Emma’s head reeled with the revelation that also appeared to have stolen the air from Adèle’s lungs. “What does this mean?” Emma asked.
“It means Ivar is the grandson of the Count of Rennes, which also places him somewhere in the line of succession for Brittany,” Adèle said. “It also means I have wed my first cousin’s half-brother. I am very relieved the connection isn’t any closer.” She continued with a laugh. “The Norse may not care about such things, but our Mother Church surely would.”
***
Ivar’s heart beat faster with every stride of his horse’s iron-shod feet. Had Emma arrived safely? Was she even now waiting for him? As the keep of Quimper came into view, a party of riders exited the bailey. Recognizing his brother at their head, Ivar spurred his horse into a hard gallop. For the first time in his life, Ivar felt like he was coming home. Minutes later, the band of men came together in a burst of laughter and cheers. Ivar could hardly contain his own joy at the reunion.
“Well met, brother!” Valdrik exclaimed with a grin. “We had begun to fear the worst. Lady Emma said you returned alone to the camp. Seven-hundred-to-one are terrible odds.”
“I’m not so easy to kill,” Ivar said.
Valdrik squinted into the distance. “Is there perchance an army chasing at your heels?”
“Ebles is no longer a threat,” Ivar replied.
“You killed him?”
“Nay.” Ivar shook his head. “He didn’t deserve the honor.”
Valdrik’s brows met in a puzzled look. “Then what did you do with him?”
Ivar couldn’t hold back a burst of mirth. “Let us say that even the mercenaries won’t fight for him now.”
“I don’t follow you,” Valdrik said.
“I cut off his bollocks.”
Valdrik raised a brow. “’Tis harsh, even from you.”
Ivar shrugged. “I first thought to gift them to Emma, but then decided the Danes would better understand my message. They will never fight for a man who isn’t truly a man.”
“Surely, they will not,” Valdrik agreed with a grin. “It seems Lady Emma has rallied all of Brittany for naught.”
“Emma?” Ivar repeated incredulously. “Are you saying she has finally sworn allegiance to you?”
“I would not go so far,” Valdrik replied, “But we have indeed achieved a truce of sorts. I leave it to you to finalize the treaty.”
Ivar glowered. “She won’t have me.”
“You think so?”
“I know so,” Ivar replied.
“Then what am I to do with her?” Valdrik asked.
“If she will swear allegiance, give it to her.” Ivar inclined his head toward the keep.
“A woman?”
“A Valkyrie,” Ivar corrected him. “She has the heart of one. She deserves this honor.”
“We will speak of it later,” Valdrik said. “For now,” he clapped Ivar on the shoulder. “Let us celebrate your safe return.”
***
As Emma exited the chapel arm-in-arm with Adèle, a commotion sounded from the outer bailey. Horses and riders returned? Her stomach lurched into her throat. Was Ebles’ army approaching? Raising her tunic, Emma raced from the chapel toward the armory. Halfway through the bailey, she froze.
In the midst of the riders, sat Ivar, covered in dirt and blood and grinning from ear—to-ear. Her heart stood still for what felt like eternity. The moment he sawher, the grin vanished. Her chest squeezed even tighter. For four days she’d lived in both hope and fear of this moment.
Never taking his eyes off her, he leapt off of his horse and flung his reins to a stable boy. She stood as a statue, unable to move, unable to breathe as he strode toward her looking like the same monster who had entered her baily a mere fortnight ago. The breath she’d been holding exited her lungs in a painful rush as her stomach collided with his shoulder. For the second time, Emma found herself hanging upside down staring at his broad back. This time, however, she didn’t shriek and flail, but gritted her teeth. She’d endangered his life. She deserved whatever punishment he’d decided to mete out.
He carried her straight up the stairs to her chamber where Havoise met them with wringing hands. “Hot water,” Ivar demanded as he set Emma on her feet.
They were the first words he’d spoken since entering the baily and he hadn’t even directed them to her.
“Water?” Havoise repeated with a blank look.
“Aye. And a tub for a bath.” He looked then to Emma. “The lady finds blood and dirt offensive.”
“Aye, milord,” Havoise bobbed and scurried out the door.
“Perhaps it depends on whose blood,” Emma suggested softly.
“I did not kill him,” Ivar replied gruffly. “I regret it if that disappoints you.”
“I didn’t mean Ebles,” Emma said, stepping closer. “I meant I would be sorely offended if it was your blood that stained your face and tunic.”
He cocked a brow. “Is that so? What of my smell, Lady Emma? I have been four days on a sweating horse. Surely that is odious to you.”
Emma gazed straight into his eyes. “There is nothing odious about your return… I longed for it, Ivar.”
Something flickered to life in his green eyes. “Nevertheless, you will bathe me.” He unbuckled his weapon belt and let it drop to the floor and then sat on her bed to pull off his boots.
“You expect me to wash you?”
He eyed her slowly up and down. “I will expect many such things of you… You may even grow to enjoy it.”
