by Sara Bennett
“’Tis a face,” Rose said matter-of-factly, trying to break the sense of intimacy he had created.
“That is the hero Sigurd. He learned to speak to the birds. See, they are all about him.” He smiled at her surprise.
“I see them.” Had she noticed the myriad of winged creatures hiding among the foliage before? Probably, but she had not known their significance until now, until Gunnar Olafson explained it to her.
He pointed again, his finger steady, his touch on the wood gentle despite the many scars upon his hand. How could a man who lived such a brutal life be so gentle? And was he scarred all over? The picture rose in her mind, taking what little composure she had managed to gain. Gunnar, his body bronzed and gleaming, wearing only a smile. She had only ever seen Edric naked, but then she had not allowed her eyes to linger, had no wish to. She had seen enough of Gunnar that day in the bailey to know he would be different, young and handsome. A man like no other.
Rose held herself stiff and still; she prayed for the strength to be indifferent.
“And there is Idun, with her apple tree,” he said, his voice warm with humor, evidently oblivious to Rose’s difficulties. “If you eat the apples, so say my Viking ancestors, you can never grow old.”
Idun had long tresses of hair, they twisted about the trunk of the apple tree and through the branches as if she were a part of it. There was something wanton in her smile, as she held out her apple and offered eternal life.
Touch him. Go on. Take his hand and lead him up the stairs to your solar. To your bed. Make him yours before someone else does. Before you are forced to leave Somerford and wed another. You may never have another chance. Is that what you want? To forever dream of what might have been? Is Gunnar Olafson to become another of your ghostly warriors, no more than a wisp of smoke in your arms? This man here is warm and real—a real warrior. Take the chance!
The voice had filled her head so loudly, Rose was certain Gunnar must have heard it. But no, he was pointing to the back of the chair now, saying, “And look, this is Yggdrasil, the largest of all trees. Its branches reach the heavens, and they are heavy with the dead.”
The dead? Blinking in shocked surprise, Rose moved even nearer to him, looking where he indicated. ’Twas true. The leaves and branches had been carved beautifully, and yet among them were the unmistakable shapes of hanged men.
She shivered. “Why have I never noticed this before? I do not understand. This chair is from Wales! Are the Welsh legends not different from the Vikings?”
“This is no Welsh chair, lady. These are Norse gods. I know them well.” His eyes were warm and intimate, as if they were much more than lady and mercenary. He was so close, his breath touched her, she felt the heat of his body. Shakily, Rose reached out a hand to grasp the back of the chair, her legs on the verge of crumpling.
“Oh,” was all she managed in reply.
He moved closer again, and now his shoulder brushed against her. The tingle ran down her arm into her fingers. Was that intentional? Was he seducing her? And yet he didn’t appear to notice.
“See here? This is Freyja, the goddess of love. Of lust. Of desire.” He was looking directly at her now—she could feel his gaze on her cheek as if he were touching her skin. Rose dared not turn her head, afraid he would see what she knew was in her eyes. “Do you see there? She is with one of her lovers.” His voice was a warm murmur, the sound rippling through her like a warm ocean, and just the timbre of it made her breasts ache.
God help her, she wanted his mouth on them. She wanted his hands holding her, stroking her, setting her free like one of Sigurd’s birds, high above Yggdrasil and the clouds. Far away from all that kept her weighed down here, at Somerford Manor.
She didn’t want to look where his finger was touching, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Rose turned and stared at the little carving. Legs and arms intertwined, the rounded curve of a plump breast, a smooth thigh, long snakelike hair whipping about bare torsos. It was simply done, and yet incredibly erotic.
Rose took a small sharp breath and wondered if her face was as heated as it felt. She folded her hands tightly together in case she was tempted to reach out and touch Freyja and her fortunate mate.
“And there, lady,” that wicked voice continued, “is the goddess Freyja’s mortal lover, Ottar, before she turned him into a bull.”
