Bjorn

by Jane Burrelli

  The crowd murmured, indicating Rhiannon had exited her home to stand before the priest, and her transformation from hardened shield maiden to a beautiful young woman was staggering. Bjorn couldn’t take his eyes off her. To him there was no one more beautiful. He drank her in from the top of her dark head to her toes, reaching her waist, her sword securely fastened around her hips. His lips curled. He couldn’t help but wonder if her bottom was still pink beneath her gown, a possessiveness rising in him. He splayed his hand across the base of her back. His lower body stirred with him knowing that he would lay claim to this proud beauty. He burned for her, craving her like none before.

  Father Godfrey cut Rhiannon a disapproving look, but he didn’t voice a reprimand, not with Bjorn standing beside her. Her fingers curled into the sleeve of his tunic, and hopefully taking comfort from his steadying presence, she spoke her vows. They were wed. Bjorn took a moment to thank his gods. She peered shyly up at him, and he kissed her forehead. Suddenly, he dipped at the waist and tugged his bride over his shoulder. Her endearing screech, “Bjorn!” making him smile. Her delectable backside raised in the air, he planted one hand on her bottom to steady her. It felt right, laying claim to the woman before all.

  Father Godfrey’s face turned an unhealthy purple, while Bjorn’s friends and family shouted ribald words of encouragement and advice. Rhiannon tugged on his tunic, and her face pressed into his back. Bjorn tensed, waiting for her teeth to sink into him. No retaliation came. Rhiannon squirmed on his broad shoulder, and he feared she would take a tumble.

  “Still,” he ordered, giving her bottom a sharp swat.

  Even his grim-faced brother cracked a smile.

  With strong, eager strides, he carried his bride to their new home, taking care to shield her head when he ducked through the low doorway, and returned her to her feet.

  “Was that necessary?” Rhiannon snapped, smoothing her skirts over her thighs, adorably pink-cheeked.

  Bjorn grinned and bobbed his head. “After the merry chase you have led me on, it was more than necessary.” Bending his head, he claimed her lips. “I wondered the whole time we were before that damned priest if you were still hot and wet for me,” he admitted, delving his hand into her bodice, earning himself a little moan when he cupped her breast, insistently plucking at her nipple.

  Rhiannon pulled away. “My mother—” She gasped, lips pink and swollen from his kiss. She needed to breathe.

  “Is staying with my brother and Eithne,” he growled, hurriedly tugging roughly at her sword belt, eager to have her bare before him.

  The suddenness of his actions seemed to startle her, and she shrank from him, as though fear and alarm flickered through her. Her small hands covered his in the action of removing her sword. He stilled, and haunted eyes that were too big for her face stared back at him, her delicate fingers tightening over his.

  “Not so rough, please,” Rhiannon asked with aching vulnerability.

  Bjorn immediately gentled his touch, cursing his own carelessness, anger lashing him. One night of passion would not magically put her fears to rest. He kissed her forehead before resting his brow against hers and murmured, “Apologies, little warrior, I got carried away.” Bjorn sat on the table, clenching the edge to keep his hands in place. “We will go at your pace.”

  Rhiannon shot him a tentative smile, and his heart turned over. She stood between his spread thighs and, leaning up on her tiptoes, she brushed her lips against his. Internally, he sighed with relief, pleased he hadn’t scared her off. Her hot little tongue traced the seam of his lips, requesting entrance. Bjorn bit back a groan, tightening his hands, and the edge of the table bit into his palms. When he didn’t take over, she pulled back, frowning.

  “Is that the best you can do, Rhiannon?” he teased, hoping to get a rise out of her.

  As he predicted, her eyes narrowed and blazed with amber fire, and she sealed her mouth over his in a determined move. Her fingers tunneling through his hair, Bjorn surrendered himself to her passionate ministrations. He jerked his head back at the unexpected sharp nip of her teeth. His brows disappearing into his hairline, he surveyed his bride speculatively. He snaked his tongue out to dab the injured bottom lip. So his she-wolf wanted to swipe her claws at him, did she? Good thing he knew just how to settle her down again.

