He clenched his jaw and looked back over his shoulder at the distant beach, now a mere ribbon of silver in the moonlight. A brine-scented breeze made the fog shift and dance, while the rhythmic dipping of the oars through the water made the only sound in the stillness. All revelry and bawdy jests had ended when they left shore.
As soon as the young raiders had donned their brown homespun garments and pushed the square-sailed ship into the mist that cloaked their island home, each seemed to realize the seriousness of the dangers ahead.
But neither Hauk’s logic nor the threat of facing an outraged father or brother or kinsman had been enough to sway them from their purpose. The ancient drives were too strong, the temptation too powerful.
Had he not felt the same fire in his blood years ago, his first time? Had he not lived to enjoy his pretty prize?
Ja, and he had also lived to regret ever setting eyes on her.
“Still having doubts, old friend?”
Hauk glanced at the man beside him, who had one arm slung across the tiller. “Nei. Nay,” he replied tightly. “Merely wondering which of us will not survive to return home, Kel.”
“I am certain we will all return home.” Keldan pushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing thick dark hair, a confident smile, and a face that always made females swoon at his feet in annoying numbers. “You have trained us well, Hauk. Gareth is now better with a blade than any man on Asgard—other than you, of course. And Bjarn has become an expert with that odd weapon that fires short arrows—”
“A crossbow.”
“A crossbow.” Keldan shrugged as if the name did not matter. “And we have spent six months planning every detail of this journey—”
“And most of you have never left the island before. Even the best among you is little better than a green lad.”
Keldan wrinkled his nose in offense. “Inexperienced we may be, but the Claiming voyage is an honored tradition—and even you cannot fight tradition, Hauk.”
“Stolen fruit tastes the sweetest,” one of the other would-be warriors said, quoting the centuries-old saying among the inhabitants of Asgard Island.
Hauk slanted the eager young whelp a quelling look. “If we are to survive, we must change some of the old traditions.” It seemed he had been saying that every day of late. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes, running a weary hand through his tangled blond hair. “The Claiming voyage was necessary for survival in the early days, but that is no longer true. In these times it is dangerous not only to us but to everyone we leave behind. There are seven hundred lives on that island, and I am responsible for keeping them safe—”
“Mayhap you should have stayed behind with them, Valbrand,” another raider commented, his voice laced with undisguised hostility. “We do not need you hovering over us like some overgrown nursemaid.”
Hauk sliced his old nemesis with a glare. “I am here by order of the elders, Thorolf. Someone had to ensure that you hot-blooded raiders remember our laws and do not bring a world of trouble down upon us.” Leaning back against the bulwark, he rested one arm along the boat’s railing, letting his cloak fall open to display the longsword gleaming at his waist. Won in battle by his grandfather, it was named Forsvar. Defender. “I will be keeping watch over you most of all.”
Staring at the weapon, with its silver hilt and mystical runes inscribed on the blade, Thorolf fell silent, broad shoulders bulging as he hauled on his oar. Hauk still did not understand why the hulking knave had insisted on taking part in this voyage. Older than the others, older than Hauk himself, Thorolf had a heart as black as ocean depths at midnight—and a habit of making trouble purely for his own amusement. He was not the sort to pine away for female companionship or a family.
And that was the true purpose of this voyage. Like their ancestors, those men of Asgard who wished to have families had to risk venturing forth into the outside world in search of brides—for the women of Asgard could not bear children.
Thorolf’s thick lips curled in a sneer. “I have as much right to be here as any man. The ancient law—”
“During this journey, I am the law,” Hauk warned silkily. “You will either follow my commands or pay the price.” He shifted to a tone that some women had told him was even icier than his blue eyes. “You know from experience that I do not make idle threats.”
Thorolf held his stare, gaze glittering with a lifetime of hatred, before he looked away uncomfortably.
“All will be well,” Keldan said in a soft voice, trying to make peace, as usual. “We will follow your orders, Hauk, as we promised. But even if one of us is captured or killed, there is no chance that our secret could be discovered.”
Hauk fingered the rough fabric of his cloak, hoping that was true. They had taken pains to appear unremarkable. Uninteresting. Unworthy of attention. They had removed their gold armbands and jeweled torques, shaved their beards, donned the tunics and leggings favored by common European traders. Hauk had left all mark of his rank and office behind—except for his sword.
Even their ancient ship had been carefully disguised, its name sanded away, the carved dragon’s head removed from the prow. Stripped of its finery, the weathered longboat looked like a derelict left over from another age, battered but still fierce.
The thought made Hauk’s lips curve in a rueful half smile. The same could be said about him.
Shaking his head, he stared off into the fog. “Every time we set foot in their world,” he said quietly, “we risk exposing our secret.”
“But we have taken every precaution. Looking at us, no one could tell us apart from ordinary men—”
“Keldan, we are not ordinary men.”
His young friend fell silent for a moment. “In every way that matters, we are,” he insisted stubbornly. “We feel joy and pain, we eat and sleep and laugh and bleed. We want what any man wants, to have a wife and a family—”
“But we are not ordinary men,” Hauk repeated, fixing him with a hard stare. “We are different, Kel. Someday you will learn to accept that.”
