by Anthology
Æsa snuggled against him, finding complete solace in lying atop his chest beneath their usual cocoon of animal cloaks. She stroked her hand across the large plate of pectoral muscle and down over his flat stomach. With a playful finger, she then traced an imaginary line through the strip of dark blond hair that traveled alluringly from his navel to the sizeable manroot between his thighs.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled it away. “You are tickling me.”
“You do not like to be tickled?” she asked, daring to touch him again.
He restrained her hand and pinned it behind her back. “I do not like to be tormented.”
“Release my hand, and I shall end your torment.”
Gustaf chuckled and rolled onto her, trapping her beneath the weight of his heavy body. “If I do that, my torment will only just begin.”
“Why is that, m’lord?”
“’Tis too soon,” he admitted, nibbling her upper lip. “I would like to say my mind is ready and willing, but other parts of me are not equipped for such a feat. There are some things that require patience, my dearest Æsa.”
With you, my temperate warrior, everything is worth the wait.
Long quiet moments passed. Gustaf continued to gaze into her eyes and stroke the hair that cascaded wildly around her shoulders. For once, they weren’t rushed to gather their clothes and join the others, nor was there a threat of others happening upon them. The only thing that mattered was taking the time to treasure this blessed private moment.
She secretly regarded how strikingly handsome he was sprawled across her body. His dark golden mane hung in loose curls around his sharply-chiseled face. The corded muscles of his shoulders and arms bunched and flexed with every tender movement of his hands in her tangled hair. He was near godly as he pampered her in the afterglow of their lovemaking.
“What holds your thoughts now, love?”
Æsa breathed in deeply and smiled. “You. And how beautiful you are. How beautiful your son will be…”
Gustaf’s expression changed. The carefree outward appearance that once lighted his facial features slipped into a dark seriousness. “Æsa,” he said sternly. “You needn’t overwhelm yourself with thoughts of carrying a child. I fear if you put too much hope in it, you will render yourself disappointed and beyond that, miserable and saddened. I do not want that for you. I want you to remain as you are now. Happy and content in my arms.”
Æsa could only smile, for she knew she would not fall prey to hopeless wishes turning into despair and misery as he suggested.
Gustaf furrowed his brow above curious eyes. “You find humor in my words?”
“Nay, m’lord.”
“Then why do your lips linger in a grin fit only for the self-satisfied lot of this world?”
“Because I am overjoyed with the news I have received as of late. A revelation, if you will.”
“Oh?” he asked, cocking his head. “And what would that be?”
Æsa straightened her face and looked him square in the eye. “I am with child.”
Immediately, he sat up and grimaced. “Stop this.”
“But ’tis true.”
“Odin help me!” He stood up, throwing the warm cloak off his back. He snatched his breeches from the ground and jammed his legs into each pant hole.
“Gustaf, please…”
“Æsa, I demand you cease this delusional behavior at once. You do not have to mislead me in order to keep me in your bed. I told you before, on my very knees, I would not take a mistress to conceive a child. Why will you not believe me? What must I say to convince you?”
Æsa ignored the cold air that wisped over her bare skin from his sudden retreat, and stood up as well, her hands on her hips. She planted herself in front of him. “What must I say to convince you?”
****
Gustaf regarded her obstinate stance, looking her up and down in her naked form. Her hair wildly fell in untidy cinnamon locks over her breasts. Her navel, with no sign of pregnancy, peeked out above a tempting patch of auburn curls between her curvaceous hips. Her legs, long and shapely, supported her stubborn self. If not for the cool night air, he imagined her smooth, ivory skin would be heated to a lovely shade of pink given how rapidly her blood heated under the discussion.
He almost allowed a smile to slip in seeing how beautiful she looked when she was angry. Thinking better of it, he bent to retrieve her kirtle from the ground and handed it to her. “You will catch your death of cold.”
She yanked it from his hands and wrenched it on. “Appease me not with your idle concerns over my health. What should concern you is that I am carrying your child.”
Frustrated, he gripped her arms and shook her once to stifle her incessantly wagging tongue. “How is it that you are now pregnant as the sun sets—and rightly sure of it—yet just this morning you feared you were incapable of such a thing? How is that possible, Æsa? Can you explain that to me?”
“I was mistaken.”
Groaning, he released her and gathered the rest of his belongings. “Mistaken, huh?” He punched his arms through his sleeves of his tunic and secured his sword and scabbard at his hip. His boots were next, along with his wolf-skin cloak. “Delirious, more like it,” he muttered under his breath.
“I heard that,” she snapped as she swung the bear cloak around her shoulders. As she slipped her feet into her thin leather shoes, she returned the favor by muttering as well. “And to think Halldora said all would be well after I told you. Humph!”
“What did you say?”
Exasperated, Æsa straightened from her stooped position and gave him a stern look. “I said, Halldora claimed all would be well once I told you I was with child. For a woman who boasts to know just about everything, she certainly lacks in predicting your swinging moods.”
“Wait,” he said, holding up his hands. “Halldora told you that you were with child?”
She crossed her arms. “Aye. When you went off to hunt with the others, she came to me and told me I carried your son.”
“A son.”
