Bjorn

by Jane Burrelli

  “Because now I’m going to show you how to use it.”

  She widened her eyes. That had been the last thing she had expected. “But…I won’t be strong enough to wield it,” she protested.

  “Yes, you will.” He placed it in front of Rhiannon and let go, forcing her to catch it or let the perfectly sharpened blade fall to the ground.

  She blinked, weighing it between her hands. “It’s light!” she called out in surprise, though more weighted at the top when compared to her sword.

  “Yes, it is lighter than expected,” he agreed, something that looked suspiciously like a smile tugging at the corner of his beard. Bjorn stepped behind her, placing his body at her back. His strong arms guarding her sides and his hands resting lightly over Rhiannon’s, he corrected her grip. “The weight is all in the head of the axe, and you need to use this to build momentum,” he instructed in her ear.

  Rhiannon tried to pay attention to what he was telling her. But it was hard, so hard. Her mind kept drifting to the heat coming from his body and the low timbre of his voice, the spell-binding quality curling around her and teasing her senses.

  “You can use it to push someone back.” His arms drove Rhiannon’s forward in a decisive shove, deflecting the imaginary shield.

  Rhiannon inhaled sharply—the flat planes of his chest brushed against her back.

  “You see how the head is curved to one side? That allows you to hook your opponent’s legs or shield and throw them off balance, following the motion around into an overhead strike.” Whirling the axe over their heads, his arms grazed across her breasts. Little darts of pleasure shot through Rhiannon at the friction, and her stomach clenched tight. Shocked and puzzled by her reaction, she grasped the only thing she could, his voice telling her how to wield the axe, disappointed when Bjorn dropped his arms away from her and took a step back, bereft of his searing warmth.

  “Now you try,” he encouraged.

  Releasing a slow breath, Rhiannon brought herself back to focus. It went well until she started the overhead swing, the momentum forcing her into an out-of-control turn. Bjorn’s hands grasped her hips, instantly there to steady her before she injured someone.

  “Careful, little warrior, we don’t want any more accidents now. Take it slow and get used to controlling the movement before you add power.”

  Rhiannon swallowed, nodded to indicate she had heard him and tried again, the motions slower, harder, but more precise. She had to think of it like a weighted staff, but it was proving tricky, one part always canting to the side to pull her off balance. More than a couple of times, Bjorn had to step in to steady her, and she trusted him to guide her through. When she at last managed to execute the less complex movements, she handed it back.

  “Thank you.” It was still far from her favourite weapon. In her hands it was cumbersome and unwieldy, and she admired Bjorn’s skill with it even more.

  He grinned, shouldering the weapon. “We’ll make an axewoman of you yet.”

  Against her will, the corners of Rhiannon’s mouth curled, and she snorted. “I think I am better suited to the sword.”

  “It takes practice, but in this instance, I think you are right.”

  He stood very close, his gaze warm, and she had the insane urge to smooth her hand over his taut, flat stomach. Startled by the direction of her thoughts, Rhiannon jerked back, putting physical distance between them. Never had she thought of a man in that way. He made her feel…strange…different. Alarik shifted from his post, a knowing gleam in his eyes, though Rhiannon could not even imagine what was so amusing.

  “If you are done handling Bjorn’s weapon,” he drawled lazily, “I have other duties to attend to.”

  Behind her, a spluttering cough erupted, and Rhiannon twisted her head. Graeme thumped Bjorn hard on the back, and he sucked in a breath. Rhiannon caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth. There was something she was missing. Her gaze darted between Bjorn’s red face, his blue eyes fixed on Alarik and promising retribution, and Alarik’s amused one. Her neck prickled at the underlying currents shifting between the men, and Rhiannon retreated behind her usual defensive wall of defiance.

  She gave him a stiff nod. “I am finished.”

  Alarik shot Bjorn a knowing smirk, his eyes dipping to his waist, and moved to escort his charge.

