by Ingrid Hahn
“We’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Your home. Never mine.”
“You make your own choices as to what you will think, of course.”
“Let’s discuss the matter of choice, shall we?” Snapping at him came with no rush of relief. It was like fat sizzling and popping on an overheated iron. “On second thought, let’s not. You have no right to talk to me on the subject. Not now, not ever. You stole me. And don’t you dare broach the subject of forgiveness with me.”
“Forgiveness is not something I ask of you.” He resumed scraping the knife over stone.
“Good. Because you’ll never have it.” Alodie all but tasted the determination of her permanent dislike for him. “Which leaves us free to discuss your choices.”
Beyond them to the west, the setting sun bruised the horizon.
“Whatever you accuse me of, I am no doubt guilty.” He went silent. The fire cracked and spit sparks every time another burst of wind came up from shore.
“Of far worse.”
“Far worse, indeed.” He bowed his head, ran his fingers through his sun-kissed locks, then lifted his face toward her. His eyes took on a faraway look and his voice dropped. “Part of me wants to keep you with me always.”
Alodie would not let a moment’s vulnerability soften her heart. If all she had were her words to tear him apart, by God, she’d use them. “You’re a pigheaded brute if you think anyone in my position would come to you with dewy eyes and lovelorn sighs. You have the intelligence of an onion and the allure to match.”
Chapter Twenty
Thorvald Fights Hrolf
The scrape, scrape, scrape of metal upon rock was no longer enough to clear Thorvald’s head. He tossed the stone he’d been idly carving onto the small sack of belongings he’d pieced together the last time they’d been on land.
He grabbed his shield and pushed from sitting to go looking for Hrolf. What the princess said was what he’d needed to hear.
Oh, he didn’t believe her. That was, he believed she hated him. But he also knew when a woman wanted him. Not in the cocksure way of some fools, oblivious to a woman’s distaste while all the while blissfully believing that his mere proximity was enough to set the delicate region of any nearby female positively quivering.
Thorvald had been dangerously close to asking if she’d disappear with him into the trees where he could rest her upon a bed of pine needles. He’d lay atop her, part her legs, and, for a brief spell, take them both away from all this.
After he caressed and explored with his fingers, he’d stroke her inside…slowly at first, so she felt every bit of him. When she couldn’t stand it any longer and begged him, he’d go harder. And harder. So for the next few days, when she walked and sat, she’d recall what they’d done and think of him. Go wet and want it all over again.
Her words echoed with every beat of his heart. You’re a pigheaded brute if you think anyone in my position would come to you with dewy eyes and lovelorn sighs. You have the intelligence of an onion and the allure to match.
Maybe there was something wrong with him for wanting her so much. But the backbone on that woman… When she lashed her tongue at him, all he wanted to do was taste her mouth and show her just how tender this pigheaded brute could be. He wanted her to ask for his hands on her skin so he could study the shape of her. The feel. Learn what turned her weak with longing, mewling like a kitten, what drove her into a delirium of pleasure.
She probably hated herself for her desires as much as he hated himself for every blink of time he’d lived past giving his vow to Jarl Erlendr.
A vow to a man was a vow to the gods.
He had to quell these feelings. She was not meant for him.
Thorvald found Hrolf next to Ozrik and a few of the other men who hadn’t gone to partake in the hospitality proffered by the fishermen living near where they camped. Thorvald caught the young man’s eye and inclined his head to the side. “Can’t neglect your training…”
His throat closed. Hrolf couldn’t neglect his training simply because Sigurd was dead. The words were there. Like smoke. Visible. Obvious. And utterly unattainable.
Thorvald swallowed.
Nothing needed to be said. Understanding crossed Hrolf’s features. He came to his feet. “Now?”
Thorvald withdrew his sword. “Now.”
“I have no sword. It was lost in the storm.”
Thorvald gave a quick jerk of his head toward Ozrik. “Borrow his.”
If he didn’t cleanse himself, he’d go mad and start attacking trees and bellowing at the top of his lungs loudly enough to wake the giants of the frozen north. That sort of nonsense. Shameful. He needed to maintain control.
Thorvald’s burning blood didn’t blind him to the look in Ozrik’s eye. Whatever his companion’s reservations were, he didn’t voice them, his objection all the more potent by the silence. Thorvald stared him down. If the man wouldn’t speak, that was his decision.
Gritting his teeth, Ozrik handed over his sword, then cast Thorvald another dirty look. Oblivious to the interplay between the two more seasoned warriors, Hrolf followed Thorvald up the small slope to firmer ground. The sun was sinking quickly. Their time was limited and they’d have to make use of what they had left.
Thorvald stood ready. “Attack.”
Hrolf charged. Thorvald fended him off with a slice then waved his sword. “Again.”
Hrolf huffed, took a moment to gather himself, then came at Thorvald. Thorvald raised his shield, stopped the attack, and shoved—hard—sending Hrolf sprawling back.
