Rhiannon snapped her head up, alert and, staring at him, she tensed, waiting to see what he would do. His keen eyes noted the action, and she hated that Bjorn appeared to see right through her. Never breaking eye contact, he unwrapped his cloak in slow, measured movements as if trying not to spook a wary animal, throwing it half over her shoulders. His warmth filled her, and Rhiannon was encompassed by his unique scent, masculine and in some strange way, comforting. When he made no other move to touch her, Rhiannon relaxed and burrowed closer to the source of that warmth. “Thank you.”
“You need to take better care of yourself,” he grumbled the reprimand above her head.
But Rhiannon simply smiled and ignored him, just like she did every other time someone attempted to curtail her choices. “I’m stronger than I look.”
Bjorn’s stern visage softened for a moment, the harsh lines of his face relaxing, and he appeared younger. “Yes, you are.”
Despite his reassurance, the weight of worry continued to press down on her. “But what if he does?” she insisted. Brandr might be the jarl, but she was a daughter and sister of the chieftain, though the man had earnt her begrudging respect.
Sighing, Bjorn leaned back on his elbows, stretching his long legs out in front of him, and of their own accord, Rhiannon’s eyes flickered over the thickly muscled thighs and down the toned calves to his boots.
“I will speak for you, and as the injured party, my words will carry the most weight. Your punishment will be a token, nothing more.”
The next question burned on her tongue. She wanted to know what he intended for her, how bad it would be. In an unusually subdued voice, she asked, “What will you ask for?”
“Ten stripes of the rod to be administered by me in private.”
Rhiannon blinked. That was more than generous when her actions had almost cost him his life. Part of her still balked at submitting to the ruling, and she wrestled with her natural inclination to fight. Bjorn must have taken her quietness for censure.
“You’ll live,” he said gruffly, shifting next to her.
“Why so lenient?”
His eyes skittered away from her, back to the star-woven sea. Unease tiptoed up her spine before Rhiannon forced it back. She had spent hours with Bjorn. He was one of the very few men she didn’t flinch away from. She also firmly pushed that thought aside, not wanting to dwell upon the reasons why. Due to their enforced proximity during her captivity and his recovery, a fragile bond had been forged between them.
Bjorn shrugged, one half of the cloak nearly slipping open with the movement. “You have more than paid for you actions on the beach. When I burned with fever, you stayed and nursed me just as much as Myrna.”
Rhiannon scoffed at his explanation. “I was very singularly motivated.” A hint of dark humour leaked into her words. With Brandr’s sword hanging over her head, common sense and self-preservation had prevailed. “I could do no less when it was my fault in the first place.” Though despite her best efforts, they had almost lost him. The fever had raged out of control, and it had taken all of Myrna’s skill and endless supplies of willow bark tea and cold compresses to break it. The fear of the consequences had kept Rhiannon going night and day, never stopping or leaving his side until she had collapsed with exhaustion.
Her eyes drooped, her head lolling to the side, and she was vaguely aware of strong arms gathering her close. She wriggled to find a comfortable spot.
“You’re cold and need to get to bed.” Bjorn’s warm breath tickled her ear, the low words rumbling through his chest.
Sleepily, she shook her head. “No, I want to stay here a little longer. Tell me about the lands you have been to again?” She loved hearing about the Byzantines and the Franks in the lands south and the Rus to the west. Bjorn’s stories left Rhiannon insatiable for details. The foreign, unfamiliar lands sparked her imagination with a riot of colours and strange words.
Bjorn’s lips curled, softening his stern features, even as he shook his head. Not having any of it, he manipulated himself out from under the cloak and, bracing Rhiannon against his body, put her back on her feet, turning her in the direction of Achnaryrie. “This is not the time to indulge in tales, little warrior.”
His hand on her lower back encouraging her forward, she burned with awareness where they touched, forcing down her disappointment when he removed it. She found out why a heartbeat later, a stinging swat connecting with her bottom.
“Bjorn!” She jerked in surprise, almost falling flat on her face as his too-long cloak tangled around her ankles.
