by Sara Bennett
“You are very hard, Captain,” she murmured. “Is that for me or do you plan to take the Mere women one by one?”
He choked, and then he had rolled over again, this time pinning her beneath him, one of his thighs pressed between hers, his hands either side of her face. “I want you,” he said, and, bending his head, kissed her until her head was spinning. His fingers were determined as he lifted her skirts, slipping into her soft folds and finding her as eager as he. Rose tugged at the ties of his breeches and slid them down, freeing him. He lifted her hips and immediately drove deep into her, immersing himself in her, as if he could never get close enough.
“Rose,” he groaned and withdrawing thrust again. She moved with him, her hair wild about her, her eyes blurred with desire and pleasure. Her hands slid under his tunic, finding the hard, smooth planes of his chest, and then his mouth was on hers again, taking her cries as she reached her peak, and giving her back his own ecstasy as he followed her to the top.
Stop this, stop it now!
Rose gasped and tried to pull away, straightening her clothing, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment and the knowledge that once again he had breached her ramparts. “No,” she gasped, “no, I didn’t want…I didn’t mean…”
But Gunnar caught her hand, drawing her back against him, holding her to stillness while he gazed steadily into her eyes.
“There is just you and me,” he said, like the calm in the storm that was tearing at her, making her head ache. “We are together in this, Rose. Trust me, lean on me. Let me be your shield, just for now. It is what I am good at. And I will hold you close and maybe, for once, I will not feel so alone.”
He looked so sincere. As if he meant it. Rose suddenly wished with all her heart that he did mean it. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. Slowly, like an unwilling sacrifice, she relaxed against him. It felt good, so good…
Why not? she asked herself. Take what he offered without guilt or fear, and later, when Somerford was saved, she could end it.
End it? Just like that?
Yes! thought Rose. I will end it…but for now I will take what he offers—and we will both be happy.
She nodded her head almost brusquely, her decision made. He had been still, awaiting her answer. Now he brushed back her hair, and slowly began to kiss her. Soft, tender kisses that grew longer and more passionate, until kissing wasn’t enough, and they lost themselves once more in an act, the meaning of which both of them denied.
Chapter 18
“Gunnar Olafson?” It was Godenere’s voice from beyond the doorway in the shadows.
Light was fading from the day, and Rose had been asleep in the smoky darkness, lying in Gunnar’s arms. They had not left the hut, and when food was brought to them, a crowd accompanied the meal and then faded away with the emptied dishes.
Rose’s villagers believed the merefolk had tails in place of legs. Now Rose understood how it felt to be looked on as a freak.
“This is all to do with you,” she had told Gunnar.
But he had looked at her and, smiling, shaken his head. “No, lady. ’Tis you they come to look at. Your beauty holds them spellbound. The goddess from the castle, that is you.”
Rose had laughed, delighted with the compliment, even if she didn’t believe it. She stretched up to kiss his rough cheek. The stubble was turning into a young beard, but it was so fair it was barely noticeable unless she was close, unless she brushed her fingers across his skin.
What was it about him that made her chest ache? This feeling inside her, this swelling of happiness and pain, of longing…It wasn’t sensible to allow herself to be carried away on this wave of emotion. She would be much wiser to step back from him, hold herself aloof…
“Gunnar Olafson?”
Godenere’s voice came again, more insistent.
Rose sat up, just as Gunnar got to his feet. He was still bare chested from their last bout of lovemaking, although he had pulled on his breeches. He was like a dream come true, thought Rose, and felt a spurt of jealousy as she thought of all those mere women drooling over him.
Gunnar stooped beneath the roofline to save cracking his head as he went to the doorway. The door itself was made of withy sticks twisted into a thick mat and fastened to the jamb with leather straps. He pushed the door aside and there was Godenere, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, patiently waiting. Behind him…
Rose sighed. It was as she had feared. Behind Godenere was gathered what looked like the entire village.