Shock registered on the young man’s face, shock and hurt. A jarring feeling of familiarity tore through Thorvald’s chest. Hrolf looked at Thorvald the way Thorvald had once looked at his father. Not on the day of his cowardice, but in those times before when he’d loved the man so much, he’d yearned to become him the way the wintry earth yearns for summer. His father snapping at him or pushing him aside had left him dizzy with shock and hurt. The sting of the pain had taken ages to wear off.
Shame poured over Thorvald. If Hrolf were to discover he was the son of a coward, he would look at him very differently.
The young warrior had gone red. “You’re toying with me. Sigurd never toyed with me.”
The back of Thorvald’s neck prickled and before he could stop himself, he turned to see who stared at him.
His eyes met hers. The air went out of his lungs.
The princess stood nearby with a few other onlookers. The rest of them, though…they didn’t matter. Only she mattered.
Thorvald’s vision cleared. He looked back to Hrolf. He’d do the young one no favors by besting him so easily. He was naturally bigger, stronger, quicker. All meaningless qualities in the face of something Hrolf possessed that had vacated Thorvald long ago. Inside of Hrolf burned the desire to be a great warrior. Thorvald had only ever experimented with that idea. What he wanted, what he’d always wanted, was his land. Becoming a warrior had only been the means to achieve his greater goal.
He was worth less than nothing if he used Hrolf. Sigurd would never have considered it.
The beast inside of him subsiding, Thorvald nodded to Hrolf. “We’ll begin again.”
For a silent while, it seemed Hrolf might spit at Thorvald’s feet in frustration and refuse. At last, he wiped the loose strands of brown hair from his eyes and took his position.
The young man yelled as he charged. Thorvald met his attack. It wasn’t that Hrolf was ill suited to what he was about. Nor was he without skill. Sigurd had been training him.
But Thorvald had practiced with Sigurd extensively, since the time they were boys, and Hrolf had been nothing but a babbling baby whose greatest excitement had come from trying to fit his own feet in his mouth.
Thorvald and Sigurd had known each other’s weaknesses. Thorvald was going to have to adjust his fig
hting accordingly. What he would have ruthlessly exploited in his friend—expecting no less in return—he would refrain from taking advantage of with Hrolf.
They circled each other.
“What is it you want, Hrolf?”
“What?”
“What do you yearn for? Strive for? Need more than aught else?”
Hrolf broke eye contact long enough to flit his eyes over the princess. The glance was brief, barely longer than the beat of a sparrow’s wing. Hrolf’s attention returned to Thorvald nearly instantaneously.
But that was all it took.
Thorvald’s insides burned with the fire of possessiveness. If he couldn’t have her, nobody could.
Then came the helpless slide—the sensation his legs would no longer carry him and the earth below his feet had no use for him.
It couldn’t have been worse.
Until Hrolf spoke. “I want ten sons.”
Thorvald’s tongue turned to metal in his mouth. He couldn’t move or speak. If it was this excruciating witnessing the mere suggestion that another man might want the princess, how was he supposed to hand her over to the jarl tomorrow?
Hrolf seemed not to notice, rattling on with the boldness of youthful bravado. “I want to lead raids and return home with ships about to sink under the weight of treasure. I want men to envy me and sea kings to fear me. I want to die in battle when I’m an old man and have songs sung to my memory for all the rest of time.”
Around them, the sinking sun set the horizon ablaze with a final burst of intensity. The sun’s last song before slipping into the silence of darkness. Thorvald forced his mouth open, but found no words. The boy was merely that—a boy. He’d grown into a man’s body, but sense had yet to catch up with his growth.
Most importantly, Thorvald wanted none of what Hrolf named. Children, yes, but not with the same fervor most men wanted warrior sons for their own glory. It always came back to his land.
His skill at fighting came naturally. So what? It’d never brought him anything but misery—not in the long term—twisted as he was into servitude by that poisonous vow. A heady rush into battle and the relief of a fight well fought never rid him of the deep burning desire to take back what had been stolen. He wanted his land like he wanted nothing else in life.
Except maybe her.
Which he could not think about.
Thorvald repositioned himself. They engaged. This time, Thorvald matched his skill and technique to Hrolf. In the golden light, they fought, moving quickly over the dirt on one side of the bank, sand on the other, steel bashing steel.
It went on for a while. It had to. If their sparring were over too quickly or Hrolf’s win too easy, the young one would never forgive him.
Hrolf’s eyes began to shine. Good. That’s what Thorvald wanted for him—to let the young man taste what it was to fight a seasoned warrior.
And win.
Thorvald pulled back in an uncharacteristically sloppy maneuver. Hrolf saw his opportunity. His blade came whizzing through the air. Lowering his ability left him in an unusually vulnerable position. The sharp tip of Hrolf’s borrowed sword connected with Thorvald’s face, directly in the small area of blank flesh between eye and beard.
The sound of a collective gasp hit his ears.
Half bored by the lack of challenge, half unwilling to continue as night set, he toppled, face stinging.
Jumping into the air, Hrolf whooped with unrestrained joy. “I beat him! I beat him!”
Men cheered and led the victorious youngster back to the fires for more drink, breaking into discordant song with words no two of them could agree upon.
…
Ozrik came to stand over Thorvald and held out a hand. Thorvald let his friend help him up. “Why did you do it?”
