Now that Strian was behind Gressa, it was easier for him to watch her. It was not so obvious when she was in his line of sight as he navigated the ice and sandbars. He had been sailing in and out of his homestead’s natural harbor since he was a child. He could spare some of his attention and continue to watch Gressa. The linen shirt she wore stuck to her sweaty body, and he could see the muscles ripple through her back and shoulders as she continued to row. He watched her head twist slightly to the side as though she might look back at him. He knew she was aware he watched her, but he had caught her staring at him just as many times.
Strian guided his longboat into the harbor and docked beside Bjorn’s and Tyra’s boats. He avoided Freya because their falling out just before they left Scotland remained unresolved. Strian knew Freya felt guilty for their argument, and he did not enjoy being at odds with one of his oldest friends, but he would not overlook her high handedness as their leader or her unwillingness to hear why he wanted to remain in Scotland. Strian approached Gressa and waited until she noticed him. It was only a matter of a heartbeat before she looked up at him.
“Stay next to me,” Strian whispered. When Gressa looked ready to object, Strian raised an eyebrow in warning. “It’s been ten years.”
Lena & Ivar VIKING GLORY BOOK 5
Ivar’s eyes swept across the battlefield as the hair on the back of his neck caused his sweat-covered skin to prickle. He took in the overcast skies—skies that did not match the scorching sun the Norse warriors had experienced during these last weeks in the Mediterranean. The darkened skies matched his current mood as he panted, trying to slow the adrenaline coursing through him after his last engagement with their Arab enemies. He had just slayed an enormous dark-skinned man whose guttural Arab language was still foreign to Ivar Sorenson’s Norse ears. As Ivar looked into the dead man’s vacant eyes, he watched a crow’s reflection fly overhead. Odin’s messengers Hunnin and Munnin brought a cheer from Ivar’s fellow Norse warriors, who celebrated their victory with praise to their gods. But Ivar could not be less interested in prayer as he once again scanned the fallen bodies and those still on their feet, looking for a particular blonde head with a face that possessed the deepest cobalt-blue eyes he had ever seen. Ivar’s stomach clenched as he searched for Lena Tormudsdóttir.
“Lena? Lena!” Ivar called out as his heart began to pound with fear unlike any he had experienced in the battle only moments earlier. “Lena!”
“Ivar?”
Ivar ran in the direction of the voice that he feared he would never hear again; it had never sounded sweeter. He wove through members of his clan and leaped over the bodies of fallen Arabs and Norsemen, pushing past a group of women to where Lena stood. Disregarding those around him, Ivar pulled Lena into his arms. After a brief glance to reassure himself that she was uninjured, he stroked her cheek and dove in for a searing kiss that brought conversations around them to an abrupt end.
Lena’s toes curled within her boots. The feel of Ivar’s body pressed against hers reminded her of their time spent coupling the night before. Her hands roamed over his back and shoulders as the tension eased with each of her caresses. The intensity of his kiss deepened as he groaned within her mouth, his tongue swirling and mating with hers, mimicking what they both longed to do with their bodies.
When they broke apart at last, their foreheads pressed together, Ivar smattered kisses on the tip of her nose as he cupped her jaw.
“You scared me,” Ivar’s hushed voice brushed warm air across Lena’s face.
“You’re scared of nothing, or so you told me,” Lena brushed her lips against Ivar’s.
“There is a first for everything. I couldn’t find you.”
“But you did. You’re holding me now,” Lena pressed another soft kiss to Ivar’s mouth.
Ivar pulled back and swept Lena into his arms. He did not look back to see who snickered or tossed randy comments at his back, nor did he care that his father’s commander, Magnus, was calling to him. Ivar carried Lena across the low grassy field to a copse of olive trees, cursing that their spindly branches would not give him the privacy that the fir trees in the Trondelag would offer. When they were a safe distance from the others, he placed Lena on her feet again and pulled her against him.
“Now I am holding you,” Ivar’s voice rumbled within his broad chest. “And I intend to hold you all through the night as I make love to you over and over until I am convinced you are safe and within my reach.”
A Rake at the Highland Court: The Highland Ladies Book Four Page 31
