His Captive Bride

by Shelly Thacker

  When she awoke this morn, she realized he had once again carried her to bed and retreated to spend the night on the floor on the opposite side of the chamber.

  Josette chewed at her lower lip, knowing that this friendly companionship growing between them should make her uneasy. He was still a stranger to her, and as powerfully built as any warrior she had met.

  Yet, despite their language differences, she already felt as if she knew him somehow.

  There was such a playful quality about him. Something so endearing about that hint of a smile that always curved his lips, about his unfailing cheerfulness. He seemed to take such pleasure in making those around him smile, both the people in the town... and her.

  Watching the wind ruffle his black hair and the sun warm his tanned skin, she felt an unfamiliar sensation inside her, like hot ribbons whirling together, all ticklish and shivery.

  Mayhap it had something to do with the fact that she liked him. She had never enjoyed a man’s company so much.

  As if aware of her gaze on him, he opened his eyes. His crooked grin widened.

  Josette felt warmth flood her face, embarrassed to have been caught studying him with such rapt interest. She shifted her attention to the basket of berries in her lap.

  Barely stirring, he picked a tall blade of grass and reached up to tickle her cheek with it.

  “Gress,” he said.

  She did not look at him, but smiled as she stared down into her basket. This was a game they had devised, to teach each other their native languages. “Gress,” she echoed, before translating the Norse word into French. “Grass.”

  “Grass,” he repeated in his thick accent. “Josette...” His voice turned serious as he sat up. “Happy here?”

  She glanced at him, sitting there beside her with a hopeful expression and a blade of grass in his fingers, this gentle Viking who liked to make furniture and hunt berries for breakfast and laugh with her beneath a sun-drenched sky.

  “Ja,” she admitted softly. It was one of the first words he had taught her. “Ja, Keldan. I know I should not be, but I am happy here with you. No one has ever...”

  Keldan looked at her earnestly. She did not know why she kept talking, when he could not understand. Mayhap it was because he could not understand that she felt she could tell him the rest.

  “No one has ever made me feel special the way you do,” she continued, blinking away the dampness that suddenly filled her eyes. “In truth, no one ever had much time for me.”

  She dropped her gaze again, shaking her head. “But I am supposed to be helping Avril. Giselle needs her.” Her throat tightened. “I have to find out from you which direction we will have to sail to get... to get...”

  She felt Keldan’s hand lightly touch her chin.

  “To get home,” she finished, her heart beating hard as he tilted her head up.

  His dark eyes held as much gentleness as his touch.

  “Josette,” he murmured, “home here now. Stay.” He added another word that she did not realize he had learned yet. “Please.”

  Her lower lip trembled. She could not find breath to respond.

  His fingertips slowly glided along her jaw, downward... coming to rest over her pounding heart,

  “Hjerte,” he whispered, taking her hand and placing it in the center of his chest.

  She could feel his heart pounding as fast as hers. Their gazes met and held.

  “H-hjerte,” she repeated, whispering the word in her language as he leaned closer. “Heart.”

  He kissed her, a gentle brush of his mouth over hers. It was the first time he had ever kissed her.

  The first time any man had kissed her.

  And it felt as warm and sweet and tender as the sunlight that dappled the meadow. He tasted of the berries they had gathered, his lips a soft, intriguing contrast to the muscles flexing beneath her hand, so hard and solid and male. The shivery-hot ribbons spun tight within her, and when he lifted his head all too soon, the sigh that escaped her carried a longing that was new and confusing to her.

  And tantalizing.

  The sound he made was a deeper echo of hers; she could feel it rumble through his chest, could feel him breathing fast and shallow. He dusted kisses over her chin, her nose, her forehead.

  “Josette, home here,” he whispered. “Home. Hjem.”

  Her senses danced like the leaves overhead, warmed by the sun, by his caress, by the yearning in his voice that so matched the feeling inside her.

  And all she could think was that the word for home sounded rather like the word for heart.

  “Ja, Keldan.” She sighed, whispering the word against his mouth as he lay back in the grass, drawing her with him. “Hjem.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Avril paced in front of the hearth, examining Hauk’s collection of weapons and entertaining thoughts of mayhem. Floyel’s small hooves clacked on the stone floor as he followed at her heels.

  “Must you do that?” she bit out, halting in her tracks and turning to give him a stern look.

  The little reindeer bleated loudly, his brown eyes large and innocent as he gazed up at her.

  She sighed. “I am sorry.” Bending down, she scratched beneath his furry chin. “Poor little Floyel, I should not snap at you. It is not your fault I have been trapped in here all day.”

  She moved restlessly to the open windows, where late-afternoon sun and warm, fresh air poured in to brighten the chamber. The weather was ideal for exploring, and she had planned to do just that today, to go and find Hauk’s ship. But he refused to let her go riding—or anywhere, for that matter—alone.

  He had offered to accompany her wherever she might wish, but she had declined. She could hardly take him along as she searched for his boat.

  And she thought it best to keep as much distance between them as possible.

  She turned away from the window, suddenly awash in memories of last night.