Nervous suddenly, Rose, too, quickly got to her feet. She twisted her long dark hair back over her shoulder, brushing down her gown, smoothing her sleeves. Her body still tingled from Gunnar’s touch, and ached pleasantly in places it had never ached before. She was untidy, her skin and clothing were salty, and she felt frighteningly vulnerable to the gaze of others.
She had always been quick before to hide that vulnerability under her lady-of-the-manor face, but here she had no authority. She might as well be a serf, a peasant at the whim of the great ones.
Coming up behind Gunnar, she placed her hand against his broad back. His skin was smooth, apart from the scars, the evidence of his dangerous life. She wanted to wrap her arms about him and breathe in his scent, press close and forget.
Gunnar glanced questioningly at her over his shoulder. Perhaps he read her need in her face, for he reached around and drew her to his side. She settled into the curve of his body, and his big hand came to rest on her hip as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Godenere was saying something about Normans in his quick tongue. Gunnar answered him, his own voice low and measured, but Rose felt his body tense and knew the news wasn’t good.
Behind Godenere, men, women, and children peered at the two of them, some curious, some stifling giggles, some suspicious. Rose couldn’t blame them for the last. If she and Gunnar were bringing danger to this island by being there, it was better they left now.
Gunnar nodded to what Godenere was saying, his fingers smoothing thoughtfully over Rose’s round hip. The warmth in her blood began to simmer. She kept herself still, trying to concentrate on the conversation between the two men, but the feel of his long fingers was distracting.
Suddenly Godenere nodded in Rose’s direction. “This lady belongs to you?” he asked.
Rose understood that. She froze and dared not look at Gunnar. Was that how it seemed to these people? she asked herself bleakly. Did it already appear that she was Gunnar’s woman, to do with as he pleased? As her father had made her mother his creature?
Gunnar was taking his time in replying, his hand had stilled on her hip. The crowd shifted forward curiously, the pretty serving girl to the front.
’Twas just as well she did not mean to cling to Gunnar Olafson forever, Rose thought crossly. How could she endure this every day? It would drive her to distraction…
“No.” Gunnar smiled at the old man, and there was a hint of regret in his tone. “I am her man, that is all. But she does not belong to me, or any man.”
Godenere looked doubtful. He said something to the watching crowd, and there was a questioning murmur. Some of the women sighed in disappointment. Rose felt her face heating up under their continued scrutiny, and was glad when Godenere and Gunnar finished their conversation, and she was able to retreat into the hut.
“What did he say?” she asked curiously, avoiding his eyes as she bent to warm her hands at the smoldering peat fire.
He crouched down beside her, the black breeches stretching deliciously over his thighs. His copper braids swung forward as he leaned toward her, and his voice was low. “They have seen Normans searching in the Mere. For us, they think—why else would they be here? Miles must have Somerford in his fist now, but he will not feel safe until he has killed me and taken you.”
She turned and met his gaze. There was something hot and angry in his storm-blue eyes, a sense of terrible danger. But it was not a threat to her—it was Miles
whom Gunnar meant to hurt.
He reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers gentle—it always surprised her how gentle he was, as if because his hands were used to wielding a sword, they could not do anything else. He had proved her wrong in that, at least.
“We are no longer safe here,” he went on, and dropped his hand. The peat fire shifted, a piece falling out onto the floor beyond the stone trough, and he used his boot to push it back to safety.
“Then what will we do?” she ventured, watching the stirred peat flare before returning to its usual sulky smolder.
“Our presence puts these people in danger. If Miles and his men come upon us here, they will kill them for giving us shelter. Fitzmorton rules his lands by terror, Rose. He isn’t like Radulf, he isn’t like you.”
“I know what Fitzmorton is,” she said quietly.
“Godenere wants to move us onto another island, a place where nobody lives. Then, if we are captured, no one can be punished for sheltering us.”