This time Rose stared without blinking, shocked into silence. It was as if she were seeing the carvings for the first time, and in a way she was. She had always thought them strange and wondrous, but now she realized they were also extremely sensual. Pagan. No wonder the old Somerford priest had looked at them askance.
Her eyes focused on Ottar, where Gunnar pointed now, and she understood clearly why it was Freyja had favored him. He was carved in profile, tall and strong, his hair long at his back, and between his legs…Rose doubted that was a spear he was holding in his hand.
“Jesu!” she gasped, and squeezed her eyes tight shut.
Gunnar laughed, as if he were genuinely amused and delighted with her. He rose to his feet and stood half behind her, blocking any chance of escape. Rose felt flushed and crowded—she desperately needed to move away from him, and yet she was unable to move without touching him. And she was afraid that if she accidentally brushed against him she would fling herself into his arms and beg him to…
Take this chance, it may be your last!
Her heart was thundering in her breast. Last night he had held her in his arms and she had reveled in what he did to her. Rose could not deny those brief moments were filled with an intensity she had never experienced before. But it had not been enough—she could admit it now. She wanted him to take her as a man took a woman, to lie with her as Freyja was lying with her Ottar. And the voice was right. This might be her last opportunity to be with a man she found attractive.
Who knew what corner of hell the future might find her in?
Gunnar had moved in, bending over her, and now his breath stirred against her throat, the sensitive flesh reacting, prickling, making her shudder. Rose had to grip the chair back with both hands.
“You seem likely to fly to pieces, lady.” His voice was as soft as a caress. “Do I frighten you so much? Or is it yourself you are afraid of?”
She was no weakling. It would never do for Gunnar Olafson to believe the way to power lay through sharing her bed. Until Radulf removed her, she was lady there, and any order she gave he must obey. Somehow Rose forced her chin up, turning stiffly to face him despite his proximity. “You are mistaken,” she managed, although her voice shook. “I am not afraid of you.”
He was looking down at her, his eyes so blue and vibrant. The heat in them burned her skin.
“I am not afraid of you,” she repeated, more to convince herself. “I am the Lady of Somerford, and you are a mercenary. I give the orders. Do not forget it, Captain.”
He didn’t seem angered by what she had said; his smile grew broader. “Then order me to show you what the mercenary can do for the lady.”
There was no doubting his meaning, it was there in the glitter of his eyes, the curl of his hips. He wanted her. He was offering to give her as much pleasure as he had last night. More. And she had only to ask…Well, wasn’t that exactly what she wanted?
“Have you shown many ladies what you can do, Captain?” she asked.
Some other emotion flickered in his confident blue eyes. Surprise? Confusion? Annoyance? The timbre of his voice cooled. “Are you interested in my fidelity, lady? Or my prowess? I can give you my body, I can give you the pleasure you crave, but be warned…my heart is my own.”
“I’m not interested in your heart,” Rose said, and was sure she meant it. She needed him as a lover, and he was offering himself to her. Some devilment made her ask, “This was not in our original agreement. How many extra marks would you charge me, Captain, for this service?”
“No extra, lady. It would be entirely my pleasure.”
Briefly, Rose wondered if she had lost
her mind entirely, and then she didn’t care. There were probably far worse things to come. Just for now, let pleasure reign.
“Very well, Captain, we have a bargain. Come to me…later, when everyone is abed.”
He bowed as if he were her obedient servant, when Rose knew very well that he was not. She had not promised, she told herself, as she whirled away. She could always change her mind and not let him in. But she knew, deep in her heart, that it was too late to go back.
Too late, because she did not want to.
The air was still and sweet with summer. Rose stood a moment, staring into the night. Across the Mere, Burrow Mump rose against the star-filled sky. Tonight the island seemed a long way away. Tonight she had put aside dreams and ghosts. Soon they might be all she had to comfort her, but for now there was a flesh and blood man to be enjoyed.
You want him. Constance’s voice sounded in her head. And yet you are afraid of him.
