We Roam The Seas

by Theresa Marguerite Hewitt

  The priest wraps the bands of material, tying it over each of their wrists and then places each of his hands, one above and one below, encasing their bound hands as Asgar’s fingers squeeze hers. “May the Gods watch over this marriage and bless them with love, unity, and happiness.”

  The priest smiles to them and then to the room, raising his hands high and exclaiming, “Let the celebration begin.” The room explodes in cheers and shouts as Asgar pulls Freya into his chest, their bound hands going between them as his free hand splays across her lower back, pressing her tight while his eyes never leave hers.

  As he watches the different emotions play across her features- from fear to lust and back to nervousness- Asgar is still confused at the feelings rolling around deep within him. He’s never wanted a woman as much as he wants the one he’s holding right this second as his men and family transform the great hall for dinner around them. Her emerald eyes seem to see something within him as she looks at him and he wants to know what it is. As he flexes his fingers into her back, bunching the material of her dress for only a second, he wishes he could sweep her up and take her to their home right this second, forgetting about the feast.

  He needs to know what she feels like and a low groan rips through his chest as he pulls her up, his lips lingering just above hers as he says, “Hello, my wife.”

  ***

  The deep sound of his voice makes her tremble as he holds her tight, his warm breath washing over her face and Freya lets her eyes fall shut, whispering back, “Hello, my husband.” Before the words finish leaving her lips, his are upon her, searing her to him and she wraps her free arm around his neck. This kiss is like nothing Freya has experienced before and, as his tongue sweeps out lazily, she moans, opening for him.

  Whistles and shouts ring out through the room as Freya and Asgar lose themselves in one another, finally tasting what the other has to offer; only separating when Halvard’s voice comes from the dais. “There will be enough time for that later.” He winks at the crowd as more whistles fill the air.

  Asgar’s hand goes to her cheek and Freya can’t stop the little whine that follows him stopping their kiss. She is a boiling mess of desire, wanting and needing what she knows he can give her, her thighs trembling as she looks into his eyes.

  “I will make sure this feast is over quickly so that we may continue this as soon as possible,” Asgar whispers, rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip, only making her shiver more. His lips meet hers quickly, laying that fog of lust over her for a second, before he lifts her up into his arms and she squeals. He foregoes the stairs and steps up onto the dais, smiling at her as he places her in a chair to his right; his chair being beside his father’s.

  The room is already deep within the feast; massive platters of roasted chicken, lamb, and venison are making their way around, followed by carrots smothered in butter and mashed parsnips spiced with horseradish. The smells can’t make her mouth water any more than it already is thinking about Asgar. Her attention is pulled from its haze when he tugs on their joined hands.

  He holds them up between them, bringing his face only inches from hers with a smile. “Do the honor and cut these.” He nods toward the bounds, reaching to his waist and slowly unsheathing his dagger; its handle wrapped in the same blue and yellow coloring.

  She smiles, loving the grin on his face and wraps her fingers around the dagger’s handle. “What if I don’t want you to let go of my hand,” she tries to say seductively, but notices it comes out almost as a sappy whine and she blushes at her failed attempt to be flirty. She really doesn’t want to let go of him; the warmth and tingle of his touch reaching her toes every time he squeezes her fingers.

  The laugh that breaks from his lips feels as if it wraps around her heart, his eyes locking hers in place and he leans in and brushes his lips teasingly over hers. “I don’t plan on letting you go. Ever.”

  The heat and blush that fills her as he quickly nips her earlobe, makes her gasp for breath. Her hand shakes and she almost drops the dagger as his fingers wrap around hers, steadying her. “Don’t ever drop this. If you did, it would bring darkness into our world.”

  The coolness of his voice frightens Freya a bit, but, as she sees the sparkle in his eyes return, she nods, holding the dagger steady and slipping it slowly between the strands of material binding their hands and cutting them loose. The material starts to fall away and, as she slides the dagger along the remaining pieces, Asgar catches the strands, pulling them loose. Squeezing her fingers and giving her a wink, he takes a strand of each color and with his hand on her shoulder he gently gets her to turn her back to him, so he can access her hair.

