Whenever Giselle saw a star wink like that, she said it was her father, smiling down on her from Heaven—watching over her and winking at her. Though Giselle had never known him, she stated with a three-year-old’s certainty that she felt him close to her sometimes, especially when she was afraid. That she could reach up to the stars and he would hold her hand.
Avril closed her eyes against the hot dampness that filled them. “Stay close to her, Gerard,” she whispered. “Watch over her, until I can return.” She lifted her lashes, searching the sky for another star. “Hold her hand.”
Just as she said that, another star winked through the clouds. And though it was ridiculous, utterly nonsensical and ridiculous, a sense of peace stole over her.
A feeling that, here in this sanctuary of driftwood and sand, she was a little closer to the daughter she loved.
She rolled onto her side, drawing the cloak with her, resting her cheek on her bent arm. Blinking drowsily, she tried to stay awake, for she was reluctant to let herself drift off, to let herself dream...
It was a shout that awoke her—a high-pitched, feminine cry. Startled, Avril pushed herself up on one hand, not certain how long she had been asleep. The torch had almost burned out, offering naught but a dull glow that did little to help her see into the darkness.
The shout came again, a squeal that rose and just as quickly tumbled an octave or two, dissolving into a laugh. Sitting up, Avril saw the source a moment later: two dark silhouettes near the water. A man and woman, playfully splashing each other as they wandered down the beach.
The woman gave her companion a thorough dousing, laughing and running from him. He gave chase and caught her by the edge of her cloak, and the two wrapped around each other in a heated embrace, filling the night air with sighs and hungry moans.
Cheeks flaming, Avril grabbed her torch and scooted back into the shadows beneath the driftwood trees, embarrassed at being privy to such intimacy. But she need not have bothered, for the pair had eyes only for each other. Untangling themselves at last, they strolled past her hiding place, hand in hand, oblivious to her presence.
Avril’s jaw dropped when she recognized them.
It was the Italian girl!
And her companion was the very man who had hoisted the poor signorina over his shoulder and carried her kicking and screaming from the althing two nights ago.
But the poor signorina had clearly not spent the past days suffering the sort of torments Avril had imagined. Peeking over the tree trunk, Avril caught them in another kiss, heard the woman whisper an endearment in Italian when they finally came up for breath.
As they walked on, the signorina rested her head on his shoulder, and he draped an arm gently around her waist.
Avril clutched the tree trunk, fighting the urge to chase the pair down the beach and slap some sense into the woman.
“He is your captor,” she whispered, half tempted to shout it. “Have you taken leave of your reason?”
When they were a few yards farther away, she stood up, gripping her torch and watching in amazement as the couple continued down the beach, looking for all the world like a happy, newly wed husband and wife. Avril shook her head.
How could this have happened? How could the man have so changed the Italian’s feelings toward him? What sorcery had he used? What potion? What...
Nina’s voice suddenly flitted through her head, sighing dreamily that the men of Asgard were exceptionally gifted at lovemaking.
And Hauk the most gifted of all.
“Not possible,” Avril said aloud. No man could be that skilled. “Not possible.”
“What is not possible?”
Gasping, Avril whirled at the soft question—to find another brawny male silhouette looming out of the darkness behind her.
For a moment, she had the dizzying sensation that she must still be asleep.
That she was dreaming.
It was Hauk.
Her heart filled her throat as he appeared out of the night shadows, as silently as if he were made of fog and sea air. He carried no torch; not until he drew near could she see him by the sputtering glow of the one in her hand.
He looked tired and worn from his journey, a stubbly beard of burnished gold darkening his jaw, not thick enough to obscure the hard angles of his face. He still wore his pack and a traveling cloak tossed back over his broad, tanned shoulders, fluttering in the wind, held in place by a thick chain across his muscled neck.
His gaze met and held hers with an intensity that stole her breath. She lowered her lashes, trying not to notice the way her heart skipped a beat. “You... you are back.”
“Are you all right?”
She looked up, curious at the unexpected question and the edge of tension in his voice. “Aye, I am well enough—”
“What are you doing down here?”
“You said I was free to go wherever I wished,” she said defensively.
“I also warned you to stay away from the cliffs. Yet I return home past midnight to find my vaningshus unoccupied and the bed not slept in. Until I saw your torch, I thought you—” He cut himself off, glanced away. “Never mind. It matters not.” He dropped his heavy pack, running one hand over his grizzled face. “Why is there a reindeer calf in my home?”
“He was a gift.”
“That gift relieved himself all over several other gifts.”
Avril suppressed a grin at that news. “Do not blame me. The fault is entirely yours.”
“I do not remember asking anyone to give me a reindeer.” He released a low sound that might have been a sigh. “Any more than I remember asking the gods to give me a wife.”
“I am not your wife,” she said lightly. “And if you had left well enough alone in Antwerp, you would not now be in possession of me or a reindeer.”
He looked at her with a dour expression, started to say something in reply, then apparently changed his mind. For a moment, the noise of the surf rushing ashore and the faint crackling of the torch in her hand made the only sound.
At that very instant, Avril abruptly remembered what she was wearing.
