Her golden gaze gleamed. “You are naught but good and merciful.”
And he had never wanted to get his mouth on a woman more, to taste that cool tone that made her words a neat thrust of a dagger. Such a pretty little sting.
Mutely, Aelfwynn unwrapped the bindings around her ankles and took the shoes from her feet. When she was finished, Thorbrand shrugged out of his own cloak and hung it across the opening, the better to block what light penetrated the linen flap. Then he took her wet things and hung each bit of fabric there too, so the fire could warm it through the night.
When he turned back to face her, she was still in the same place he’d left her. And now, with only the faint glow of the firelight falling over her from outside, he could see not only how truly lovely she was, but the truth of her royal blood, though her garments were not ornate. They were simple, yet fine. And the necklaces she wore were far beyond the reach of any common woman.
All this and she was his.
He could not wait to do his duty in full.
Thorbrand stripped off his own wet layers and went about adding them to what hung, leaving them in the dark of the tent together. He left on only the wool shirt and leggings he wore next to his skin in cold weather.
And as he shed his garments and moved around the small tent, Aelfwynn followed his every move with those wide, gold eyes.
Thorbrand knew enough of women to know that the way she watched him had less to do with fear than with longing. Her gaze dropped to his chest. Then lower.
When her gaze jerked back up to his, she looked scandalized. Whereas he was almost painfully hard.
“You may thank me, Aelfwynn, for saving you from a life of dreary toil and endless prayer.” He enjoyed the way his voice made her shiver, and the fact she clearly tried to hide it—yet couldn’t. The way her lips parted slightly and made him long to lick his way within. She would taste of honey. He knew it. “I do not think you are well suited to it.”
“You mistake the matter,” she said softly, though she couldn’t seem to keep from dropping her gaze again. “Had the choice been mine, I would have given myself to God long since.”
He stretched out beside her, amused, and watched her color rise. “What can possibly be the appeal?”
“Peace,” Aelfwynn said at once, her voice quiet.
He told himself that she had been too sheltered to know what war really was. That the peace she claimed she wanted bore no resemblance to the shameful dreams he’d had of the same.
Even so, that she should say the word that haunted him made his bones ache.
It was the December cold, he assured himself.
“Yet I have seen your monasteries,” he said. He had sacked a few, though he did not deem it necessary to share that fact with her now, lest she take it ill. “Bells forever ringing out the hours. Roman words and mortification of flesh. I would not call that peaceful.”
“Every day is the same,” she said, and the wistful look he’d seen earlier was there again, and it was different from the meekness she took on and off as it suited her. It made him remember happier days, and the songs his mother had sung as she worked. He set his teeth against it. “The nuns do their work, they eat and they sleep, and above all they pray. It is a simple, worthy life. There is no traveling around, trailing after the royal court, forever at the whim of whatever word last reached a king’s ear. There is order and rhythm.”
Thorbrand laughed at that. “There is no safety behind abbey walls, Aelfwynn. Only a tale told of safety, easily breached by any warrior who dares. And what do you imagine your order of women could do to protect you?”
“They would grant me peace enough to face what comes with equanimity, I dare hope.”
And there it was again, that bold gaze of hers, the gold challenging him. Enticing him. Tempting him almost beyond control.
Better still, washing away that wistfulness that disarmed him.
“Do you think, truly, that you can hide behind your prayers and yet hold off an army?” he asked.
“I cannot answer you,” she replied, bowing her head and concealing the look in her eyes. As if she knew too well what he might see there. “The walls of the abbey I intended to hide behind are lost to me now. Is that not so?”
“It is not your fate to serve your god as a holy woman, Aelfwynn.” He wanted to reach for her, to tumble her down into his furs and show her far better ways she could serve, but he did not. He wanted her to look upon him favorably and perhaps even do the choosing, though he found it hard now, with her scent all around him, to remember why he’d decided that was the smarter path. It had made more sense out there in the woods than it did now, when she was in far fewer clothes. “Though this may distress you, I promise you, there will be pleasures enough to make up for it.”
Thorbrand had always wanted sons, as any man must. He’d given great thought to those sons and how he would raise them, warriors all, to distinguish themselves in battle. But he had thought little of the wife he might take to make those sons. To carry on his name and sing it down through the seasons long after he fell.
But this woman’s combination of strength and softness had made him think of his mother and her many sacrifices—including her last. How his mother had worried when his father was away, for there was always a battle waiting and no telling if a warrior would return from combat. How she tended to his wounds when he did return, battered and grim. How she had mourned the deaths of her two eldest sons, Thorbrand’s fallen older brothers, who had gone on one raid or another as so many did and like too many of their people, had never come back.
He realized now that he had spent his time thinking of the glorious death he would win in battle, not those left behind.
Not the wife who would have to tell his sons who he was while he was away, again and again, serving his king.
Tonight, he found himself far more interested in the wife part of the story than he ever had been before.
