“Flesh and blood,” he whispered. He lowered his head to nibble her neck and she moaned.
He undressed her then, throwing her garments to the ground. Cool air brushed her skin, her groin throbbed. She felt no embarrassment, even though she stood naked and he remained fully clothed. Rather, she felt as if he revered her, and that gave her confidence, chasing away her nervousness.
He stopped for a moment to touch her amber cross. It hung between her breasts, several inches lower than the Thor’s hammer that marked her as his.
“You wear the sign of your faith,” he said softly.
“A talisman. Much like your token, which I wear also.”
His head lowered and his tongue trailed along her skin from her collarbone to flick one breast. He moved to lavish the same attention on the other but paused as he reached her cross.
She mistook his hesitation for distaste. “Let it not stand between us.”
“Nothing stands between us now. We are a man and a woman, doing what it is men and women do.” His tongue flicked briefly against her cross before lavishing the same attention on the other breast.
Goose bumps pebbled the skin of her arms, and her breasts felt as if they would burst from pleasure. Moisture dripped from her woman’s place. Aye, she may not know what passed between a man and a woman but her body knew, and she would trust in the instincts firing her passion.
He stripped and stood naked before her, skin burnished with the glow of the dying embers. He licked his lips and now they too shone with the embers’ glow.
“I want you. I want you like I’ve never wanted a woman before. I am no more master over you than you are over me, do you see that?” He grabbed her hand and placed it around his erection. “Feel that? That power is for you, by you, of you.”
“Aye,” she sighed. “I feel it too.”
They fell back against the bed, tumbled furs about them, bed curtains gleaming scarlet with the glow of the coals—a wild and wanton scene, befitting her Viking.
She stretched out, thrusting her chest upward. Her skin hummed with desire as he maneuvered himself to lie beside her, nuzzling her neck with heated lips and cupping her breasts, tweaking the nipples until they tingled in anticipation.
Gisela arched her back as his fingers found her cleft, to creep inside, teasing and probing. Her legs parted and she began to buck against his palm. She marveled at her lack of restraint yet couldn’t gather her composure, could only let her body do as it would.
“So beautiful,” he whispered as he knelt across her, tawny hair swinging. She looked down as he placed his penis against her, nestling the silken tip beneath her nest of curls, retreating and pressing, retreating and pressing, slipping inside each time a little more until he could press no more.
She could only gasp in rhythm.
“Feel me,” he commanded. He stilled, letting her become used to the feeling of him inside her before thrusting hard, once, twice.
Pain flashed through her very core. Again he waited a moment for her wet tightness to yield and accept him before beginning the motion again and soon, she rocked with him. No longer was she an untried girl, wondering at the enigma of womanhood but now a woman, joining her mate thrust for thrust.
This is how two become one, she thought, before she rocked even faster and all sense left her, only to be regained in a golden burst that sent her spiraling upwards.
Thorvald plunged and thrust with a desperation he could not contain. Love me, he cried out silently. Love me, the man, and forget I am Viking. Exquisite sensations teased him, her soft heat tormented him. He tried to reach her very center, to batter away her distrust.
At her climax, selfishly he reveled in the conquest of her. She may think she had no feelings for him but her body spilled the truth much as he would spill his seed inside her.
His release, when it came, surpassed anything he’d ever felt before, and he bellowed to the very halls of Valhalla.
Spent and panting, he lay on top of her, burying his face in her neck, relishing the feel of slick skin to slick skin.
Finally he had her. For a moment he owned her, body and soul.
* * *
Gisela lay awake. Thorvald slept, one arm and one leg draped over her. He’d drawn the bed curtains but they didn’t quite join, and through the slit she could see the loom and the piece she worked on. Such an ordinary, workaday sight, but, oh, how everything had changed. She’d left girlhood behind and now sat straddled between two worlds. That of the Norsemen and her own, Frisian one.
Her breasts tingled, and she ached. She shifted, trying to wipe away the wetness on her thighs against one of the sleeping furs.
We are not married. I have broken the Lord’s command. With a heathen, no less.
She wasn’t sure if the Almighty saw her here, in this moment, in the land of the Norsemen. Or when she returned home, would this all be a dream and her Lord would never know her indiscretions? She reached for her cross, squeezing it in her palm.
What if she didn’t return to Frisia? What then? Would she be forgotten or would Thorvald keep her safe from harm even though they had slept together? She’d lost one hold over him, his un-slaked desire.
Magnus came in, a shadow moving silently past them towards his bed against the far end of the longhouse.
How could she face him in the morning? Mortification burned her face and she squeezed her cross even harder as several tears trickled down her cheeks.
What would happen to her now?
She blinked hard, once, twice.
She still had Thorvald’s promise. He’d promised her freedom if she helped him find the truth of his innocence.
He will free me and I can forget him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gisela awoke the next morning and found herself alone in the dim longhouse. Only grey ash remained in the fire pit, leaving the air cool. She shivered and sat up, pulling the fur up around her shoulders.
In the drab light of dawn remorse nudged her. Her inner thighs were sticky, she smelled of Thorvald and her scattered clothes spoke of her wanton behavior.