Or rather, what she was not.
She was standing there garbed only in a thin linen shift, holding a torch that no doubt cast enough light for him to see through the fabric.
As if he had read her thoughts, those pale-blue eyes left hers to trace downward, slowly. Avril felt her cheeks flush with warmth. Her pulse quickened, her body tingling in response to the hungry, possessive way he looked at her. Her breasts drew taut.
By the time his gaze reached her bare feet, she could hear his breathing, deep and unsteady—matching hers. That familiar, dazzling heat that always seemed to shimmer between them unfurled within her, flowing to the very core of her being.
Shocked at her body’s response, she could not move. Could not understand this unsettling bond they seemed to share. Could not fathom how, without even touching her, this quiet, enigmatic Norseman could rouse her in such a way.
She forced her limbs to move, reaching down with all the grace she could muster—when she wanted to make a mad dive—to pick up the cloak she had left on the ground. But she could not don the cloak and hold the torch at the same time.
“Allow me, milady.” His voice sounded deep, husky.
She felt the torch plucked from her grasp before she could decline his assistance. His other hand felt warm and strong on her shoulders as he helped settle the heavy cloak around her. A little frisson of awareness and anxiety tingled down her back.
But his touch was surprisingly gentle, and as soon as she covered herself, he gave her back the torch and moved away a few paces.
She wrapped the garment snugly around her, surprised once again at his gallantry. “Thank you.”
“Are you certain you are well, Avril? You seem pale.” His eyes searched her face once more. “And tired.”
The concern in his gaze, in his voice, brought an uncomfortable, ticklish sensation to her stomach. “Not all women thrive i
n captivity,” she said quietly. “You need not trouble yourself over my well-being.”
“I am bound by my word of honor to trouble myself over your well-being.”
She looked away. “If I am tired, it is because the hour is late and I have had bad—” She caught herself. “Trouble sleeping,” she finished awkwardly.
He did not reply.
Avril felt her cheeks turning red. “The storm kept me awake,” she added quickly. “After being inside all day, I found your keep rather stuffy, and while riding yesterday, I had noticed a path down to the shore. So after the rain abated, I decided to spend the night on the beach. I often did so when I was a child, in the summer, on the shore at home in Brittany.”
She was babbling. God’s breath, why was she babbling?
And why did the man not say something? No doubt he expected her to return to his vaningshus with him now.
All at once, a rush of heated images flashed through her mind like lightning: she and Hauk in his bed, his mouth on hers, his hard body pressing her down into the sheets, his hands in her hair, her fingers caressing his back, their voices blending in groans and sighs.
Shocked, Avril wrestled her thoughts under control, her heart thumping. She sat down, deciding she would spend the rest of the night right here, where she had planned. She staked her torch into the sand again. He could have his vaningshus all to himself.
A moment later, his cloak hit the ground beside her.
Startled, she glanced up. “What are you doing?”
“If you wish to spend the night out here, we will spend the night out here—together.”
Together. Avril forced herself to remain still as he went to retrieve his pack. He was only being chivalrous again, conceding to her wishes.
Was he not?
The possibility that he might have a moonlight tryst in mind almost made her jump up and run. But she did not want him to know he had such an overwhelming sensual impact on her. Her feminine instincts warned her that would be a most serious mistake.
At least sharing a night in the open, she reasoned, was better than sharing the privacy of his keep.
“By all means,” she said lightly as he returned to her side. “Help yourself to a patch of sand.” She shrugged as if his actions did not matter to her in the least, then looked at the sea, as if she found the waves far more interesting than him.
He sat on his cloak, opening the pack and fishing through it until he produced a wooden trencher, which he tossed onto the sand.
Then he began untying the thongs that molded his boots to his legs.
“Now what are you doing?” she tried to keep her voice light, casual. Steady.
“I have not had supper yet. I keep a few nets and traps out there among the rocks.” He nodded toward the water, then slanted her a curious glance. “I often come here to enjoy the night air and some fresh shellfish. Must I change my habits now that I have a wife?”
She shrugged again, trying to hide her chagrin that the driftwood sanctuary she found so appealing also happened to be a favorite place of his.
“You do not have a wife,” she reminded him. “And pray do not change any of your habits on my account. If you wish to douse yourself in that freezing water, by all means do so.” She smiled prettily at him. “Mayhap you will develop a cramp and drown.”
“There is always hope.” He returned her smile with a slow, wry grin, a flash of white teeth that revealed dimples in his bearded cheeks. “But unfortunately for you, I am a strong swimmer.”
Avril could not summon a clever reply. Or tear her gaze from his. She had never seen him smile before, at least not with genuine amusement. The expression brought a warmth, an appealing gentleness to his rugged face that had a strange effect on her heartbeat.
“Milady?” Taking off his boots, he reached for his belt. “Am I offending your sense of modesty?”
“Nay, why would you think so?”
“You are staring.”
She glanced away, managed to laugh. “Fear not. I am hardly some blushing maiden who will faint at the sight of a man disrobing.”
“Indeed?” He stood.