  Cautious to keep Bjorn at arm’s-length, Rhiannon sidled around the table, shooting him a fulminating glare, not quite believing her own daring. She hadn’t planned to nip him, but Bjorn’s careless challenge had brought all the aching frustration bubbling to the surface. She couldn’t believe he had left her wanting, burning to be fulfilled.

  “What was that for?” he asked evenly.

  Rhiannon cocked her head. He didn’t seem angry; in fact, he appeared more amused than anything.

  “That was for leaving me, when you…when you…” she finished with a frustrated little growl, his trousers tenting further, and she narrowed her eyes. Stamping her foot, she tried again. “I can’t believe that you…that you…” She gave up, rubbing her tongue against her teeth, searching for the right words.

  A flash of understanding flared in the man’s gaze.

  “Left you wanting?” Bjorn supplied with an unrepentant grin, stirring that frustration.

  God, she wanted to hit him and swipe that smug look from his face, but she had already made that error once and was in no hurry to repeat it.

  “Let’s start this again,” he offered.

  He walked to the doorway of his room—no, now their room, Rhiannon quickly corrected, puzzled when Bjorn held out his hand. What was his game?

  “Come,” he said, eyes flaring with dark promise, “and I vow you will be too satisfied to move before the moon wanes.”

  Rhiannon wrestled with her pride, wanting to deny him, but the tempting promise of pleasure and relief proved too much. Placing her crown of flowers on the table, she spanned the distance between them and slipped her small hand into his, trusting him. He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist, right over the spot of her thumping pulse.

  “Thank you,” Bjorn said with obvious relief, before admitting, “For a moment there, I thought you would take a swipe at me.”

  Rhiannon chuckled. “Believe me, I considered it.” She quirked a brow at him. “I hope you can live up to your words, Viking.”

  Bjorn offered her a crooked smile, and his large hard hands swept down her back to cradle her bottom, pulling her to his body and his blossoming hardness. He kneaded the still tender globes, and heat curled around her thighs to settle deep within her loins, and she cleaved to him, her breasts smashed against the hard planes of his chest. The friction of her dress abraded her nipples into hard peaks, and her breathing grew ragged.

  “Oh, little warrior.” Bjorn chuckled under his breath. “You will soon learn I was never one to resist a challenge.”

  Rhiannon took in the determined gleam in his eyes, and her womb fluttered with happy anticipation. She allowed him to lead her to the bed, the softness cradling her form, and became lost in the skillful touch of her lover, eagerly following wherever he led. Rhiannon was wrapped in the haze of pleasure, her soft moans and cries of ecstasy echoed off the walls of the room until she and Bjorn fell in an exhausted pile of tangled limbs.

  The sun was indeed high before they emerged from the cottage, but the satisfied smile curling Rhiannon’s lips suggested she was well pleased. In the name of the gods, she had certainly pleased him. Bjorn had kept his word, over and over and over again. If he’d had a choice, he would not have allowed her to leave their bed, but her plea for food forced him to relent—he had to keep her strength up. His plan to scoop her up and carry off was dashed when she’d reminded him she had neglected her work for too long. His wife was a hard worker. Bjorn was forced to bide his time, busying himself with one mundane task to the next, lust knifing him hard in his gut. His patience was rewarded, and the perfect opportunity presented itself after the evening milking. He captured her retur
ning from the lean-to, curling his arms around her waist. He moved in to steal a kiss.

  “Bjorn, someone will see,” Rhiannon hissed, slapping at his hands, her cheeks a delightful pink.

  “Let them,” he rumbled against her lips, their softness reminding him of flower petals. “Let them see how much you please me.” He couldn’t get enough of his warrior bride with her strange mixture of bold shyness.

  “You’re still alive then?”

  The tender moment was shattered. Bjorn closed his eyes and took a moment to remind himself why it was not a good idea to kill his friend. Exhaling heavily, he straightened and turned to meet a pair of dancing eyes. Bjorn rolled his. Trust Alarik to be the first to pass comment. “Does this mean you’ve tamed your she-wolf then?” Laughter shimmered in Alarik’s voice, and the muscles in his face twitched like he was fighting a smile.

