Frida looked at the king when she answered. “I am Frida Grimsdottir,” she said, pitching her voice so that everyone could hear her. “I come from Daelfjord, in the north of Kjota. I am responsible for the army outside your walls as we speak.”
“Frida Grimsdottir,” the king repeated, tilting his head to the side a little as he stared at her. It seemed that there was something that he wanted to say, but his councillor placed a hand on his shoulder, and the king fell silent.
“What is the purpose of this army that you have brought?” the councillor asked her. “Do they come as foes to the king?”
“Quite the contrary, in fact,” Frida said. “We have come in peace—and we have come to help King Varg and his men to bring peace to this realm. We know about the fighting in the south—about the sorcerers from the Borderlands encroaching upon good Kjotan lands. And we have come to offer our service to you so that we may secure our borders again, as we once did, two hundred years ago, when the sorcerers were pushed back into the scorched and uninhabited Borderlands.”
“Where do your fighting men come from,” the councillor asked, a sneer in his voice, “and why have they agreed to follow a female? Especially since anyone can tell that you are no sword-master—you don't hold yourself right.”
Frida straightened self-consciously and shrugged. “They have agreed for the good of the realm. They are from small villages and towns where they know what war could mean to their families and their lifestyles. They are hoping to keep the wars from reaching their homes. They fight to keep their women and children safe. And they will follow whoever will help them achieve that end.”
“Men are not so noble as that,” the councillor said. There was laughter from around the hall.
Frida felt her face heat, but she refused to back down. “Perhaps not your soft men of this city,” she said haughtily, her head held high. “Perhaps not when they can hide behind walls and pretend as though none of this affects them. But King Varg, I wonder what your men would say, here, if they realized exactly how this war will affect them, if they don't fight back. There will be famine. There will be death. And then there will be disease which spreads rampantly through a city which cannot–“
“Silence,” the king said, and Frida's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. He tented his fingers in front of his face, staring at her. “I still wonder if you really know what you're fighting for.”
“Of course I do,” Frida snapped, bristling a little. “Just because I'm a female, it doesn't mean–”
“We will have a feast,” the king interrupted, turning towards his councillor. “I would like to have a feast. To celebrate. As for their army, I suppose they can be housed in the barracks during their time here, can they not? I don't expect they'll be staying long.”
Frida gaped at him, hardly daring to believe her ears. “A feast?” she asked. “The whole kingdom is at stake—our very lives and livelihoods are at stake—and you want to have a feast? What exactly are we celebrating here?”
The king gave her a sharp smile, showing his teeth. “Why, your return to us from the other side, my dear Eir.” He stood slowly, and came down the dais towards her, holding out his arms. “It's been decades since I last saw you—and of course, you didn't look quite like this then. But this suits you.”
Frida backed away from the man, having a curious sense of deja vu after Brynarr had had nearly the same reaction the first time that she'd met him. She shook her head, but her retreat was blocked by the two soldiers at her back. “I don't think I am who you think I am,” she said, hating how scared her voice sounded.
The king grinned at her, though, his sharp teeth reflecting torchlight from around the hall. Suddenly, she realized that the torches gave off a bluish light—which definitely didn't come from fire.
It seemed Brynarr was right after all: the king had made a pact with the sorcerers.
She swallowed hard as the king embraced her, kissing her once on each cheek. Then, the man turned towards his servants, clapping his hands together. “Well,” he said. “If we are to have a feast this evening, we have plenty of work to do. Now go.”
He turned back to Frida, putting a finger beneath her chin and tilting her head up so he could look into her scared eyes. “You and I have a lot of catching up to do, don't we, my lovely daughter-in-law?”
Chapter 12
Frida looked around the hall, watching as everyone enjoyed the feast. As for herself, she had no appetite. King Varg had become increasingly frustrated with her that afternoon, insisting that she must remember who he was—who “she” was. But she didn't have the foggiest idea why he kept insisting that she was his daughter-in-law and that her name was Eir.
Eir.
The name reminded her of something, but she couldn't quite seem to place it. Perhaps it was someone that she used to know, back in her childhood. Or perhaps it was someone that she had seen in one of her dreams. But whoever it was, it certainly wasn't her. She was Frida Grimsdottir, and she came from Daelfjord. She didn't understand why King Varg didn't seem to believe that.
She sighed under her breath and touched the pendant that Brynarr had given her, where it rested beneath the dress that King Varg had put her in for the evening's celebration. The soldiers had been moved into the barracks, according to the king, but despite the fact that he was now in the city—and in fact very close to where she was—Brynarr didn't come to rescue her.
Of course, he must not realize the danger that she was in—must not realize that the kingdom had already been won, that the king had made a deal with the monsters to ensure his personal safety.
She scowled as she looked over at the king, who was chatting merrily with one of his noblemen. Feeling her gaze upon him, King Varg looked over at her and grinned a little, turning back towards the nobleman to excuse himself before coming over to her.
“I see that you take no amusement from our feast,” the king said, leaning against the back of her chair, his breath close to her ear. “Did you not enjoy the meal? Perhaps it was a bit too rich after what you've been eating on your journey from Daelfjord.”