I am afraid of how he makes me feel.
Like a woman? scoffed Constance gently. You should not be afraid of that. Every woman should feel such pleasure at least once in her life. Some feel it not at all. I was lucky with my husband. Now is your chance, Rose. Do not allow it to slip by.
And if he has changed his mind?
He won’t. I have seen the way he looks at you.
Rose felt the color in her cheeks and turned again to the window, her dark hair smooth as a velvet cloak around her. She had combed it and left it unbraided, wrapping her thin robe about her nakedness. There was only one small candle flickering by the door. She sat in darkness by the window, knowing that when he came she would see him first.
Rose had few advantages where Gunnar Olafson was concerned, but that was one.
She did not feel like herself. Just now her body might be cooled by the evening air, her heartbeat even, her thoughts measured, but as soon as he touched her all that would change. She would lose her equilibrium. She would become nothing more than another willing woman in his arms. So any advantage was worth pursuing. Aye, she would sit in the shadows and watch him in the candlelight, and pretend she was in charge of the situation.
Rose’s mind drifted back to the moments by the Somerford chair, and the Norse carvings whose meaning he had explained to her. Gunnar was like those carvings—in some ways he was brutal, in others he was beautiful, and always intensely seductive…
The knock on her door was soft, but still Rose jumped. Her breath sounded very loud in the silence, and she pulled her robe closer about her, suddenly wishing she had not undressed. And yet how foolish to think another layer of cloth could protect her from Gunnar Olafson!
“Lady?” His voice was muffled. He knocked again.
Rose did not expect him to wait indefinitely. He would think she had changed her mind, or he would feel foolish and leave. No man liked to feel foolish. Mayhap it would be best if she did not…
The door opened wide.
He stood on the threshold, the candlelight catching in his hair and eyes, playing shadowy games with his handsome face and impressive body. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and he had it half out of its sheath, ready. He was frowning into the chamber, trying to pierce the shadows.
“Captain Olafson.”
His gaze moved swiftly to the window. Slowly, he returned his sword to its scabbard, and came further into the room, closing the door behind him and dropping the bar in place. The candle flame wavered, darting crazily on the walls and ceiling beams. He did not seem to care that she could see him and he could not see her.
When he spoke at last his tone was ironic. “Were you sleeping that you did not hear my knock, lady?”
“Did you think I had gone back on my word, Captain?”
“I wondered.” He stepped further into the room—he was so big, he crowded her despite his distance. “You called me Gunnar last night…lady.”
Rose had set out her words in her head, but he was making it difficult for her to remember them. She licked her lips and tried to regain her composure.
He took yet another step, looking directly at her, one hand still resting on his sword hilt, the other loose at his side. Was he stalking her? A wolf edging closer to its prey? Rose rushed into her speech before her courage could fail her entirely, but her voice was hurried and breathless.
“A man like you, Captain, must be well versed in what women like most. That is why I have chosen you—I require the best.”
His face was beyond the soft light of the candle now, but she thought he smiled, as if the shambles of her carefully prepared speech had amused him.
“I have been a wife, so do not think I am innocent of the ways of men,” she went on with grim determination. “I want a bedmate, nothing more. Do not think to win me to your ambitions, whatever they be. I will not give you gifts, Captain, nor will I promise to further your career or sing your praises to those high in the land. This is a private matter, between us, and whether it lasts for one night or…or more, we will not speak of it beyond these walls. Do I have your word on that?”
He was silent now, watching her, the secrets hiding in his face. What was he thinking? Rose wondered, her body tense as she perched stiffly upon the window seat. Was he going to refuse her? Laugh at her? She remembered that he had taken a long time to consider her last request for a promise, in the hall the night Edward came begging for permission to open the gate. Maybe he was simply weighing the benefits to himself in this new arrangement.
“You have my word, lady.”
