by Anthology
Gustaf smiled as he entered the room. The aroma of herbs—the same ones Æsa used on the fish he ate that night—filled the space of the longhouse, while the smell of peat and dried skerpikjøt permeated the rest. Looking at them hanging from the rafters and the bow that almost killed him, it seemed that his old friend had spent more time with Æsa than he realized. He shook his head. “So, ’twas you who taught my Æsa the bow.”
The old man chuckled and found a seat by the fire, gesturing for Gustaf to join him. “She was quick to learn. I believe she gave ye and yer men quite a scare.”
Gustaf rolled his eyes and sat beside him. “You saw that?”
Diðrik handed him a beat-up, wooden cup filled with mead. “I see everything on this isle, son.”
He gladly accepted the cup, thankful to have something stronger than the water he and his men had been drinking since their return. He took two large gulps and handed it back. “My reason for visiting you at this hour, my old friend.”
“Oh?”
“Jørgen seems to think we are being watched by a few crooked men on this isle. Four stragglers down by the harbor.”
Diðrik drank the rest of his mead and set it aside. “Five to be exact. The other one stays out of sight for most of the time while the four do his bidding. They sailed in a few days before ye did, their hungry eyes on one thing.”
Gustaf didn’t need to hear what that one thing was. By the look Diðrik shot him, he knew it was Æsa. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up, heat prickling his scalp. He felt his stomach turn sour and his mouth went dry. “Why Æsa?”
The old man scoffed. “Aside from the obvious?” he asked, giving Gustaf a sideways glance. “No offense.”
Gustaf nodded, letting the man know he was not a fool. Æsa was a rare and beautiful find. She was different from the rest of the women with whom he had consorted. Her red hair was like silk, long and radiant down her back. Her breasts were firm, round, and voluptuous. And her luscious, full lips around her perfect little mouth would bring just about any man to his knees.
“If they wanted her, why did they not strike when they had the chance? When there was no one to guard her?” The thought sickened him. His hand absently went to the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white in his grip.
“Easy, my friend,” Diðrik soothed. “No one has struck out against anyone.”
“So, why do they continue to observe my men?”
The old man waved off his speculation as if it were nothing. “My guess is they realized they’ve lost their opportunity.”
“Have they?”
“Ach, men are covetous beings, Gustaf. Ye of all men know that. And when an easy prospect has been thwarted, it takes a few days for the idea to leave their gluttonous minds and move on to something less demanding.”
Gustaf pondered the old man’s words. He knew he spoke wisely and without the hindrance of personal feelings getting in his way. Gustaf was too involved to think levelheaded. His emotions toward Æsa ran high.
“That being said,” Diðrik added, pouring another cup of mead from the ewer at his feet. “I would not hang around long enough to find out.”
Diðrik handed the filled cup to Gustaf and he drank heavily, letting the cool honeyed liquid soothe his hot, dry throat. He didn’t mean to be temperamental, especially since no one had yet to challenge him. But it was the notion that a few wayward men had potentially given it thought that burned his arse.
He gave his friend the empty cup and nodded his appreciation. “Rest assured, we shall leave before sunrise.” He stood and retrieved a small pouch from his person, bestowing it to his loyal friend.
Diðrik pushed it away. “My knowledge is free. I let it spill forth generously, even to those who are deaf and penniless.”
Gustaf tossed it in the old man’s lap and watched him pick it up, testing its weight in his hand.
“Friendship is free as well, ye know.”
“Aye, but friendship does not keep you warm through the winter and fill your gut with food. Consider it a gift for all that you have done for me. For Æsa.”
“’Twas an honor to watch over the girl while ye were gone,” he said as he stood. “Am I to assume ye will not be coming back?”
Gustaf heard the disenchantment in his friend’s voice. He didn’t like goodbyes any more than the next man, but once he returned his men to their families and stepped foot on the soil of Inis Mór, he wouldn’t be leaving his family ever again. He embraced Diðrik, patting him soundly. “May Odin keep his watchful eye over you.”
