Seduction of the Bear (Bear Kamp Book 1)

by Rachel Robins

  Brynarr paused there, clearly waiting for some sign from her.

  Poised on the brink of pleasure and fear, Frida shivered. But she couldn't bring herself to stop him. Instead, she rocked her hips, spreading her legs a little to give him better access to her pleasure points.

  Brynarr took that as the invitation that it was, laying the cloth over the edge of the tub and resuming his movements with his fingertips. He stroked at her velvety folds and then stabbed his fingers inside her entrance, moving his fingers with careful assurance.

  Frida muffled a groan, twisting against him. “Please,” she whimpered, trying her best not to make too much noise.

  “Easy,” Brynarr murmured against her skin, sucking a soft mark into her shoulder.

  He changed the movement of his fingers inside of her, both stroking and pressing at her walls, moving each finger singularly but in unison with the other. And just when she didn't think things could get any more overwhelming, she suddenly realized that she could feel his feelings leaking out between them, filling her with a sense of possession, protection, and warmth.

  She sobbed, going rigid for a moment before falling back against his muscular chest, her walls fluttering around his still-moving fingers. Finally, she had to reach down and catch his wrist, halting his ministrations. “Too much,” she mewled, shuddering. “Brynarr, it's”–she gasped–“It's too much!”

  Brynarr smiled against her skin and withdrew his fingers, picking up the cleaning cloth and resuming his task of scrubbing her skin clean.

  There were no sounds except the gentle sloshing of water and Frida's attempts to regain her breath.

  Chapter 5

  That night, they were invited to share dinner with Colburn and his family.

  Frida and Brynarr were seated at separate parts of the table, and she appreciated that given the afternoon that they'd had. They'd finally extracted themselves from the tub, and that had been Frida's cue to really feel embarrassed about what had just transpired. She had gathered up the clothing that one of the servants had left for them—coarse but clean woolen tunics and trousers—and turned her back on Brynarr to begin changing.

  Brynarr had laughed a little and caught her arm, spinning her around and into his embrace. He had kissed her newly-washed hair and then released her. “You're all right,” he had told her.

  “I know,” Frida had murmured, but she had blushed and ducked her head, unable to meet the man's eyes. She had dressed in a hurry and then made her way back into the main hall and over to the platform where their bed was. It was just one bed for the two of them—which she supposed made sense, given that Brynarr had told Colburn that the two of them were married.

  She had taken a deep, shuddery breath and then lay down on the mattress, too exhausted to consider this any further. Even the idea that there were other people there in the hall who would see her lie down with Brynarr wasn't enough to deter her.

  That said, when Brynarr crawled beneath the blankets beside her and pulled her into his arms, she stifled a gasp. “We don't need to–” she started.

  But Brynarr squeezed his arms tighter around her, cutting off her protests. “My darling wife,” he said, with a heavy emphasis on that third word. “Sweet dreams.”

  It had taken Frida a little longer before she was actually able to fall asleep, but once she was asleep there in his arms, she couldn't deny that she slept well and woke up comfortably.

  Which left her feeling shaky and uncertain as she came to the dinner table.

  Brynarr gave her a smile from the other end of the table, but she didn't even try to return it. She looked around the rest of the table, desperate to find some sort of distraction. Fortunately, that came in the form of a woman her age who sat down beside her and smiled shyly at her.

  “My name is Gwyna,” the woman introduced herself.

  “Frida,” she responded, managing to keep her tone somewhat normal.

  “My father tells me that you are Brynarr's bride,” Gwyna said, glancing down the table towards Brynarr. She giggled a little. “He's very handsome—you must be very happy with the match.”

  Frida glanced down the table as well, unable to stop her eyes from wandering that way. She caught Brynarr mid-laugh, and she couldn't help smiling fondly at him. “He is very handsome,” she agreed, blushing a little as she considered what her life would be like if Brynarr's lies were true, if they really were married and traveling back to his home in the south.

  Not that that was the sort of future that she had ever wanted for herself, but… Well, she couldn't deny that there were some perks to a life like that.

  “I bet you're nervous, though,” Gwyna pressed, touching the back of Frida's hand in a move that was clearly meant to be comforting.

  Frida shrugged a little and tried to think of what to say. She supposed the closer to the truth, the better. “I'm not leaving much behind,” she told the other woman. “Do not misunderstand me, I loved Daelfjord and I was close to many people there. But my parents died when I was young, and my grandmother—the woman who raised me—has found her home in the sky as well. I had a decent life as a medic there, but there was... something missing.”

  She glanced again at Brynarr, thinking back to their afternoon. Those feelings of desire had certainly been missing in Daelfjord, as well as the warmth and gentle care. But she couldn't possibly be developing feelings for Brynarr, could she? Not when she had only known him for about a week, and not when she had had such initial feelings of mistrust for him.

  She shook her head and tried to concentrate on what Gwyna was saying about her cousin's wedding. But truth be told, it was difficult for her to concentrate—and not just because of her thoughts about Brynarr. Instead, she kept thinking about how trivial the woman's conversation was, about how much she wanted to talk instead about the war in the Borderlands. She didn't know enough about Kelsholgar to know whether or not they had men who could come to fight, but she wanted to talk to Colburn and ask.

