“Perhaps they have cause to be frightened,” she murmured.
“And are we speaking of you or me here?”
His gaze raked over the plain black cloth of her skautbúningur. It was her best gown, with gold leaf embroidered around the neckline and skirts, and a spill of white lace at her throat. It covered her from throat to toe, but for a moment she felt dangerously unclothed.
Both of them. For he had a certain power too.
“Thank you,” she murmured, drawing away from him and ignoring his implication. “But I do believe—”
“You are not walking away from me again, are you? And here I thought the North was known for its hospitality.”
Freyja’s words died in her mouth. With such a distance between farmsteads, and the harsh climes, to turn a man or woman from your door was unthinkable. To suggest she lacked in hospitality was an insult, and he knew it, from the amused twinkle that lit his amber gaze.
“This is not my home,” she said, using precise, clipped words. “You may come or go as you please.”
“Then I shall stay to dine.” He stepped past in a swish of scent that left her breathless. Freyja’s hands curled into fists, but Rurik seemed not to see. A smile curled over his sensual mouth as he glanced behind him. “And look. There is one table left. If you ask me nicely, I shall share it with you.”
Arrogant devil. She did not wish to dine with him, but her stomach clenched as if reminding her of how long it had been since breakfast. And glutton that she was, she had been dreaming of baked kipper pie or roasted salmon for the entire journey to town. A rare treat, and now she had coin she could indulge herself.
But he was dangerous.
For she’d never felt like this before: as if she had a secret he somehow knew. A secret carnal craving that had never flared ’til now, as if her body knew things she herself didn’t. Perhaps having men shy away from her eyes had been a hidden boon in the past. Rurik’s frank interest in her unnerved her in so many ways.
“I wish to know more about the dreki beneath Krafla,” he said, starting toward the table as if she’d given her assent. “To further my studies. I would be most appreciative if you would join me.”
Curse him.
What could it hurt? She did not have to speak overmuch. And his insinuation of her inhospitality irked her. Her mother would have been shamed, and Freyja herself…. Had she changed so much in recent years? For a moment she remembered the joy of being a child, when she had been sheltered and protected out there on the plains, not understanding quite why they had so few visitors, or why she was often sent to bed early when there were. She’d been hungry for human company once, before she’d learned what the world was truly like.
His manner had been uncondemning. Freyja’s heart gave a small twist in her chest. More than anything, she longed for that.
Rurik glanced over his shoulder as he wove his way through the crowded seats. Eyes watched him as he went, conversation dropping to a murmur. An outsider. Like her.
Freyja didn’t realize she’d taken a step toward him until the hardness leeched out of his eyes.
“My lady,” he almost purred, holding a chair out for her.
She sat and let him push her chair in, his knuckles brushing against her shoulders. A spark of heat went all the way through her at the touch. Freyja half glanced over her shoulder, but he was moving, circling the table with fluid grace and sinking into the chair opposite her.
“Now come, my lady.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about yourself.”
Chapter 4
“Were we not speaking of you, and your fascination for dreki, my lord?” His little mouse countered.
She smelled like wildflowers and a spring morning, of dew wet on the grass, or the breeze that cut the mountain passes. Wild and free. Untamable.
The look on her face, however, was almost frigid; a cool, biting wind from the south, coming straight off the glaciers. Rurik leaned back in the seat, perusing her with lazy fascination.
Her manner ought to have left him cold, but he found himself only curious. She had not been so wary of him when she faced him in his lair. Only now, as a man before her, did he make her nervous, and he knew precisely why.
“I am not a very interesting man.”
She arched a brow. “I beg to differ. After all, you didn’t deny the courtesy title I just bestowed upon you.”
Clever mouse. He gestured to the serving maid to bring them wine. “You demand all of my secrets, and here I have not even your name...”
That made her pretty mouth purse. “Freyja. Freyja Helgasdottir.”
Freyja. Of course. “Goddess of love and war, beauty and death. It’s a lovely name.”
