Her viking warrior, p.17
Her Viking Warrior, page 17
“No. That we cannot control.”
“We have until Jul,” Gunnar said. “That would fulfill Longsword’s bargain.”
“It would, but we will be ready for an attack because we’ll prepare the settlement to fight back and win.” He touched the X Thorfinn drew in the harbor. “It starts here.”
“Men stuck on ships.” Thorvald’s grin was wolfish. “I like it.”
Their nods were slow and Bjorn let out a long, weighty breath as they discussed ideas for countering an attack coming from the fjord.
“We’ll start tomorrow at sunrise as you ordered,” Gunnar said. “The passage will be blocked by midday. And should Aseral’s men set fire to the logs to reopen the passage, the smoke will warn us.”
“What about the footsteps on Ilsa’s farmstead?” Erik asked. “You need to do something.”
Thorvald walked to the round table and poured ale into his drinking horn. “Erik’s right. You can’t let that go.” He gulped one drink, then two, three and swiped a hand across his mouth. “We need to know who she hides.”
Bjorn rubbed his nape. Suspicions mounted and none looked good for Ilsa.
“She could be hiding fighters,” Erik suggested.
“For Aseral?” He shook his head. “She’s fought too hard to save Vellefold. Why would she hide the enemy?”
But she killed her husband. A fact he withheld from the Sons.
“None of us thinks she hides Aseral’s fighters.” Gunnar’s smile was supremely confident. “We have a good idea who the footprints belong to.”
Erik smirked. “Women are stolen or they leave. They don’t vanish like changelings.”
“It is for you to make sure those footprints belong to who we—” Thorvald motioned to the men “—think they belong to, and it is for you to find out what they’re planning.”
Erik poured ale for himself. “If what we suspect is true, and Ilsa’s hiding runaway thralls, then you’ll have a bigger problem on your hands—”
“Because that means Ilsa is a lawbreaker.” He scrubbed a worried hand across his beard.
His brothers’ faces were grave.
“People will look to you for judgment.” Erik picked up his drinking horn but he wasn’t quick to consume his ale. He stared at the brew, irritation furrowing his brow.
None of the men were comfortable with this latest turn. They liked Ilsa. Her willingness to work as hard as any man on the practice field had won their respect, but he was hersir to a sickly jarl. Any charge leveled at Ilsa would cause more turmoil for threadbare Vellefold, a settlement on the mend that loved its widowed hird.
This could tear the people apart.
A people who needed to be more united than ever.
The hall was alive with laughter and conversation. A boy played a goat bone flute, the music a sweet thread. Much of the evening meal had been consumed. Bellies were gorged. Everyone fattened themselves for winter with no fear of food being scarce. Ilsa had made sure of that. She’d healed their sicknesses and tended their battered hearts. How often had he witnessed her green skirts swaying from one longhouse to another on the way to deliver kind words with a poultice or herbs for a tincture?
They looked to Ilsa to nurse their hurts and to him for might and leadership. The matselja, Helge, had teased him about using all the sand he wanted when he was jarl. Vellefold’s people spoke openly of Jarl Egil’s son as their next leader, yet he and Jarl Egil had barely traded words. Any attempt at conversation with the man he’d once called Father stuck in his throat.
With each passing day, Justice was strangely silent, but tonight she turned his eyes to happy children and babes in the feast hall. Those innocents never harmed him. Boys on the cusp of manhood, their faces gleaming with admiration, hadn’t cast him out. It was their dead fathers and grandfathers who had rowed Egil’s ship and left him on Birka’s shore. Some of those older fighting men numbered among the aged ones. Two served Odell. None had begged forgiveness—it wasn’t the Viking way—yet all assumed his grace was freely given.
He set a hand over his belly, where the iron coil of rejection still festered. What was he going to do about it?
“What about Ilsa?” Erik asked.
His childhood friend was at the heart of every mystery—a few his brothers knew of and a few they didn’t. Those secrets dropped like boulders onto his back. Staring at the sand map, he dragged in a long breath. “I’ll question her. Tonight.”
