by Amy Faye
Something in his mind snapped. Before he knew what he was doing Gunnar had Deirdre pressed back against the cart. Deirdre's eyes were wide, and for a moment he thought that she might try to stop him, but she didn't push him away and he didn't wait for her to.
One of his knees pressed forward, separating Deirdre's trembling legs. She rocked forward, her body betraying her arousal in its pursuit of pleasure. A button popped off of her blouse, opening it further from enticingly low-cut to downright scandalous.
One of Gunnar's powerful hands reached inside, pulling a plump breast free. He took a moment to enjoy the large, bronze nipples before he took one between his lips.
Deirdre's fingers laced into his long hair, wrapping themselves in tangles and pulling him in closer. She continued to rock her mound up and down his powerfully muscled thigh, shuddering and mewling in the pleasure that both of them hadn't been able to deny wanting since they'd started this.
He switched to the other nipple, his fingers coming up to pinch and tease the already-hardened nipple that he'd just abandoned. The cold made it pucker and between the feeling of his hot mouth on one breast and the cold air on the other she pressed into him with abandon.
He took her hand into his and moved it to the hardness at the front of his trousers, moving it for her for a moment before returning his attention to her free breast.
When he pulled away, Deirdre tried to keep him pressed in, tried to keep the delicious feeling on her breasts, but he wouldn't be distracted.
With an easy motion he unlaced the belt that held his trousers up. Deirdre's attention automatically fell onto his hardness, standing proud of his body. She took it in her hand, rubbing up and down. Gunnar wasn't going to have any of it.
"Use your mouth."
She went down to her knees, his hardness still in her hand. Uncertain. He could feel the tension building, feel the need inside him. Deirdre gave the head an experimental kiss, looking up to Gunnar for guidance. He took her head in his hands and gently guided her, showing what she wanted.
She could barely take an inch at first, but as she started to take more and more control she found space in her mouth, allowing him deeper and deeper in her throat, each bob of her head seeming to add a little bit more. He could feel release building with each passing moment, his hand tightening on her head, pressing with increasing urgency into her throat.
With a cry he felt himself shoot once, twice into her waiting mouth. Gunnar struggled to calm his breathing as the need inside him continued to burn. He dropped to the ground beside her, pressing Deirdre onto her back.
For a moment Deirdre looked down at him quizzically as he dipped his head between her thighs, and then with the first experimental lick her head shot back to the soft earth, and the question was answered.
His tongue found the hardened bud at the top of her lips, his fingers testing her folds. Slick with arousal, he was able to enter her easily, wiggling his fingers, stretching and exploring her velvety cunt. He enjoyed the way that it seemed to suck onto him, her body trying to get as much pleasure as it could from his ministrations.
Deirdre writhed above him, her body overcome at the new sensations, trying to grasp for something, anything that would help her to withstand the onslaught of pleasure that racked her body. His tongue lapped up the sweet nectar that moistened the way for him.
Gunnar felt his hardness stirring, felt himself readying, but he held himself back, continuing to explore the folds of her pussy with his fingers and tongue. Deirdre's body stiffened, her hands finally finding purchase in Gunnar's hair again and pulling his face into her, her legs wrapping around his head.
The little nub of her clit looked so enticing—he pulled it between his lips and sucked lightly and she let out a howl of pleasure that he had to believe someone must have heard, grinding his face harder into her mound as she rocked herself against him. He let her ride out the pleasure, his fingers continuing to explore her. Preparing her for what was to come.
As she relaxed, letting him free, he spread her legs. Now it was time. Her hips came up off the ground just a bit, settled onto his thighs and lining him up with her. Gunnar's sensitive cock rubbed up and down her entrance, getting the head slick with her arousal. Deirdre purred out her pleasure when he lined up the head with her opening.
He started to press into her, slowly at first. Feeling every surface inside her clinging to every line of his cock. Savoring the heat and pleasure. He needed her every bit as much as she needed him. Finally, they were completely joined, his hardness pressed all the way into her to the hilt.
Her breasts heaved with each deep breath, creating a hypnotic show for the Dane, who waited. His hands were ready at her hips, and after a moment to enjoy the feeling of being completely sheathed inside her he pulled back out, then rocked forward again.
Another thrust. Harder. Gunnar used her hips as a way to get a grip on her, using the grip as leverage to powerfully thrust into her. She was his, and his alone. With each thrust he tried to carve out the shape of his cock inside her, making her remember his shape.
The noises she was making didn't matter any more. Let them hear, let them come and see them. It didn't matter. All that mattered was right there, in his arms, moving her hips to meet his. He could feel her tightening down, the makings of a second orgasm starting to clench all of the muscles in her body tight.
Gunnar picked up his pace, fucking her with abandon as she moved below him.
"Don't stop," she said. Her voice was low and breathy, as sexual as he'd ever heard a woman. He plowed into her, each thrust meeting them, it seemed, deeper than the last. Gunnar could feel his second release approaching, could feel the pull of need. One of his hands moved to her throat, pressing down. Asserting his dominance.
