by Asa Maria Bradley, Gina Conkle, Lisa Hendrix, Anna Markland, Emma Prince, Harper St. George
She’d melted then under his tender torture, the same as she weakened for him now.
Musical notes from the great hall pitched higher, faster. Sitting on her awkward bed of apples and turnips, her breasts ached for his touch.
Gunnar’s hand slipped under her skirt. “Come away with me.”
Her breath hitched when his fingers grazed her inner thigh. Softly he teased her skin. How well his hand fit on the private curve. When she opened her eyes, a bold, claiming light glinted under Gunnar’s black lashes. Strong male fingers inched higher to the plump flesh at the top of her thigh. Her skin flushed, pebbling with anticipation.
Expectation was a weapon Gunnar brandished well. He was a natural in the sensual arts. Brown eyes lit darkly as if to say you were formed for me and me alone. With his ink black hair and talented, artistic hands, he’d lured her three summers past in Uppsala the way a skilled piper enthralls the listening ear.
Wetness trickled down the seam between her legs. Music pitched higher beyond the leather curtain. Pale beams filtered through the weave on the wall above his head. The crowd. The aroma of crushed apples. Her heart beat faster. Anyone could catch them.
Breath skipped in her chest. “Gunnar. I—”
“Gunnar.” Light flooded them. “You’re finally here.”
Ginna let the curtain fall behind her. She lumbered into the storage area and stopped short at the mess.
“Another woman who doubts me,” he jested.
Eira jumped to her feet. “You knew he was coming?”
“I sent for him,” Ginna said, going down on both knees. She turned Eira’s bucket upright and began tossing apples into it. “The two of you, stop gawking and help me.”
Gunnar set the second bucket right and chuckling, began collecting errant turnips. “You didn’t give me enough time to woo your sister.”
Eira’s mouth fell open. Her mind spun, trying to weave sense here. Beyond the leather curtain, a saucy serving woman poured Steinar’s mead, rubbing her breast on his arm. Borgunna. The woman was Ginna’s childhood friend and a quick flirt. A drummer joined the goat bone flutes behind her father’s great chair. The crowd thickened with newcomers.
“You could help, Eira.” Ginna sat back on her heels, rubbing the small of her back. “Borgunna can’t stall Steinar forever.”
“I don’t understand.” She dropped to the ground, her clumsy hands gathering the fruit. “You knew Gunnar was coming. On the eve of my wedding. Why?”
The floor clean, Ginna stood up and wiped dirt smudges off her yellow skirt.
“I was supposed to arrive days ago,” Gunnar cut in. “But fighting began in Uppsala. There was a thrall…a woman named Sestra—” he shrugged apologetically “—she did a brave thing. I vowed to help her.”
Her hands fisted at her sides. “A woman?”
“Eira,” he chided. “She means nothing to me.”
“Yet you stayed for her? And left me for three years.” Her voice pitched thinly. “You and your vows of honor.” Her chest heaved with labored breath. “Perhaps it’s a good thing Steinar told Hrolf about us.”
“Steinar didn’t say a word to Hrolf,” Ginna said. “I did.”
Coldness hit Eira. Both hands covered her stomach as if she’d been punched. Shadows bathed her sister’s face in half-light, yet the dim room couldn’t hide sharpness in her eyes. Ginna’s wheat blonde hair looped in perfect, smooth coils at her nape. No comb was out of place. No pleat mussed.
The corners of Ginna’s mouth wilted. “You were so rebellious. So determined to marry him.” Her blue gaze darted at Gunnar.
“Why do you care?” Eira asked.
“Look at them.” Ginna sighed, waving an emphatic arm at the gathering. “Every man, woman, and child here celebrates the war in Uppsala. They can’t wait to die with a sword in hand.”
Eira’s attention ricocheted from her sister to the festive throngs before landing on the gold arm ring Gunnar wore.
Ginna grasped Gunnar’s wrist and held up the wide gold band to the light. “This is why they fight.”
A sprouting plant and cross punched the gold, the mark of Vikings who followed the White Christ. King Olof had tried to do away with the Norse ways, but the people of Uppsala defied him.