“Aye, a son,” Æsa reiterated. “Yours. Inside my womb.” She waved it off quickly. “Only you know her better than I. Would she lie about something like this?”
“A son.”
“Aye, Gustaf. A son.”
“My son.”
Æsa finally noticed he began to believe and was in dire need of reassurance. She stepped toward him and captured his hands, resting them on her belly. He stared at her middle in awe. Beneath his palms lay a tiny miracle, a blessing from the gods—if what Halldora said was true.
His overwhelming elation contracted in his heart and his throat went dry. He collapsed to his knees and leaned his forehead against her belly, hiding the pool of tears welling in his eyes. He held them at bay, refusing to let them fall in front of Æsa. He’d already bared enough of his soul for one day.
As he came to accept the news, Æsa threaded her fingers in his hair and cradled his head. “Can it be true?”
Gustaf lifted his face and peered into her loving eyes. “Halldora is an overbearing, intrusive old woman, but she is not a liar. Nor have I ever known her to be wrong. If she says a child grows in your womb, then ’tis so.” A grin split his lips as he heard his own words. He leapt to his feet and embraced her body in a joyous hug. Tucking his head in the soft haven of her thick hair, he whispered his delight. “We are going to have a son. A strong, stubborn, unreasonable, mischievous son!”
Æsa’s laughter filled his heart with an unfamiliar happiness. “Only if he takes after you.”
“Odin help us all if he does,” Gustaf said in haste. “Come, we must tell everyone the grand news.”
In an exuberant twist, he swung her up in his arms and carried her over to the tethered horse. Hoisting her upon its back, his excitement escalated as he imagined bursting through the mead hall and proclaiming the condition of his betrothed. Along with the good hunt, the men would have an additional reason to stay submerged in their cups.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The piercing pain and momentous force of the projectile hurled Gustaf’s upper body backward, forcing him to stagger on his feet. Everything happened so fast—the horse reared, Æsa screamed, and both toppled to the ground in a heap as he suddenly realized they were under attack.
From a distance, Gustaf heard horses approaching, but his concern lay solely with his pregnant betrothed lying beneath his flailing steed. He shouted her name and stumbled to save her, only to be halted by another arrow penetrating his right thigh.
Groaning in agony, his leg gave out and he fell to his knees. With his eyes locked on the horse scrambling to stand, he grasped the wooden arrow sticking out of his leg and snapped off the end. By the time he did the same with the one in his shoulder, the horse had regained its feet and sprinted away, leaving an unconscious Æsa behind.
“Æsa!” He crawled to her, desperate to know she was still alive. He reached out to touch her and another arrow whizzed past his head.
He looked up and saw five men galloping towards them, their swords unsheathed and ready to cut down anything in their path. Struggling to stand, he unsheathed his weapon and limped several yards in front of Æsa, putting himself between their attackers and his helpless lover. Planting his feet wide, he double fisted his sword and set his sights on the man in the lead. With one harrowing sweep, he slashed at the legs of the charging horse, causing the animal to catapult headfirst to the ground. The rider somersaulted over the animal’s head, his blade hurling from his hand.
Gustaf had only enough time to see the weaponless man struggling to release his leg pinned under the fallen horse before another rider aimed to take him down. He ducked below the oncoming sword, dodging decapitation, but couldn’t get back into position quick enough to warrant a counter blow.
The second rider circled, joining the other three who had already surrounded him, trotting in a wide berth out of Gustaf’s reach. He kept his eyes on the mounted men, glancing once in Æsa’s direction to see if her condition had changed. He tried not to worry about whether she was alive or dead for he had more pressing matters at hand. If he didn’t ward off these men—someway, somehow—both of them were as good as dead.
From behind him, Gustaf heard the man on the ground pull his leg free and curse as he hobbled to regain his sword. He assumed the wounded man was their leader for no one spoke or struck out against Gustaf as he grappled with his injury.
Gustaf glimpsed over his shoulder just in time to take in the man’s angry face but didn’t recognize him. He didn’t know any of their assailants. Why would they attack him and Æsa? Were they seeking vengeance upon him or were they after her?
The man on foot approached Æsa. Gustaf spun on his heel, pain shooting like fire through his thigh. “Get away from her!”
The four others, circling him on horseback, no longer held his attention. He glared at the man who ignored him, sheathed his sword, and knelt on one knee beside Æsa. The man stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and trailed his knuckles along the side of her neck to check for a pulse.
Gustaf’s blood boiled as he was forced to watch this man touch her. He wanted to rush forward, stake his broad sword in his foe’s beating heart, and pluck it from his chest. But he stood still and quiet—eager to know if Æsa still lived.
The man sighed as if he, too, were relieved by Æsa’s condition, then glowered at the mounted archer. “She lives, fortunate for you.” His cold gray eyes turned to Gustaf and a sinister grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “As for you…you could not be less fortunate. The fact that you still breathe in my presence is a regrettable circumstance.”
“Who are you?” Gustaf barked, adjusting his grip on the hilt. Inside, he begged the bastard to step within sword arm’s reach so he could run him through.
