“Maybe one day you’ll be able to keep up. Today isn’t that day,” Tyra goaded.
They had been sparing once more, and the result was typical. Tyra Vigosdóttir knocked Bjorn Jansson onto his arse time and again despite being two years younger, only coming to the middle of his chest, and being a woman. They had been sparring since they were children, and at seventeen, Bjorn resented Tyra, who was only fifteen, still being able to best him. He was a renowned warrior in his own right, but somehow Tyra read him better than he knew himself. She was always one, but usually three, moves ahead of him.
Before Bjorn could say thank you, she spun on her heels and marched away, her honey blonde braid swinging down her back. Bjorn grimaced as he recalled the loathing he had seen in her eyes as they fought. For the longest time, there had been a teasing glint as she bested him, but for the last three moons, it had been anger and disgust. He accepted that he deserved it, but it still stung.
He moved to the side of the training ring and stepped into the shadows as he took a long draw from the water skin. He watched as Tyra stood speaking to their friend Strian. Bjorn wanted to grimace at the sight of Strian and Tyra together, but he knew it was not his friend’s fault. Bjorn’s mind wandered to when they friendship ended three moons ago. Bjorn remembered as though the events were happening before his eyes. The early spring weather was unseasonably warm, and after training, Bjorn looked for Tyra as he usually did. He did not make a habit of talking to her or standing near her but having been in love with her since he was seven, he was used to being drawn to her. When he was unable to find her but spotted his cousins Leif and Freya, he wondered where Tyra disappeared to. She and Freya were best friends and rarely apart, so he made his way to his cousins as he looked around.
“You seem to be missing your other half,” he grinned at Freya.
“Tyra was hot and wanted time to soak, so she went to the fjord.”
“Alone?” Bjorn’s heart began to race. Tyra was a force to be reckoned with when she was armed, but she would be vulnerable undressed and alone. “Why didn’t you go with her?”
“She said she wanted some time to herself,” Freya shrugged. “We aren’t one person. We do things apart.”
Bjorn grunted as he walked to the tree line then ran until he spotted the fjord to his left. He slowed his pace, cautious not to make his presence known in case someone did lurk within the trees watching Tyra. He drew his sword as he approached the shore. He scanned the area but could not hear nor see anyone else. His chest was tight with alternating pangs of fear and anger for Tyra’s foolishness. He sheathed his sword and waded into the water. He had seen Tyra’s blonde head sitting at the surface as the rest of her soaked. She stood and spun around a knife pointing at him when she heard his splashes.
Tyra’s eyes opened wide as she took in Bjorn standing knee deep with a look of fury on his face. She had seen him angry countless times, usually directed at her for beating him, but this was far more intense than she had seen before.
Bjorn’s mind screamed that his chest and cock would detonate simultaneously as both throbbed. He had been with more than one woman, and he had seen different body types over the years, but he had seen nothing as beautiful as the water nymph who stood before him. She was exquisite with long legs and slender hips. She had broad shoulders and muscles from years of training. Her breasts were not as large as usually drew him, but they would easily fill his hands. He forced his eyes from the thatch of dark hair that protected the place he most wanted to be at that moment.
“Bjorn?” her hushed tones barely carried to him.
Strian VIKING GLORY BOOK 4
Strian looked over his shoulder at the woman rowing just two benches behind him. Other Norsemen surrounded her, but she appeared out of place and alone. Despite trying to remain focused on navigating his ship towards the fjord just beyond his home, Strian Eindrideson failed to overcome the temptation to look back at Gressa time and again.
Gressa Jorgensdóttir refused to lift her gaze from the shoulder blades of the people seated in front of her. She followed the rhythm of the other rowers as her oar dipped and slid first through the water then in the air before returning to the water. She could feel Strian’s eyes on her even though she had not looked up in hours. She refused. She refused to acknowledge him, and she refused to acknowledge her own feelings, or rather the ones he stirred in her. She forced her mind to focus on the motions needed to keep her oar synchronized with the other rowers. She would not allow herself to think about how her hands, blistered and raw, ached from rowing for hours after not having touched an oar in years. She would not think about how her stomach rumbled from refusing anything but the most meager amounts of food; one of the few rebellious acts available to her. She would not think about how once again fate forced an abrupt sacrifice of the life she had. She would not think about Strian. There was far more for her not to think about than what she was willing to entertain, but her attempts to force her mind away from the painful topics only made them linger in the forefront of her mind even more. Gressa caught herself before she shook her head.
Strian gave up all attempts at ignoring Gressa the second day aboard his ship. It was an exercise in futility to pretend she did not exist. He had never been able to ignore her, and ten years of separation had not changed that. Gressa stood out from the rest with her heart-shaped face, dark brown hair, and deep blue eyes with their almond shape, giving proof to her Sami heritage. None of her clothes resembled the ones he remembered. Gone were the conical rolled toes on her boots or the beading at the hems of her wrists and collar that she wore at home. The more subdued forest colors of a Welsh bowman replaced her Sami clothing. Her clothes had always made her stand out, first as a Sami and now as a Welshwoman. But Strian knew the clothes did not matter. His memories clutched to the images of Gressa when she was undressed. He snapped his eyes back to the water and slammed the door shut on those memories. They had haunted him ever since he last saw Gressa, and now they caused a painful knot to squeeze his heart.
“Captain, Tyra’s given the signal that we are only five knots from the entrance to the fjord. We will be home soon.” Strian nodded once to his first mate and followed the man to the stern where he took the rudder from one of his oarsmen.
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 gutt
ural 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 Wallflower at the Highland Court: A Slow Burn Highlander Romance Page 31