“What’s happening in Uppsala could happen here, if you marry a Christian.” Ginna’s voice trembled. “Is that what you want for us? More bloodshed?”
Gunnar jerked his hand free and stepping closer, he cupped Eira’s cheek. “Listen to me. I came for you because I said I would.” His voice dropped lower. “Because I love you more than I did three years ago. It’s always been you, Eira. Always.”
Time and battles had whittled away at his features. Faint accusation haunted his brown eyes, hurt that she didn’t wait for him. She clutched her bodice. Her chest ached. Her eyes stung. Gunnar had been badly beaten by Hrolf before King Olof intervened. Her mother had spirited her away and poured a calming tincture down her throat that made her limbs sluggish. In the dead of night, a bruised and bloodied Gunnar had roused her. He bid her to wait for him.
The next day she awoke and Gunnar was gone. The people of Uppsala gossiped about King Olof sending him and a handful of men to Byzantium to fetch a holy man. Numb in mind and body, the kindly king had beckoned her to his barn. He told her the journey would be long. Two summers would pass, and he repeated Gunnar’s plea that she wait for him.
Lips twisting bitterly, she glared at Ginna standing behind Gunnar. She’d confided every secret thing, every lover’s tryst to her scheming sister.
Ginna’s chin tipped high. “You broke our mother’s heart when you chose a Christian born of a slave father.” Her jet beads dangled long against her pale neck. “You’re foolish to think the people of Aland would accept him beside you.”
“This isn’t about our mother,” she hissed as strong hands gripped her shoulders. “This is about you wanting the jarl’s chair.”
“Shhh, Eira.” Gunnar held her fast, his voice soothing. “We cannot change the past, but we are here, now. You must decide.”
“How can you say that so calmly?” Her voice pitched abruptly. “You were badly beaten because of her meddling.”
His black brows drew sternly together. Hard lines bracketed his mouth and the red slash pulsed viciously across his cheek. “I would bear it again if it meant a lifetime with you,” he ground out. “We all pay a price for love. I’ve paid mine.”
Dark brown eyes pinned her with an unspoken question. Are you ready to pay the price for love?
She touched the edge of his whiskered jaw. “You don’t want vengeance?”
His clothes smelled of sea brine and seal oil. Warriors slathered their hands with the oil for hard days of rowing. He must’ve pushed hard from Uppsala to be here tonight.
To come for her.
He shook his head, his brown eyes intent. “No. I want to leave with you.”
Her breath hitched. Gunnar’s childhood had been different, a half world of slave and highborn parentage, of violence and art. King Olof had spoken to him of the White Christ and his strange teachings against vengeance. She’d been taught from her first steps to end trouble with the sword. His blood ran hot for sensual pursuits. Yet, the man before her obviously wasn’t afraid to take up arms. And he still wanted her. Badly.
“That means leaving tonight, forsaking all here,” Ginna added.
“Because of course our mother would’ve wanted that,” Eira shot back.
Bold brown eyes locked with hers. Mesmerizing. Full of depth and appeal. Gunnar stood no more than half a head taller than her, but his shoulders had broadened since she last saw him. Would he be able to carry the burden of a wife with no lands? No coin? It was incredible that he wanted her to leave with him at this instant.
Ginna tugged on the curtain’s weave, peering through the break. “Steinar rises from his seat.” She let go of the leather strip, coldly facing Eira. “What’s it to be dear sister? Stay and wed Steinar? Or go with Gunnar?”
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* * *
Eira’s hair smelled earthy and sharp. Was it the same costly cedar soap he’d bought for her three years past? Under a billowing tent, a merchant of Damascus laid out his wares for Uppsala’s curious people. Gunnar had bought a large block, fed by the pleasure of her smile when she’d sniffed the tangy aroma.
At hearing Ginna’s question, Eira’s gaze bounced around the storage room. Feet rooted to the floor, Gunnar’s hands fell to his side. Anger, joy, the sensual quickening of Eira’s body when he touched her leg…these were things he expected, not indecision. Her hesitation as good as slapped him in the face.
“I must go,” he said.
Eira’s inhale was sharp and fast. She reached out but he was already at the back door.
“I’ll walk you to your ship,” she said.