She tried to stoke the flames of anger that had sustained her previously, but she couldn’t. How could she berate him? She gave herself to him last night of her own free will. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, her feelings towards him were changing.
The door swung open and Thorvald strode in, carrying a bucket of water. He smiled at her. “Your kiss did not disappoint.” He placed the bucket beside the fire pit.
“Nor did yours.” Gisela lowered her gaze. Heat prickled her cheeks and she knew she blushed.
“There’s no shame in what passed between us last night,” he said gently. He reached down and tipped up her chin to look at him. “What’s done is done. I shall not abandon you.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Is that for me?” She pointed at the bucket. When he nodded, she took in a deep, shuddering breath. “Then leave me so I can wash and dress.”
An eyebrow quirked, one corner of his mouth lifted. “Are you telling me to leave my own house?”
“Aye.” She tossed her head. “I am. I feel—” She stopped. She meant to say dirty but she wasn’t sure how he would take that.
“You feel—?” he prompted. A mischievous glint filled his gaze.
He knew his presence discomfited her and she searched for something to toss at him. All she could find was the leather thong she used to bind her hair and she grabbed it off the peg from where it hung, bundling it into an untidy heap and throwing it as hard as she could.
He laughed and stepped aside as it flew past him then picked it up from the ground. He dangled it in front of him. “Don’t you need this? Come, here it is.”
“No, I don’t need it. I’ll not bind my hair today.” She sniffed and turned away. The man teased her as if they’d known each other a long time. The thought made her feel warm and cherished, and she clasped her arms about her midriff to hold fast to the pleasant feeling.
>
“I think you might want to, today we visit Bertrada and Arni. I have need to speak with him.” He waggled the leather thong in an attempt to persuade her. “The wind on the fjord can be strong.”
“Turn around, then. I’ll not provide you with a naked display,” she announced.
He chuckled and tossed the thong on the bed. “We’ll leave after breakfast.”
* * *
Gisela and Thorvald sailed up the fjord in the boat Magnus had used yesterday. Thorvald rowed until the small striped sail caught the wind, then he settled in the stern to man the tiller.
Gisela sat in the bow, her back to him, the wind catching the occasional strand of hair. The sun warmed the air and soon she threw off her shawl, baring an expanse of silken neck. His love play had left its mark for faint bruises mottled her skin just below the swell of her jaw line.
His mark. His chest swelled. No one could mistake his mark on her. His manhood bulged at the idea and he briefly contemplated the idea of putting into shore for a quick coupling to lessen the tautness in his groin.
Nay. He shook his head. Having her was all the more pleasing because she had come to him of her own volition, offering a kiss for a man wronged. She had no idea how gratifying he found it, that she believed in his innocence.
Besides, today was meant to dispel the awkwardness of what passed between them last night.
He shifted to ease the pressure in his leggings and concentrated instead on coaxing as much speed out of the little boat as he could.
* * *
Bertrada must have known they came, for she waited for them on the rocky shore of Arni’s farmstead. At the sight of her, Gisela could scarce contain her excitement, and she clambered over the side of their little vessel as soon as it scraped bottom. She pelted pell-mell towards her friend and threw her arms around the familiar form.
“Bertrada!”
“Mistress!”
“Nay, not mistress,” admonished Gisela, holding up a hand. “Gisela. Remember, in this land, we are equals.” She leaned back and took a searching look at the other woman, scouring the other’s plump face before nodding, satisfied. “You look well.”
Bertrada blushed. “Arni treats me well. I look after his household as he said I would. He hasn’t failed me. And you. Your Viking is a good man?” She eyed Gisela’s neck, hard pressed to keep a knowing smile from her lips. Instead, she formed her mouth into a firm line although her eyes twinkled.
“What is it?”
“Bruises. On your neck.”
Gisela’s hands flew to her neck; heat surged across her cheeks. Her disgrace lay open for the world to see.
“Pull your hair around and no one will notice,” said Bertrada. “You didn’t answer my question. Your Viking, he is a good man?”
Gisela didn’t answer right away. She gazed past Bertrada’s shoulder, to the three longhouses scattered across the grassy field, yellowing with the onset of autumn. A dog barked, smoke curled from the roof of the farthest. Someone cooked, warned, no doubt, of impending visitors.
“Aye,” she said finally, turning her gaze back to Bertrada. “He is a good man.” She did as Bertrada suggested and pulled her braid forward.
“That’s good.” Bertrada nodded, satisfied. “This is your life now.”
“Nay, he has promised me my freedom if—”
“If what?” Bertrada prompted.
“Nothing.” Gisela jammed her hands in her pockets.
“—if you help him find the truth,” guessed Bertrada. “Even now you hold that thought?”
Gisela nodded.
Bertrada sighed. “An impossible task.” She shook her head. “Why do you face the sorrow of failure when anyone can see Thorvald is taken with you? Truly, Viking customs are agreeable. You would find yourself happy here, especially with the love of a strong man.”
“Have you forgotten our ways?”
“Nay.” Bertrada pulled her beads from her pocket. “I pray every day. I pray the harvest will be good. I pray the winter will not be hard. I pray Arni will come to understand my beliefs, but if he doesn’t I cannot be foolish and spurn him. He is good to me, and I am content with that.”
