“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 bedchamber 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.”
“Is 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.”
THE END
The Bastard of Brittany
The Wolves of Brittany #3
Victoria Vane
Much have I fared, much have I found.
Much have I got from the gods.
– The Ballad of Vafthruthnir
Chapter One
Kingdom of Brittany
905 A.D.
“It is finished!” Queen Oreguen declared with a satisfied smile. “Come and see it.”
Stabbing her needle into her tambour frame, Gwened rose to examine her mother’s handiwork. “It’s lovely,” Gwened murmured, stroking the silky fabric with a reverent caress. The exquisitely embroidered veil was made of ivory Byzantine silk as delicate as gossamer. The queen had embellished it with equally delicate edging of gold thread. The effect was both subtle and sublime.
“It is for you,” her mother said with a nod. “You marry in less than a month and must have a suitable headdress for the wedding.”
“Thank you, Mother for the beautiful gift,” Gwened said.
“Try it on.” The queen removed her own circlet of gold and offered it to Gwened to replace the cloth fillet that currently held her linen veil in place. “As the Countess of Poher,” the queen said, “you will wear such a coronet of gold.”
As Gwened donned the headdress, her foster sister Adèle looked on in open admiration. “You are beautiful,” she gushed. Smiling, she clasped both of Gwened’s hands. “The day is fast approaching when we will be sisters in truth. Do you grow nervous?” she asked.
“What bride-to-be is not?” Gwened replied.
Although she was indeed nervous, excitement mixed with her anticipation. She had known Hugo of Poher for most of her life. He was young, strong, handsome, and morally upright. In sum, he was everything a woman could desire in a husband. Gwened was blessed indeed to be betrothed to such a man.
The king and queen couldn’t be happier about the forthcoming nuptials. They both greatly esteemed Hugo, perhaps too much. Their adoration was a source of bitter resentment to their own son, Rudalt.
Hugo naturally excelled in nearly every endeavor—swordplay, archery, riding, and swimming. He was also an avid scholar, passing much time with the monks in the abbey libraries. Rudalt, on the other hand, occupied himself with drinking, whoring, and the lowest company. The only thing the two men had in common was a passion for hunting, the only sport in which Rudalt was Hugo’s equal.
“Have you chosen a gown?” Adèle asked.
“I have bought the cloth for a new one,” Gwened answered. “It is a very fine linen of kermes scarlet. I think now I must embroider the hem and cuffs with gold thread.”
“I would do it for you as my wedding gift,” Adèle offered, “but I fear my needlework is far inferior to yours.”
“You do well enough,” Gwened said. “But I am useless in the still room, aside from identifying the proper plants for dyes. I think your medicinal knowledge is far more useful than my embroidery.”
“We each possess our own unique gifts,” the queen remarked. “And it is for each of us to find a way to ply our particular skills for the greater good.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Gwened answered, wondering wryly how her embroidery could possibly benefit the kingdom of Brittany.
Oreguen was a dutiful queen, but hardly an affectionate mother. Duty always came first, and she expected her daughters to follow her example. Thankfully, it was Adèle, rather than herself, who would eventually replace Oreguen, albeit, as a duchess, rather than as a queen.
Not trusting his own son, Rudalt, to rule the entire kingdom when he passed on, King Alain had recently taken measures to divide the power. Instead of inheriting the entire kingdom, Rudalt was destined to share Brittany with his two brothers-in-law, Gormaelon, the Count of Cornouailles, who had wed the king’s eldest daughter Avicia, and Hugo, Count of Poher, who would soon espouse Gwened.
Gwened had long suspected that it was the king’s secret desire for Hugo to eventually wear the crown of Brittany. Although it seemed unfair that Rudalt would not inherit all of his father’s kingdom, in all truth, he was not worthy of it. Perhaps if he wasn’t so disagreeable, Gwened might have felt more compassion for her brother, but the one she truly felt sorry for was Adèle who had been betrothed to Rudalt at birth.
“The hour grows late,” the queen announced, putting away her embroidery implements. “’Tis nigh time for vespers.” She then looked through the window of the solar with a frown. “’Tis strange I have not heard the hunting party return. Rudalt knows how much it displeases me when he is absent at prayer time.”
“Perhaps it is precisely why he does it?” Gwened suggested.
Rudalt openly defied the king and queen at every opportunity.
The queen sighed. “Indeed, he seems to take great joy in my distress, but Hugo?” she asked.
Always punctual and polite, Hugo would not be late to prayer without a good reason. Where were they?