  But that wasn't possible at the moment.

  She glanced down the table again, hoping that Brynarr was making the most of his position near Colburn and other members of the guard. But when she looked, she happened to catch Brynarr's eye. He gave her a questioning look, and Frida wondered what her expression must look like at the moment. She tried to school her features back to neutral, but from the furrow between his brows, she apparently only looked even more upset.

  Brynarr leaned over and said something quietly to Colburn and then stood up, coming around the table to Frida and putting a hand beneath her elbow, urging her to her feet. Frida became aware of the fact that the whole table, practically, was looking at her—but she followed Brynarr and he guided her away.

  “I've alerted Colburn that you haven't been feeling well lately and that you need to rest,” Brynarr told her in an undertone, and Frida could almost have kissed him for giving her this reprieve.

  “I'm sorry,” she said, feeling suddenly as though her actions that night had been incredibly childish.

  Brynarr brushed a bit of hair back from her face. “I know you're worried,” he said. “I know you're impatient. I imagine that making small-talk is difficult for you.” He looked amused.

  “I just want to shake them all and tell them about the war coming from the Borderlands,” Frida said, shaking her head.

  “Don't you trust me at all?” he asked, smiling at her. “What do you think I've been discussing with Colburn? Why do you think three of the top soldiers of the city have joined us for dinner? We are still discussing how many soldiers they can spare, but don't worry—we will not leave here alone.”

  “So they know I'm not actually your bride?” Frida asked, looking up at him through her lashes.

  Brynarr laughed a little and shook his head. “I haven't told them that, no,” he said. “I still think it's safest for you to pretend to be my wife. If they find out that you're a sorcerer—no matter how untrained you might be—well, as you know, there is a lot of prejudice in these parts of
Kjota. Better that they get to know you first—and perhaps better that I teach you at least the rudimentary skills of using your power before we tell anyone about your abilities.”

  Frida nodded. Then she paused. “Are you...” She didn't know how to ask what she wanted to know without sounding like…

  “I'm going to go back out there and continue discussions with Colburn and the others,” Brynarr said, correctly guessing what she was trying to ask. “But I'll come to bed with you in a little while. Don't worry.”

  Frida blushed and ducked her head. “I wasn't worried,” she muttered, hating how petulant she sounded.

  Brynarr laughed again and leaned in to kiss her forehead. “Rest well,” he told her.

  Frida nodded, even though she was afraid her thoughts would keep her awake for half the night. But she wasn't about to tell him that. Instead, she made her way over to their bed and curled up beneath the blankets. She wasn't waiting for Brynarr before falling asleep, she told herself.

  But that said, she was still awake when Brynarr finally came to bed, and it was only when he curled around her that she finally managed to drift off.

  Chapter 6

  They continued to grow their army in the same way as they traveled southwards. Frida didn't know how Brynarr did it, but he seemed somehow able to always convince villages to send a handful of their best warriors for the cause. But he never allowed her to have any part in the discussions.

  At first, that bothered her, but when he started giving her other tasks as the force grew, she stopped complaining. She was the army's medic, and she also did most of the cooking when they had to camp out. She cared for the horses, too. And the men were still friendly with her, especially once they saw her spar with Brynarr.

  That morning, Brynarr had woken her up early so that they could spar before the army moved on for the day.

  “When did you learn to sword-fight?” Brynarr asked as they walked towards the edge of camp.

  Frida shrugged and shook her head. “I honestly don't know—it must have been when I was very young,” she said. “I imagine my father must have taught me—but that would have been back before he died. I don't know how those skills stuck with me, but–”

  “Your father must have been quite the sword-master, to have trained you so well,” Brynarr interrupted. “You have skills the likes of which I've never seen before. Especially given that you are not a soldier yourself.”

  Frida shrugged, not sure what to say in response to that. “I'm not sure how I...” She trailed off, but Brynarr seemed to understand.

  He clapped her on the shoulder, grinning at her. “Show me what you've got,” he challenged, drawing his sword.

  Frida eyed the naked metal warily. Suddenly, she dropped to her knees, her vision swimming with images of another place and time…

  “Eir, we need your skills in the training ring,” Sergeant Trondrr said from outside her tent. The man never bothered with knocking or other formalities, something which Eir appreciated.

  “Coming,” she called back, glancing around for the mail shirt that her father had given her once, when she was younger. The pale coat of interlocking rings had needed to be enlarged more than once so that the shirt still fit her larger form once she had grown up, but she had taken the thing to the finest smiths in the land, and she was happy with the work that they had done. There was hardly a distinguishable difference in craftsmanship.

  Brynarr was out at the training areas, of course. She wondered if he was the one who had requested her presence there. But she of course would never ask that one outright. Instead, she stared warily at the broadsword in his hand. It had been a long time since she had sparred against the man, and they had never used live steel in the past. Hell, even if she could overlook the sharp edges on his sword, even if he managed to turn the metal so that he hit her with the blunt sides of the blade instead of slicing into her, that thing still had the power to break her arm if it came around and connected with her skin.