She was his, and he would make her his. He pushed inside again. Harder. Stronger. He could see the pleasure written across her face, feel her pushing back against him as he fucked her. Then, with a last hard push, he exploded inside her.
A moment of deep, harsh breathing, and then he bent down to kiss her. His.
She was finally his.
Twenty-Three
Gunnar rolled to the side of her and they laid together, both breathing hard. The thoughts and anxieties that had been running through her head since nearly the moment that she was called to leave her cozy little cottage were… oddly quiet. It was a comforting sort of silence.
Even the sounds of fighting had died down, and now everything in the night had settled into a heavy stillness that rested on her like a blanket. Deirdre's entire body tingled with the last stirrings of pleasure, and for a moment she thought she might turn over to have another go at trying to find her place with Gunnar.
Instead she turned on her side, noticing that her breasts spilled out of the top of her dress, but not especially caring. Watching him was an experience in itself. Sweat slicked his forehead, matting thin strands of hair that fell into his face down.
His chiseled features were distinctly foreign. Nothing English about them. And yet, Deirdre thought, they seemed somehow perfectly suited. As if she'd been waiting all these years for him, and now that he'd arrived he was everything that she'd expected.
The thought that within an hour she'd be far, far away from here only helped to calm her further. She could have fallen asleep if she wanted to, just closed her eyes and let herself drift away. Absolutely perfect.
She watched Gunnar pull himself up to seated with his powerful abdomen. Before a month ago, she'd never met a man with so many muscles, except perhaps the blacksmith. All she had to recall him was when she'd been eight, and the memory was patchy.
Even what she did remember, he was nothing like her Gunnar—it threw her to think of him that way. She hadn't asked for him. Hadn't particularly wanted him. And then, over the weeks, something had changed.
No use thinking like that, she chastised herself. It's only going to get you hurt. Let things happen, and when the dust settles, that's how it will be.
The way
he was looking at her, though, was a little upsetting. Something was wrong. Something that set off every alarm bell in her head.
"What's wrong?"
"There's a problem."
Deirdre had already felt this once before. As if her heart was stopping in her chest. The knowledge that whatever was about to happen, it wasn't going to be what she'd planned on.
Problem? They were past problem. She'd thought that they had solved what few problems she had left just now. More problems?
She didn't say that. She was quite proud of how well she managed to keep herself in check, actually, considering how furious she felt.
"The English know they're coming."
She held back the desire to answer 'So?' This was something that was important to him. Anyone could tell that. But why did she need to worry about it? What was the point of sneaking around if he was just going to join back up?
If he wasn't going to join back up, how exactly did he expect to help them deal with this?
"There's an ambush. Less than two hours' march north. They'll be wiped out."
Deirdre could see on his face that he was struggling to come out with whatever it was, but her blood was beginning to boil.
"So you want me to deal with the fallout, is that right?"
His lips drew a line straight across his face, showing his discomfort—but he didn't deny it.
"What do you expect me to do? Protect them with my magical safety bubble?"
"Just stay with them, try to save as many as you can. Please. It's not fair—"
"No, it isn't," she hissed. She was seething with rage, and it seemed the madder she got that the quieter she spoke, like a knife-edge being honed.
"I can't leave them to die."
"So warn someone about it."
"I have warned someone."
The damned silence again. If he wanted her to figure out a solution to this, then he'd tell her everything. If he wanted her help then he'd ask for it. Instead, he'd already decided what the right answer was, and he'd be damned to change his mind.
Deirdre took back every good thing she'd said about him. Gunnar was a bastard and a fool and she'd be glad to see him gone. Just as soon as she was able to get back home, she'd be alone again and she liked it just fine, thank you.
She cursed and stood back up, straightening her clothing.
"I'm sorry," he said weakly.
"That's not good enough. I told you, Gunnar. I just want to go home."
"And I'll take you home. I promise."
"When? It's always just more promises with you, Gunnar. Always just something else that needs dealing with, and I'm tired of it."
She watched his temper flare at that, and watched him reign it back in. Good. Let him get angry. Maybe he'd understand one-tenth of what she was going through. She felt the fire of rage in her eyes, fought to snuff it out.
This wasn't a time for throwing a tantrum. No, that would come. Right now she had to be smart, had to talk him out of this. Had to secure her freedom before he snatched it away from her a third time.
He was so upset about her little play at getting him kicked out, but what about his betrayals? What about his broken promises?
She held herself back from saying it, but then thought bitterly that she shouldn't have. She should have let him have it. But she wasn't going to do that. She needed him to see reason, and cutting words weren't going to win her any arguments, regardless of how much she wanted to say them.
"Promise me. When do I leave? And if you lie to me, if you change the deal again—"
His face sank just a bit, and for a moment Deirdre almost felt sorry for him. She knew what he was thinking. He was trying to do the right thing for his men. She couldn't let that matter when it was her life that he was weighing that against. She had to look out for herself.
"I don't know—"
"You say it's two hours away? If they're going to be able to be saved, I can do what I can tomorrow. Tomorrow. You take me tomorrow. Promise, or take me now, because I won't go along with them forever. One day, or none."