Bjorn raised a single fair brow, unimpressed, his hands busy adjusting the cloak’s length and fixing it more firmly to her shoulders. Any lingering sleepiness was banished at Bjorn’s innocent touches, her body tingling with awareness. Thankfully, the darkness hid the burning pinpricks of colour on her cheeks, and Bjorn appeared, oblivious to the effect he was having on her.
“Move,” he commanded softly and simply, expecting to be obeyed.
Rhiannon shot him a venomous glare over her shoulder that would have lesser men debate the advantages of fighting the point while fearing for their manhood. It had no effect on Bjorn whatsoever. She tarried too long, and Bjorn clapped his firm right palm against the other cheek.
“Stop that!” She snarled like the she-wolf he named her, shuffling two paces forward.
“Then get moving, woman,” he grumbled.
Rhiannon drew herself up to her full height, but before she could let him know her feelings, Bjorn added casually, “I can always cut a switch and stripe you all the way back.”
Normally, she didn’t respond well to threats, preferring to meet them head-on, but something in the determined glint in his eyes gave her pause. Rhiannon bit her tongue and, knowing for once when she was beaten, she sighed. With the utmost reluctance pooling in her muscles, she put one foot in front of the other. They walked without talking, the silence only interrupted by the hiss of the waves kissing the rock face. Even when they reached the village, Bjorn insisted upon escorting her right up to her door, where she shrugged out of the borrowed cloak and offered it back to him.
“All will be right, Rhiannon,” he tried to reassure her once more.
“You don’t know that,” she mumbled, staring at the toes of her boots.
His knuckle curled under her chin and lifted her head. Rhiannon drew in a breath—she hadn’t expected him to be that close. She waited for fear to kick in, the natural instinct of self-preservation to move out of his reach and out of harm’s way. It didn’t.
A muscle ticked in Bjorn’s jaw as he speared her with an annoyed look. “It displeases me when you do that.”
Rhiannon furrowed her brow. “Do what?”
“Doubt my word.”
Rhiannon stared directly into his brilliant eyes that captured the starlight. She counted each of his individual fair eyelashes, and her heart once again kicked hard at her chest.
“No harm will come to you, I swear it,” he said.
She wanted to believe him, and against her better judgement, hope fluttered in her breast. She gave him a nod. When she would have entered the dwelling, his thick arm shot out and blocked her path. She flicked a glance at him.
“No more nighttime wanderings, Rhiannon. If you feel the urge, then call on me to escort you.”
Rhiannon shook off her placidity, her mouth digging down into a thin, stubborn line. “That would defeat the point of wanting to be alone.” She jutted her chin out. “You have no say over my actions, Bjorn.”
He leaned down, their noses almost touching. “I have every say over your actions, Rhiannon, and you best not forget it.” Bjorn’s palm cupped her cheek, and he brushed the roughened pad of his thumb over her bottom lip.
Rhiannon’s breathing hitched. Still no fear. Instead, her lip tingled, feeling plumper, fuller.
“If I catch you out on your own at night, your reckless backside will pay the price. Don’t test me in this, little warrior.”
Rhiannon knew she should
have taken umbrage at his words, but the man was casting some sort of spell over her. Her feet remained rooted, and Bjorn eased even closer, his shoulder-length hair feathering her cheek. His lips were firm and warm as they slanted over hers, and his hand slipped around the back to cradle her nape, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam of her lips. An unbidden instinct guiding her, Rhiannon yielded to him. Bjorn’s tongue stroked the inside of her mouth, and she moaned, the sound captured by his lips. A wild rush swept through her blood, and a tight, hot knot burned in her lower belly. Curling her fingers into his tunic, she was pressed tight against his chest, her nipples rubbing into tightened buds, just like when they had trained with the axe. The same darts of pleasure shot at her womb, more intense than before, and she gasped, breaking the kiss. Rhiannon sucked in a breath, the cold air resting heavy on her lungs, and attempted to clear her fogged mind. Blinking, she gazed up at Bjorn, his features half concealed by moonlight. Even in the shadows she could make out the sensual grin. His dark eyes softened, and his fingers gently flexed upon her nape in a caress that was both possessive and affectionate. Her thoughts scattered to the four winds, Rhiannon hesitantly reached up to touch her tingling full bottom lip. Did that really just happen?