  His hands in her hair. His mouth, hot and ravishing on hers. The way she had trembled with wanting, parted her lips, reveled in the fierce strength of his arms around her. She had lost herself in all of it—in him—for one wild moment... and then another, and another...

  She shut her eyes, unable to stop herself from remembering every vivid detail. The velvet thrust of his tongue along hers. The roughness of his beard against her chin, her throat... her breasts. The heat of his mouth on her naked skin.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. God’s breath, her body still felt fevered even now. Last night, Hauk had ignited something within her that she had believed long vanished. Forgotten. Something passionate and reckless that had nearly made her surrender to the husky promises he whispered.

  Shaking her head, she struggled to right her thoughts. She had been too exhausted to think clearly last night. Exhausted and vulnerable. And confused by their conversation—by the way he kept surprising her with unexpected compassion and thoughtfulness. And caring.

  For a few scorching moments, she had forgotten everything else. A few moments of madness. Weakness. But she could not allow herself to be weak.

  Not if she wanted to get home.

  Since their moonlit encounter on the beach, they had barely spoken more than a few, tense words to each other—and she meant to keep it that way. She could not let herself view Hauk Valbrand as aught but her abductor. An obstacle to be overcome on her way back to Giselle.

  No matter how his touch and his words and his kisses made her melt.

  “Saint’s breath,” she whispered miserably. “How am I to ignore the man when I cannot stop thinking about him?”

  Floyel, ever at her heels, snuffled at her hand as if in sympathy, before ambling off to plop down on his bed in one corner.

  “Thank you,” she said with a reluctant grin as she wiped her moist palm on her skirt. “At least reindeer kisses do not cause me to take leave of my senses.”

  Releasing a frustrated sigh, she returned to the chair she had occupied for the past hour and picked up a book. She had dug
out the Norse texts again, hoping she might notice something helpful that she had missed before. Thumbing through the pages, she tried to think of a way to sneak out without Hauk seeing her.

  It would be difficult, since he had been working outside all day, hammering away at some kind of repairs to Ildfast’s stall. No doubt he suspected she was making plans to escape. He might not even allow her to attend the celebration tonight—and then how would she meet with her fellow captives?

  Whispering an oath, she shut the book. This was maddening. She was accustomed to going and doing as she pleased. Having a man restrict her every movement was intolerable. It made her blood simmer, made her feel like doing something rash and—

  The door opened and Hauk strode in, his face and chest streaked with sweat, dirt, sawdust. Avril lowered her gaze, partly to conceal her unruly mood... and partly because a different kind of heat shimmered through her blood and curled in her belly.

  Curse the man, how could the merest glimpse of him affect her this way?

  “Where did you get those?” he asked with a growl. She looked up. He was frowning at the books stacked beside her chair.

  “I meant no harm,” she said defensively. “Since you will not allow me to venture out, I must pass the time in some way, and I enjoy reading—”

  “I never said you could not venture out.”

  “I meant alone.” Lifting the book in her hands, she placed it atop the stack. “I am sorry, I should not have gone through your books without permission.” He had every right to be angry with her. “I will put them back.”

  “Nay, it matters not,” he said more evenly. Brushing sawdust from his dark-gold hair, he walked over to the rain barrel against the nearby wall. “What is mine is yours now. You are my wife.”

  Avril bit her tongue. It was pointless to keep correcting him about that.

  He reached for a wooden pipe above the rain barrel, releasing a spigot that let fresh water flow in from outside, where it collected in troughs below the eaves. “If you are bored, milady,” he said above the splashing of the water as it filled the half-empty barrel, “I am willing to entertain you.”

  Heat flooded her as she imagined what sort of entertainment he had in mind. “I would prefer to be alone, thank you,” she said coolly.

  He slanted her a glance. “I only meant that we might go for a walk. Or mayhap play a game. Chess, draughts—”

  “Darts?” she suggested innocently. “It has always been my favorite.”

  He arched one brow. “I am not sure it would be wise of me to supply you with small, pointy objects in my vicinity.”

  “I might miss the target,” she admitted, unable to suppress a sly grin. “But probably only once or twice.”

  A smile dimpled his unshaven cheek. “Why is darts your favorite?” He twisted the spigot again to shut the water off. “It is usually played only by men, by archers.”

  “Aye, but it is also one of the few games of skill in which women can compete. And win. Even against men.”

  “Most women do not like to compete against men.” Hauk splashed his face and chest, and washed the back of his neck.

  “Only because the men get so churlish when a woman wins.” Avril felt her mouth go dry as she watched the play of muscle and sinew across his back and shoulders, the water gliding down his tanned skin. “But I am not like most women.”

  “Nay.” He sighed, and she was not sure whether it was admiration or chagrin she heard in his voice. “You are not.” He dunked his head under the surface, quickly, then straightened and ran his hands through his wet hair. “Gods, but the water is cold today.”

  Avril could not reply, unable to stop staring at the glistening rivulets cascading down his bearded face, his chest, over the rippling muscles of his stomach. Fire bloomed in her at the too-vivid reminder of how he had looked last night—when he strode ashore like an untamed, golden god risen from the sea.

  She glanced away, vexed that she was once again blushing like a maiden.

  Mayhap he would believe the constant color in her cheeks had been put there by Asgard’s hot sun.