  Chapter 2

  Later that night, Bjorn knocked softly on the door of the cottage his brother shared with his wife, a plan fully formed for capturing his little she-wolf. He waited a moment, knowing it was late, but he could delay no longer in telling Brandr his intentions at the þing, the meeting that would decide Rhiannon’s fate; they had to be working towards the same goal. When Brandr opened the door, he was less than pleased, scrubbing a hand over his face, his hair sticking up at odd angles.

  “What in Odin’s teeth do you want?” he grumbled.

  “There are things that need to be settled that would be best if not overheard.”

  Brandr became more alert, and his gaze turned shrewd. “And this couldn’t have waited until morning?” he asked slowly.

  “No.”

  Brandr released a heavy sigh. “Wait here, I will get my cloak.” He disappeared into the darkened cottage, Eithne’s sleepy voice murmuring indistinct words, though her tone was questioning. Brandr responded in a soft tone he reserved solely for his wife. “’Tis Bjorn, little Pict, nothing to worry about. I will return shortly.”

  Something in Bjorn’s chest clenched. He wanted that, that tenderness between himself and Rhiannon, though he knew it would not be so straightforward. First, he had to trap his elusive quarry, leaving no escape, and after that, the taming would begin.

  Moments later, Brandr reappeared, a thick woollen cloak thrown over his broad shoulders. He nodded to the opposite side of the square, away from those sleeping in the houses, and Bjorn followed his lead.

  “Now,” Brandr started, leaning his backside against the fence post to an animal pen. “What is so important that you saw fit to drag me from my warm bed?” He folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head.

  “I wish to take a bride,” Bjorn said with his usual directness.

  Brandr stilled for a moment, clearly shocked by the request. Then again, so was Bjorn. Never since his disastrous marriage had a woman captured his interest for more than few nights, until now.

  “Who?” Brandr asked, as if dreading the answer.

  “Rhiannon.”

  Brandr let out a bark of laughter. “Rhiannon?” he scoffed. “She will gut you before the wedding can take place.”

  Bjorn bristled at the lack of faith to tame his she-wolf, and make no mistake, she was his. But he tamped down his frustration and settled for shrugging. Despite what Brandr liked to think, Bjorn didn’t need his approval. Though it would be a lot easier if Brandr supported him.

  “She is my choice,” he said simply, stretching to ease the ache that still plagued his side.

  “You want to wed the woman who tried to kill you?” Brandr said, slowly running a hand over his face.

  Bjorn sighed. “No, I wish to wed the woman who would face down a whole Viking force single-handedly.” Brandr grunted, acknowledging the little Pict’s courage, and Bjorn pressed on. “You said I would decide her fate, and I’ve decided,” Bjorn reminded him, steel ringing in his words. He would not be moved from this.

  Brandr quietened for a moment, rubbing a hand over his chin, deep in thought. “She is a beauty, but a reckless one,” Brandr conceded.

  Bjorn’s rolled his eyes up to the clouds, his patience was wearing thin.

  “But she will never be an easy wife,” Brandr warned.

  That did not change Bjorn’s mind. He remembered the first time his mind had cleared of fever, his throat dry, muscles impossibly weak, a weight on his chest pinning him to the pallet. He had gazed down and discovered Rhiannon’s head in the place of the weight, a cloak of her unruly russet curls spread across his chest. Without conscious thought, his fingers had tangled in the l
uxurious locks and smoothed her silken hair, from the crown of her head down her back. Stirring with a soft sigh, she’d lifted her head, revealing a pair of sleepy eyes that were the most fascinating mix of amber and moss green, like they couldn’t decide what colour they wanted to be.

  “Well, hello little she-wolf,” he’d said, his voice rusty from disuse.

  Her brow had puckered, his words lost upon her, before his eyes fluttered closed again. The memory warmed him, and he wished to see that relaxed, unguarded look on her face again.

  Bjorn forced a smirk. “I like a challenge.”