“I am no goddess.”
“That depends upon whose eyes you look through.”
Pink darkened her cheeks. “I have no wish to offend the gods.”
“So, you still believe in the old gods?”
Freyja hesitated. “I have been baptized, but I believe there are some things in this world that defy explanation.” Those mismatched eyes locked on him. “And you are doing an excellent job of not answering my original question, I notice.”
“I am not a noble man, by the very definition of the word,” he said carefully. “I own no lands,”—technically true—“I have no specific title, and I claim no king.”
“Do you mean you do not recognize the Danish king? Iceland has a limited constitution now, and some autonomy. Were you a follower of Jón Sigurðsson? My father had older copies of his annual magazine, and I have read his thoughts on democracy.”
This was where she came alive. Each flicker of her eyes toward him—those beautiful, unique eyes—made his body harden.
So she was curious about his thoughts, but immune to his flattery. How intriguing.
“No. I have not heard of this Sigurðsson—I’ve been absorbed in other matters of interest—but I do believe no... no man rules the earth beneath him. Not here.” He examined the bottle of wine the serving maid brought him, then nodded. “This will do.”
Freyja’s cheeks colored. “I do not drink wine.”
“Have you ever tried it?” He remembered delicious vintages from his youth, when he’d drifted through Renaissance Italy and France, curious about these mortals around him.
“No.”
“Do you wish to?” he asked, ordering his meal.
Freyja hesitated, but there was a ruthlessly mercenary look in her eye. “I shall make do with ale.” She looked to the serving maid. “And I should like the ptarmigan stew with sliced rúgbrauð bread.”
He kept catching hints of her thoughts, thrown into the world about her with careless abandon. And right now, she was thinking of gold coins. As much as he liked gold, he couldn’t quite imagine what it had to do with wine and ale. “I never make do.”
She eyed the cut of his magnificent coat. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
Hmmm. “Bring two glasses just in case,” he instructed the serving maid, “and my lady will have ale on the side.”
Images of his hands hit him as he stroked over the table, and the way his collar tugged open when he shifted, baring the tanned, smooth skin of his throat. Freyja liked the look of him, and Rurik fought a predatory smile as she threw the thought around her.
A curious thing, to see himself through another’s eyes. Dreki were strictly forbidden to enter another’s thoughts and pillage them, though anything she projected was fair game. And her thoughts danced over his skin like rainbows, so vivid and colorful he almost tried to reach out and catch them.
A bad idea. The stiff slant of her shoulders alone told him that. If she felt his psychic touch… if she knew precisely what was sitting at her table, then he would lose all chance at seducing her.
Not yet. She was too wary. More timid than he would have ever believed of his fierce mouse. His brows drew together momentarily. What had made her like that? The idea twisted inside him like something with claws.
“So,” she murmured
, “where do you hail from?” For a moment her eyes lingered on the fine cut of his coat.
Tailor-made, all the way from London. He’d paid a small fortune for the extravagance of having it and others so swiftly finished, before he returned to pursue her. But he was dreki. He would no more clothe himself in peasants’ garb than wallow in a piggery.
“I come from the south,” he murmured, eyeing her strictly cut black dress. Freyja ought to be in silk, or better yet, naked, lying on silken sheets. She deserved finer things, and he would see she had them before he was through with her.
“And you come here to seek tales of dreki? Of local superstition?”
Careful here. He could not utter a lie; the dreki were bound and honored by their word. “I am curious of what you think of such creatures,” he replied, as the wine, ale, and their dinner arrived. “Many don’t believe their existence. Mostly those in the cities, or on the Continent.”
“I have seen... proof of their existence.” Freyja frowned into her ale. “The cursed creature ate my ram.”
“Your ram?” Always that bloody sheep. Would she never forgive him for it? It had been delicious and it had brought her into his lair, when he might never have seen her.