Frida frowned at her plate, which she had hardly touched. The food smelled amazing, of course—the chicken was practically falling off the bone, and the potatoes had been mashed and whipped until they stood in firm peaks mounding towards the ceiling. But despite the plentiful array of dishes and the mouthwatering aromas, she had no appetite. She wasn't sure what exactly was going on, but she had a bad feeling that her army was in grave danger—and more so, the longer they stayed inside the walls of Laedrickshold.
“Come with me,” King Varg said, his hand on her elbow. It wasn't a request—it was a command, and she had no choice but to allow him to pull her out of her seat and steer her through the hall. She was sure that to the casual onlooker, it looked as though he was merely guiding her—but she could feel the way his fingertips bit into her skin, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. She winced, but there was no escaping this.
He led her out into the corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into a glorious set of rooms, giving only a precursory knock on the door.
The rooms were far fancier than anything she'd seen thus far in the castle. These tapestries were just as thick as the ones outside, but they were dyed a whole host of colors, the likes of which she'd never seen in thread before. There was expensive wooden furniture dotted around the room, and every chair or sofa sported a plush cushion for sitting on. The ceiling was painted with a detailed depiction of mythological creatures, and she wished she had more time to examine it.
Instead, a door at the far side of the room opened soundlessly, and Frida stared, wondering just who they might be here to visit. What would she do if it was the head of the sorcerers himself? What if King Varg had had enough of her sulking and had decided to hand her over as a gift to the monsters, to be used as they would?
Frida was relieved to see that it was instead Brynarr who strode into the room. Of course, it was confusing to see him there, but t
hen again, it wasn't unusual for the two of them to stay separate from the rest of the army. Despite the messenger's earlier insistence that King Varg would only speak to one of them, the messenger must have passed along the fact that Brynarr was high-ranking in their group and that he deserved some sort of special accommodation.
What was also peculiar, though, was that he was dressed in a fine, forest green silk suit with a crisp white undershirt. She had never seen him in anything besides his stained clothes from the road, and she couldn't help feeling her mouth go a little dry at how incredibly well he cleaned up.
But where had he got those clothes from? And if he was dressed like that—like a lordling—why wasn't he down at the feast with the rest of them?
She suddenly remembered Perig's insistence that Brynarr was a lord, and she felt a bit flat-footed at the realization that this might not be his first visit to King Varg’s court—and that he might, in fact, live here in these rooms.
“Ahh, my lovely bride,” Brynarr said when he saw who had entered. He smiled at Frida—but she felt as though there was really no emotion there in his expression. There was something strange about him, some oddity that she had never noticed before. Perhaps this was just who he was when he was at court, though…
He came over to her and kissed her gently, and she melted into his familiar embrace, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes. It had been a long day, and with all the uncertainty…
“Hey, hey,” Brynarr said, cupping her cheeks in his hands and looking down into her eyes with a gentleness that actually seemed real, unlike his smile. “What's wrong? King Varg didn't hurt you, did he?”
Frida shook her head mutely, but a few tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Why don't I leave her here with you for a while?” the king suggested, already moving towards the door. “It seems she could use some company other than the court.”
Brynarr nodded at him, but his eyes were still fixed on Frida's. The moment the king had left the room, he led her over to the sofa and sat her down beside him. “What's wrong?” he asked. “What happened?”
“It's just as you suspected,” Frida said, shaking her head. “The king has made an alliance with the sorcerers. Kjota is lost.”
“Oh, darling,” Brynarr said, pulling her into his arms. Frida sobbed, trying to muffle the sound against her sleeve.
“I'm sorry,” she whimpered. “It's just been a long afternoon. I didn't realize that you were in the palace—I thought I was going to be trapped here on my own.”
“The king wouldn't do that to you,” Brynarr said, sounding confident. He grinned at her. “I didn't tell you, but I used to be quite the staple here at court. I know the king rather well—that's why I wanted to be the one to talk to him. But I'm sure you did a brilliant job, my darling.”
Frida shuddered a little, her eyes falling away from his. “But it doesn't matter,” she said bitterly. “Because no matter what I said to him, that can't change the fact that Kjota is already–”
Brynarr interrupted her with a kiss. For a moment, she was tempted to pull away—they had so much to talk about, after all, and so many strategies that they would need to change. They needed to figure out some way to get their army out of the barracks and out of Laedrickshold—without the king knowing, because she doubted he would give them permission to go fight his new allies.
But her emotions got the better of her, and Frida found herself melting against Brynarr, all her reason lost. He swiped his tongue across her lips, asking for her to open up—and she complied, moaning a little as his tongue slipped alongside hers, igniting lust in her veins.
Brynarr abruptly pulled away from the kiss. “Come with me,” he said, standing and pulling her to her feet. He grinned at her. “This place has an obscenely large bed—I think you'll appreciate it.”
Frida blinked at him, protests darting through her head. But it wasn't as though they could leave the castle in the middle of the night anyway. She would bet the drawbridge was lifted over the moat; there would be no way out until morning.
