He grinned at her enthusiasm, quickly capturing her flailing limbs before she caused him further injury. “If that was your wish until our first child is born.”
At length, Bjorn released a heavy sigh and stretched his long, lean body out beside her. “We need to get moving,” he said with obvious reluctance.
Disappointment spiked sharply within her breast. “Do we have to?”
“Yes.” Bjorn landed a light slap to her bottom.
Rhiannon sucked in a breath, her core heating in response. Surprised that had felt good, she found intelligent eyes watching her, one side of his mouth kicking up.
“How I wish we had the time to explore the look that just crossed your face,” Bjorn whispered into the curve of her neck.
Rhiannon shivered in response.
“I suspect you might enjoy me taking a hand to your saucy bottom, turning it a pretty pink, no?” His words were setting her on fire, her nipples budding, and his member dug into her lower back. “But we’ve tarried here for too long, and our families will be worried.” He delivered a light nip to her neck with his blunt teeth that dragged a slow, low moan from her.
Bjorn rose from the furs, unabashed by his nudity, and dressed, pulling his tunic over his head. Rhiannon hungrily traced the defined muscles moving beneath the skin of his back, the red scratch marks standing out in sharp relief. As if sensing her gaze, Bjorn looked back over his shoulder, a satisfied half-smile curling the edge of his lips, and winked. A hot blush filled her face at being caught staring. She gave herself a little shake and, clutching the furs to her chest, rose and dressed, too. Her senses were in a state of hyper-awareness of the man beside her. Her skin prickled, and she had the bizarre urge to touch him.
They were ready to set out, and Bjorn caught her to him. His hands rested heavily on her shoulders, but his thumbs made tantalising circles, negating his stern visage. “Will being my wife be such an unbearable burden?” he asked, his muscles tense, coiled like a predator ready to pounce.
The importance of the question hung between them, and Rhiannon could answer him with absolute certainty.
“No, but what if I can’t please you?” she whispered, voicing her deepest fear: that in time he would grow to hate her.
Bjorn pressed his lips to her temple and made a sound of utter contentment, caught between a purr and a growl. “Hmmm, too late.”
When she remained stone-faced, Bjorn turned serious and said, “You are everything I desire in a wife, Rhiannon. I have no need to wed again, even if Brandr ordered it, I wouldn’t do it unless I wanted to.” His gaze was warm and affectionate. “We will have our fights, no doubt, but I will never ever hurt you.”
His eyes begged her to believe him, and faced with the sincerity blazing in his face, she found herself nodding.
He then ruined the tender moment by adding, “Besides, I have a fondness for taming strong, feisty women.”
That ruffled her feathers, and she pushed away to glare at him, spluttering, “Taming?”
Bjorn’s eyes twinkled with good humour, and she attempted to flounce away, but his powerful hands remained firm on her waist, keeping her pinned to the length of his body.
“Aye, taming.” He leaned down, brushing his nose against hers. “But you will enjoy it, too.”
His mouth slanted over hers, and after only the briefest hesitation, Rhiannon softened. His lips were hot on her cool skin, and she lost herself in the caress, trying to turn off the doubts and fear blaring in her head, to just feel. Fear had ruled her life, but it would not touch this. Taking a step she never thought was open to her, she would wed Bjorn Gunnarson. She would be a wife of a Viking.
Upon their return, they were greeted warmly. Rhiannon found herself in a stranglehold as her mother and Eithne embraced her tightly, alternating between scolding her for doing something so foolish and attempting to squeeze the life out of her. The guilt that she had been able to steadfastly ignore had flared to life when she had seen their faces go slack with relief, her belly feeling like she had swallowed a nest of adders. More of the women converged and expressed their happiness that she was returned unharmed, though she was dumbfounded by the unexpected hug from a shamefaced Gladys. Bjorn stood to the side, clearly heartened by the greeting. Prickly and difficult Rhiannon may be, but she was still firmly entrenched in the hearts of the women of Achnaryrie.