Emma swallowed hard. Did he intend to make her a bed slave as his mother had been? Was this to be her punishment? She’d resigned herself to accept her sentence, but this was too much!
She spun away. “I swore I would accept my punishment, but I cannot, I will not ever be your slave, Ivar!”
“I have no intention of making you my slave, Emma.” She felt the heat of his body standing at her back. “I have a far worse punishment in mind.”
“What?” Emma asked, wondering what heinous torture he intended to inflict upon her. “The cage?” she whispered.
Ivar released a rumble of laughter that vibrated through her body. “You really believe I would have done that to you?”
“Why wouldn’t I believe it?” Annoyed at his burst of mirth, she turned to face him.
“That was naught but a farce meant to scare you into submission.” He reached for her face and stroked his thumb over her cheek. “As to your punishment for running away—“A knock sounded on the door. “Enter,” Ivar called out.
Budic entered with a towel over his shoulder, carrying a wooden tub. He averted his gaze as if embarrassed and mumbled. “Water and soap be coming.”
Several servants followed, bearing bucket upon bucket of steaming water, until the tub was half full. Ivar nodded in approval and closed the door. Emma couldn’t tear her eyes away as Ivar stripped off his tunic and shirt.
His chest was well-muscled and marked with inked symbols and two long scars. His gaze met hers as he reached for the ties of his breeches. She’d never seen a fully naked man. Even when they had almost bedded together, Ivar had still worn his short braies.
She heard the soft splash of water as he immersed himself in the tub. “Come to me, Emma.” He beckoned softly. “Wash me.”
“No,” she replied. She was curious to see the full glory of this man unclothed, but modesty made her turn away.
“Are you so repulsed that you cannot even look upon me?”
“I’m not repulsed at all,” she whispered. “I’m a coward.”
“You fear me?” he asked.
She turned around. “The truth is that I fear myself. I’m afraid that I am about to abandon my Christian beliefs and revel in sin.”
His ginger brows met in a frown. “Is it a Christian sin to bathe someone?” he asked. “Did not your own Lord wash his disciples’ feet?”
“How do you know this?” she asked in amazement.
“I told you,” he said. “I know m
any stories about your god.” He dunked his head in the water and then threw his head back, scrubbing the dirt and blood from his face.” He extended his hand to her, offering up the cake of lye.
She came toward him, quoting, “Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow." Taking the soap in hand, she knelt beside the tub, gaze averted.
“Come now,” he cajoled. “You cannot wash what you cannot see.”
He reached for her hand and placed it on his chest, and held it there. He then moved their joined hands slowly over his body. His skin was warm and wet and the hairs on it coarse to the touch. As her trembling fingers moved over his chest and shoulders, he dropped his head back, shut his eyes, and sank deeper into the water. Her gaze shifted lower down his body, taking in inch-by-inch of sculpted muscle and sinew.
Emma bit her lip as her vision took in the junction between his legs, where his erect manhood jutted out from a nest of dark ginger hair. Her hand moved lower, as if of its own volition. Releasing the soap, she closed her fingers around his staff.
His eyes snapped open. He released a low groan as his hand came over hers, guiding her up and down his pillar of hot, hard flesh. “Do you understand this, Emma?”
“Yes,” she whispered, licking her lips. She understood very well. He wanted to put himself inside her and she truly wanted to let him. “But— “
He cupped the back of her head and silenced her protest with a long, wet kiss. Emma responded with a whimper and he pulled her closer still, wetting her gown with his body. “Then take off your clothes,” he murmured hotly against her mouth, even as he reached for the hem of her tunic and jerked it upward.
“Please. I can’t,” Emma protested. She was breathless and dizzy with desire, but still reluctant to commit fornication. “It would be— “
“A sin?” he asked. He released her but his gazed still held her captive. “Is the act of love evil in the eyes of your god?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not always. It is only the sin of fornication when two people who are unwed have carnal relations, but the act of love is encouraged between a man and woman who are wed. Indeed, our Lord commanded us to be fruitful.”
“Ah.” His mouth kicked up in one corner. “At last there is something favorable to be said of your faith. By your own words, this is not sin, Emma.”
“W-what do you mean?”
“As your punishment for running away, my brother intends to find you a husband.”
“I don’t want a husband!” Emma exclaimed.
“We will be wed, whether you like it or not.”
“Have I no say in this?”
“No,” he growled. “I would kill any other man he might choose for you. If you wish to keep the peace and prevent bloodshed in Brittany, you will marry me.”
She stared back at him, her heart quickening with joy. “I thought you would make me your bed slave. You truly want me for your wife?”
“As I said, before—some things are fated. You and I, Emma… are fated.”
He suddenly reached out and pulled her into the bath with him.
Emma shrieked, but her protest had no teeth. His mouth claimed hers as he ripped through her wet, linen shift. Then his hands were everywhere. Through a haze of raw desire, she was aware of his fingers exploring, of the blissful friction of his erect shaft rubbing against her, and then of a sudden rapturous shudder of pleasure that overtook her. She lay limp against him, lost in wonder.