  She can feel him tug and tie at the bottom of her braid and when he spins her back around, lifting and placing her hair on her shoulder, Freya smiles at the blue and yellow bow on the bottom, running her fingers over the wool as she looks back up at him. “I always want you wearing something blue or yellow. Those colors look good on you,” he says, pulling her in and kissing her forehead, holding her skin to his as he breathes her in.

  Freya just nods, the knot of lust and emotion in her throat making it impossible to speak as he releases her, accepting a platter from his father and joining in a rowdy conversation going on around her. She’s in a fog, not really noticing the rowdy nature of the people surrounding her as they laugh and shout, celebrating and drinking. She accepts food on her plate, but doesn’t touch it, the butterflies in her stomach making it impossible for her to enjoy it.

  Looking out over the crowd, she spots Bracka and his companions sitting toward the back, their table being one of the loudest, the fourth and silent man staring right at her. He has red hair, like her, and it seems to be on fire in this lighting, standing out among the others brown and blonde. His eyes never waver as she looks him over, the concentration of his attention making her uneasy and she adjusts herself in her chair, catching Asgar’s attention and he leans over, trying to see what she is looking at.

  ***

  “What is making my wife uneasy?” he asks between bites of his venison. As she looks at him, he can see the uncomfortable feeling pass across her face, replaced with a slight smile. He knows she is trying to hide it, but he shakes his head, determined they will share everything concerning them both. Looking her in the eye as his fingers lightly grasp her chin he says, “Beautiful, tell me what has made you squirm like only I should.”

  ***

  The commanding nature in Asgar’s voice makes a wave of desire roll down her spine; the gentle way he is holding her chin to get his point across making her want to melt. “The man,” she stutters, her breath leaving her at the look in his eyes. “The man with Bracka, the red haired one, all he has done is stare at me. And Olaf offered to take me with them if I didn’t want to go through with this. Your father defended me.”

  The feral sounding growl that rips forth frightens Freya and she grips the arms of her chair as Asgar’s eyes seem to light with fire, his chest heaving in and out as she sees his hands flex over the table; gripping the mug he was drinking from tight enough to crack it. He stands quick enough to throw his heavy wooden chair back, toppling it over. Freya looks to Halvard, his warm eyes watching his son and flicking to her, immediately knowing what has angered him.

  Asgar’s hand squeezes her shoulder and, before she can form the words to have him stay, he’s down from the dais and weaving through the rowdy crowd, headed for Bracka’s table in the back. The sudden fear builds in Freya’s heart as fast as he walks and she watches his warrior braid swish angrily at his back as his men yell and shout for him as he passes; all of them too drunk to notice his anger. Her heart and breathing stop when he reaches the table, reaching his strong arms across Bracka’s laughing figure and fisting his hands into the red haired man’s tunic.

  ***

  His anger is boiling over and Asgar feels like throwing this scum through the front door and beheading him on the front steps; it is what he deserves. “Callen,” he growls, pulling the silent
red haired man’s face close to his and knowing his anger will make the man squirm. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Callen is Bracka’s brother, silent most of the time, but a good fighter. Not as good as Asgar, and as that thought runs through his mind he gives the fire headed bastard a nasty smile.

  “He is here with me, Asgar,” Bracka places his hands on Asgar’s forearms and he receives a glare of his own in return. The room has fallen silent and some of Asgar’s men have gathered, hovering behind him with their hands itching above their swords, ready for a fight. Bracka laughs nervously as Callen smiles back at Asgar. “He is my brother; he deserves to be here as much as I do. You know our father trusts us both.”

  “Your father’s trust doesn’t make up for what he did the last time you were here,” Asgar hisses out, his jaw clenched with the rolling anger still boiling within. The last time the brothers had been on their land, Callen had tried to make off with one of their man’s wives, like a barbarian. Asgar and his brothers had to hunt him down; finding him in a cave under the waterfall nearby. Asgar knows he should have killed him then, but he had listened to his father, knowing the death would only bring war between friendly tribes.