“My village pays a tithe,” she explained. “For thirty years we have been bound to sacrifice one of our livestock each week to the wyrm, so he might leave us alone. My father tells me he and the rest of the local farmers gathered together many years ago, and struck a bargain with the beast.”
Beast? “They were either very courageous, or foolish to brave such a fierce creature.”
Freyja shrugged. “Perhaps they knew their offer would be accepted? Wyrms are lazy. Why hunt when a lamb shall be tethered out for you once a week? He used to hunt more frequently, my father claims, but now he spends most of his time lazing in his mountain, soaking up the heat of the volcano.”
“I thought wyrms to be fierce, powerful predators.”
“When they wish to be. Most of the time he leaves us alone. He is bound by his word not to harm us….” A frown tightened her brow. “Though now it seems some of the local bonders have broken their word, and hired a hunter.”
“I would not think this would trouble you.”
“It doesn’t.” Yet the worry etched on her expression didn’t fade. She sighed. “If they’ve broken their oath, then the wyrm is no longer bound by his. They are vengeful creatures, according to legend. I don’t particularly wish to incur his wrath. I can’t afford to lose any more livestock.”
And she wouldn’t. Her fierce desperation in his cave scoured him. My father and I shall starve….
“Perhaps other tithes might appease him?”
At that her mismatched eyes locked on his, a flare of her temper lighting the beautiful green and brown of them. “A virgin sacrifice, you mean? We do not take part in such barbaric practices anymore.”
“They are rare,” he admitted. “A pity.”
“Virgins? Or the act of sacrificing one?” she countered.
Rurik allowed himself a smile—and didn’t answer. “You speak as though it is a crime.”
“No woman should be forced to such depths.”
She was definitely angry now. Her eyes blazed. And Rurik caught the edge of her thoughts. There were few virgins around her farmstead. Most of the young women were either married, or still children.
Except for her.
“In olden times, women offered to be made sacrifice,” he said, sipping his wine, and watching her eyes spit sparks. Beautiful. “It was an honor.”
“To be eaten?”
So innocent.... “Oh yes. To be devoured.”
Freyja’s lashes fluttered against her cheeks, which were filling with heat. Yet she did not respond to his playful innuendo, deliberately it seemed, for she certainly understood it. “You are speaking of those foolish eddas, where the dreki walk among us.”
“Do you doubt such a thing could be possible?”
“Why would they wish to? My mother said it is the only time they are mortal and vulnerable to injury. So why would one of the dreki risk such a thing?”
“Perhaps he is lonely.”
“You are ascribing human attributes to an inhuman creature.”
“Inhuman, yes,” he countered, his own temper flaring. “Don’t ever mistake that, but perhaps all creatures yearn for companionship.”
“There are other dreki,” she replied. “Every volcano in Iceland is plagued by one. Sometimes more.”
Rurik’s fingers stilled on the edge of his glass. “Not all of the dreki welcome others. Nor are all of them welcomed. If one of their laws are broken, sometimes they cast a dreki from their ranks, exiling him to years of loneliness.”
Freyja lifted her gaze at the coolness of his tone, as if she sensed something underlying the words. “How do you know so much?”
“I have eyes. And ears.”
“You sound like my father,” she growled under her breath. “You speak, but say nothing.”
“I am curious as to how a man would allow his unmarried daughter to travel by herself?”
Rurik reached out, and captured the wine bottle, leaning forward to fill her glass. She sat so still, yet tension vibrated through her body. Captured lightning. Just daring him to reach out and touch it.
“My father is blind and ill, so he cannot travel with me.” Those glorious eyes narrowed, and a chilling little smile tightened her soft lips. “However, I am not without protection.”
As well he should know. His little mouse had claws and teeth, though neither would be truly effective against him. Still… he liked it. Liked that snap to her tone, and the way her pretty eyes narrowed as she examined him.
A challenge.