“You’ll want this.” Ginna pulled Eira’s blue, fur-trimmed cloak from a barrel. She held it out for Eira and peeked through the curtain at a second woman detaining Steinar. “Go. Quickly”
Eira swept the cloak around her shoulders. “I understand why you were underfoot so much. It wasn’t the loving sister attending to the details of my wedding. You want the jarl’s chair.”
“Berate me all you want later. At least see Gunnar safely gone.”
Eira pulled the hood up. “Now you’re concerned for his safety?”
Gunnar strode out the door, tired of the sister’s sniping. He eyed the line of pine trees creaking darkly ahead. Sharp gusts bit his cheeks, stinging the cut. The scar would be a good reminder to have a care with the gentler sex. Two torches lit the yard, their flames blowing sideways on the moonlit night. Stones and dry earth crunched under his boots with each determined step.
“Gunnar. Wait.” Eira’s footfalls hit the ground behind him.
He marched faster. “No need to wish me farewell.”
She caught up with him and matched his stride. Blonde hair flowed from her hood, the golden strands tapping his arm. He felt a grim smile creasing. If he believed in Odin, he’d say the temperamental god wanted Eira to go with him.
“But I want to.” Her breath worked faster. “I, I feel the need to explain…at least talk with you more.”
“Talking is done.” He cut through a copse of trees, a shortcut to the lonely beach where his boat waited.
He trotted through the forest, pushing aside low hanging branches. Wind whistled overhead. A storm was coming. He pushed on silently and to her credit, Eira charged on without a word. By her darting glances, she read his mood well. She always could.
The race to the beach calmed the seething beast inside him. Bruised and battered from Uppsala’s fighting, he didn’t want more battles. The war raged on in Uppsala and would for days to come.
He’d been a man with no true home. As a child he’d lived on the fringe of Uppakra, avoiding Hrolf’s ire as best he could. King Olof fostered him in Uppsala, yet even there he’d known no true rest. Not until the summer a tall blonde haired, blue-eyed girl from Aland stepped off her father’s boat. His heart had leapt in his throat at the sight of her.
Instinct whispered…the Viking maid was his home.
His boots slammed Aland’s soil, yet he couldn’t stomp out the flutter in his chest at seeing Eira. Waves slapped the shores beyond the trees. A harsh chuckled erupted. The size of his vessel was laughable, as far-fetched as his plan to steal a Viking bride. Three summers ago, Eira’s wealth and stature meant nothing. He loved her. She loved him. They were two young lovers caught up in the joys of conversation and sexual exploration. Tonight, her position wedged a chasm deeper than the waters separating Uppsala from Aland.
She was lost to him.
Mouth firm, an idea flickered. He could toss her over his shoulder and tie her up until she came to her senses. As angry as he was she still stirred him. Her fierce blue eyes. The way her hair fell free when he pulled away the last comb. And the fight in her. He chuckled again. If Ginna wasn’t ripe with child, he was sure the sisters would fight like cats on the storage room floor.
If his passion burned hot, Eira’s burned deep, her strength as insurmountable as the ice-blue mountains of the far north.
He stepped onto the beach, the wind carrying her voice.
“Please. Gunnar. Wait.”
Wind blasted his hair as he charged ahead. Men scrambled around the humble waiting fishing boat. Footfalls raced faster behind him.
“Don’t go.” Eira grabbed the back of his tunic.
He pivoted on the sand and she let go. “I must.”
Light-colored fur framed her face, the tufts shining like choice silver threads mixing with her spun gold hair. She was a highborn woman of Aland, a woman who would be chieftain of half the island here. Without thinking, he captured the gold locks and tucked them back inside her hood.
“We were meant to be, Eira.” His hand lingered on her petal soft cheek.
She wrapped a hand over his wrist, staying his hand. “I have no regrets. If I could relive that summer again, I would and gladly so.”
“And give yourself to a corner born son again?” he asked hoarsely.
A flurry of wind blasted them, twirling her skirts around his legs.
Eira’s throat moved with a delicate swallow. “A thousand times over,” she whispered.
Her eyes softened, honest and pure. A spangle of pleasure danced across his skin, the same as when she tilted her face for their first gentle kiss.