  Brandr opened his mouth, though what he was about to say was lost. He stilled like a hunter sighting his prey, his attention fixed over Bjorn’s left shoulder. Bjorn turned to follow his brother’s gaze. A silhouette slipped from Feidelm’s dwelling, the slight stature indicating the person to be female. But only one woman he knew moved like that. Light on her feet, she prowled with the bold arrogance of a she-wolf on the hunt. He would know that movement anywhere—Odin knows he had coveted the woman long enough. Bjorn frowned, watching the very topic of their conversation avoid the moonlight flooding the square and dart between the shadows cast by houses. What was Rhiannon up to now?

  Brandr blew out a breath and voiced the same thought. “What in Thor’s name is she doing?”

  Good question, and one that Bjorn would have the answer to. They tracked her progress, until she slipped through the outer wall and disappeared into the darkness.

  “That woman is more trouble than she’s worth,” Brandr grunted, straightening his impressive frame, his intent to go after the wayward wench obvious.

  The harsh words did not fool Bjorn for a moment—the man worried that her bravery would someday see her harmed. Though Rhiannon was sharp-tongued and prickly, she was loyal to Eithne, had been willing to stand at her side in greeting a Viking force, and Brandr treasured his new wife.

  Bjorn halted him with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go. You have a warm bed and a wife to get back to.”

  Brandr stared into Bjorn’s face for moment and then gave a stiff nod. “As you will, she is yours. Odin knows, someone has to tame her.”

  An understanding between the two men had been reached. Brandr would leave the dealings of Rhiannon to Bjorn. Nothing more to be discussed, Bjorn hefted his axe and swiftly followed in Rhiannon’s footsteps.

  The moon was bright and shone like a weaker second sun, allowing him to spy her darting figure taking the path to the cliff tops. The farther she journeyed away from the settlement, the more his anger bubbled. Stubborn, reckless, headstrong woman. She knew the dangers as well as anyone.

  With grim determination, he followed the winding silver path, pushing himself faster, the ache in his side nagging him. Bjorn closed the distance so he could give aid should the need arise and, squinting, he made out her carrying something in her clenched fist. It was only the fact she had thought to arm herself and that he had yet to broach the subject of their marriage that prevented him taking her to task. His palm itched. Though if she gave him the slightest bit of trouble, that could soon change. In fact, he half hoped she would, and then the glow of her sore bottom would light their way as he guided one very penitent woman home. The thought soothed him.

  Reaching the cliff tops, Bjorn watched Rhiannon draw her sword. He frowned. Just what was she doing? His silent question was answered when she moved, gentle swings that built momentum. His first thought, that she was practicing. The second, she was magnificent. Mindful of where he placed his footing so not to draw her attention and break her focus, Bjorn settled his back against the lone tree that dared defy the harsh elements of the barren clifftops and rubbed his aching side. Content that he would be there to safeguard her, he stayed in the shadows, mesmerised by Rhiannon’s skill with the sword. Smooth, graceful, and light, the blade moved in clean and precise cuts, and she handled it with absolute confidence. Her style was odd compared to the way he and the rest of the men had been trained, relying on her speed rather than strength. Though useless in a shield wall formation, she was more than capable in single combat. His chest burned with pride. Fast, lethal, and his.

  Rhiannon just didn’t know it yet.

  Rhiannon drove the sword forward and thrust at an imaginary enemy, each swing faster than the last, her muscles becoming warm and limber. The sharpened blade sliced through the cool night air, sheathed in pure moonlight. Her mind would not be still! And in times of such restlessness, Rhiannon did what she had done when the nightmares threatened to overwhelm her. Sword clenched in her fist, she had slipped from the house into the comforting embrace of the shadows, tracing the well-worn path she knew like the back of her hand to the cliffs.

  She swung her blade, low and high, chopping at imaginary limbs, her lungs burning, and after the day’s exertions, she soon became weary. Her tunic plastered to the small of her back, Rhiannon slid her sword into the sheath at her waist and brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. She stared out at the sea, the dark water woven with glittering stars. Rhiannon inhaled deeply, the tang of salt filling her nose and the gentle rush and crash of the waves washing over her like a balm. She tried to find an elusive moment of peace when her mind would not be still. Tried to outrun the oppressive weight on her chest. Tomorrow would be her judgement, and she could not sleep no matter how she tried. But it was more than that. With the arrival of Brandr and his men, everything had changed. Her skills as a huntress or a warrior were no longer needed. She’d seen the tender looks traded between Eithne and Brandr when they thought no one was looking and the happiness that now filled her sister. Those tender looks speared her and left her with an aching hole in her chest that worsened as each of her friends found happiness and settled into their marriages.