Keldan’s brown eyes held a hint of sadness. But then he waved a hand as if to brush the subject away, grinning. “Well, I for one intend to enjoy every second of this journey. And if aught goes awry...” His smile widened. “Who wants to live forever?”
Hauk arched one brow. “You may not find that so funny two days hence when we land at Antwerp.”
“I expect I shall have far more pleasant things to think about in Antwerp. This trade fair should offer a great variety of women from all over the continent.” He looked as excited as a boy choosing among a shiny array of new playthings. “I want an exotic beauty—a Moorish girl, or a dark-eyed firebrand from Tuscany, or a Scottish lass with red hair and freckles like Rolf’s wife.” His smile fading a bit, he lowered his voice, speaking for Hauk’s ears alone. “You might find a new bride for yourself, my friend... have you considered that?”
Hauk swallowed hard and glanced away. Nei, he had not considered it. Not for a moment. He had lost his first wife in childbirth, and his second...
He had outlived his second.
“Never again, Kel,” he said bitterly. “Never. I am here to watch over you and the others, that is all.” Under his breath, he added, “A man can get used to living alone.”
Even as he whispered those words, the last of the fog parted before the ship’s prow, a west-born wind filled the sail, and the longboat swept into the open sea.
Chapter 2
Artois Region, France
Avril parted her lips for her husband’s kiss, welcoming him to their bed. Gerard, mon coeur, thank God you have returned at last...
His weight pressed her down into the sheets, his hard body covering and claiming hers, and she twined her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, filled with surprise and joy. He nuzzled her cheek, her hair, whispered words she had not heard in such a long time. Words of love.
You are here. She sighed, all the months of longing and loneliness pouring out. I thought you were go
ne forever, mon amour, but you are here. Never leave me again. Please never leave me again. I missed you so.
He tenderly kissed her tears away. She held him tighter, his skin warm and smooth beneath her fingers, her lips. Their mouths met in deep, lingering kisses. His strong hands touched her intimately, each caress slower than the last as he gently aroused her.
Moaning softly, she lifted her hips, wanting to take him inside her. Please, mon coeur, it has been so long. I need... I need...
He nudged her thighs apart, positioning himself there at the silky core of her body. Then he raised his head, and in the firelight she could see the passion in—
This was not her husband!
Lady Avril de Varennes jerked awake with a startled cry, eyes wide, heart pounding. She lurched upright, uncertain where she was for a dizzying moment.
A dream. It had only been a dream.
The same one that had tormented her for months now... growing more vivid, more sensual each time.
She pushed aside the blankets and stumbled out of bed, her silk kirtle tangling around her legs. Rushes crunched beneath her bare feet. A few embers still glowed on the hearth, helping her eyes adjust to the darkness. With every rapid breath, she inhaled the scent of the lavender oil she had burned earlier to calm her. Of course, she was in Gaston and Celine’s chateau, in one of the guest bedchambers. She had arrived here yestereve. She was quite safe.
And alone. As she had been for three years, four months, a handful of days.
Yet her body tingled in the most sensitive places, and perspiration made her kirtle cling to her back, her thighs, her breasts. Lifting an unsteady hand to her lips, she swore she could feel the lingering heat of a kiss there. And on her cheeks, a trace of dampness, like...
Like tears that had been kissed away.
She covered her face with both hands, her wedding ring cold against her flushed skin. The sensations had all felt so real, so intense, so...
Mortifying. How could she dream of making love to any man but her husband?
“Nay,” she whispered fiercely, raking her long brown hair out of her eyes, lifting her chin. “It was only a dream.” She was getting upset over naught. Crossing the chamber, she opened the door that connected to the next room.
Inside, bathed in moonlight that poured through a tall, arched window fitted with glass, Giselle lay asleep—her thumb in her mouth, her plump arm curled around the carved toy horse her uncle Gaston had given her.
Avril sank down beside the small bed, resting her cheek on the covers, reaching out to touch her three-year-old daughter’s raven curls. Many times these past weeks she had spent sleepless nights this way, disturbed not only by that troubling dream—but by the decision she had made.
“We will be all right, ma petite,” she murmured. “You will love your new home in Brittany, I promise. And your uncle Gaston is wrong. We do not need a man to take care of us.”
She closed her eyes, hoping that was true, praying she was not making a mistake. Not acting like a “stubborn little firebrand,” as Gerard used to chide her with a teasing, handsome smile.
Her throat dry and tight, Avril stood, moving to the window, gazing down at the forest that surrounded the chateau. She looked for the chapel Gaston had built there. Normally she could see a great deal from here, but tonight, despite the full moon, she could make out only the uppermost branches of the trees.
A mist enveloped all else, a silvery fog that wound through the woods to surround the castle.
Strange, she thought, frowning in puzzlement, to see fog on such high ground. Especially at this time of year. The last days of summer had only just given way to the first bite of autumn.
Yet the veil of white was so thick she could see only the spire of the small chapel, there where she and Gaston had agreed it should be... built of the finest marble and the most exquisite stained glass, by artisans brought from the East, as befitted a knight who had fought in the Crusades. Gerard always loved Moorish architecture, as he loved those woods where he had spent many happy days as a boy.