His jaw tightened as he weighed the options. One day wasn't much. He knew it, though he couldn't be sure how much she could get done. Truth be told, neither could she. But she was willing to gamble that she could get anyone who was close to death away from the brink in the hours after they broke through the ambush.
He'd have to take those odds, if he wanted anything from her at all. Finally he nodded.
"No more changing your mind?"
"I swear it," he said. "Tomorrow night. Be ready."
She swallowed her frustration. Twenty-four hours was a long time. A lot could go wrong in that time. Then again, a lot of things could go right.
If he'd put his words in the right ears, perhaps they would be able to skirt the entire thing. Perhaps there would be no need for her to stay. She could be totally safe, without a doubt.
Something in her gut told her that thought was optimistic, and she didn't doubt it for a moment.
Gunnar didn't look back as he left. He couldn't. It burned him to admit, but Deirdre was right. He'd promised, and then he hadn't delivered, not even the tiniest bit. It wasn't comfortable for him to have to change things on her.
If she thought that he wasn't trying, though, then she was sorely mistaken. She'd find that out soon enough. Until he could follow-through on his promises, it didn't matter a whole lot what he wanted or thought. So he'd let her mistrust him. After all, it was a small price to pay.
Gunnar took a deep breath. Well, it wasn't ideal. But she was right to try to force him, or at least he understood why she did it. He wasn't going to get upset over a woman doing her best.
Nobody stopped him as he left. There wasn't anyone to stop him. They had all gone to join the fighting. The way that things had gone, he wondered whether or not anyone could have heard them, even with the noise they'd made.
He pushed the memory out of his mind. There was a time for that. There would be plenty of time in the future, when he brought her home. The question of whose home crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. What did that matter, in the long run?
Whatever happened, though, tomorrow was the last day. He'd been forced to lie twice to her already. Whether she would bear a third time or not didn't matter. He wouldn't stand for it from himself.
Gunnar swung himself back up into the tree, ignoring the pain in his leg that his vigorous lovemaking had only worsened. Stretching out, leaning back against the trunk, he settled in and started to watch the camp stirring again after their fight.
He couldn't afford to sleep, not yet and certainly not heavily enough to get much rest. There wasn't much chance that anything would happen early, but Gunnar couldn't afford that risk. He started to sing to himself, his voice low and soft.
A tune he'd learned from his mother, when he was little. The old memories threatened to come flooding back, but he held them back. No point in getting sentimental over nothing, after all. Thinking about his childhood, about his mother, only ever made Gunnar confused.
He didn't need that sort of distraction right now, not when he needed to keep focused. But without the song, without something to keep his mind and his body occupied, he would fall asleep.
So he tapped a rhythm on a branch of the tree that propped his arm up comfortably and hummed a song that brought back memories he didn't want to think about, and settled in to watch.
The moon was already more than halfway through its trip across the sky. In a few short hours, the sun's rays would start to peek through the trees. But until then, he had a long night ahead of him. And a longer day to follow.
Gunnar saw the camp moving before his brain knew what he was seeing. He'd let himself relax, and let himself slip into the twilight dangerously close to sleep as the morning started to break. Too little to do, too little to see, and he had barely been able to sleep more than a few hours a night the past week.
If he was lucky, then Leif had found a way to tell Valdemar what was coming.
&n
bsp; No, he mentally corrected himself. Leif was more responsible than he was petty. He'd have given the message if he'd had to do it with his dying breath. If he was very lucky, then they'd managed to subdue his old rival. But Gunnar knew better than that.
He took a deep breath and let himself down from the tree slowly, keeping himself in a good position to watch which way they went, tracking west until he was able to move alongside them.
The pace was easier than the one he'd taken to catch up. Moving at a slow march was more comfortable than he'd remembered, and he slipped into the old routine easily, even as he tried to keep himself hidden. Two hours.
The question wasn't whether or not the camp knew. That was no question at all. They knew.
The real question, the one that made Gunnar's hairs stand on end, was whether or not the knowing would help. Valdemar was many things, but subtle had never been one of them.
Half an hour out, Gunnar had started to have high hopes. They doubled their pace, then tripled, and then they were moving at a dead run, the horses cantering behind to keep up.
He'd long-since given up on the idea of going around the camp. There was no way of knowing which way was the right one, and they knew that they'd been seen. They could just as easily have decided that they needed to move, to maintain the surprise.
Or perhaps they would expect that the scout had gone back and reported. The English might expect them to go around, and circle around. Gunnar knew it wasn't likely, but he allowed himself some hope. If he was lucky, indeed.
If he weren't lucky, then the only option would be to punch through. There wouldn't be any winning an open fight, but if they had momentum, the Danes might be able to get past before they suffered losses too heavy to bear.
And Valdemar had built up the momentum well. If they ever stood a chance, then they did now. The English line came into view from where Gunnar stood, elevated and in a position to see as far as the thick trees would allow him.
Valdemar led. The distance was far enough that he couldn't make him out clearly, but the body language, the distance to the second place, the choice of weapon all left little doubt in Gunnar's mind.