Rhiannon’s cheeks suffusing with colour, she shot a desperate look to Bjorn, a plea for him to come and rescue her. He smiled and gave a slight shake of his head, but his eyes never left her, even when Brandr drew up beside him. Rhiannon was only able to extract herself from being the centre of attention after repeatedly promising never to do something like that for as long as she lived and made her way back to Bjorn’s side. She was apprehensive being so close to the jarl. With their clashing personalities, they never saw eye to eye.
Brandr fixed her with his keen gaze, and she became rooted to the spot, swallowing hard. The raw power of the man was overwhelming and made her feel like she was being judged and found wanting. It was one of the reasons she was attracted to Bjorn’s more easygoing nature. Rather than admit her discomfort, Rhiannon fell back on the belligerence that had served her so well in the past. Jerking her chin up, she stared right back in silent challenge.
“You were lucky, little Pict,” Brandr reprimanded sharply, folding his arms across the great expanse of his chest. “And if my brother doesn’t take you to task for your latest foolhardiness, I will do it myself.”
She had to fight hard not to flinch away from the ill-tempered, physically imposing man who towered over her. Her hand naturally found its way onto the hilt of her sword, giving her strength to stand her ground. “You can try,” she growled, half feral.
Brandr’s face darkened, and he opened his mouth to tear a strip off her. A band looped round her middle and pulled her back, her breath exhaling on a soft huh. Glancing upwards, she realised Bjorn was at her back and was now resting his chin on the top of her head.
“Brandr,” he said pleasantly enough, but Rhiannon picked up the hint of warning in the undercurrents, a tension running between the two brothers. His arms secured around her middle, he subtly pried her fingers free of the hilt, which she allowed, recognising for the first time why she was so quick to reach for her sword. Most would see it as an act of aggression, but it was actually an act of comfort and reassurance when she was afraid. Of course, with her experience of men, an angry and intimidating warlord looming over her was enough to trigger that response.
“I take it by the stupid grin on your face that all is settled between the two of you,” Brandr asked.
“We have reached an accord,” Bjorn confirmed.
Rhiannon shifted back farther into the safety of his embrace, reassured by the strength coiled in Bjorn’s arms that guarded either side of her body.
Brandr’s fair brow rose halfway up his forehead. “If she is still so sharp-tongued, you have not taken her to task for this misadventure.”
Bjorn had rarely thought Brandr foolish, but he was beginning to rethink his assessment. He was fast learning that his little shield maiden responded better to gentler handling and that she would submit if she respected the other party. Give her something to fight against, and she would launch herself into the fray, either verbally or physically, uncaring to any injury she suffered.
“You overstep yourself, Brandr,” he said softly under his breath for his brother’s ears alone. “I will deal with my wife how I see fit.” He hadn’t properly taken her to task, having only got a good dozen spanks to her squirming backside before Rhiannon had managed to tear herself free. Between the rest of that traumatic night and her bravery the next, he had not had the heart to resume. Just this once, he would let it go.
The muscle in Brandr’s jaw clenched, and his face darkened. It was not often that Bjorn stood against his brother, and though he had Bjorn’s loyalty, he hadn’t recently seen a smile on Eithne’s wan face as of late. Brandr was not in a position to medd
le in his impending marriage. Between his arms Rhiannon shifted, reacting to the tension between Brandr and himself, the air thickening with it.
“Bjorn,” she started hesitantly, but he shushed her, smoothing a hand over her hip.
“Get that priest,” Bjorn said shortly. “I would have us wed in the eyes of her people before the day is done.”
Brandr didn’t immediately move, stiff and tall, every inch a warlord. “Very well,” he said at last, his eyes and tone like a blast of frigid arctic air. “I will see it done.”
Bjorn remained wrapped around his bride before Rhiannon tugged at his hand and she gained his attention. A question burning on his lips, he followed her to the cottage they had shared since the very beginning, bemused when Rhiannon left him standing by the table in the living area. His curiosity piqued, and she entered the room that had been his. Rhiannon returned, carrying the rod he’d crafted for her in her trembling hands.