“I doubt you would know my name, but Æsa here,” he stated, gesturing toward her unconscious body, “knows me very well.” He blatantly groped his crotch with his right hand as if to boast that he’d pleasured her in the past.
Gustaf swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, his gut twisting, his body shaking with fury. He caught a glimpse of a silver ring on the man’s hand and recognized it like a slap in the face. “So, ’twas you who planted Ragnar’s ring for Æsa to find on Skúvoy.”
His mind continued to turn over the events following their departure from the Faroes. He recalled the five men who followed them by boat and the large sum of silver he paid to have them killed. Jørgen and Snorri had confirmed that five lay dead in the forest, but evidently it was not the correct group of men who’d met their fate.
The man’s laughter interrupted Gustaf’s thoughts. “I can see you are quite confused. Allow me to enlighten you.” He paced back and forth as he spoke. “You generously gave a group of six men a massive amount of silver to keep me from following you, but you failed to divvy it up among them. Your payment remained in one man’s pocket and thus, made it easier for me to offer him a more profitable deal. You see, I proposed he keep the sum himself, guaranteeing he would be five times richer and, of course, alive to spend it—if he just walked away. I assume you are smart enough to fill in the rest.”
His conceited smile sliced through Gustaf.
“Every man has a price,” he continued. “And I am willing to wager Æsa has one as well. Care to find out what that might be?”
“Touch her and you die,” Gustaf warned, pointing his sword directly at the man’s chest.
Again the man laughed, unshaken by the threat. “It bears mentioning that you are quite taken with the whore.” He waggled his brows in a taunting manner. “So, this should be interesting.” Gazing at Æsa, he lowered himself to his good knee and brushed her hair from her face.
Gustaf leapt forward, but the four on horseback halted his progress, their swords positioned to take him down with one fatal swipe. His heart hammered in his chest and his vision blurred. He was incapable of moving without enduring some sort of injury from the three blades ready to cut him to pieces, if not the one bow nocked with an arrow destined for his heart. His mind searched for a way to escape their guard, but nothing proved to be viable. Every scenario left him gravely wounded and powerless to save Æsa. He’d have to bide his time until an opportunity presented itself. If one didn’t turn up, he’d die honorably to initiate one. He would not go down without a fight.
“Æsa, love,” the man crooned, feigning sincerity. “Open your eyes. I have a surprise for you.” He shook her gently and for a few long moments whispered words Gustaf could not hear.
Gustaf grew restless as he watched this man try to rouse her from her state of unconsciousness. He hated to think what this milksop would do once she came to, the twisted things he’d make Æsa choose between. Silently, he prayed to his Almighty Odin that she’d not awaken and become a pawn in this bastard’s game. After that, he sent up a request to Thor that his mind be clear, his body strong, and his sword swift and accurate. He liked to think his pleas didn’t go unheard by the gods who’d watched over him all these years, but he couldn’t help feeling very alone. His last thought was of his retreating horse and how he hoped the frightened animal would make it back to the settlement. Surely, someone would see the riderless steed and come looking for him—unless of course they were all too drunk to realize the oddity of such an observation. For once, he regretted stepping beyond the perimeter of the rune stones. If he’d remained within its boundaries, Halldora would have known he and Æsa were in danger and could alert his men. As it stood, the only chance he had of someone coming to his aid was if his horse drew someone’s attention.
Trembling as he stood, Gustaf clenched his teeth. He watched the leader lower his face toward Æsa.
“I grow impatient, love.” Distaste lathered his voice. “Wake up.”
Æsa did not awaken upon his command and, wit
h keen annoyance in his actions, the man gripped her cloak under her chin and lifted her head from the ground. “Wake up, you whore!”
His hand came down hard across her cheek and Gustaf came undone. He rushed forward, adrenaline surging through his body. He punched the horse’s muzzle in front of him and it reared, opening the circle temporarily. Gustaf seized the moment and advanced on his enemy.
He was able to take about four harrowing strides before a sword blade struck him across his back. The force jolted him forward unscathed, his thick wolf-skin cloak saving him from a debilitating wound, but he fell face down in the dirt.
Before he could get up, he was jerked to his knees by his hair and held upright with a sword pointed at his back.
“Gustaf!”
Æsa’s voice rang true and loud, but when he looked for her, she was held captive with a dagger at her throat. He grasped his sword with both hands and dared to disregard the tip of the blade pressed painfully into his spine.
“Ah. Gustaf is your name,” the man who trapped Æsa under his knife said, his voice filled with surprise. “Would that be Gustaf, the notorious eldest son of Rælik—the spawn of the man my father, Ragnar, killed so many years ago? I thought you dead.”
Gustaf reeled with shock. Ragnar’s son? What was that bastard doing here? He remembered the harrowing tale Æsa had told of Ragnar’s son and how he raped her for sport. “I suppose I could say I heard the same about you, Ásmundr.”
“So, you do know me,” Ásmundr replied, looking down his nose at Æsa. “I thought you might. What else did this little bitch tell you about me?”
“Naught else of import, I assure you.”
Ásmundr’s laughter cut through the dark forest like lightning. Gustaf despised that sound and swore he’d personally cut out the man’s voice box before he killed him slow and methodically.