  She was the odd one out. Always broken. She had considered leaving many times, but her heart cried nay at the thought. Soon she may no longer have a choice if she was banished tomorrow.

  “A strange time to practice your sword work.”

  Rhiannon’s heart almost burst out of her chest and, reacting on instinct, she spun on the balls of her feet towards the voice, sword first. She scanned the darkness. Nothing.

  “Who’s there?” she called, her senses prickling, and she gripped the sword tighter, prepared to ward off an attack.

  A movement beneath the lone gnarled tree had her bringing her sword up to chest level to make an effective barrier. At the sound of a body moving forward, she squinted harder and made out a hazy silhouette. A man that large should not be able to move that quietly.

  “Why are you not abed, Rhiannon?”

  The man’s voice brushed over her senses and tugged at her mind. Rhiannon frowned, struggling to place it—the low timbre was familiar. Moonlight bounced off the man’s angular features, granting her recognition.

  “Bjorn.” She sighed with relief, her shoulders sagging. Relaxing her guard, she lowered the point of her sword by a degree and released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  Detecting a note of disapproval in his voice, she frowned and answered truthfully, “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Bjorn folded his arms and inhaled through his nose, the broad expanse of his chest visibly expanding, an action she had long since learnt meant he was grasping for patience. Rhiannon was used to having that effect on people.

  Exhaling, he fixed her with a stern gaze. “That is no excuse for leaving the safety of the village.”

  She shrugged. “I do as I please.”

  In the moonlight, the line of his jaw hardened. “It is not safe—”

  “And by tomorrow it might not matter,” she snapped.

  His shrewd eyes took her measure, and Rhiannon knew she had said too much and, making a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, she deposited herself in the dew-slicked grass. She didn’t want or need his pity.

  Staring fixedly out at the sea with her knees brought up to her chest, sh
e sensed Bjorn sit beside her and hunched her shoulders.

  “You are worried about the þing tomorrow?”

  There was nothing to be gained by denying it, and Rhiannon gave a single stiff nod before lowering her head to rest it on the shelf made by her knees, and pinched her eyes shut. Though it wasn’t just that. She was no longer needed to keep the village safe and no longer knew her role. It had awakened a restlessness within that she didn’t know how to soothe, and it grew daily.

  “All will be well. I seek no retribution, so you have no worries on that score.”

  Not lifting her head from her knees, she twisted so she could see Bjorn’s face and arched a delicate brow. “No?”

  His face became hard and closed off. Rhiannon sensed Bjorn was not used to having his word doubted.

  “No,” he reaffirmed, injecting a note of authority into his voice.

  Against her own warnings, that spark of hope grew.

  “What if Brandr insists?” She frowned—she hadn’t meant to voice that concern. “He hates me.”

  Bjorn snorted. “He doesn’t hate you.” His words contained a kernel of amusement.

  “Yes, he does. He wanted me dead,” she said flatly, keeping her face blank, no emotion behind her voice, just stating straight facts, and she couldn’t help thinking that he still wished her dead. A strong breeze buffeted them, and goosebumps danced upon her exposed skin. Rhiannon hugged her knees tighter.

  “And if Brandr had plunged a dagger into Eithne?” Bjorn asked lightly,as if they were discussing planting crops.

  Rhiannon answered without even the slightest hesitation, her words coated in cold steel, “I would have killed him with my bare hands, just like I will if he ever harms her.”

  “Words said in the heat of the moment. He now knows you have a good heart, just not how to deal with your continuing challenges to his authority.” He broke off when Rhiannon shivered and, muttering a curse under his breath, he moved closer to her.