Especially as Aelfwynn started to breathe a little heavier. Her lips trembled. And even so, she kept that bold, direct gaze of hers on him.
As if she would only allow herself so much fear.
He was not sure he liked how much she intrigued him.
“If you intend to beat me,” she declared then, “I wish you would get on with it. Waiting for it is, I think, worse.”
“Waiting is not worse,” he corrected her, and laughed. “I did not plan to beat you this eve. Does that disappoint you?”
“I only wish to know what I might expect.”
“You are mine, Aelfwynn. To do with as I wish. Expect that.”
He enjoyed the flush that went all over her then, the way her fingers twisted together, and not, he thought, in agitation.
Aelfwynn did not appear to breathe, then. “Am I to be your...?”
But she did not finish. And he found himself taut, wishing to know what she imagined was happening here. What word she might choose. Slave? Concubine?
She looked down at her hands instead, her fingers linked tightly together.
“Do not fear,” he said, as if he could not help himself. Perhaps he truly could not. “When you obey me, I will reward you.”
“Reward?” she echoed.
He moved then, hooking the nape of her neck with his palm and toppling her to him. She offered no defense. She sprawled out over his chest, letting out a faint, soft sound that made him grit his teeth to keep from freeing his cock and taking what he wanted.
There. Then.
Without regard to her feelings.
Her lips hovered close to his, and her warm scent gripped him like a fist, mixing with the fresh smell of snow and the wood smoke outside the tent.
She smelled how she would taste, sweet like honey. Everything about her was sweet—even the startled look in her gold eyes. Even the way she melted against him, as if it did not occur to her to do
otherwise.
And though he was no less hard and ready, something in him stilled.
“You are an innocent,” he managed to say.
And though it was dark, there in his furs, he could see her face clearly enough. He saw her swallow, hard. Then she nodded.
His hand still covered the soft nape of her neck. He could feel the heat of her skin, and the rough silk of her flaxen hair. Her breath came in small pants he wanted to cover with his mouth.
The word his was like a pulse in him.
Mine, he thought, like a growl.
He had never prized an untried woman before. He would have said he did not—he had little enough time to enjoy himself as it was. Why spend it tutoring a virgin in how best to please him? But there was something about Aelfwynn. There was something about her innocence that rocked through him.
He wanted to claim her as his in every way possible. This he knew.
And he would do so.
But he was a damaged, ruined man, like all men were who made battlefields their homes. He knew naught but war and his hands were bloody more often than they were clean. How could he touch a creature like this, all sunshine and honey? Surely he would do nothing but harm.
And he did not intend to harm her.
For purely selfish reasons, he assured himself, because it was better for him that she acquiesce than fight—but still. Her innocence seemed like more sweetness, more light, in the middle of this dark night. When Thorbrand had expected her to be as corrupt as any other woman too long at court. Any court.
He would need to tread carefully here. A man who rushed too heedlessly into relations with a woman he intended to keep always paid for his haste. Sooner or later.
His mother had taught him that.
“You had best sleep,” he told her. He tugged Aelfwynn to him, so that she was tucked against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and waited while she trembled. When her trembling eased, she let out a long sigh.
And Thorbrand held her there, pressing his chin to the top of her head.
Then lay awake while she settled, the tension slowly leaving her. Until she melted against him and burrowed closer, using him for heat.
He held her until he heard the low whistle outside that told him it was his turn to take the watch.
Thorbrand dressed quickly, then left her bundled in his furs and fast asleep. And welcomed the slap of the cold outside, because it reminded him who he was.
What he was doing here in this lonely wood, with the daughter of the enemy.
And sweetness had nothing to do with it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Wif sceal leohtmod wesan rune healdan, rumheort beon.
A woman should be cheerful, keep secrets, and have a generous heart.
—Maxims I, The Exeter Book,
translated by Eleanor Parker
When Aelfwynn woke, she was alone.
She sat up, looking around wildly as if there was room for a very large man to hide in a small tent, but she truly was alone. Save for the way her heart drummed in her chest, with such violence she had to take a moment. She laid her hand over her heart. She wrestled her breath under control. And she also checked to make sure that all her garments were where she had left them. Her knife still strapped to her thigh. Her hose still in its place.
Her virtue dented, perhaps, but still intact.
Though she doubted that a woman could sleep through a man like Thorbrand’s attentions. Even if she had heard the women talking indiscreetly amongst themselves her whole life, many claiming archly they did just that when their men took their pleasure. Aelfwynn had never been able to make sense of the couplings she’d half seen set against the stories the women told over spindle and thread. And now, having spent this indecent night with Thorbrand, she understood even less.
Why had he asked her if she was innocent? Why had he held her there, sprawled over him for what seemed to her like a lifetime, before he pulled her to his chest? She’d been braced for the frenzy, the writhing—but there was nothing frenzied about the way he held her to him. It was as if he were a bed to lie upon and no more. She had felt her own heartbeat, but then, to her astonishment, realized she could hear his, too.