“’Twill take more than one god’s eye to keep me under close watch.”
Gustaf laughed and turned to leave. “Farewell, old friend.”
Stepping out into the pitch of night, Gustaf gazed into the darkness. The air was still and the isle silently peaceful, save for the insects that chirped about on the ground. He waited, half expecting to be assaulted by the men he’d asked about. To his relief, he stood unharmed. Perhaps ignored. Maybe they chose to just watch him. Or maybe he was out of his damn mind.
Scolding himself for letting his paranoia compete with his good sense, he released his grip on the sword and journeyed up the hill to the one place he felt sane—Æsa’s arms.
****
Æsa opened her eyes and saw Gustaf tiptoeing between the sleeping bodies of his men lying scattered about the rush-covered floor around the hearth. She watched him add a few more briquettes of peat to the fire, hoping he’d join her in the warmth of her bed.
He looked powerful and haughty as he stood in the golden glow of the flames. The shadow of his dark beard framed an equally strong jaw. She noticed he now sported his sword at his hip and wondered if he chose to wear it out of necessity or because he simply felt naked without it. He’d proclaimed his days of wielding such a weapon were over, that he was at peace.
His eyes, dark and brooding, said differently.
“What troubles you, m’lord?” she whispered.
He quickly averted his gaze toward her and smiled. “I thought you were asleep. Did I wake you?”
“Nay. I was waiting for you. Come to bed.”
Gustaf quietly padded toward her, unbuckling his belt in the process. After removing his weapon, he kicked off his boots and slipped beneath the hides, pulling her close. She relished the feel of pure strength in his arms and the natural male warmth he brought against her back as she snuggled in tight against him.
Knowing there were others close by, she lay disappointed that she would not get the chance to feel his naked body as they slept. For weeks, she’d thought about it, dreamed about it. She’d gotten a brief moment of glorious sleep this afternoon, wrapped in a firm swaddle of hot skin and muscle, but it came to a swift end when she’d heard his men return from their fishing expedition.
She smiled, recalling how soundly he slept, his arms and legs like dead weights as she fought to slip from underneath them. It was as if it were the first time he could allow himself to fall into a deep sleep. She wondered what afflictions this man had endured as he spent so much of his adult years avenging his father in secret, lying awake night after night, wary of someone finding him and thwarting his life’s mission.
“Are you going to tell me what troubles you, or do I have to ask Jørgen and Snorri who are outside taking first watch?”
“How do you know they are not taking a piss?”
“That is quite a long piss, m’lord.”
Gustaf’s deep chuckle rumbled against her back. “So ’tis,” he said, heaving his heavy leg over hers and kissing her shoulder. “Fret not, my dearest Æsa. ’Tis only to safeguard you.”
“From whom?”
“No one in particular. Now, close your eyes.”
“Am I so important that two men must lose their sleep?”
“If I so deem it, aye.”
She twisted around in his arms and caught his gaze. “Do your men always do as you say?”
“Without fail. Unlike someone I know who cannot follow a simp
le command.” He flashed a stern look as if trying to impose his authority over her.
She glanced at the straight line of his lips and touched her fingertip to them, lightly tracing the contour of his mouth. The tension in his face subsided and a modest smile crept beneath her caress. “You still have not answered my question,” she stated matter-of-factly.
Holding her stare, he reached out and toyed with a strand of her hair. “Nothing troubles me save for the fact that your eyes are, in spite of my insistence, open. Need I remind you of the long journey we have ahead of us?”
She couldn’t help but protrude her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “A long journey means I will be forced to wait longer for…” Beneath the covering of the hide, she reached down and took hold of him through his breeches, grinning proudly at finding him partly erect.
Gustaf closed his eyes as if trying to ignore her advances. “Play not with fire, lest you be burned by a man who lacks temperance and was incited by your careless seduction.”