“I see.” Rose felt herself shrink with disappointment. She had hoped that, somehow, they would be able to return to Somerford, regain what was lost. Now they must travel even farther into the bewildering Mere. Mayhap they would still be there when they were old and gray, traipsing from island to island, an old exiled couple…
Gunnar interrupted her bleak vision.
“Godenere and I have made a plan.”
“What sort of plan?” Rose felt her stomach clench. Would she have to decide whether to trust him again? Jesu, why did it always come down to trust?
“Godenere will send some of his people to find the searching Normans. They will make up some tale about seeing us, and in the process let them know where we are hiding. When they come, we will be waiting for them. We will spring the trap and the victory will be ours.”
“We will spring the trap?” she retorted, so close to him now that her breath stirred his hair. “I would very much like to fight Miles, but I cannot even lift your sword!”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I swear you could wither them with one look, lady. But it will not be necessary. Godenere is willing to send a group of his men to fight with us.”
“Godenere is willing to do this? For us?”
“You promised to bring them peace and security when you regain Somerford. They will never get that if Fitzmorton takes your manor.”
That was true enough.
The idea had merit, but to deliberately set themselves up as bait in a snare…? Rose sat silent, steadying her jumping nerves.
You have been through worse. And if it means we can be free of this present threat, then it must be considered worth the attempt.
“When must we go?”
Gunnar knelt beside her, not touching her, but so close she could feel his warmth. It was comforting, like the sun shining on a cold day. ’Twas a pity that soon he would be gone, and she would be alone once more.
“We must go soon.”
Rose nodded. Suddenly she did not want to meet his eyes. The words came out of nowhere. “You said you were my man.”
“Aye. ’Tis the truth, whether you believe it or not. I have pledged myself to obey you, Rose.”
“I don’t want—”
“I will win Somerford back for you. I swear this.” Suddenly he bowed his head before her. “I swear it. I make it my vow, lady. Please believe me.”
Reluctantly, Rose placed one shaking hand on his bowed head. His hair was as soft beneath her fingers as she had feared. There were hot tears on her cheeks, but she didn’t remember crying them. She wanted to believe him so much, so very much. She longed to give herself over to him, to let everything go—like a taut rope cut free. But she could not. She had held herself apart for too long.
“Gunnar, please…I do not want you to do this. I am not your lady. I cannot be your lady. Ever.”
“‘Ever’ is a long time, Rose.”
He looked at her through the fall of his copper hair, his blue eyes blazing. Surely he meant what he said, in this moment she almost believed him despite all she feared to the contrary.
And yet one part of her, stubborn and afraid, whispered caution.
“Aye,” she said at last. “It is.”
The Mere glowed in the dusk, mirroring the pink and orange and azure of the sky. Birds flew dark above and dragonflies glided low. The water shone, the reeds were fringes of black, and the boats slipped like ghosts through the secret channels and wider ponds.
There were four boats, twelve young men, who had come with them to help them hide from Fitzmorton and, if it came to it, to fight. Shaggy-haired, bearded, and reserved, they moved their craft with a certainty that came of having lived their entire lives in the Mere.
Twilight was turning to darkness, and biting insects came out to feed on them. Rose pulled her cloak up over her head, covering her flesh as best she could. As she turned to see what lay ahead, she realized they were drawing closer to solid land. A knoll rose abruptly from the flat levels, towering above them.
Burrow Mump.
The place of her dreams.
Surely they could not be going there? And yet the boats moved relentlessly onward, closer and closer to that dark shape. The paddles so quiet, with only the softest splash. The air about them was warm, thick, the light was magical, and there before her lay the place of her dreams.
Was this a dream? Rose was no longer sure.
Suddenly the reeds seemed to stir around her, as if brushed by an unseen hand. She shivered.
“Rose?” It was Gunnar’s voice.
“Is that where we are going?”