  But Brynarr hadn't called her there to spar, apparently. He quickly sheathed the broadsword and put his hands on his hips, turning to face his wife. “Well,” he said, frowning at her.

  “Well?” Eir asked, fighting the urge to mock him by placing her own hands on her hips. “Is it time for the attack? Do the soldiers know?”

  “It isn't that,” Brynarr said. He frowned at Eir for a long moment. “There have been rumors, you know,” he told her at last. “Rumors about you.”

  “What are they saying?” Eir asked, tossing her head a little as though unconcerned.

  “That your loyalties may be compromised,” Brynarr said. “Amongst other things. Most of the army believes that you're a cold-blooded traitor. Of course, I know you well enough to know that that is most assuredly a lie—you might intend to leave us, and you might be hiding your true identity from us, but I don't think you would deliberately sabotage us. But the crew is calling for some changes, otherwise I believe they may mutiny. We've come too far to let that happen.”

  Eir smiled sweetly at the man, hoping she could win him over with charm. “Well, I certainly don't know about any plans for sabotage!” she exclaimed, laughing a little. “And even more than that, I'm–”

  “You're going to have to give them more than that,” Brynarr interrupted. “You can't just throw words at them and expect them to believe your loyalty. If they think your actions are at fault...”

  “What do you suggest I do?” Eir snapped. She didn't mean to let her temper get the better of her, but she also couldn't believe that Brynarr, of all people, was questioning her loyalty like this. They'd been together for so long now that she fancied she knew him better than she knew herself.

  Brynarr placed a hand on her shoulder. “I know you were in training all this week,” he said. “I understand that you must think–”

  “What do you suggest?” Eir interrupted, gritting her teeth.

  “A blood swearing,” Brynarr said, without even having to think of it for a moment. “You would swear fealty to me, under pain of death, and seal the pact with a mixing of blood and energies.” He grinned cockily at her. “Imagine how powerful we'd be then, if we each had all the best of one another put together.”

  Frida came back to herself, gasping for air and fighting the urge to be sick. When Brynarr placed a hand on her shoulder, she flinched badly, the vision leaving her desperate to get away from the man, even though she didn't really know the significance of what she had seen.

  Brynarr was undoubtedly the same 'Brynarr' that she had seen in the vision, but she didn't know who the other person, the woman was. And she didn't have any idea what the context was for what she had seen. Although it was almost a welcome change from her visions of battlefields and death that seemed to haunt her nightly now, there was no denying that this vision left her with a lot of questions in her mind.

  She blinked up at Brynarr and rose slowly to her feet, swaying a little as exhaustion overtook her. This time when Brynarr reached for her, though, she didn't flinch away from him. Instead, if anything, she leaned in to his touch, feeling feverish and shivery.

  “Easy there,” Brynarr murmured, keeping his voice low as though he knew how much her head was pounding at the moment. “Let's get you back to the tent.”

  “Please,” Frida said, shocked to hear how wrecked her voice sounded.

  It was a long and arduous walk back to the tent—what should have taken mere minutes seemed to take half a lifetime. Brynarr had her quickly back beneath the blankets once they reached the tent, though. Then, he lay down beside her, folding his body around hers.

  “What did you see?” he asked her once he was sure she was comfortable.

  Frida shook her head, not sure she could even begin to describe it to him. She also couldn't even begin to determine why the scene had left her feeling so shaken. Sure, Brynarr's idea to spar with live blades was terrifying—but she knew that wasn't all of it.

  What was that other bit? The blood debt. She needed to figure out wha
t that meant. And the best person to ask would be…

  “Brynarr, what's a blood debt?” she asked, even though she could already feel herself drifting off to sleep, her body overcome with exhaustion after the vision she'd had.

  Brynarr stilled behind her, and if Frida wasn't mistaken, he took a sharp breath in through his teeth. But when he spoke, there was no concern in his voice. “A blood debt is a way of sharing magic,” he said. “It's nothing that you need to concern yourself with, though—no one has been capable of performing the necessary magic in many dozens of years.”

  Frida hummed a little in response, but to be honest, she was too far gone to really process his answer. Instead, she drifted off to a thankfully visionless sleep.

  Chapter 7

  When she next woke, Frida was disoriented and confused. It was evening outside, but she couldn't believe that she had slept through the entire day. Brynarr wasn't in the tent; she finally pulled herself to her feet and went looking for him.

  He was sitting around a fire with some of the men, chatting and laughing. But he got to his feet immediately when he saw Frida approaching. “You're awake!” he said, sounding pleased. “And how are you feeling?”

  Frida frowned at him and looked around a little. She grimaced. “Did we lose a whole day of movement because of me?” she asked.

  Brynarr shrugged and steered her away from the men. Frida glanced back at them over her shoulder and saw their concerned faces—and she wondered just what it was that Brynarr had told them all. “It was necessary for you to rest,” he said. He frowned. “I've been thinking about it, and I wonder if your visions take more energy out of you because your energy is still somehow blocked—that's also why you can't access it freely. It could be that there are still some of the wards in place. I will need to take a closer look at some point.”