They might as well make the best of their time there. So she followed him into the bedroom.
Chapter 13
Frida looked around the bedroom, eyeing the rich furnishings. As in the salon, most of the furniture was made of a deep wood, and every available surface was covered with some sort of tapestry or needlework—with the exception of one patch of floor that was covered with a large bearskin rug. The bed took up a good portion of the room, but it looked soft and inviting with its deep emerald bedding and drapes.
Brynarr swept her into his arms, drawing her in close so that there was no space between them. Frida stared up at him, pupils already blown wide—but her eyelids slipped shut as he leaned down to kiss her again. His lips were moist but slightly chapped, and Frida couldn't help whimpering at the delicious friction as they moved against hers.
They had kissed before, but it had never felt anything like this—as though the magic they both shared was arcing between them. Brynarr dragged his mouth across Frida's, drawing her bottom lip in between his teeth. When he nipped lightly at it, she mewled softly at the sensation, little prickles of pleasure-pain shooting down her spine, stoking the fire that seemed to consume her whole body. Brynarr seemed pleased by that reaction, repeating the action and then moving to bite searing kisses all down the column of Frida's throat.
When he reached the neckline of her dress, he spun her around and began undoing the laces and buttons at the back of the dress, freeing her from the garment with deft movements that surprised her.
“It's as though you've done that before,” Frida said wryly. Of course, she didn't doubt that he'd had other partners before her, but she didn't expect him to know how to remove a dress; as a lordling, that should be beneath him.
Brynarr laughed, though, and slipped the last of the material from her body. “I've had a little practice,” he conceded. “Servants aren't always there when you need them.” He spun Frida around and looked down at her body, stroking a hand down her side. “There you are,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her again.
Frida melted against him, her body falling slack against his muscular form, utterly trusting in his ability to keep her on her feet as magic continued to dance across her skin. His deft fingers came up to tweak her left nipple, and she arched against him.
He picked her up and tossed her down on the bed, and she grinned at him as she bounced a little against the coverlet. She watched as he slowly undressed himself, doing it in a teasing and tantalizing way that made her shiver with desire. Then, he finally crawled onto the bed with her.
His typical cockiness was mitigated somewhat by the fact that he was clearly just as turned on as Frida was—and now that they were both in bed together, she could feel his hard member pressing insistently into the hollow of her hip.
“Happy?” he growled, leaning down to tug at Frida's right earlobe with his teeth. She made a reedy, high-pitched noise that apparently gave him all the answer that he needed. He kissed along her jawline and came back to her mouth, plunging his tongue inside and exploring every inch of it. He kissed her until she was breathless and practically shaking with the need for more.
Then, he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers. They both needed to catch their breath, of course, but Frida also was aware that she desperately needed more from him. She brought her heels up into the small of his back, pulling him forwards and urging him on. She caught the barest flash of a smile before he sealed their lips together once more, and Frida clung to him, digging her fingers into his biceps, already feeling like she might fly apart at just the slightest touch between her legs.
Brynarr's talented mouth moved southwards, and he flicked the tip of his tongue against the nub of her breast, sucking at the tender skin there until the nipple stood pert and flushed. Then, he moved over to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. Meanwhile, his fingers traced teasing patterns along her sides, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake.
“Brynarr,” she finally moaned, writhing a little against the sheets.
He looked up at her, one brow arched. “Yes?” he asked, a devilish smirk on his face.
“I need...” Frida blushed and trailed off, unable to form the words to tell him what she needed.
Fortunately, he took pity on her, kissing his way down to her navel and then abruptly sliding one finger inside of her. She couldn't help but gasp, pressing down in an attempt to get more of that. And sure enough, before she even had to ask, he was pressing another finger inside of her, moving both fingers in tandem, pressing and pushing at her walls. Just when she started to learn the rhythm and the sensation started to get a little less novel, he changed it up, using one finger to drag down against her warmth, giving her almost more pressure than she was comfortable with.
He changed the rhythm on her one more time, and suddenly it was all too much. Frida groaned and shivered, hands grasping desperately against the sheets as her climax overtook her, her vision going white for a moment.
When she came back down, she realized that he had slowed the rhythm some but was still pressing at her insides. Suddenly, she realized that somewhere in there, he had sneakily slipped another finger inside, testing her entrance and preparing it for his girth.
“You still doing okay?” he asked, a cheeky grin on his face.
Frida stared breathlessly at him for a moment, not even sure she could string together the words to respond to him. “Yeah,” she finally managed. “Yeah, I'm doing… Well, I'm doing better than okay.” She laughed a little, shaking her head, and stretched out against the sheets.
“Good.” Brynarr lined himself up, angling towards her entrance, and then, without warning, slid his hips forwards until just the tip of his member was inside. He continued to move at a slow and easy pace until he was fully seated inside of her. Frida made a soft, punched-out noise, staring up at him with wide eyes.
Seduction of the Bear (Bear Kamp Book 1) Page 20