His hand curved around her nape and he brought his mouth down on hers. The taste of her lips was sweetness and longing. She widened her mouth for him, welcoming the invasion. Tongues brushing shot heat to his groin. Eira groaned in his mouth. Her hands gripped his ribs, his tunic.
He shuddered when her nails scraped his waist before stopping on his hips. She slid both hands around him and squeezed his butt. Her fingernails dug in. Eira rubbed her breasts across his chest. Their bodies flush, his erection hardened between them.
“Don’t leave me.” Holding him close, she broke the kiss.
A single tear glistened on her cheek. He wiped the salty diamond with the pad of his thumb.
“I’d kiss away a lifetime of your tears and replace them with laughter, but not here, Eira,” he said quietly. “Ginna was right. The people of Aland will never accept me.”
Her blonde brows knit again, and a stone sunk heavily inside him. He knew the look.
“I need more time,” she begged.
“It’s the one thing we don’t have.”
“You burst into my home and expect me to run off on a moment’s notice,” she huffed. “You can’t think this was a serious plan.”
He chuckled harshly. “Yet that was my plan.”
“Sweep in, grab me, tell me to run away with you as if you were gone three days instead of three years,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Just like that.”
A grin split his face. He was certain it was none too friendly. “Bigger decisions have been made with less dithering my sweet.”
She pushed back hugging herself. Wind howled across the beach, lifting sand and leaves. White caps toppled over waves increasing in size.
“Gunnar,” Emund shouted from the boat. “Look.”
Torchlight wavered in the black forest, the flame growing brighter with each passing second.
“Steinar comes for his bride,” he said ruefully. He faced Eira and swept a deep bow. “Time to go.”
Eira raced after him. “Is this your boat? What about the one hundred men?”
“I lied,” he said over his shoulder and gave the beached vessel a heave into the water.
She waded in beside him. “You came for me, wounded, with three men and a small fishing boat?”
Waves crashed, flattening her skirts against her legs. The torch broke past the tree line at the far end of the beach. His chasers must’ve gone to the harbor first, as he’d hoped they would. Steinar emerged from the trees, fresh gusts whipping his red cloak sideways. Eira’s hood blew back and skeins of gold blonde hair tangled freely. He’d
remember this moment forever. Someday he’d carve her fine features in wood, the straight nose and full lips of his tall Valkyrie maid.
“Gunnar, we need to go,” Emund’s firm voice broke in.
Across the beach voices shouted. More raised torches broke the midnight trees. Axes lifted high. White and blue shields twirled with Steinar’s colors. The tall Viking marched across the sand, each step deliberate like a man with all the time in the world. He probably thought no man would defy him. Neither would the woman he’d wed on the morrow.
With one hand on the boat, a brutish beast welled up. Warriors sped across the long beach, their boots kicking up sand. Wicked laughter welled up, and Gunnar yielded to his Viking roots. Bending low, he tossed Eira over his shoulder. He wasn’t sharing. She belonged to him.
“This is how it will be, Eira. You’ll be my wife,” he said, voice raised above the yells of men and rushing waves. He heaved her over the ship’s rail onto a bundle of furs before hefting himself into the boat beside her. “You’ll bear my children and keep my house.”
Emund and the others rowed with all their might into an oncoming wave. The ship rose to meet the crest, and the men rowed harder. He found his seat and rowed hard. On the shore, Steinar’s fighters stomped into the surf. Moonlight gleamed on iron swords and polished shield bosses.
Eira sat at his feet, both hands gripping the rails as the ocean beat their meager vessel. “Is that all?”
The boat sped past the break and Steinar’s warrior shrunk in size the farther the boat sped into the black sea. Their little boat sought a camp south of Uppsala, a journey that would take half the night in a rising storm.
“You want more?” he asked, laughing. Neither jostling waves nor an angry half-brother could quash the joy bursting in his chest.
Victory surged in him. He conquered the greatest treasure a man could have. The love of his life. If she needed time to adjust, he’d give it to her. Smiling at the woman seated before him, he knew how to win her. If gentle patience didn’t work, hot caresses would.
“You’ll cook my food and rub my shoulders.” He bent low and whispered in her ear, “And when we’re done pleasuring each other, you can mend my clothes.”