Rurik handed her the glass, their fingers brushing against each other’s as she took it. The touch of her skin sent lightning dancing through him. Like to like. What in the Dark Goddess Hel was she?
Freyja’s eyes widened slightly as if she felt it too, and then she jerked the glass close to her mouth. “Thank you.”
He watched the wine wet her lips, and leave them reddened. Plush, glistening lips he ached to trace, to caress.
Then her eyes widened and she peered into her glass. “This is delicious.”
“I know.” He wasn’t to be distracted. “You do realize you have nothing to protect yourself against when you are with me? I have no intention of hurting you.”
“Who says I am frightened of you?”
“Your manner.”
You couldn’t hurt me if you tried…. Freyja arched a sleek, honey-blonde brow, as if she hadn’t just thrown the thought at him. “Then what precisely are your intentions?”
“You intrigue me,” he admitted, watching her lick a trace of wine from her lips. Gods, how he wanted her. “It has been a very long time since such a thing has happened. Perhaps not ever.”
“Do they believe such honeyed words in the cities?”
Rurik smiled, and turned her words back upon her. “You do not like to be complimented. How curious. Is it because you believe yourself unworthy of such words?”
“I am unworthy of nothing,” she snapped.
“Then you admit you are intriguing? That I might see you as such?”
Her mouth opened… and nothing came out of it. Then she pressed those lips firmly together. “I know what you intend when you look at me.”
“Do tell.”
“I am not that kind of woman,” she replied haughtily. “Your empty compliments and blatant desires shall earn you nothing more than this meal shared.”
“That still tells me nothing of my supposed desires.”
Freyja glared at him. “You wish for carnal relations.”
Rurik leaned closer, careful not to let the predatory heat of his desire leech out. Best not to frighten her. Not yet. “I intend to have you in every way possible, Freyja. I intend to discover every last little secret you own, to know you… in every manner. This is a game of seduction, and I will not harm you nor make your
choices for you. I speak of courtship only. But I think you would enjoy what I intend, very much so.” At her swift intake of breath, he leaned back. “And I am not ashamed to admit I intend to chase you. Fair warning, fair maid. You will be mine.”
Freyja tilted the wine glass to her mouth. “Fair warning, handsome stranger... you’re wasting your breath.”
How delightful she was. At least she’d relaxed at his stated intentions, as if she were so set on denial the thought he’d win her over couldn’t possibly prevail. “I like a good chase, Freyja.”
“I hope you like a long and fruitless one then. Especially if the choice of consummation is in my hands.”
“Are you not curious?” He reached out and stroked her hand suddenly.
There was that flash fire of connection between them, and her gaze jerked to his. “No,” she said as she withdrew her hand, but she’d hesitated.
“Do you know what I find so fascinating about you?”
A faint hint of pride and scorn mingled on her face as she swiftly restored herself. “My lips? My hair? My eyes?” The dancing flames of the fireplace lit her cheeks and skin with gold, until it seemed as though he stared into the face of a creature made of fire itself.
“Your fierce temper,” he whispered. “And that dare you throw at me every time you look at me. It tells me I cannot have you, that you shall not succumb… even as your body reveals it for a lie.”
Heat colored her cheeks. “You won’t have me.”
“You want me to have you,” he murmured. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Your compliments are empty, and your declarations even more so.” Standing, she glanced at the empty carafe of wine. “Do you care for more?”
Rurik glanced up from beneath his lashes. “Run, Freyja.” He smiled dangerously. “And yes, I would enjoy more wine.”
“I shall fetch it then.”
Wending between the tables, she made her way to the bar. Eyes watched her back, lingering on her. Not all of them in suspicion or distrust. The very set of her shoulders defined her untouchability, and with it, part of her allure. He was clearly not the only one affected, and she could not see it, mired in distrust, and ingrained with suspicion. Rurik scowled, his lashes lowering as he leaned back in the chair and surveyed the room. With one lash of his temper he could destroy this room and all of the men in it. Men who hungered for her.
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