Thorvald brushed dirt and sand from his clothing. Not being particularly winded, it didn’t take long to catch his breath. “That obvious?” He wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t know what Ozrik was talking about.
“Not to him, apparently. And the rest of them have dulled their wits.” He nodded his head toward the beach where more wit dulling was currently underway.
“But not you?”
“I was working on it when you interrupted.”
Nearby, a stray warrior leaned up against a tree and relieved himself with the prowess of a well-watered horse.
They turned the other way. In the shadows, Thorvald caught sight of the princess. He turned his head back to Ozrik while keeping sight of her out of the corner of his eye. “It was good for him to taste a measure of success.”
“If he doesn’t earn it on his own merits, he doesn’t deserve it.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Not in the least. You’ll give him an inflated understanding of his own abilities. In a real battle—”
“It’ll be long enough before he gets the chance again. Meanwhile, when we return, I’ll continue to train him. Tonight he got to feel what it’s like to look good in front of other men. Later, in the safety of privacy where he can be free to make mistakes that won’t humiliate him, he’ll grow stronger and more skilled.”
Ozrik shook his head. “You think what you did was for him, but it was about yourself. What you don’t remember is that you won’t be able to lead men if they think you’re weak.”
“Sigurd was meant to do that.” Thorvald scoffed. His tone turned hard, his thoughts like hot coals newly turned over with the simmering anger of having lost one so dear. “Lead men.”
When he said “lead men,” what he meant was, overthrow the jarl.
“Sigurd is gone.” Ozrik’s voice was flat.
And what? Thorvald was supposed to assume the role? Break his vow in the most abhorrent manner possible? He couldn’t step into Sigurd’s shoes. He didn’t even want to.
“Then you do it.”
Ozrik pressed his lips together, going infuriatingly silent.
Thorvald waved him away. “Go back to your drink, you old bore.”
Trying to temper his annoyance and failing, he stormed off, leaving Ozrik standing where he was.
All the feelings Thorvald had wanted to purge with a good fight boiled back to the surface. The worst of them—tomorrow he’d have to face the jarl and give her over. It was the curse of his vow and the only way to get what he wanted.
Whatever happened to the jarl after that, well… At least Thorvald wouldn’t have broken his promise.
Not breaking his promise used to be his greatest comfort.
But it was on shakier ground than he’d realized when, no sooner had he had the thought than the princess rushed to his side.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Demon Vanishes; A Man Appears
Standing beside him, Alodie studied his face. The moonlight carved his features into sharp relief. A trickle of blood ran down his skin into his beard. His eyes shone with the force of all he was feeling and trying desperately to hold back—emotions she could sense, but couldn’t name. What was he? He was picking away her expectations and beliefs, one by one.
First, the fact that he hadn’t wanted treasure. She’d believed all demons wanted treasure and had expected him to do nothing but take, take, take. Enrich himself. Glorify himself. All at the expense of others.
He’d proven her wrong.
Then it was the strong and silent protection aboard ship. She’d believed without doubt that all demons were heartless and brutal, except those like Cuthberht, who’d had the Grace of the Lord touch their maggoty hearts.
Again, this man before her had proved her wrong.
Then it was the anguish of losing his friend in the storm. Demons couldn’t understand love or joy or sorrow.
This man knew the crushing anguish of grief. He’d felt it to its darkest depths. She’d never have believed him capable of raw human feeling had she not witnessed
it with her own eyes.
Then, stranded upon the beach, he’d shown her he thought about her and considered her comforts. Demons were supposed to care only about themselves. He didn’t. He’d demonstrated his care for her.
Now this. Compassion. The kindness he’d displayed to the young one by allowing him a victory. The demon leader hadn’t simply handed it over. He’d fought, prolonging the experience, making his apprentice work and not making it easy for him.
All her beliefs were crumbling as he shredded her misconceptions one at a time.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to continue thinking of him as nothing more than a demon. By the same measure, her stubborn determination to cling to her anger diminished daily.
Ears still ringing with the clash of swords, Alodie’s heart brimmed with confusion. She wanted to tuck her arm into his. It would have been a simple, intimate gesture to show him she was here. Not as a physical entity, but as…
What?
Alodie bit her lip. He’d stolen her. How much compassion and understanding could she possibly have for him? Objectively, he deserved none.
She was being torn in two—holding on to her anger or looking forward to the possibilities of what her new life could be. Did it mean she had to forgive?
It wasn’t a question she had to answer now.
Whether or not she could forgive him.
Finally, she ventured to break the silence. “Your friend is wrong. What you did was kind and generous.”
He looked at her, expression pained.
Alodie’s mouth turned down. “What is it? What troubles you so?”
What she wanted to hear was that he repented.
“When I was a boy my father…died.” His voice was raw and he hung his head. “There are certain things a boy needs, even on the brink of manhood, from the older men around him. Maybe on the brink of manhood is when he needs them most.”
“Like acceptance?”
He tensed. “Why would you say acceptance?”
“Because you seem apart somehow. Above the people around you, because you lead them, but also…” She’d become familiar with the strange language, but even in her first tongue, the words were difficult to find. “It’s the sense I get.”