“Careless, you say?” She challenged his warning, stroking him further.
“For someone who has managed to consider my men’s presence whenever I have come close to embracing her in the past, she has somehow forgotten about them when they are all but a hair’s breadth away.”
“They are asleep,” she dared, drawing out the last word with the tip of her tongue before her lips popped on the final syllable.
He snatched her by the wrist and pulled her closer, pressing his burgeoning shaft against her sex. “I doubt they are with your constant chattering.” In the instant she felt his arousal, he withdrew it, spinning her away. He caged her within his arms and crushed her back against his chest, securing her once again with the weight of his leg over hers. The heat of his body seeped through her woolen kirtle to her spine. Her heart skipped with excitement, her blood thrumming through her veins.
She felt him fussing about briefly, his knuckles scraping between the tight space of her back and his waist. Without warning, his callused hand, impatient and savage, slipped beneath her tunic and ran the length of her thigh, pushing the fabric above her hips. His naked erection nudged between her cheeks, its velvety tip nestling at her entrance. Before she could gather why, he clamped one hand across her mouth and the other on the back of her knee, pushing her leg higher and spreading her.
He whispered a quick, crazed command in her ear. “Make not a sound.” In one swift thrust, he pierced her tender, swollen flesh, burying himself all the way inside her. Her sharp gasp fell short, deadened by the thick palm across her lips.
“I said not a sound.” He rammed into her again, the ache of her delicate flesh smarting under the force of his thrust, yet she obediently held it all in.
This was what she wanted—the warrior who was not so temperate when his desire to slake his needs overpowered his desire to be mild and affectionate. He may have cautioned her about the brutish beast lying beneath the surface, but it was that very part of him she longed to rouse. Every part of her quivered to feel it again. Her body craved to feel him move within her. The sensitive nub, hidden within her folds, throbbed to feel his magnificent touch.
As instructed, she kept silent, but ground into him, begging for more. Like a gifted prophet, he read her mind and released his grip on the back of her knee, snaking his hand between her thighs. With adept fingers, he drew light circles over her, teasing her, barely grazing the place that now pulsated with expectancy. She wanted to scream, arching to meet his touch. Just as he dragged a slow caress upon it, he thrust into her.
Both pain and pleasure shot through her. An uncontrollable whimper resounded in his palm before she realized what she’d done. She felt the pressure of his hand depress across her lips, emphasizing her lapse, and he drove into her once more. Again and again, he caressed her with the delicacy of butterfly wings, at the same time impaling her with delicious brutality. Her emotions undulated between soaring into ecstasy and plummeting into a sudden surge of tantalizing agony. Shortly after he began this torturous technique, a mighty orgasm exploded through her. She clenched her jaw, trying to trap a moan behind her teeth, glad for the hand that readily covered her lips should she fail.
And fail she did the moment Gustaf buried his open mouth in her nape, muffling his own release. Together, their bodies convulsed until the tremors of ultimate bliss slowly subsided.
Legs entangled and arms locked, she lay in the confines of his heavy limbs, feeling the intensity of a labor-induced sleep. She closed her eyes and blew out a long breath, settling into the safe crevice of his embrace.
She felt the heat of his supple lips and the rasp of his prickly beard on her skin as he kissed her shoulder, her neck, and her ear. The sensation of the trail he blazed lingered with each soft peck. “Have I given you enough cause to find sleep, m’lady?”
****
Gustaf waited for her reply, but none came. “Æsa?” he whispered.
A long, contented sigh was her only response. He smiled and stroked her hair, sinking into the cushion of the boxbed. He lay there, listening to the sound of her deep, even breaths and the crackle of the warm fire at his back. This was where he’d dreamed of being for so long. Savoring these rare quiet moments, as he lay beside the only woman he’d ever loved, the one who held a special place in his heart. Holding her, pleasing her, protecting her; those were now his only missions in life and he’d gladly die to uphold those duties. This was one commitment he’d enjoy to the fullest.