Erik took two steps backward and checked the hall. “Better move fast, my friend. She’s gone.”
Chapter Fifteen
He burst into cold black night. Expectation was a coin spinning inside him. Vellefold stamped her needs on one side, his brothers stamped theirs on the other. Everyone had their wants. The mess was written in footprints scattered outside the feast hall. A single torch lit them. Large and small, the settlement had gathered for food and unity. They’d gathered with longing in their hearts, a craving for their old way of life, to be rich and powerful again.
One fresh pair of footprints diverged—Ilsa’s.
She was a lodestone, a mystery, the most solid woman he’d ever met, and he couldn’t trust her. He wanted to. By the gods, he wanted to.
Wind howled at his back, pushing him to track the footsteps along an unlit trail. Ilsa’s crown of flaxen hair was visible. She threaded a lonely path through trees which bordered the back of the village and the practice field.
“Ilsa!” he yelled.
“Bjorn?” She spun around, the white and tan lynx fur cresting her shoulders.
He trotted to close the distance, the last of fall’s leaves crunching under his boots. She stood in the shelter of a tree and waited, her green eyes glowing pale as virgin glass untouched by a glassblower’s dye. He might’ve imagined the defiant tilt of her chin when he stopped less than an arm’s length from her.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“I could ask the same of you.” He surveyed aged trees lining the path, their branches stripped bare. They could be giants waiting to pass judgment. He cupped both hands and blew warmth into them. “Why did you choose this path to your farm?”
“You mean rather than taking the main road, which exposes me to the wind?”
He grinned at her haughty are you daft? tone. What she’d said made sense. The trees broke chill winds, a better route since a row of burnt homes had been cleared along the main road. Not much blocked gusts blasting off the fjord, but this way left them alone.
Ilsa angled her face to his, contrary and sensual. Take me drifted between them. Night whispers, he was sure. Or his own lust.
Pleasant shivers skimmed his body from simply being in her presence. A messy braid rested over her breast, the long, unplaited tip stirring in the wind. He lifted the flaxen cord and tested its weight in his palm. Ilsa’s eyes glittered like gemstones in blackness. There was a hardness about her, but her lips parted softly. He wanted to wipe away the wall she erected, to rescue her from whatever calamitous plans she’d hatched.
He smiled at his foolishness.
The gods had fashioned Ilsa with grace and fortitude. She didn’t need saving. He did.
Since setting foot in Vellefold, he’d seen that truth in still moments...a humbling fact he resisted admitting aloud. She’d opened old, festering wounds and worked to heal them.
He’d wanted them left alone.
Holding her braid was a lifeline. To his past? His future? He couldn’t say but her flaxen hair fascinated him. A single strand would easily break. Twined together, her hair was as thick as a child’s wrist and strong like Valgerd’s ropes, and he couldn’t let go.
“Do you remember the last time I pulled your braid?”
“No.”
“You were in the market with your mother. It was Midsumarblot.”
“I don’t remember.”
He swallowed heaviness in his throat. “You were studying a display of knives for sale. I’ve never forgotten the look on your face...you bartering with the blacksmith’s wife...the pridefulness...your determination to get the price you wanted.”
“This is not the time to talk about our childhood.” Nostrils flaring, she was stiff. “Why don’t you tell me your story on the practice field in the morning?”
He tugged ever so lightly on her braid. “Where we can sweat out our frustration?”
Ilsa’s breath hitched.
It stoked his pride, hearing that tiny sound. Evidence of shared misery. This was tiresome, working hard at not kissing her. Day after day, crossing axes, tumbling in the grass, her limbs tangling with his on a field shared with a hundred people. He couldn’t act on his impulses there. He could here.
He wanted Ilsa...pliant.
By her stillness, she was willing.
Slowly, he coiled her braid. “That look on your face in the market, you had the same expression in Longsword’s map room.”
