked to brawl and often drink until he could not stand.
Soon after Rolf rescued her from the swirling waters of the ocean, Brigid knew deep down that he was her soul mate, even though there were times when she refused to admit to such. Rolf had sworn to cherish her through this life and the next—if there was to be another life after death. Brigid was still not too sure about where that second life would be, and often she and Rolf had opinions that differed. She guessed they always would.
Never in her youthful dreams did she expect to find such joy in coupling with a man. Years ago, back in her homeland, when Brigid barely knew about life, some of the women of her clan gossiped about what would happen when she lay with a man. As far as she could recall most scorned men and what they did to women. She admitted to being shocked to learn that such immense pleasure could be gained from the act of love. Then she recalled the words of her mother and rejoiced knowing that the parents she loved must have been as blessed.
Perhaps she was simply fortunate. Rather than diminish with time, the longer she and Rolf were together the better it seemed to get. He knew exactly how and where to touch her to bring the most delight and satisfaction. That was another shock—never would she have guessed at the many places on the body where a simple touch of the hand brought fulfilment.
* * *
When Rolf lay back and drew her into his arms, he murmured, “Do you think you will give birth to another son this time?”
“I pray for a daughter—three sons are enough for any woman, don’t you think?” Rolf knew her huff of scorn was a lie. It was a constant issue between them who loved their mischievous boys the most. Rolf gently pressed a hand on her belly where the new babe lay safe—due before the winter set in. He knew nothing of prayers but never ridiculed her for her faith.
“If that is what you desire then I also pray you get your longed-for daughter.” He gave her a quick kiss and rose, quickly pulling on his garments. “I will be happy if the babe is as healthy as the others and my wife gives birth without too much pain and suffering.”
Rolf suffered agonies through the birth of their previous offspring, even though Brigid never had any problems, and expected this next birth to be as straightforward. It shocked and sickened her, soon after he brought her to his homeland, to learn that sometimes babies were abandoned by their mothers if they were born sickly or deformed. For weeks before the birth of their first child she fretted he would abandon their babe if it was not perfect. He repeatedly set her mind at rest on that worry by assuring her that he would never do that to a child of theirs.
Rolf was certain that in many ways he was unlike his fellow Norsemen. He was never sure if this change came about the moment he set eyes on his Celtic prize or if it had always been there inside him waiting on her to bring it to the fore. He would forever remember the fear and doubt in her eyes after he killed the woman Helga and her daughter. It took him many days—and nights—to convince her he was not the savage she first thought him. There was a chance he owed the way he was to his father, who told him once when Rolf was but a small child, that there were times he hated savagery of any kind and devoutly wished he had not been born with the blood of a Jarl within him.
But then, if he was not the Jarl and leader then Rolf would never have found the best prize of all—Brigid.
* * *
When Rolf went out to make sure the fire was built up—something he did every morning—Brigid felt secure in the knowledge that he ensured she had as easy a life as he could make for her. Even after many winters in this strange land, a few of the Norsemen still considered the Celts were slaves, but Brigid knew Rolf threatened his kinsmen that if they did not treat Brigid with respect he would have no hesitation in hastening their entry into the next world. Or almost as bad, they would be thrown out of the village and never be allowed back—be left to scavenge for themselves in the mountains. It was rumoured that none returned and known that few lasted more than one harsh winter.
Soon after their wedding ceremony, Rolf traded his longship for a knorr, the smaller vessel used for carrying cargo, vowing to never go to sea again unless it was for the benefit of Brigid and their growing family. Now he traded in silks and spices, amber and wine, anything that could be bartered. When he was not sailing to foreign lands, he was trading with the masters of the ships that stopped by their shores on the way to seek out treasures.
He tried not to travel so far on each journey now, eager to spend as much time as possible with Brigid and the boys, but even so, often he was away for many moons at a time. Lonely nights, when she pined for his return.
Rising, she pulled on a shift and then her overdress. All the garments were made from cloth she herself wove on the loom standing in a corner of their main room. His fellow Norse now considered Rolf wealthy, and their home reflected his status as Jarl. Some large families still shared a longhouse with their kin and had little privacy. Brigid knew how fortunate they were to have their own dwelling. Touching the wooden cross hanging from her belt, she smiled in smug satisfaction—her talisman had certainly done its duty well.
Rolf had the fire well built up and a pot of water on the boil above it. Brigid insisted on bathing daily, and when the weather permitted, they went to the nearby river, where Rolf would go soon, but on chilly days as today she preferred to bathe herself and the children inside.
The boys were rowdily arguing about everything and nothing. Brigid sent Rolf a special look over their heads, and he put a hand to his brow in mock horror as one of them threw a boot at the others. Their hound stood by, watching over them and barking as their fighting continued.