“Perhaps they had an unsuccessful hunt and did not wish to draw attention to it?” Adèle offered.
The return of a hunting party was generally a raucous event with barking dogs and much roistering. But there would be little cause for celebration if they had failed to bring home any game.
“I will go down to the kennels and inquire,” Gwened said, glad to get out of doors and escape from under her mother’s thumb at least for a short while.
Removing her new veil and cornet, she quickly took them to her chamber and then darted down the narrow staircase to the great hall. Her father was there in conference with a number of his men. Rudalt and Hugo were not among them.
Following protocol, Gwened held her tongue until the king chose to acknowledge her.
“What is it child?” he asked.
“The queen wishes to know if the hunting party has returned.”
“Nay.” The king frowned. “I was about to send men out to search for them.”
His statement was echoed by a chorus of shouts and howling dogs emanating from the inner bailey. There was nothing unusual in the cacophony of sounds, but the tone wasn’t right. This was not a happy arrival. The men immediately took to their feet and bolted from the great hall with Gwened following timidly behind them.
Four men had set out early that morning but only three had returned. Rudalt dismounted first. His horse’s flanks heaved as if it had been galloped to exhaustion while Hugo’s hunting hounds circled aimlessly and continued to howl. Curiously, while Rudalt’s face and clothing were splattered in blood, there was no trophy slung over his saddle-bow.
She noted a very large blood-covered bundle slung over Hugo’s charger, but Hugo was nowhere in sight. She stepped toward the horse, but her brother blocked her path. “Hugo?” Gwened asked, her pulse racing with alarm.
Rudalt stared down at her with bloodshot eyes and the strong scent of lambig on his breath. “I regret to inform you, dear sister, that your beloved Hugo is dead.”
Gwened stared at her brother, unable to comprehend his words. “Hugo is dead?” she repeated in a choked whisper.
“We were attacked by Viking marauders,” Rudalt declared. “Hugo was struck down before we finally drove them off.” He inclined his head to the body slung over the horse. “There was nothing to be done for him.”
Gwened suddenly felt the ground swelling beneath her feet. It was as if she stood on a ship in rough seas, rather than on dry land. “I cannot breathe,” Gwened gasped, clutching Rudalt’s arm in the fear that she might actually swoon.
“What is amiss?” Adèle had appeared, wearing a look of concern and confusion. “Where is my brother?”
“Slain by Vikings,” Rudalt growled. “I must inform the king.” He ruthlessly shook off Gwened’s hold and pushed past the two women, bound for the keep.
Still in shock, Gwened stared after her brother. “Hugo is dead,” she whispered, her voice sounding flat and wooden even to her own ears. Suddenly, Gwened’s eyes began
to blur and her knees quivered. It wasn’t real. This couldn’t be!
“Gwened?” Adèle murmured her name but Gwened couldn’t seem to respond. Although she stood in front of her, Adèle’s voice seemed so very far away. Gwened shut her eyes as Adèle pulled her into her arms with a great sob. “My poor brother! My poor, Gwened!”
The dogs encircled them, erupting into a howling chorus of mourning as the two young women held each other and wept.
Chapter Two
A fortnight after Hugo’s death, Gwened still struggled with shock and disbelief. Donning her wedding veil, Gwened wandered her chamber, feeling much like a ghost of her former self. She’d wept for days on end, until there were no tears left. The entire kingdom mourned the young Count of Poher’s passing, or better said, the entire kingdom, save Rudalt. His reaction to Hugo’s death was strangely cold. What exactly had happened on their hunt?
Gwened struggled to puzzle it together. Her unease over the incident was compounded by inconsistencies in her brother’s story. The king’s men-at-arms had set out early the next morning to the river where the Vikings had landed their boat. Although Rudalt said they had come to rape and plunder, none of the nearby villages had been pillaged. And no one, save Rudalt and his men, had seen the boat.
Although the king seemed to accept their story, Gwened’s thoughts led her toward a path that she was afraid to take. She refused to voice the suspicions in her heart for fear of giving credence to the unthinkable. Surely her brother was not capable of such a heinous deed as murder! She must put this behind her. But with Hugo gone, what was left for her?
Marriage to Hugo was to have been her future. She had loved him for as long as she could remember and was certain that he also cared for her. She had fantasized about their life together for years. Her heart ached with wistfulness for what might have been.
A soft rap sounded on her chamber door, probably her maid with another supper tray that she would once more send away untouched. “Enter,” Gwened commanded, surprised to see Adèle rather than Agnes, open the door.
The Wolves of Brittany Collection: A Romance Bundle Books 1-3 Page 22