  Jerking Callen by the shirt again, Asgar releases him to watch him stumble back, trying to regain his footing. Asgar’s men laugh at the sight and as Callen straightens, his dark eyes trained on Asgar then skirting over to see the anxious Freya standing, clutching the material of her dress on her chest in fright, Callen smiles letting out a loud mocking laugh.

  “Are you that little of a man that, even before you take her, you’re afraid your wife will leave with me?” He jokes, grabbing a mug of ale from their table and tossing it back as he hears the men in the hall roar in anger, followed by the sound of metal sliding from leather and shields being unhooked from the wall. Looking back to Asgar, he laughs again at the rage vibrating from the blonde man, wiping the stray drink from his chin. “Besides, we can’t leave. Not until we’re sure the marriage is consummated.” He emphasizes the last word, drawing it out, knowing it will make the virgin on the dais squirm. Looking past the steaming Asgar, Callen winks at Freya. Seeing that her face is a shade paler than it should be, he smiles, taking his seat again to finish his food.

  Asgar groans silently, clenching his fists at his side. Callen is right and it is the part of this night he is not looking forward to. Bedding Freya, making love to his wife- he is looking forward to that, but not to hanging the bloodied bed sheet outside their door, displaying to the world that Freya is no longer a maiden. Looking over his shoulder, straight into the eyes of his wife, Asgar sees the fear and nervousness, even from his spot across the room, and he sighs heavily.

  “You will get your proof and then you will leave,” he growls, sparing Bracka and Callen a sidelong glance, before turning and pushing through his men, his footsteps heavy on the wood as he storms toward the dais.

  ***

  Freya’s eyes never leave his as he approaches, his face full of pain and anger and as he hops up to stand beside her, his ice blue eyes bathe her in regret. Her mind is floating from Callen’s words “Not until we’re sure the marriage is consummated”.

  What did that mean? She knows that, in some more uncivilized tribes, they have the married couple lay together in the middle of the great hall, so that everyone may witness the deflowering. Is that what she is going to have to undergo?

  Just the thought of hundreds of eyes on her naked form makes her tremble in fright, her mind coming from its fog to the feel of Asgar’s hand on her shoulder as his opposite fingers caress her cheek. Looking up into his eyes, she sees the soft expression play across his features.

  “You worry too much,” he whispers, running his thumb over her bottom lip as the music starts up again slowly. The feel of his rough skin against hers makes the fright disappear and she melts into his touch, leaning her cheek into his palm as he smiles. “The night has brought you enough stress. Do you want to retire for the night and forget about everyone?”

  His lips are only a whisper away from her ear, leaving a hot trail wherever his breath touches and she nods, having to wrap her hands in his tunic to hold herself up. She can’t do this in front of everyone and the fear returns, snapping her eyes open so that she looks right at him. “I can’t do this in front of everyone. I thought we were going to be alone, in the cottage. I can’t let everyone see…”

  “Shh,” he calms her with his touch, placing his fingers lightly over her lips. Taking her hand and pulling it up to his lips, he gives her a playful grin. “No one will see you except me. I’ll kill any other man who does.” The possessive growl that follows his words make her blush and she concedes, nodding and knowing that he means what he says.

  Her nerves return and, as she sees Asgar lean in and whisper something to his father, she scans over the crowd settling on Eska. She smiles sweetly at him, giving him a small wave and he raises his cup to her, winking. Her anxiousness disappears for only a second because, as she feels Asgar’s hand entwine with hers, she sees a dark look pass over Eska’s features, turning his smile to a grimace and he abruptly rises from his seat, looking her in the eye and then just turns, storming from the great hall disturbing two men at the door and they shout after him.

  She’s still watching the spot where Eska disappeared when she feels Asgar’s lips on her ear, his fingers playing along the golden sash of her dress as he slides his hand over her lower back. “Come now, Freya,” he whispers, pulling her into his side with his eyes locked onto hers.

  She follows as the room falls silent, the eyes of all in attendance seemingly burning a hole into her skin as she smiles up at her husband. Reaching the door, feeling the cool night air on her skin, Freya looks out to see the torches lighting their path to the cottage as Asgar turns back to the room.