“I don’t know if I can be. Living here is not what I would choose.” Gisela hoped she didn’t sound petulant. It wasn’t Bertrada’s fault they found themselves in this northern land.
“Enough.” Bertrada pointed to the longhouse with the cook fire. “We’ll eat and catch up.”
She linked her arm in Gisela’s and chattered on while they made their way, not expecting any response from Gisela.
For that, Gisela was grateful. Last night had been wondrous and she’d found glory in Thorvald’s arms, glory she could quite easily and eagerly seek again. She could understand the beauty of life here in this harsh land with Thorvald to share her days.
Guilt consumed her. Her faith decreed she must be wed to lie with a man but not only had the man in question not mentioned one word of marriage to her, he did not follow her beliefs.
Too, her family was no more—dead—and she could only hope, buried and properly consecrated while she now lived with the man responsible for the carnage.
A heathen man, yet a good man who suffered injustice through no fault of his own.
It was difficult to let go of her longing for Frisia; yet to live in the past did her no good.
She stepped into the longhouse and immediately found Thorvald’s eyes on her. He smiled and held out his hand towards her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gisela’s weaving stretched from the top of the loom to the ground, a distance of some two arm’s lengths the day Karl Wormtongue finally came.
She sat tying off the ends when Magnus burst through the door.
“We have word of Wormtongue,” he said, eyes gleaming with excitement. “His ship entered the fjord yesterday. He’s camped a few miles away. He and his men rest before they come here.”
“Fetch Arni,” ordered Thorvald. “Take Gisela with you and leave her there.”
“Aye, I can take her if that is your wish but I can go faster alone.”
Thorvald’s mouth twisted. He looked from Magnus to Gisela then back to Magnus. Grudgingly, he nodded. “Aye. Go alone. But be quick about it. We may only have a few hours before he comes.”
Magnus nodded and headed off as fast as his hefty legs and bulk would let him.
Fear clutched Gisela. She tossed the stone weight she’d just untied into a basket before looking at Thorvald. “Don’t fight him,” she cried. “We have time. We can run.”
“Run? I run from no man, I do not fear him.”
“You should. I fear him. Is there no other way?”
“How can there be another way? You Christians say an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. That speaks to me of justice, and it is justice I seek.”
“Please, I beg you, let us leave before your brother finds us here.”
“This farmstead rightfully belongs to me and he cannot force me from it.”
“Then let’s stay inside the longhouse. We can bar the doors and wait for Magnus and Arni to come back.”
Thorvald looked at her as if she sprouted a third arm. “Wait inside the longhouse? So they can burn it with us inside? Or if we escape the flames, they cut us down as we run? Nay.” He shook his head. “I’m no coward. I’ll face him man to man.”
“He’s evil. I saw him that day in the slave market. He looks on you with loathing and hate.”
Thorvald smiled grimly. “As I look upon him.”
“Please, I fear for us, all of us.”
“What is this? You’ve known all along Wormtongue would come.”
“I have no wish to see bloodshed.” She looked away; a tear glistened on one eye lash and she blinked it free.
Her pleading did no good. Thorvald stood resolute, determined to fight his brother even though it could mean death for all of them. Eerie calm settled upon her and she got to her feet slowly.
“Is it my blood you have no wis
h to see shed?” Hopeful expectation shone from his eyes.
She couldn’t answer his question. Holding mute, she ran her hand along the top frame of the loom while images of swordplay and spilled blood flitted through her mind. Thorvald’s spilled blood, with him lying lifeless in it. She shuddered.
Thorvald grasped her chin in his hand and turned her face towards his. “My gods are gods of power. Odin. Loki. Thor. All serve their purpose. All protect me.” Brisk intent filled his words.
“It is much simpler to follow one god. Our lord is the god of love.”
Well, he thought, if only one god must be followed, let it be the god of love. However, not yet. Love had no bearing on Karl Wormtongue’s revenge.
Thorvald spoke brusquely. “Love? A foolish notion. A notion for weak men.”
“Nay. Love is power. The greatest power of all.”
“Love will not save us from Wormtongue.”
“And battle will?” Resignation gripped her voice; her chin trembled.
“My brother understands no other way.”
“How will you fight with no sword?”
She feared for him. A flush of elation at the knowledge warmed him and strengthened his resolution. “I have my knife.”
“Which cannot best the length of a sword’s blade.”
“Let me worry about how I fight. In the meantime, gather your things. We may have to leave.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “I will be ready.”
“Actually.” He paused. “I intend to talk to Karl first.”
“What?” Astonishment flashed across her face.
“As you wished. To convince him to return with me to Kaupang and face the court there once again. To admit his guilt.”
She looked at him long and hard. “Then I trust it will be so.”
Thorvald stepped outside but not before running a finger along the gentle curve of her jaw then cupping her cheek in his palm. Her smooth skin reminded him of her fragility. Had he done the right thing by allowing Magnus to go alone, leaving her here in the midst of the conflict? True, he spoke brave words, but he really had no idea how his half-brother would react to his suggestion.
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