Ilsa drew closer until she was flush against him. Warm and tall, her mouth was inches from his. Faint starlight touched the dip on her lower lip.
“I don’t have time for this.” Yet her hand rested on his chest.
His laugh was rough. “How is it you are dismissive and testy with me, but I crave more of you?”
“Perhaps you miss the taste of northern women?”
Her seductive purr reached between his legs. Heat flooded his flesh, heavy and welcome.
She searched his face, waiting. “Is that why you’ve chased me tonight? My meeting with Longsword?” Her smile gleamed blade sharp. “I’ve made my sacrifices. I regret none of them.”
Eyes narrowing, he let go of her braid. Sacrifices? What else did she trade with Longsword?
“I want—”
“I’m sure you want a good many things,” she said confidently. “But here’s something you need to remember. I don’t serve you. I serve with you.”
His teeth ground. Ilsa was maddening with scant light skimming her jaw, tempting him to test the smooth line. Little things about her snared him. Her smoky voice, her scent, her manner, passionate one moment, practical the next. She was unlearned on the battlefield but fearsome in her practice, a woman who put her whole heart into whatever she did.
Had her joining with Halfdan been one of deep love? That punched his gut. Ilsa shared a past with another man, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
His gaze dipped to her mouth. She was close, skirts draping his legs, one hand on his chest. He drank in every detail like a parched man who’d wandered too long in a desert. He was desperate for a cool, northern woman—for Ilsa. When their eyes met, want and need clashed. Desire filled his cock. Ilsa swayed into him, and she hissed crossly because of it.
Lust came in all shades, angry and passionate, tender and sweet. He wanted to taste them all with her.
“You want me.” His voice was full of wonder.
Her face crumpled with annoyance. “This is not wise.”
Ilsa parted her mantle for him, and he slipped his hand inside, finding her hip. He sucked in a ragged breath. The curve fit perfectly under his palm.
She was comforting heat against his wind-chilled fingers.
Her eyes fluttered, half-closed. “Bjorn...”
A giant could be sitting on his chest. He had questions to ask and his brain scrambled them all. He couldn’t think. Ilsa stole that from him, reduced him to carnal flesh and bone. There was something good in holding her—something perfect.
Cold air nipped. Snow began to fall, white specks, dancing, twirling. The enemy could be watching, but he was useless to lift a finger. He needed Ilsa in his arms...to brace himself against rushing emotions, of being fearless and strong, vulnerable and claimed by a woman.
“We never have time alone,” he said, rubbing the small of her back.
Ilsa answered with a moan. Nestling against him, she clutched a handful of his mantle as if she wouldn’t let go.
Breathing sharp, wintry air...this satisfied him.
Night was peaceful save the barest breeze cutting through branches. He stilled when her forehead grazed his beard. Her nose skimmed his neck. His huntress scented him.
Why hadn’t they done this days ago?
“Please, stay,” she whispered. “Think of the good you can do.”
Cold shock splashed him. He grabbed her shoulders and put some air between them. He nearly groaned at her lips parting and the pink tip of her tongue snaking out to wet them. When her eyes opened, the center of both were dark and liquid. True sensuality. Nothing forced. She might want him in body, but she implored on behalf of Vellefold.
Truth gutted him.
The settlement came first for her. The Sons came first for him. He squeezed Ilsa’s shoulders, unable to set her aside.
Want me! rang in his head but out came, “You wouldn’t like me as jarl.”
She flattened her hands on his chest. She had to feel his heart thumping like a drum. “I think I would.”
His head dipped nearer to hers. “I would ask you hard questions—” Words froze in his mouth when her hand cupped his balls.
“All of you is hard.” Ilsa was saucy, rubbing between his legs with tantalizing friction.
Lustful sparks spread across his skin, shooting hot and fast down his thighs. Muscles knotted low on his belly. His body answered Ilsa’s touch, the pleasure painful, sharp, and sweetly unexpected. He sucked in a fast breath and manacled her wrist.