  “By all means, keep celebrating,” he shouts, wrapping his arm around Freya’s waist, shocking her as he pulls her into his chest lifting her off the ground. “We are going to celebrate on our own.” He smiles warmly as Freya can’t help but blush, wrapping her arms around his neck as he swings her legs up to carry her. Pulling her face to his, he thoroughly kisses her, searing her lips to his as the men and women in the hall cheer and whistle.

  Freya clings to Asgar, her eyes closed as she rests her head against his shoulder, the butterflies coming to life again in her stomach. The dark night surrounds them, fended off only by the torches that they pass and she listens to the sounds of the calm village. A couple of the village dogs run over to them, weaving in between Asgar’s legs and as he shoos them away. She laughs lightly, lifting her head and loving the smile that is displayed on his strong features.

  He kisses her sweetly as they reach his small home and he reaches for the handle, his lips never leaving hers as he carries her in. The warmth from the dying fire still fills the room and as he cups her face, she moans lightly into his mouth driving him wild. He uses all his will power, knowing she needs time for this to happen and he sets her down slowly, smiling and laughing lightly at the way her small hands cling to his cheeks trying to keep them connected.

  When her feet meet the wooden planks, Freya groans, missing the warmth and tingles his body creates as she opens her eyes to see his grin. His chest is rapidly moving and, as she runs her fingers lightly over the fabric of his tunic, leaning in to place a kiss to where she feels his heartbeat, she hears his sharp intake of breath. His fingers tangle in her hair, tilting her face back up and his lips meet hers, only for a second, before he releases her, walking around her as she stands shaking; a vibrating pool of desire at his mercy.

  The tingle from his lips makes her skin burn and her fingers try to soothe the feeling as she turns, facing the room, seeing Asgar pulling a sheet from a wooden trunk near the bed. His back is to her and as she sees him unfold the material, he bunches it in his fist.

  “This is what they need to see,” he says without turning, holding the sheet up so she can see the light blue coloring in the meek light.
She’s still confused and, even though he can’t see her, she shakes her head, not understanding. Seemingly reading her mind, he continues, “I’ll take you on top of this; your blood will stain it and then I will hang it outside the door to prove to the other tribes in attendance that this marriage is not a fake; that you are mine and not up for grabs.”

  Freya tries to stifle the gasp that escapes as she imagines the sight, but she can see the sound tightens the muscles in his back. She wants, no, she needs to show him that is okay as long as it’s with him. She crosses the room quietly, stopping just behind him with her hands hovering over his back. “Will everyone see it?”

  ***

  He shakes his head, still not facing her and runs his rough hands along the silken fabric, wishing he could make it disappear so that it was one less worry. He doesn’t care if Freya is or isn’t a maiden, there is something inside him that would take her either way. He hates Bracka and his brother for requesting this barbaric tradition as soon as they found out he’d be marrying the famous red-haired beauty of Shetland. It angers him even more, seeing the way that Callen was looking at Freya during the dinner. He grips the sheet between his hands, wanting with all of his soul to rip it in half. “The other tribes are the only ones who will see it. When dawn comes, I will take it down and burn it.”

  ***

  Seeing the tension run through his neck, shoulders, and back, Freya wants more than anything to let him know that is okay. She trusts him to stick by his word. Doing the only thing she can think of, she slips her shaky fingers under the straps of her dress, dragging them slowly off her shoulders. Gripping the material at her chest with her arms crossed, she takes a deep breath in, letting the material fall down her skin and bunch on the floor; the only sound being the heavy broach on the sash hitting the floor.

  She can see him straighten and she smiles, knowing he must realize what she did. Reaching her left hand out, she trails her fingers lightly along his ribs up to his shoulder, rubbing into his muscle through the wool of his tunic. A hot blush fills her skin as he turns, her eyes falling to the floor as both arms cover her chest. It is more nerve wracking than she thought having a man look at her naked form would be, and she can feel his eyes roaming over her. Her legs start to quiver as he reaches out, grasping her chin and bringing her eyes to his, the ice blue on fire in the dim light from the coals in the hearth and it takes her breath away.