Once he had eaten the first meal of the day, their firstborn Erling would soon be off, accompanied by the hound, to help Bjorn with the goats. Since his first steps, he formed an attachment to the Celtic boy and they spent many hours together.
Their second son, Hauk, was always stirring up trouble, and Brigid often wondered why he should be so different to Erling, as although not of an age to travel far yet, he talked of nothing but sailing the seas as his father did and bringing back treasures. Could he possess more Celtic blood than the others, and have a yearning to visit the land of her birth? Perhaps she should not relate so many stories of her childhood spent in a land far away. Rolf told her that some Norsemen were now forsaking their own land and sailing off in the hope of settling where the pastures were more fertile. Perhaps Hauk dreamed of this destiny for himself.
Their youngest, Tait, seemed always cheerful. Even though barely able to walk as yet and repeatedly fell over, he always got up with a smile on his round face. Oh, how she prayed for a daughter this time. Brigid sighed.
Her God or Rolf’s gods surely had smiled on them. Or could it be that his powerful Three Fates of Destiny intervened that day w
hen she thought her life had come to an end, but in truth had just begun.
Chapter Ten
Part Two—Cornwall, England—Present Day
Leaning on the railing, Rolf stared at the raging sea far below. As it beat relentlessly against the rocks, spray rose high into the air. The rare visitors who came to the lighthouse turned white and dizzy with fright when, after climbing the winding staircase, they realised just how high they were.
The sea held no fear for him. In fact, he’d always loved it, loved the isolation and the raw beauty that surrounded his unusual home. There had perhaps been times when the solitude grew too hard to bear, but over time he'd grown used to it, and would not now choose to live elsewhere. It was a fact that few people would be willing to live in such isolation.
Of course, the lighthouse was fully automated now, and there was little for him to do daily, except keep an eye on things. Rolf was full of admiration for those gallant men who once operated this light from the early days when it was illuminated by candles—then oil, and finally electricity—on one of the most dangerous stretches of sea on the coast of Britain. Often, he wondered just how many lives the warning light of his lighthouse had saved.
“Come on, Hanno, let's go.” Rolf patted the head of the wolfhound looking up at him expectantly. “Go get your leash.” The large dog jumped up with a yelp of delight and bounded ahead down the staircase. Hairy and not the handsomest of creatures, Hanno was given to him as a pup and had grown into one of the most faithful companions a man could have, especially one who lived in such isolation.
With one last look out to sea, Rolf pushed away from the rail and went inside, then followed the dog down the staircase that wound around the inner perimeter of the lighthouse to his quarters below. Most people would think his living arrangements sparse but the small bedroom, even tinier kitchen and bathroom, and combination of study and living room suited his needs. A man used to living alone, he had everything in its place and a place for everything, as he told curious visitors.
Many people chose to live in mobile homes these days so his was not a lot different—except for the fact that it was static. His living accommodation was just as restrictive. The view from his balcony altered daily as the tides and weather controlled the conditions, and he never tired of his ever-changing scenery. Cornwall with its magnificent coastline and vistas always had been and would always continue to be a haven for travelling holidaymakers in their various modes of transport. Often when he got the chance to chat to them in town, they were curious as to why he would choose such a static existence. To each his own, was his standard response.
After changing out of his scruffy jeans and into a pair of cord trousers, Rolf pulled on the sweater his sister knitted for him as a gift last Christmas. After running a brush through his hair, he called, “Ready?” before picking up his wallet and keys. As he went on downstairs to the main door, the dog, tail wagging, leash in mouth, followed close behind him.
Out of habit, Rolf locked the door after him although there was no real need. No one came to the lighthouse unless invited. It was too far off the beaten track for casual passers-by, and none of the locals were interested in coming to visit him anymore. Once their initial bout of curiosity he incited, after moving in three years ago was satisfied, they left him to his own devices.
Everyone greeted him cordially when he paid his once or twice-weekly visits to the local shops or pub, and one or two single women in town looked at him with interest—well, he presumed they were single. They could possibly be bored housewives, looking to brighten their dull lives while their husbands were off playing golf, fishing or enjoying whatever pursuit they took part in. So far Rolf had not been interested enough in any female to invite her back to his isolated home. Moreover, he long ago worked out that he was not the flirting type, and certainly not interested in casual relationships. No, he knew when he was well off, and had no intention of getting himself into the bad books of the local men. On the whole most were decent folk.
Rolf took the leash from his dog’s mouth before skipping down the twenty or so steps carved into rock that led away from the lighthouse and strolled along the narrow pathway between shrubs that almost brushed his sides in places. The hardy plants growing in abundance around here had weathered many a storm. Once they reached the path, Hanno loped ahead, turning back every now and then to make sure his master followed.