  Keeping her eyes averted, she quickly sought a safe topic of conversation. “You have a great many books,” she said lightly, running her hand over one leather-bound volume. “I have been in the castles of lords and barons who did not have so many. They must have cost a great deal.”

  “They did not cost a single coin.”

  “You stole them?” She glanced at him in surprise.

  He frowned. “I wrote them.” Turning his back, he reached for a length of folded linen on a shelf next to the rain barrel.

  “Nay, you jest.” She shook her head in disbelief. “You wrote these books? These, with the sketches of European cities, castles and cathedrals and sailing ships—”

  “Aye.”

  “But how could that be? You said that no one left Asgard for more than six days.”

  “True.”

  “Then if you wrote these,” she said dubiously, “you must have barely had time to glimpse these places.”

  He did not answer for a moment, rubbing his face and hair with the linen. “Most of them are from journeys made in my youth.” He paused. “Brief journeys.”

  His voice was quiet, and he seemed entirely serious. Avril felt stunned, remembering what she had thought when she first found the books: that whoever had written them possessed an artist’s eye and a poet’s spirit.

  Never had she guessed that the powerful, hard-muscled Viking warrior who had abducted her could be that man.

  Glancing down, she studied the weathered volumes with their yellowed pages, and her brow furrowed. “But you could not have written these,” she said softly. “They are all so old.”

  He tossed the damp cloth aside. “Salt air and sea winds take a merciless toll on paper.”

  She had not thought of that. “And the other books?” she asked curiously. “The texts on hunting and astronomy, the discussion of Aristotle’s philosophies in Greek, the retelling of the Arthurian legends in French—”

  “Mine as well.”

  She blinked at him in astonishment. Not only did he have the eye of an artist and the spirit of a poet, but the mind of a scholar. “But how—when—have you managed to pursue so many different subjects? I thought you said your duties as vokter occupied your time.”

  Shrugging, he rested one lean hip against a table beside the rain barrel. “As I told you before, time is something we have in abundance on Asgard. Illness is unknown here, food is plentiful, poverty unknown among us. So we do not have to spend our lives struggling to eke out an existence, or battling our neighbors.” He picked up a small stone sculpture from the table, turning it in his fingers. “We each have time for many interests and pursuits. And every man—or woman—is free to choose a trade according to his talents and skills, whether as shopkeeper or storyteller, merchant or farmer—”

  “Or warrior and artist.”

  He looked up, his gaze and voice gentle. “Avril, do you begin yet to see that Asgard has much to offer? Do you still think your homeland so much better?”

  She lowered her lashes, realized her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. He was being kind to her again. Trying to make her feel at home here.

  He simply did not understand that this could never possibly be her home.

  “My home is with Giselle,” she said softly.

  He was silent a moment.

  Then he set the sculpture down on the table and changed the subject. “It is time to prepare for this evening’s celebration, milady. Let us not be late this time.”

  Avril held back an exclamation of relief. She had been prepared to argue or cajole or sneak away for her rendezvous with her fellow captives.

  He hunted through the piles of wedding gifts still heaped on the room’s tables and chairs, digging out a gown of pale gold edged with shimmering embroidery. Walking over to her, he held it out. “Wear the gold.”

  She stood, about to protest that she was not going to allow h
im to choose her clothes. It was too personal, too intimate—

  Then his fingers brushed hers as he handed her the gown, and she could not speak at all.

  “The color will be most becoming on you,” he added.

  The husky depth of his voice made her heart flutter. She suddenly had to fight an urge to reach up and touch those dimples, to run her fingertips over the whiskers that darkened his strong, square jaw.

  A muscle flexed in his cheek, as if he felt her touch there, though she had not moved. She felt his body tense. His sky-colored gaze settled on her mouth and her breath caught. He leaned closer, angling his head.

  A voice at the door calling in Norse made them both freeze.

  Hauk looked toward the entrance and Avril darted out of his reach, the gown clutched in her shaking fingers. Their visitor was Marta—and from her tone, the little girl seemed impatient about something.

  Hauk spoke quietly to the child and sent her on her way before turning to translate to Avril. “Marta reminds me that I have kept her waiting rather a long time. I am supposed to be fetching her troublesome pet.”

  Her heart beating too hard, Avril nodded and turned away, not trusting herself to speak.

  He walked over and scooped up Floyel, who bleated in alarm at being lifted so high above the floor.

  “I will leave you to dress, milady,” Hauk said as he headed for the door.

  Watching him cradle the small bundle of gray fluff in his massive, muscular arms, Avril felt an unexpected knot in her stomach. Curious to know where he was taking the animal—and half afraid he intended to make sweet little Marta take the creature back—she followed him.

  Peeking out the door, Avril covered her mouth to stifle a sound of surprise.

  He had not spent the day repairing Ildfast’s stall; he had been adding a small shelter for Floyel.

  Despite all of Hauk’s cursing and bluster about the animal last night, especially as they had cleaned up the mess Floyel made, he was naught but gentle as he carried the bawling reindeer out to its new home. He set Floyel down in the shelter, and Marta looked delighted, hugging her pet.