He glanced beyond her, at the rising bulk of the island. “Aye. Godenere said it was a place no one came to.”
“Why is that?” She was whispering; somehow it seemed wrong not to whisper in this place. “Why does no one come here?”
“He said the ghosts of their ancient ones live here. The dead. It is their Valhalla. When Miles’s men find us, they will help us to victory.”
Rose held her breath as the boat came into the shore, brushing through the reeds in the shallows, bumping onto dry land. For a moment no one moved. There was no sound. Nothing.
The silence was inexpressibly eerie.
Gunnar climbed out and helped Rose to follow. As she stood, her cloak wrapped close about her, he pulled their boat high up onto the shore. The other men were also moving about, not speaking, quickly securing their boats and then moving off into the darkness.
Gunnar and Rose followed.
There was little that lived on Burrow Mump. A few small animals, perhaps. It felt deserted. The men lit a fire with the peat they had brought with them. It smoldered but soon grew hot. Rose sat within its comforting glow, leaning against Gunnar’s side, her eyes half closed.
Out there on the Mere it was very dark; even the stars did not seem to shine very bright. The reeds rustled in the occasional cool breeze, but other than that the strange stillness remained. A breathless feeling, a waiting feeling.
About her, the men spoke in soft voices, and sometimes Gunnar nodded and sometimes he said something in return. Their voices lulled her, took the edge off her fears, and after a time she slept.
Rose was all alone in the night. Above her the moon shone down, but it was small and insignificant and so far away. She turned around, trying to get her bearings, searching for some landmark. That was when she saw the steep shoulder of the knoll against the stars, and realized, with a quick thud of her heart, that she was standing on Burrow Mump.
Her blood turned to ice. She tried to run, but as was the way in dreams, her legs were slow and stiff and would not work. And then the ground was opening up around her, and she could see a chamber, a deep passageway, spearing into the heart of the hillside.
Far, far down Rose heard the rumble of something stirring.
She was running in earnest now. Somehow she had gotten beyond Burrow Mump, and was out on the Mere. Her feet slipped on the muddy path, a biting pain in her side. Behind h
er a great whooshing of air came howling across the Levels, and with it a sound like a hundred voices roaring all at once.
The warriors had arisen from their underground world.
Rose lost a shoe. Gasping, her breath sobbing, she abandoned it and ran on. Suddenly before her was the solid bulk of Somerford Keep. A single light flickered in the solar window, beckoning her to safety. Nearly there, nearly there…She knew she should not, but she could not help it.
Rose glanced over her shoulder.
They were close. Oh, so close.
Ghostly horses with flowing tails and manes were galloping above the water. Warriors, their arms and chests gleaming, their long hair tangled by the gust of the fierce wind that had followed them from their underground home. They were bearing down on her.
Rose turned her face to Somerford Keep and struggled forward, even knowing it was useless. They were coming too quickly; she would never make it.
Rose sat up with a jerk. Gunnar was above her, a frown in his eyes. “Lady? You were dreaming.”
Was she? Rose blinked up at him. It had seemed very real. The ghostly riders, the flight across the Mere. This time her warrior had not been there, just the ravening pack. Why was that? What did it mean?
She shivered and tried to sit up. She was, she realized, resting across his lap, and he was leaning back against the hull of one of the boats. Sleeping sitting up, if he was sleeping at all.
“What is it?” he asked her, not trying to stop her, watching her with that stillness that made her even more edgy. “What frightens you?”
Rose pushed her hair out of her eyes and blinked against the smoke of the fire. Peat did not roar and crackle like wood, it was a low fire, hot and sullen, and it lasted a long time.
“’Tis this place,” she said at last, her voice wavering despite her efforts to calm herself. Her skin was tingling with fright, the dream still very real. “Don’t you feel it?”
Gunnar glanced about him, then drew his knee up and wrapped his arms about it. He smiled. “The ancient ones, do you mean? Are you afraid they will steal you away—”