A chill wind blustered around him but here on the pathway he was protected from the worst of the weather. It could get bitterly cold here in mid-winter and when the seas were rougher than today Rolf often felt as if he was at the end of the earth, especially on the rare occasions when the snowfall was heavy, enveloping his world and turning it into a white wonderland.
It took a mere five minutes to walk to his car where it stood parked in a small lean-to in the lee of the cliff. At Rolf’s whistle, Hanno returned from a mad dash, panting as he stood patiently waiting for the back door of Rolf's station wagon to be opened. “Not many rabbits about today, boy,” he asked as he closed the door after the dog and walked round to the driver's seat. Hanno never came back with any creature—Rolf guessed he just enjoyed the thrill of the chase.
Rolf was so used to the twenty-minute drive along the winding gravel track leading to the main road that he could practically do it blindfolded. Whistling off-key, he stopped at the Tee intersection while a truck rumbled by, the driver saluting as he recognised Rolf's vehicle. Rolf relished small courteous gestures like that about living here—the people were friendly but not intrusive.
Not that they weren't inquisitive. He knew that they theorised and surmised about his past, but that was human nature and quite normal in any small town. And perhaps they fantasised about him, for he'd overheard a couple of women in the newsagent's gossiping about him once—guessing that he must be nursing a broken heart and had fled the city to forget the woman who cheated on him. That story amused him. Catching sight of him, the women blushed, and began to talk loudly about the price of food, which amused him even more.
Nobody so far had the audacity to come right out with it and ask him point blank why he lived in a lighthouse, or why did he choose to move to this part of the world. Most locals ran either guesthouses or bed and breakfast hotels as a good living could be made from the holidaymakers who came here in droves every summer. Of course, life slowed down in winter, so giving them time to speculate and gossip.
The streets of town were practically deserted, quite usual on a mid-March Wednesday. The tourists never started their annual invasion until Easter at the earliest. Parking in front of the one bookshop in town, Rolf climbed out. When he opened the back door, Hanno bounded out. “Sit here,” he ordered and obediently the hound sat—his eyes bright as he watched his master go into the shop.
A bell above the door tinkled and the owner looked up with a smile. “Morning, Rolf, what brings you to town today? I thought you bought your art supplies a couple of weeks ago.” Well into his seventies, Jeff Bones had lived in these parts all his life and owned this business for thirty years. Originally, a printing press took pride of place here, but as new technology took over Jeff started to sell books and then art supplies when the local area became a haven for artists. All this he told Rolf once it was established that Rolf was practically a local, and an artist too. This news was welcomed, because Jeff sold all the supplies Rolf required for his pastime.
“Morning, Jeff. No, I have all I need for a while. I have a more tedious task today. I need to buy a gift for my niece. She's seventeen.” Rolf shrugged and pushed his unruly hair back as he made a face. “What do you buy a seventeen-year-old these days? I have no idea.” His sister's only child loved to read, and a book seemed the only solution as she was far too old for toys and he had no idea about the clothes young women liked. He hated to give her money. It was so impersonal, but he had a feeling the time when he would have to do just that was nearing. Teenagers had minds of their own these days and lived in a world far removed from his own.
>
Jeff laughed. “Hmm, seventeen, hey. A book is a safe bet. Depends what she likes. Is she horse mad?”
“She owns a horse, yes, but I have a suspicion she already has all the tomes she needs on that subject. Perhaps I'll just potter around a bit.”
“Good idea.” Jeff grinned. “The females seem to like a bit of romance.” He jerked his thumb to the back of the shop. “I suggest you look over there.”
Romance? Good grief! That was wandering into totally un-trod territory. Rolf dawdled down the aisle where Jeff directed him, taking no real interest in the contents of the shelves. Only one other customer currently shared this section of the shop with him. Looking cosy and warm in a fleecy jacket, tight jeans and snug ankle boots the woman bent over a book, and as she did so her long black hair obscured her face. Even though he felt sure he didn’t know her, there seemed to be something familiar about her, but then again, he didn’t know everyone who lived in these parts. It was likely she was a visitor, uncommon at this time of the year.
Shrugging, Rolf bypassed the romance books and came to a section more familiar to him, where he focused his attention on the shelf containing books to do with the Viking age. As he reached for a thick book at shoulder level, another hand reached for the same book. When the small white hand met his, Rolf jumped as if he'd received an electric shock.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, the lilt in her voice proclaiming that she wasn’t Cornish but might hail from Dorset or Somerset or elsewhere in the West Country. There was also an unmistakable smile in her voice as though she were on the verge of laughing at something. “We seem to be after the same book.”
Rolf could feel the colour rising up his cheeks and cursed his red hair and light skin. “Sorry.” Feeling very much like a clumsy schoolboy, he stared at her, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets as if he'd been caught doing something naughty. He also felt like a complete idiot and was not quite sure why.
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