  Rhiannon was looking anything but tame in that moment; in fact, she appeared to be sizing up Alarik to take a bite out of him. Bjorn didn’t think she would do anything rash, but he erred on the side of caution and looped an arm around her waist and anchored her against the length of his body. She shot him an angry scowl over her shoulder, attempting to peel his fingers free and failing.

  Growling in the back of her throat, she gave up and turned her blazing hazel gaze back on Alarik, her lips stretched back, revealing the edge of her teeth. “Why don’t you come practice your sword work with me and find out exactly how tame I am?”

  Alarik snapped his mouth shut, backing up a step. Bjorn chuckled, placing a kiss on the back of Rhiannon’s neck, and the tension eased from her shoulders. If Alarik was foolish enough to bait his bride, then he would do so at his own peril and without Bjorn’s interference.

  “Not so tame, my friend, though if you are not careful, you will not make it back to Dagny whole.”

  “Who is Dagny?” Rhiannon asked, momentarily diverted from trying to free herself from Bjorn’s grasp.

  He smiled into her hair. Always so curious.

  The laughter lines around Alarik’s eyes deepened. “Dagny is my wife. She has eyes as blue as a clear summer sky and a tongue a sharp as my blade. She and my son await my return at Skalanes.” There was a hint of wistfulness in Alarik’s voice, and his eyes were far away, no doubt back across the sea with his loved ones. “It has been a long time since I saw them, but it will make our reunion all the sweeter.”

  “The boats will return soon, and with luck—” Bjorn was interrupted by the rustling of foliage, and he swept Rhiannon behind his back, ignoring her spluttering protest.

  It was unusual for a bear, a wolf, or a boar to venture this close to a village, but not unheard of. Instead of a dangerous animal, a bedraggled man covered in filth and blood staggered out of the undergrowth. He wove precariously on his feet like a newborn foal taking its first steps. Where on earth had he come from? Beneath the dirt, his face was colourless, one hand clutching his side. He reached out—it was crusted in blood—a plea for help, and keeled over onto the ground.

  “Rhiannon, fetch—” Bjorn hadn’t even finished when a blur of dark hair charged past and out of sight. He breathed a little easier. Good. If trouble followed the man, then at least his bride would be away from the violence.

  Alarik knelt beside the man and supported his head.

  “They came from Hell, part man, part beast, like shrieking devils,” the stranger mumbled, his gaze never landing on an object long enough to focus. “Like devils—”

  “You are safe here,” Alarik said, catching Bjorn’s eye. He nodded toward where the man clutched at his side. “What is your name?”

  The cloud of madness cleared, his head bobbing with effort to push out the word. “G-G-Giron.” Then he lapsed, babbling about devils and beasts and punishment from their Christian god. Prepared for the worst, Bjorn, with the utmost care, peeled back the blood-soaked cloth from the man’s side. He grimaced; it was bad. His gut was split open in a wide wound, the slippery grey of his innards peeking through his blood-encrusted fingers. By Thor’s hammer, how had he made it so far?

  “Part man, part wolf, their howls signal your doom. When the wolves howl you must run…”

  Bjorn stiffened, a lead weight forming in his stomach. That sounded like… “Howling like wolves?” He leaned over, grasping the man’s shoulder. “Are you sure?”

  Rhiannon skidded to a stop, Myrna panting heavily at her side.

  “Y-y-yes.” He was fading, the weak voice seeming to rasp along his rib cage, blood bubbling past his lips to run down his chin.

  “Shhh,” Myrna soothed, shooting Bjorn daggers over the injured man’s head. “Don’t speak, save your strength.” It didn’t take a healer to see that the man was beyond help. “Ragnar, water, please,” she instructed her husband who was her second shadow.

  The breath in the stranger’s chest crackled like dry leaves blown in the breeze, becoming more laboured. Faster and faster, each pump of his heart drained his life blood from his body. His grasp tightened on Myrna’s, and a desperate look entered his eyes. He clawed to stay in his body, to hold on to this life, but it wasn’t enough. The light left his eyes, leaving an empty shell, and his grip went slack, his hand falling limp. They stared in a solemn circle, no one knowing what to say, and all the heat had been sucked out of the sun. How had a day starting out with such promise been marred with such a senseless loss of life?