Bjorn grinned, looking rather pleased with himself, and whispered in her ear, “Bed,” he reminded her.
Rhiannon nodded slowly, the words not registering at first. Her body was aflame with foreign urges and cravings bombarding her. She wanted to move against him and relieve the ache throbbing between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, but it worsened; it was maddening. Rhiannon turned towards the door, taking a step before cutting a glance back over her shoulder, her breath catching. The moonlight clothed his shoulders. Proud and tall, Bjorn appeared to be a pagan god in all his glory. Raw hunger and power emanated off him. His face was a dark mask of possessiveness, his attention focused solely on one thing. Her. A little squeak caught in her throat, the heat in his gaze threatening to melt down her defensive walls. She hurried into the house before she gave in to temptation and delved further into this madness.
Chapter 3
Bjorn joined the crowd swelling for the þing just in time to see Rhiannon surrender her weapon with a fearsome scowl. The woman had a bizarre attachment to her sword. She surrendered it nonetheless by order of the jarl, and with one last, longing look at her blade, walked farther into the smoky, dimly lit room. He admired the way Rhiannon straightened her spine and raised her chin a notch, her face a serene mask. To look at her, no one would guess the turmoil and uncertainty lying just beneath the surface.
Bjorn shouldered his way to the front, and a breath caught in his throat. Rhiannon had donned a woollen, dark-green dress, Eithne’s and Feidelm’s influence, no doubt. So used to seeing his little warrior in her customary tunic and woollen trousers, Bjorn felt like he had been poleaxed. His gaze hungrily roved over the feminine creature before him, tracing the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, and the beginning of her breasts. Her mahogany tresses were bound into a braid that trailed down the length of her back—he’d had no idea it was so long. Mesmerised, he watched the tufted end sway just above the surprisingly generous swell of her bottom. She had been blessed by Freya. He couldn’t wait to see her hair gloriously unbound, to run his fingers through it. Would it be as soft as it looked?
His cock swelled, and he bit off a curse. This was neither the time nor place, and he willed his body into obedience. Shoulders and back stiff, Rhiannon kept her gaze fixed determinedly ahead, emanating a haughty air. Only the nervous flexing of her fingers that were down by her sides gave her away. An isolated island in a sea of people.
Bjorn closed the remaining distance between them to stand beside her. Leaning down, he placed his lips at her ear. “All will be well.”
Rhiannon started, her gaze flicking to his face and then resting upon his mouth. Without a hint of calculation, she dabbed her bottom lip with her tongue, and Bjorn almost groaned at the sight. She inhaled sharply, and he was gratified that she was so affected by their shared kiss. Bjorn winked, fascinated by the two pinpricks of colour burning high on her cheeks, her gaze lowering to the floor. Amusement curled through him at Rhiannon’s uncharacteristically shy gesture. The blush charmed and delighted him, and Bjorn wondered how he could get such a reaction again.
Before he could try, Brandr brought the þing to order with a grand wave of his hand, Eithne sitting at his side, and she offered Rhiannon a weak smile. The assembly settled, and Rhiannon’s back tensed, though she forced her face into a blank mask. To the rest of the assembly, she didn’t have a care in the world. So, it began.
“We have gathered to decide the judgement of Rhiannon of Achnaryrie, for the injury she caused to Bjorn Gunnarsson, but before Bjorn pronounces his wishes, I would hear your account of what happened on the beach.”
Bjorn notched a brow at his brother, who met his look unblinking. Still wishing to ensure he wasn’t wedding a wench with murder in her heart, it seemed. Bjorn began the tale in a strong, steady voice that carried. Rhiannon inched closer to him, and he wished he could wrap her in his arms, but he knew that such an affectionate gesture in front of others would not be appreciated by his prickly wife-to-be.
“All was well until Heggr made vulgar comments regarding the lady’s form and leered at her.” His blood blazed when he recalled the other man’s words and insults, and in truth, Rinda would not have stayed her hand if she was so threatened. “Rhiannon may not have spoken our tongue, but she understood their intent.”
Terrified eyes had fixed on Heggr as she’d knelt, her hand migrating to her boot.
Bjorn shook his head, the memory leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “When he went to touch her—”
Brandr interrupted him, becoming animated. “You mean the attack was not wholly unprovoked?”