They had buried him there.
Three years, four months, and a handful of days ago.
“Forgive me, mon coeur.” She rested her forehead against the window, blinking hard. “Forgive me.”
Even as the words slipped out, she was not certain whether she was asking forgiveness for the bold step she was about to take.
Or for her dream about the passionate stranger.
“Avril, I do not care how skilled you are with a crossbow—and pray do not remind me that you took up arms last month and stood shoulder to shoulder with your retainers to defend your keep against the Flemish. You are a noblewoman, you are but three and twenty, and when you travel such a distance—”
“I do not need half a dozen guards.” Avril stopped trying to elude her brother-in-law, turning to stare up at Duc Gaston de Varennes in the blinding morning sunlight. Servants dodged around them, carrying bundles of food and flasks of water needed for her journey north. As she crossed her arms over her chest, the wind tugged at her honey-colored traveling cloak and velvet skirts. “I am going to a friend’s wedding, not into battle. I still do not understand why you insist on being so cautious.”
“I insist on ensuring your safety.” Gaston glowered down at her, looking very much like the name he had earned in battle: the Black Lion. The fact that he carried his two-year-old son, Soren, on his broad shoulders did little to soften the impression. “The northern roads are a haven for outlaws of every ilk. Six men riding under my banner will make any knave who would harm you think twice. You are still under my care, and I mean to protect you, just as I will protect your daughter while you are gone—nay, I will brook no further argument.”
“I was not going to argue,” Avril said softly, glancing away. With his black hair and brown eyes, Gaston so resembled his elder brother that at times, it hurt to look at him. “I was going to thank you for caring so much.”
All around them, the castle’s outer bailey hummed with activity as servants continued loading the cart that would carry her north, adding gifts for the bride and for friends Avril had not seen in years. Her dearest companion from childhood, Lady Josette de la Valentin, stood chatting with Gaston’s wife, Celine, while groomsmen strapped horses into the traces. Josette had arrived from Brittany yesterday to accompany Avril on the journey.
And after the wedding of their mutual friend, Avril would accompany Josette on her journey home. To Brittany.
“I still wish you would reconsider your decision,” Gaston said more gently. “As far as I am concerned, Gerard’s castle and holdings are yours for as long as you live. You know that you and Giselle are welcome to stay there. My brother built that chateau for you.”
“Aye, he did. And there are reminders of him in every room. I cannot keep living in the past, Gaston. I cannot stay there anymore.” She met his gaze again. “I thought you would be happy, beau-frère. I have finally admitted that you are right. My recent experience with the Flemish proved that what you have been saying is true—the chateau is too close to the border, too tempting a prize without a man to protect it. And your keep here is too distant to send help quickly enough.”
“I never meant that you should leave and return to your dower lands in Brittany.” Gaston set his restless son down. The little boy scampered over to a nearby grove of apricot trees, where Giselle was playing with a litter of black-and-white kittens. “Celine and I are happy to take care of you and Giselle.”
“And I am grateful to you for being so good to us.” She sighed, tucking a wind-blown strand of hair back behind her ear. “But Gerard’s chateau and lands belong to you by right of inheritance, Gaston, and it is time I gave them back—”
“You could stay here.”
“Nay, I could not.” She nodded toward the spire just visible beyond the castle walls, struggling to keep her voice steady. “The memories here are just as strong.”
She started to turn away, but he caught her arm. “Why is
it so impossible for you to let anyone take care of you?”
Avril was spared having to reply as Josette and Celine joined them.
“It looks as if all is ready for us to depart.” Josette’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement as she wrestled the wind for control of her hooded traveling cloak, which was made of lovely—but somewhat impractical—violet brocade and white silk. “Though I fear this weather may prove more troublesome than any forest bandits we might encounter.” Giving up her battle, she let the wind blow her unruly curls into a tangled sable-brown mass.
Avril smiled. She and Josette shared a spirit of adventure that had made them best friends since birth, even though petite Josette tended to be sweet and amiable while she herself was more outspoken and headstrong.
“Have you explained to Giselle how long you’ll be away?” Celine’s cheeks almost matched her red tresses in the chilly morning breeze. Gaston slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulders and brushed a kiss through her burnished hair.
“I have tried.” Avril glanced to where the children were playing. “But I am not sure she understands what ten days means. So I have made ten raisin sweetcakes for her, and said to eat one each day, and when the last one is gone, Maman will be home.”
“What a lovely idea.”
“Thank you, Celine. I hope it will help. She always loves our visits here, and I think she believes this is simply another holiday. I considered taking her with me, but...”
“You made the right decision, Avril. She’ll be safe here, and she and Soren always have such fun. We’ll take good care of her.”
“I know.” Avril smiled at her belle-soeur. “She loves you both very much. But even with those she loves, she can be rather willful at times.”
“I cannot imagine where she inherited that trait,” Gaston commented dryly. After giving his wife a last hug, he released her. “If you ladies will excuse me, I would have a word with the guards before this merry caravan departs.”
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