He came at her again, and now he was nothing but a dark shape against the pitiful candle. A huge dark shape. Rose looked up, trying to see his face. He stretched out a hand and she felt his fingers brush against her hair, lingering, so gentle for such a big, powerful man. Would he be as gentle when he laid her upon the bed and took her as a man takes a woman?
Startled and made breathless by the thought, Rose jumped to her feet and slid out of his reach. He did not move, watching her, waiting. His stillness was intimidating, as if he was gathering his strength for the next assault on her senses. She wanted him—her body was warm, so warm. Her hands shook, her legs trembled. She could smell her own desire, the musky scent of a woman who wanted a man. And still she pretended she was in control of the situation.
“I command you to take off your clothes, Captain,” Rose said, her voice brave.
He did not move. Mayhap, she thought shakily, he would refuse? March angrily from the room? She almost hoped he would, for then she would be able to breathe normally again. Be herself again.
Be alone again…
“Your command is my wish,” he said, his voice soft and deep, like a hot brand too close to her skin. And—Jesu!—he was unbuckling his sword belt, slowly, purposefully. It came free, and he glanced about him, and then decided to place it carefully upon the window seat where Rose had lately been seated. Next came his brown tunic, and he lifted this over his head, dropping it carelessly on the floor at his feet.
Now he wore only his breeches, leather boots, and a white linen shirt. The shirt was worn so thin that his skin shone golden through it, and the laces were untied to halfway down his chest. Rose caught glimpses of the hard, curving muscles that covered that wide, wonderful chest.
She folded her arms hard about herself, tugging the robe around her as if it were chain mail and would somehow protect her from him. The truth was she had only her position as protection, but as long as she kept her head he would not know how weak and feeble she was before him.
Do not let yourself love. It was her mother’s voice. Brown eyes, so much like Rose’s, were hollow with pain as she gave her daughter the only advice she had to give. Do not let yourself want. And if you do…don’t let him know it. Remember, ’tis men who have all the power in this world.
Gunnar lifted his white shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor at her feet. Rose forgot her mother’s warning as all thought was wiped from her mind.
He was built like a god.
All hard muscle and
golden skin. He was so strong, his shoulders broad, his arms powerful, his chest a hard wall, narrowing down to his waist and stomach, to where the breeches covered him like a second skin. Rose wanted to groan aloud. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over all that magnificence, she wanted to lean into him and kiss his mouth.
He was untying the laces on his breeches, his blue eyes fixed on her. Rose caught her breath as the waist loosened, and for a moment he let them fall as far as they could. A line of darker hair ran from his stomach down into the shadows of his groin. Was he teasing her? But even as the doubts threatened to bring her back from the brink, he was peeling the breeches slowly down over his hips and thighs.
He was already aroused. His manhood jutted toward her, so big…No wonder he had laughed when she trembled before the carving of Ottar. Surely Edric had never been so big? How would she manage? Rose lifted a trembling hand to her mouth and began to chew on one of her already ragged nails.
Gunnar finished tugging his breeches down over his powerful thighs, pushing the cloth past his knees, and then quickly pulling off his boots and completing what she had commanded him to do. When he straightened he was completely naked, and Rose was sure that her heart stopped in her breast.
He was beautiful, with the sort of masculine perfection she had not believed possible until now. He was the sort of man that women were drawn to despite themselves—no wonder they had gazed, bedazzled, at him in the hall. Rose could not despise them now, for she was just as smitten by him as all her womenfolk.
But Gunnar Olafson was not just beautiful, he had a magic ingredient that enslaved her senses. She didn’t just want to touch him, she wanted to possess him. And that made her present position dangerous, much more dangerous than she had imagined.
“I do not think,” she managed, her voice trembling violently. “I fear that I cannot—”
Suddenly he was there, although she did not remember him moving. His body was so close now she felt his heat, smelled his male scent; his copper braids swung forward as he bent his head and searched her face with his bright, brilliant gaze. His voice was implacable. “Yes, lady, you can. And you will.”