Chapter Ten
“Are you certain the redhead is Æsa?” Grimr asked skeptically, observing the small longhouse at the top of the hill and the two men running scout around it.
Ásmundr smiled, absently groping himself at the mention of her name. He recalled the way he once looked upon the frightened servant girl the day his father, Ragnar, brought her home from the slave market. She seemed so innocent and naïve, her beauty rare, her large, succulent tits a gift from the gods.
His father abused her and exercised his so-called right to “breed the bitch” on a regular basis whenever his other wives denied him. As a son who couldn’t stand the sight of his father, Ásmundr spent many nights plotting Ragnar’s death and how he’d save the young beauty from further degradation. He wanted her for himself. He’d professed his love many times over, but she never believed him. She never let him get close enough to try, turning her back on him whenever he made an effort. Her repeated rejections only made him want her more.
One fateful night, while his father had been convening with his trusted men, Ásmundr sneaked into her chamber. He’d planned to make her understand the depths of his feelings and then kill his father to prove it. To his surprise, he’d caught Æsa with her ear to the door, listening in on a private conversation his father was having on the other side. He assumed it had something to do with the huge amount of silver Harold Fairhair paid his father to kill some wealthy chieftain who would not bow down and how his father had supposedly buried it.
By the look on her face, he knew she’d overheard the whereabouts of his father’s stash. The idea of finding it together had suddenly consumed him, and he begged her to run away with him. But when he proposed his grand scheme, she panicked and denied hearing anything.
It had wounded him greatly to know he’d confessed his own evil plan against Ragnar and she still didn’t trust him. At the time, Ásmundr had gone to great lengths to put aside his injured pride. He tried to sympathize with Æsa’s fear for he’d been prisoner to cowardice all his life. Words of promise and sacrifice were not enough. She needed to be shown.
He backed her into a corner where she couldn’t run from him and stripped her of her clothing. She seemed to favor his advances, allowing him the privilege of cupping her breasts. He recalled the dark thatch of red hair below her navel, the uncontrollable urge he had to cup her sex and sink his fingers deep inside. The feel of her naked body trembling beneath his exploratory touch made him grow rock hard.
“Be not like your father, Ásmundr. He is a v
ile man and you are no different should you force me to endure this. Please, this is not what I want.”
To this day, her last words had cut him so deep that he could still feel the jagged edge of that knife plunging into his back. All the meticulous plans he’d made, the sacrifices he was about to make on her behalf, shattered like glass. He should have known better though than to think a whore possessed even a shred of propensity for care and kindness. She was naught but a temptress whose legs opened wide for anyone who wished to split them, and for much less.
So why wouldn’t she spread them for him?
It finally occurred to him that she perhaps favored his father over him. That she preferred to be defiled than loved.
What he’d done next, wasn’t his fault. She’d pushed him too far.
“You want vile?” he remembered uttering through clenched teeth. “I shall give you vile, you wretched whore!” He’d bent her over the boxbed and raped her, showing her as little mercy as his despicable father had so many times before. Oh, she’d fought him, with all her might she fought to be taken against her will, squirming and writhing as he drove into her heated flesh.
Deep down, he knew she enjoyed it—almost as much as he enjoyed his father bursting into the room and witnessing it. The sheer terror on Æsa’s face was worth all the gold in the world.
It came as no surprise when his father had banished him from Iceland that night. But what he hadn’t expected was finding his father had spared the servant girl’s life and sent another to end his. Lucky for Ásmundr, everyone had a price. It took only a handful of coins to pay the mercenary off and send him back to his father with news that he’d succeeded.
Ásmundr hoped word of his demise had spread to Æsa’s ears, just so he could have the pleasure of watching her reaction when she saw him again. He wanted the opportunity to do the same to his father, but someone had already beaten him to it. Hung from the rafter of his longhouse by his intestines, it looked as though his father’s dark past had caught up with him and no amount of silver was enough to save him.