She shot him a strained smile, and he wondered what his little shield maiden was about.
“Though I disliked your brother’s words, they did ring with truth,” she whispered, eyes downcast. “I put you and myself in danger. I worried my mother and Eithne without care.” Her hands curled into tight fists, and it seemed she fought to stand there and admit her wrong. Rhiannon released a trembling breath, and with a decisive jerk of her chin, met his gaze.
Bjorn’s breath froze in his lungs at what her eyes revealed. Pride, spirit, aching vulnerability, and the dark shadow of fear lurking, but still she put her trust in him. My bold little she-wolf.
“I fought you, I bit you, and you’ve never brought it up again.”
He sat on the edge of the table, arms folded across his chest, and sighed. “Rhiannon—”
“Do you pity me?” A spark of anger flared in her eyes.
Bjorn tensed, sensing the peril of answering incorrectly.
“You’ve been through so much already,” he tried again, rubbing the back of his neck. This he had not seen coming. Bjorn didn’t want her to fear him. The past should remain buried in the past.
She snorted and fisted one hand on her hip with a defiant jerk of her chin, and he realised in her way, the wench was challenging him. Testing to see if their bond remained the same after he learnt the truth. So, she sought to push him already? He would more than meet the challenge, but on his terms.
“Very well,” he said at last, deciding how to handle this. “Come here.”
The brazen wench marched right over to him and offered him the switch in her outstretched palm. Though not inclined to use it, he took it from her and flicked it. Rhiannon flinched at the shrill whistle of it slicing the air, her hands subconsciously moving back to cover her bottom, probably already imagining its bite.
“I don’t think we will be needing this.” He smiled at her, placing the rod behind him on the table.
Rhiannon’s brow furrowed. “But—”
“No,” Bjorn said firmly, and her mouth clicked shut. “I decide how to punish you, Rhiannon, and I will not use the switch this time.” He sensed he had wrong-footed her. Good. Though he admired her strength and spirit, as her husband he would be master of their house and he had another lesson altogether in mind, a much more pleasurable one. “Now drop your trousers,” he instructed, patting his knee, “and place yourself over my thighs.” Bjorn held his breath, waiting to see if she would follow his lead.
Her lip trapped between her teeth, Rhiannon slid her trousers to her ankles with trembling fingers and, with only the slightest of hesitation, bent over his sloping knees. In that moment, as she so sweetly presented her bottom, his heart burned with tenderness. No one would ever harm a hair on her head; they would have to go through him first. His brawny forearm looped her slim waist, and he pulled her tightly into his side. He rubbed his sword-roughened palm over the smooth, pale cheeks and lightly clapped his hand down. She jumped against him, but it sounded worse than the sting. Humming under his breath, he set about the enjoyable task of turning his future wife’s bottom from white to a beguiling pink. Her legs fluttered.
“Settle and keep still.” he warned, delivering a harsh, stinging slap to her tempting bottom.
She gasped but after the initial instinctive buck of her hips, froze.
“Good.” She pleased him with her obedience, and he paused to rub.
Rhiannon arched into his hand, her thighs parting farther to reveal her dewy nether lips.
He had been right, she could be aroused this way. Unable to resist, he trailed a finger through their wanton slickness, and the muscles in her back stiffened.
“Bjorn?” She hesitated, a hint of fear mingled with confusion lacing the word.
He retreated and caressed her lower back. “Only pleasure, min hjarta,” he reassured her. “Now spread your thighs for me.”
Her shoulders rose and fell with a large breath, and her pale, toned thighs parted to reveal her most intimate secrets to his gaze. He bumped the pad of his thumb over the bud of flesh between her legs, and she bucked.
“Tell me, do you like this?”
“I-I don’t…know.” She panted as he lazily pumped his finger back and forth.