Bjorn cut a questioning glance to Rhiannon. Surely she had already said this? Her pale face was studiously blank, but proud defiance blazed in her eyes, the flecks of amber burning like embers. Bjorn frowned. Oh, they would be having a discussion about misplaced pride as soon as this was over. “I moved to intercept him, but Rhiannon drew her blade. I shouted at her to put it down. She didn’t understand me. I moved towards her and—”
Rhiannon flinched, and he gentled his tone.
“She moved faster than I had anticipated.” She had been lightning fast, in fact, and he had underestimated her at his cost. “I am confident that Rhiannon wouldn’t have attacked if she did not fear for herself and I had not approached,” he finished firmly.
“Is this a true account?” Brandr asked, addressing her directly for the first time.
“It is,” Rhiannon agreed, voice strong and clear.
Brandr glowered at her, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. “Why did you not mention it before?”
Rhiannon raised her chin and held Brandr’s searing gaze. Bjorn’s chest burned with pride. Many men would back down rather than risk his brother’s displeasure, but not his little warrior. She matched him glare for glare, somehow managing to look down her slim nose at the exasperated jarl.
“Because you did not ask,” she said.
All were silent, and the back of his brother’s neck turned red. Bjorn bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as the slip of woman neatly put his brother down without an insult fired. He got the distinct impression that Brandr was grinding his teeth, his internal struggle evident by the way his fingers flexed on the arms of the chair.
At length, he regained the power of speech. “That may be so, but the fact remains that you still caused injury to another, and there must be justice.” The jarl flashed a meaningful look at Bjorn as if to say the rest was up to him. “Bjorn, as the injured party, what recompense would you suggest?”
The air in the room was thick and heavy, and Rhiannon unconsciously shifted closer to Bjorn.
“I ask for ten stripes of the rod to be administered by me in private, and for compensation I seek to take Rhiannon as my
bride to see that she doesn’t act in haste again.”
Rhiannon spun on her heels to face him. The blood drained from her face, her mouth agape, and a twisted mixture of horror and betrayal bloomed in her hazel gaze. Bjorn winced and braced himself for his future bride’s reaction.The buzzing in Rhiannon’s ears drowned out all other noise. He what? Blindly, she stepped a pace backwards, away from Bjorn and the undisguised heat burning in his eyes. Wed. The word finally penetrated. Bjorn wanted to wed her. Wed her and bed her! The icy hand of fear clutched at her throat, rendering her mute. She lost sight of where she was and was transported back into the nightmare. His weight pinning me to the ground. Bile burned on her tongue. Bruising fingers prying my thighs apart. Her stomach knotted. Pain indescribable as he tore into me. Violated.
“Agreed,” Brandr’s voice rang out over the assembled. “The wedding feast will commence in three sennights hence. Will that give enough time to prepare?”
“Yes,” Bjorn answered.
The tug of molten fury wrenched her insides, and she grasped it like a lifeline lest she truly lose her mind. Shaking off shock that had rendered her silent, Rhiannon shouted, “I do not accept you!”
“You do not have a choice in the matter,” Brandr replied, his face a mask of hard granite.
Rhiannon stiffened as if he’d reached out and struck her. “We were promised brides in exchange for our aid,” he said.
She drew herself up to her full height, clenching her hands at her sides. “Not me,” she spat. Rhiannon turned to her staunchest ally and shot a beseeching glance at Eithne, an unspoken plea to intercede on her behalf. Eithne’s face was averted. Her chest tightened. Why didn’t Eithne meet my gaze? Why won’t she look at me?
Eithne bit her bottom lip until the worried flesh whitened. “I agreed to all eligible women, Rhiannon.” At last she did raise her face, dark regret and sadness lying in her gaze. “All.”
Her last line of defence crumbled into dust, and the rest of the world dropped away. She was on her own then. Helpless desperation clawed at her, runaway panic mounting, calling on her to fight until the last. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t. Shaking her head, she turned towards the door when Bjorn made the fatal mistake of grasping her elbow. Instead of pulling him, she used the momentum to put power behind the swing as he spun her to face him.
Bjorn Page 3