***
Ivar was already as hard as Thor’s hammer, but knowing she was a virgin, he willed himself to be slow and gentle. Emma’s whimpering and writhing, however, had him skirting the knife’s edge of restraint. His need had grown urgent.
“Come Emma, I can wait no longer.” He stood, stepped out of the tub, and pulled her to her feet, kissing her passionately. Heedless of the water dripping from their bodies, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed where they collapsed together in a wild tangle of limbs.
Kissing and licking every lush contour, he moved down her body, inhaling deeply of the pungent scent of her arousal. His bollocks contracted as her musky scent assailed his senses. She was ripe and ready for him and his body shook as he poised to breach her.
Odin’s Eye! He’d never felt so out of control with a woman before. But this was no ordinary woman. This was Emma. His giantess. His gift from the gods.
***
Emma was aware of the pressure of his knee nudging her legs apart, but this time, she was powerless to resist. The reasoning part of her understood what was happening but her carnal nature had no will to stop it. She had an ache deep in her belly that only her savage Viking could fill.
“Please, Ivar,” she cried out, needing him inside her.
“Do you take me as your husband?” he asked, still holding back. “If you will not have me, you must speak now.”
“Yes,” she gasped. “I will have you.”
Gazing deeply into her eyes, he offered a final reassurance. “Then as the gods are my witness, Emma, by this act of love, you will become my wife.”
Kissing her deeply, Ivar reared back and plunged inside her. The pain was sharp and made her cry out, but his heated kisses soon distracted her from the pain. With tangling tongues and mingled moans, he began moving inside her, creating conflicting sensations of pain and pleasure. Her mind was confused by it but her body cried for more. Instinctively, she rose to meet his strokes. The discomfort dulled until there was only blissful friction … and then sudden and breathless rapture. Emma opened her eyes to gaze up at him, her heart swelling with emotion as he spent his hot seed inside her.
As she later lay entwined in his arms, Emma knew that she had she finally surrendered, not just her body, but also her heart. The marauding heathen had finally conquered the Lady of Quimper.
EPILOGUE
Six months later
LADY EMMA WAS THIGH-DEEP in the Odet, scythe in hand, when her husband came upon her.
Casting her a look of reproof, Ivar dismounted from his horse. “What in Odin’s name is the Countess of Cornouailles doing wading in the river?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” she replied with a teasing grin.
“Reaping rushes, but what the devil for?” he asked. “The lady of Quimper should leave such work to the villagers.”
“But it has long been my pleasure to weave rushes,” Emma protested.
He stood on the bank, hands on hips, eyeing her slowly. “Seeing you in that wet gown could easily become my pleasure.” Surprising Emma, he sat on the bank and began pulling off his boots.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Helping you. No self-respecting man would stand on the bank watching his wife labor.”
“But I am finished,” she said, wading toward him with arms laden. “At least for now.”
Ivar rolled up his breeches and stepped into the river to relieve her of the burden, and then added it to the stack of long green stalks piled on the riverbank. “What do you intend to do with these?” he asked as he handed her out of the water.
She smiled. “I have something very special in mind. You might even call it a gift.”
“A gift for whom?” he asked, brows furrowing.
She reached for his face. “For you, my love.”
“Grass makes a very poor shield,” he remarked.
“It’s not a shield,” she answered.
“A chair?” he asked.
“Nay, tis not a chair, nor is it a mat for the bed chamber floor.”
“Then, what is it to be?” he asked.
She laughed aloud at the perplexed look that came over his face. She was bursting with the desire to tell him, but also wanted it to be a surprise. “I should make you wait until it’s finished.”
Ivar stared at the grass and then looked back at Emma. “This thing you will make serves a specific purpose?”
“Yes,” she replied softly. “A very specific purpose.”
“I
s this something one would carry?” he ventured warily.
Her mouth twitched. “Aye, though some might look askance were you to carry it.”
“Is this thing you make used for something that you now carry?”
The smile she struggled with defeated her as he laid a large, warm, trembling hand on her belly. “Aye, my love.” She laid a hand on top of his and then stretched to kiss his face. “‘Tis a basket to carry your babe that now grows inside my womb.”
END
END
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ABOUT VICTORIA VANE
Victoria Vane is an Amazon #1 bestselling author of smart and sexy romance. Her works range from wild comedic romps to emotionally compelling erotic romance, and have received over twenty awards and nominations to include: 2016 RONE Finalist for BRETON WOLFE, 2016 Red Carpet Finalist for Best Contemporary romance (ROUGH RIDER), 2015 Red Carpet Finalist for Best Contemporary romance (SLOWHAND), 2014 RONE Award for Best Historical Post Medieval Romance (Treacherous Temptations), and Library Journal Best E-Book romance of 2012 (The Devil DeVere series).
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