Right there, beneath her ear.
It had seemed to Aelfwynn a rough, wondrous magic.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he was so warm and the furs so soft. And she had been cold for so very long.
But now it was a new day. She could see faint hints of a gray daylight illuminating the edges of the tent, and there at the front where her garments still hung, blocking the entryway. A different sort of shudder moved through her at the sight. Aelfwynn had always imagined that should she find herself taken—though, in truth, she had never imagined a taker so large or so daunting—she would submit to her fate so gracefully as to bring the man to tears, softening the fire in him. Or better still, present herself as a willing, noble sacrifice with all the righteousness of her finest prayers.
Those who could not pick up swords and axes, those denied their chance to bear cups in halls to ease men’s hearts, could do their part even so and die prettily, piously.
Aelfwynn felt rather out of sorts that she was...perfectly well this morn.
She knew not what to make of this half-taking. Or the savage, terrifying Northman who had done naught but hold her close and leave her untouched. Of all the tales she’d heard of these barbarians, each more horrific than the last, she had never heard of...soft furs and ease.
These must be games he plays to amuse himself, she assured herself.
That made far more sense. He had known her. He had followed her. And he had taken her because of who she was, not simply because he had encountered her on the road. Though he had not seen fit to share his plans with her, Aelfwynn felt certain he yet had one.
A plan he would no doubt follow as it pleased him while keeping her in the dark, also as it pleased him.
This calmed her, for she knew too well the plans of men. There was no altering them, though with soft words and smiles, a woman could find her way along. It was a relief, she thought, to remind herself that while Thorbrand might be a pagan beast of a man, he was yet a man. She had handled all manner of men. What woman had not?
She set about neatening her braid, keeping it in its coil as best she could. Then she pulled the lengths of fabric he’d hung the night before to her, wrapping her legs and her head and feeling more herself as she did. Even if she could better feel the cold now she sat up from his furs, making her fingers clumsy.
More clumsy, she amended as she pulled on her leather shoes. Her finger work had always left far too much to be desired.
But Aelfwynn had far greater worries this morn than her failures as a lady, as she discovered when she pulled her heavy cloak to her from where it blocked the entry panel into the tent and saw the three Northmen gathered around the remains of their fire, staring right at her as she was revealed.
Her mouth went dry, but her mother had not raised a coward.
Aelfwynn crawled outside, then stood with as much dignity as she could manage. There was the hint of sun, low in the trees to the east, a thin winter’s light to herald the coming of another bitterly cold day. When she blew out a breath, she could see it hang in the air.
More than that she could see, all too well, what she’d missed the night before when Thorbrand had brought her here. She’d had impressions of dark hair or red, scarred face or no. But otherwise, the men he traveled with had been as good as boulders to her. Huge, massive, and not at all friendly.
This morning naught had changed, but she could also see them in the weak daylight. All of them. And whatever she might have thought about the heat of Thorbrand’s chest, or how she might have wondered that he had not hurt her as he could have, there was no denying that she was all alone here. With three terrifying Northmen, not one.
&n
bsp; Warriors all, she could see. They all sat with their heavier cloaks thrown back, so she could better view not only their tunics but their weapons. Leif, the red-haired giant, carried an axe as well as a sword. Ulfric, the dark scarred one, carried a bow in addition to his. Only Thorbrand carried a sword alone. She supposed she ought to be grateful that she could see no sign of blood on their garments. That would distinguish them, then, from her memories from a childhood spent far too near the front lines of too many battles with these giants from without. They all wore their hair long and braided back out of their way, the better to see the scowls on their faces. And they all wore beards—a practice Aelfwynn had always found distasteful.
Yet even as she thought it so, she remembered the feel of Thorbrand’s beard against her head as he’d held her. And what fluttered in her then was in no way distaste.
As they all stared back at her, she found herself thinking about a woman’s calling. She had been taught since birth that women were the peace-weavers, sent in to bend between the plots and plans of men forever at war. Men who could not bend and dared not try, lest it be seen as a weakness. Peace-weaving was the sacred duty of wives, or so she had been told by Mildrithe and her mother and every other woman she’d known as she grew. As such, Aelfwynn had thought a great deal about how and when she might do her duty in this way. Did not all girls? And because she knew who her parents were, who her uncle and grandfather were, Aelfwynn had always assumed that the weaving she would be called to do might well be significant. She’d taken a kind of pride in knowing the task that awaited her. Marriages were often used as truces and she knew that were she bartered off to a hostile enemy, it would be up to her to ease tensions however she could. To take no insult, even were it offered. To praise her new house and yet bring honor to her father’s.
And should the peace break down despite her efforts, mourn well her dead on both sides of the fight.
Yet it was all very well to speak of praising this and honoring that, cup-bearing and peace-weaving, but what did that actually look like?
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