He couldn’t take her hand off him. Her caress was just right.
“Ilsa.” He barely recognized the hoarse voice as his own.
Her fingertips skimmed his balls, the delicate pressure sending shivers along his backside.
“What would you ask me?” She nuzzled the corner of his mouth. “The same thing you asked me at twilight?” Her breath tickled his cheek. “I was a fool not to say yes.”
He groaned. Ilsa was temptation on a cold winter’s night. She’d tempt him spring, summer, and fall too.
She knew just how to touch him.
He wouldn’t question why she changed her mind. Not with provocative fingers playing with the flesh between his legs. He couldn’t move.
If women knew the power of their touch, they could rule the world.
Ilsa handled him deftly. He shuddered at all the good feelings invading his body. Let them flow through his veins. He was certain he grinned like a drunken fool. Ilsa smiled back, light and wicked and full of delight.
She fondled the crown of his cock, the pad of her thumb playing with an enticing spot despite layers of cloth. He wanted to push her up against the tree, lift her skirts, and take her as the snow fell. It’d been a long time since he bedded a woman, but this was Ilsa and he preferred a warm bed for what he wanted to do to her.
Light flickered in the darkness. The night watch’s torch. He blinked twice, reason battling with baser impulses.
One question insisted on pushing through the fog: Why did Ilsa change her mind? Moments ago, she was feisty. Defensive.
Then she’d plied him with alluring touches.
To divert him?
It took all his willpower, but he dragged her hand off his cock. He gulped mind-clearing, chilly air, her hand in a tight hold between them. There was a reason why he’d sought her. That torch high on a cliff reminded him of his duty.
“Ilsa, who are you hiding on your farmstead?”
She jerked free. “Who says I’m hiding anyone?”
His pulse galloped like a herd of horses. He was twice the fool for giving in to lust for a woman he should keep at arm’s length. Looking to the heavens, he took a moment to compose himself. “Erik and Gunnar found footprints on your land.”
“Probably mine. Or Ardith’s. Or Iduna’s.” Her mouth was tight.
“Who else?”
Head shaking, she stepped back. “Because we have much to do, I won’t waste time arguing the wrongness of your men on my land after I expressly forbade them from searching it.”
“Don’t evade me. Erik tracked at least ten footprints in mud by your stream.”
“He can count that high?”
His teeth ground at the jibe. “Insults are beneath you.”
Ilsa crossed both arms over her chest. Did she protect herself from this unpleasant turn? Her eyes were still glossy and liquid. A hint of being vulnerable.
Denied passion coupled with anger was not a good mix. She drove a pebble into the ground with the toe of her boot.
“What do you want? To search my longhouse? Only a fool would think I could hide people there.”
He was unmoved by her irritation. It’d be better to feed on it, otherwise he’d find a warm, dry place and finish what they’d begun. His blood refused to cool. Frustrated desire was a sharp edge between them. He knew how to squash it.
“We’ll check your longhouse, and we’ll search your land.” He paused and delivered the final blow. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I take my men to the cave near your grove.”
“Don’t you dare!” She came at him, and he caught her wrists. “Stay away!” she yelled.
Anger-trembled hands shook in his grip. Snow dusted her cheeks. Ilsa was feral-eyed and furious, ready to threaten him, a laughable thing, but he wasn’t laughing.
“I didn’t tell my men about the cave.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll not set foot near it.”
“You think you’ll stop me?”
They were toe-to-toe, snowflakes dancing softly around them. Tendons on her neck strained, and exhaustion shadowed her eyes. She could be a creature of the forest, defending her nest, such was her fury. Out of respect, he released his hold. Lean and tall, Ilsa was battered by an unseen foe but not crushed.
“You’re not the first man to think he can force his will on me. By the gods, I swear you’ll be the last.” She stepped back and looked him up and down. “You pretend to be a brave man. Yet, you don’t have the courage to speak to your own father.”