  “You were looking for me.” Brandr strode towards them, breaking off when he saw the battered body on the ground. “What happened?”

  Bjorn related back what the man had said, finishing with, “It sounded like berserkers.”

  Brandr stiffened. “Are you sure?” Behind his calm mask, the same fears flickered through his brother’s eyes, though Bjorn was sure only he could see it. The same memories haunted him as they did Bjorn. They had seen firsthand what berserkers were capable of eleven years ago.

  Bjorn nodded with a heavy heart, wishing he could give Brandr a different answer.

  “What are berserkers?”

  He had forgotten that Rhiannon was even there, watching the exchange avidly.

  “Fierce warriors,” Alarik grunted.

  Myrna’s brow puckered. “More fierce than Vikings?” she asked, her gaze roaming over Ragnar’s towering height and imposing shoulders, obviously struggling to imagine something more terrifying than her grim-faced husband.

  “The worst sort,” Bjorn said, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. It didn’t. “They leave not a single thing breathing, whether it be man, woman, child, or beast. They attack with the speed and strength of a wolf and are invincible to fire and iron. In a raid on Skalanes eleven summers ago, it took three men to bring a lone berserker down.”

  “I want a rotating watch,” Brandr said at last, face grim, hands clasping his wrists behind his back. “Changed three times a day.”

  “There is a perfect lookout point on the clifftops,” Bjorn added, sensing the weight of leadership settle heavy on his brother’s shoulders, and he was determined to help him bear it. With women and children, the stakes had never been so high. “What do we do if they come?” There was a raiding party out there. That meant at least forty warriors armed to the teeth, maybe more, and they had nine men, eleven including Rinda and Rhiannon. If he had a say, Rhiannon would not be anywhere near the potential violence. Brandr didn’t turn his gaze from the clutch of houses, mouth dug down, the lines in his face deepening.

  “We pray the gods are feeling merciful.”

  Chapter 9

  24th September, 912 AD

  Bjorn woke, sensing something wasn’t right. The cool air held a bite that said the seasons were fast changing and, pulling the furs higher over his shoulders, he reached blindly for Rhiannon. His hand groping thin air, he found a cold indentation where his wife should be slumbering fitfully. Displeased to find her missing, Bjorn flopped onto his back and stared at the turf roof, waiting for her to return. He had become accustomed to waking with her curled into his side, her face softened
in sleep. In the few months since their marriage, Rhiannon had blossomed, and barring a handful of early skirmishes, they had slid into each other’s lives with little difficulty. He did not regret taking the Pictish shield maiden to wife, patiently peeling back her defensive layers. Rhiannon was becoming braver and more curious in their bed play.

  A grin tugged at his cheeks in the darkness while he remembered last night’s activities. His bride was a well of unbridled and untapped passion. The rest of the world saw the fierce shield maiden, and there was something heady and powerful in knowing that such a strong woman would defer to him and reserve a softness only for him. It was a treasured gift that Bjorn would never take lightly. The only blight on their happiness was the constant threat of an attack hanging over them. The survivor had brought news of berserkers prowling the coast, and it had the entire village on edge. Even Bjorn would avoid facing such foes, but as time passed, the chances of attack dwindled, and it was now the end of the raiding season. Not before long, too. Tempers were short, and everyone was being kept in a heightened state of awareness, putting a strain on the whole village.

  Stretching his shoulders, he decided it had been too long for Rhiannon to be using the privy. Bjorn dressed, stabbing his legs into his trousers and boots, growling under his breath. It had been a while since Rhiannon had pulled a disappearing act on him. It was one of their main points of disagreement, and with the threat of an attack looming over them like a grim shadow, it was not the time for her to start testing him. Perhaps he should remind her just how seriously he took her safety, and if she needed a sore backside for her to remember that fact, then so be it.

  Bjorn reached for his cloak. Rhiannon’s was still on the peg. He narrowed his gaze, and the muscle in his jaw ticked. Oh, his little wife was playing with fire. He grabbed her cloak and slung it over his arm, muttering curses. When Rhiannon wandered, she did not take care of herself and often returned with frozen flesh and chattering teeth. Not that Bjorn minded having to warm her up.