“Don’t you?” he asked conversationally, carefully pressing the nail of his thumb to her clit and dragging it along its length. He was rewarded by her sharp keening and her hands clutching his calf in a death grip, her bottom humping the air. Never had he witnessed such a wanton sight. He was as hard as a rock, and reluctantly, he removed his hand. “Perhaps I can help you decide?”
Raising his knees, he tipped her forward, and it presented him with the delectable target of her jutting buttocks. Already his handiwork was fading, but he could soon set that to rights. Rhiannon yelped, shifting and wiggling her hips from side to side to alleviate the sting, but her soft, breathy moans belied him in believing she was in any distress.
Satisfied when it gave off a cheery glow, Bjorn righted her to stand between his spread knees. Her beautiful hair was a delicious tangle, and her pupils were dilated, the emerald green blazing bright with desire. If she continued to give him that look, she would soon find herself bent over the table with him buried balls deep within her. He reached down to her ankles and tugged her trousers back into place. He smoothed his hand over her bottom, giving it an affectionate pat. Rhiannon pressed her thighs together, dancing from foot to foot, and he grinned. His little bride was a passionate woman, he was beginning to realise, and he was going to enjoy showing her all the things they could enjoy together. He palmed the nape of her neck and drew her to him, her brow furrowed in confusion.
“Wasn’t that a punishment?”
He shook his head, the end of his hair feathering her cheek. “No, it was a lesson in obedience, and you did very well, little bride.” He speared his fingers through her mass of hair so he could clearly see her face.
Rhiannon’s little tongue darted out to dab her lower lip, and Bjorn’s cock jerked at the sight.
“That burning emptiness you are feeling is your desire for me, and I will not quench that fire until we are wed in the eyes of your people. I will take great pleasure in knowing that beneath your dress you will be wet, wanting, and—” Bjorn broke off, digging his fingers into the fleshy undercurve, and she moaned against his lips. “Pink bottomed.”
He kissed her hard then, and her hands immediately locked on his tunic, desperately trying to pull him closer. He plundered her mouth, delighted there was no hesitation this time, and she dueled with his tongue.
“And when we are at last alone, I will spend all night worshipping your body, and only when your thighs are quaking and my name is on your lips will I allow you to find your completion.”
Her eyes glazed. He gave her a chaste kiss, careful not to be drawn in by her wiles, and stood.
“Get ready, Rhiannon, the priest will be here soon.” He threw her over his shoulder, struggling to walk, the ache in his balls was so great. Her frustrated, colourful curse followed him out of the door, and he chuckled.
“There is no reason to fear tonight. Bjorn is a kind man,” her mother said, slipping a finely woven torque of gold encircling the back of her neck and guarding her throat with twin wolf heads.
Rhiannon recognised the piece as part of her dowry. She frowned. Of course, so far, Bjorn had proven to be both kind and patient of her antics. She caught what her mother was attempting to say, and heat flooded her face. Her mother was trying to reassure her about her wedding night. She was unable to meet her mother’s eyes as she affixed a heavy bronze brooch to Rhiannon’s left shoulder. In stumbling sentences, Rhiannon was quick to assure her that she did not fear Bjorn, that his touch was gentle. Rhiannon’s mouth compressed into a grim line, even if the miserable cur had left her aching with desire. Understanding flared in Feidelm’s eyes, and her smile was one of true happiness, her final wish granted would be: her daughter happily married to a strong man who would temper his touch for her.
Eyes filled with emotion, she grasped Rhiannon’s hands and blinked furiously. “Your father and Alpin would be proud of you, Rhiannon.”
Rhiannon’s throat closed up at the thought of her father, and she wished more than anything that the rest of her family had lived to see the day.
“They are here,” she said, returning pressure to her mother’s fingers. “They live through us.”
By evening’s end, Bjorn stood before Father Godfrey, waiting for his bride. He had cleaned up and dressed in his own finery, to show his bride she was wedding a man of means. A large intricately engraved pendant of Thor’s hammer hung from his neck. The pendant and thick chain were solid silver, and a brooch fixed his cloak in place at his shoulder.
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