She hoped it was too dark for him to tell that she was blushing as furiously as any maiden.
His weapons hit the sand—his sheathed knife and sword. His belt followed. Avril kept her gaze fastened on a distant rock in the darkness, wondering whether he meant to remove all his garments. Tensing, she poised to flee if he reached for the waist of his leggings.
“Would you care to help me, milady?”
“What?” Her voice came out as a squeak.
She heard him searching through his pack, and a moment later, something heavy hit the sand beside her.
A flat cooking pan.
“Start a fire and have that hot when I return,” he suggested.
Avril picked up the pan as he headed for the water, half tempted to fling it at him for teasing her. He had indeed left the leggings on, she realized. Thank the saints.
As she watched his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette moving through the moonlit darkness, she thought she might not need to start a fire.
The pan was already hot from being held in her palm.
Chapter 10
Not even a cold midnight swim had been enough to cool his blood.
Hauk watched the firelight caress his wife’s skin and deepen the tempting shadow of the cleft between her breasts. Sitting next to Avril, before a crackling fire, he had barely touched the shellfish on his trencher. Though his hair and beard still dripped with icy seawater, he felt painfully aware of the heat simmering in his gut, his arousal rigid against the leggings he wore.
He had dreamed of her like this.
While on patrol, he had barely slept, tormented by a fevered vision of Avril looking just as she did now—her eyes languid and drowsy, her hair mussed from sleep, her body veiled by a thin shift, rumpled in just the right way to reveal an enticing glimpse of pale, feminine secrets.
A shift so delicate, he could slip it from her shoulders with a single brush of his fingertips.
His breathing deepened. His blood seemed to flow hot and thick in his veins. In his dream, she had not been sitting on a moonlit beach, daintily nibbling seafood, her kirtle half concealed beneath a green cloak.
Nei, she had been in his bed, her lips parted for his kiss, her hands drawing him near, her whispers filled with wanting and welcome. And he had pressed her back into the sheets, poised to join his body to hers, to thrust deeply inside and feel her tight and hot and wet—
The snap of a burning driftwood log wrenched him back to the present. His heart thundering, he tore his gaze from Avril, unnerved by the power of the images that fogged his senses. By Odin, when he left two days ago, he had thought he would regain his reason, be able to deal with her presence in his life calmly and rationally upon his return.
Instead, his new bride wreaked havoc with his senses and ruled his thoughts all the more.
And if that were not annoying enough, she seemed oblivious to his suffering.
At the moment, she was ignoring him, her gaze on the flat rock she had found to serve as a trencher. She was using his knife to crack open a lobster shell.
“By all means,” he commented, his voice taut with a different kind of hunger, “enjoy my supper.”
“You are not eating much.” She broke a claw in half and fished out the steaming meat.
Words failed him as he watched her lift the morsel to her lips, watched the juices glisten on her fingers, on her soft, pink tongue as she drew the tidbit into her mouth. Her appreciative sigh of pleasure made his entire body burn with need.
It was a shame, he thought ruefully, that she could not plunge the knife into his heart and put him out of his misery.
She merely swallowed and continued eating, still blithely unaware of his plight. “I see no reason to waste all of this. It has been years since I—”
“Purloined a man’s meal from under his nose?”
An amused smile tugged at
one corner of her mouth. “Since I have enjoyed fresh seafood. It is almost impossible to obtain inland.” Her voice became wistful. “When I was growing up in Brittany, my parents used to love to cook on the beach like this. Before my mother took ill.”
Her smile fading, she continued eating in silence.
Hauk toyed with a crab claw on his trencher, ignoring the curiosity that buzzed through his thoughts like a pestering fly. He was not going to question her about what had happened to her mother. Did not want to learn aught about her past, her family, her home—the life he had taken her from forever.
He already knew more than he wanted to know.
Studying her pale cheeks, the shadows beneath her sable lashes, he realized there was something different about Avril tonight, though he could not discern what it was. She spoke little, avoided looking at him... yet she remained by his side. As if she were a curious sparrow that had hopped near enough to steal a few crumbs from him.
He wondered if she would take flight if he made any move toward her.
He lifted the crab claw to his mouth, gnawing at the soft meat as he turned that thought over in his mind. Mayhap she seemed different tonight because this was, in truth, the first time he had seen her sitting still. The Avril he had grown used to was a vivid bundle of conflicting emotions, constantly changing, endlessly provoking him, always in motion.
He had never seen her like this: quiet, at rest, almost...
Nay, not tame. That word would never apply. But there was a certain sweetness about the way she sat there enjoying her lobster, her hair in tangles, her lashes dipping sleepily low over her emerald eyes, her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her rumpled nightclothes. She looked like she needed to be scooped up and carried to bed.
Hauk dropped his gaze to the sand, not liking the unexpected, unwelcome feelings that stole through him, softer and warmer than the desire that stirred his blood.
By all the gods, she was so young. So much younger than him. And she did not even begin to guess.
He crushed the crab shell in his fingers and flicked it away, annoyed. Seeing her this way—so vulnerable and sweet—only reminded him of how delicate his lovely utlending bride was. How different from him.
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