His Captive Bride

by Shelly Thacker

  He met her gaze, silently willing her to stop asking questions and get the rest she urgently needed.

  Blinking up at him with those keen emerald eyes, she was the picture of abject confusion.

  And stubbornness. She kept trying to sort out the conflicting evidence. “I tried shaking you,” she said slowly. “I even slapped you.”

  He glanced away. So that was why he had roused too soon. “We both blacked out. You awoke first.” He took her other hand, applying the salve lightly, gently to her palm, her arm, her shoulder. “And your manhandling succeeded in waking me.”

  Setting the salve down, he wove his fingers through hers, entwining their hands. “Could a dead man touch you like this?” he asked in a deep, soft voice.

  Spots of bright pink colored her pale cheeks, and a more familiar wariness replaced the bewilderment in her eyes.

  She pulled her hand from his, turning her face away, toward the closed shutters.

  “I am... grateful that you are all right,” she said haltingly. “Thank you for saving my life, Hauk.” She gathered the covers to her chin. “How did you find me? How did you know where I was, out there in the fog?”

  “I heard you calling for help.” His heart thudded at the memory, and he quickly changed the subject before either of them could further examine that strange facet of their ordeal. “It is not important now. I need you to tell me if this hurts.” He lifted the blanket, lightly touched a particularly angry bruise on her stomach.

  She flinched away and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Her pain at the gentle brush of his fingertips made his gut wrench tight. “You will be all right, Avril, I promise. All you need is to sleep and let yourself heal.” He picked up the jar of salve. “I will take care of you.”

  Her lashes fluttered open, but she kept her face turned away. Her lower lip quivered. “I do not want you to take care of me. I can—”

  “Take care of yourself?” he asked tightly. “So you have said. But I believe your ill-advised adventure tonight proves you wrong.” His anger simmered again. “What were you thinking, woman? What made you believe you could sail through that maze of rocks and fog by yourself? You could have—”

  “Escaped,” she whispered, her voice wavering.

  He swallowed the rest of his rebuke, equally maddened and impressed by her courage. Her determination.

  Her unwavering devotion to her plan to leave him.

  “You cannot do everything alone,” he said gruffly. Looking down at his headstrong bride, snuggled safely in his bed, he felt a wave of protectiveness. She needed someone to take care of her, this tempestuous, vulnerable, reckless lady.

  She needed him.

  Whether she wanted to admit it or not.

  Gently, being careful of her modesty, he pulled the blankets aside a bit further, so he could continue applying the healing salve. She flinched, then remained absolutely still. And silent.

  He touched her without speaking, not even allowing himself to think as he treated her cuts and scrapes. Working briskly, he finished in a matter of moments.

  And felt as if every beautiful inch of her had been branded onto his hands.

  After drawing the covers back over her, he set the jar down on the table—a bit too sharply—and stood up, fighting another wave of dizziness. Biting back a pained curse, he stepped toward the hearth and reached for a small copper cookpot.

  He filled it with fresh rainwater from the barrel and then suspended it from a hook over the fire.

  “Tell me, Avril,” he said when he trusted himself to speak evenly, “how did you come to be in possession of a boat?”

  For a moment, he did not think she would answer.

  “I found it,” she said evasively.

  Hauk picked up the bag of herbs and took a cup from its place on the shelf. “And how did you happen to find a boat?”

  She remained silent.

  “Avril, I saw two sets of footprints. Who helped you?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.

  She regarded him with a familiar, mutinous spark in her eyes. “I am not going to tell you. I do not think the person who helped me deserves to be punished for it.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said with a growl. “Whoever was trying to help the vokter’s bride leave Asgard needs to have a few of our laws explained to him. By the vokter.”

  Her gaze shifted to the weapons displayed behind him on the wall. “Now I am definitely not going to tell you.”

  He muttered an oath but decided not to press her further until she was well. Turning back to the hearth, he used an iron poker to tip the steaming cookpot and pour hot water into the cup. Then he scooped a spoonful of herbs into it and sat on the edge of the bed.

  He slid a hand beneath Avril’s pillow to support her head, holding the cup to her lips. “Drink this.”

  Sniffing at it, she made a face and hesitated.

  “I hardly intend to poison you,” he said dryly, “after spending half this night in freezing water trying to save your life and earning a few broken ribs for my trouble. Drink.”

  Eyes narrowing at his scolding, she took a sip. She wrinkled her nose at the taste but drained the cup without protest.

  He let her head down gently, then moved back to the hearth, where he made a second cup of the brew for himself, sighing. “Avril, you are my wife—”

  “Your captive,” she corrected quietly.

  “On second thought, poisoning you does possess a certain appeal.” He gulped a mouthful of the tea, felt it burn down his throat. “You are the most stubborn, most troublesome female I have ever—”

  “If you find me disagreeable,” she suggested lightly, “you could let me go.”

  “Nay. That I can never do.” He scowled at her. “Do you understand what that word means? Never.” He set the cup on the table with a crack that echoed through the dark chamber.

  Stalking away from her, into a far corner, he peeled off his still-damp leggings, toweled dry, and changed into a fresh pair.

  Then he returned to the bed.

  And lay down on the other side.

  It was mayhap a measure of how tired she was or how much pain she was in that she did not object.

  Even if she had, he thought in annoyance, he was not going to spend the night on the floor. Not when he had broken ribs. He remained atop the covers. And it was a large bed. There was ample distance between them.

  “I have been too lenient with you,” he said, half to himself. “It is time to cease this foolishness about escape, once and for all. You are my wife, you will not be leaving, and you must accept that.”

  “I will never stop trying to get home,” she whispered fiercely. “I cannot stay here. And I do not want to be your wife.”

  “Indeed, milady?” he asked mockingly, turning his head to stare at her across the pillows. “Were those not tears I saw in your eyes, tonight on the beach, when you thought I was dead?”

  She looked away, toward the hearth. “Nei.”

  He grimaced up at the rafters. “I should have known that would be the first word of Norse you learned to use.”

  “If you thought you saw tears,” she said stiffly, “it must have been seawater. Mayhap it affected my eyes as well as my hearing.”

  Hauk responded only with an irritated grumble, too tired to argue with her any more. Too tired even to feel any stirrings at sharing a bed with his wife for the first time, lying so close to her lush, naked body. Separated from her only by the covers.

  Which was a sign of just how badly he needed sleep, he thought blackly. He closed his eyes and lay still, drifting downward into soothing darkness.

  Until he heard quiet, snuffling sounds from her side of the bed.

  He opened his eyes, glanced toward her. Her whole body was trembling.

  “Avril?” Alarm shot through him. “What is wrong?”

  She kept her face turned away, lifted a hand to cover her eyes.

  And he realized she was not suffering a spasm of pain.

  She
was crying. Struggling to hold back tears.

  “Y-you are... right,” she said hoarsely, a tortured breath escaping with each word. “I may never... be able to leave here. I may never see my home or... my daughter again.”

  A single, deep sob slipped out.

  Hauk could not move, felt as if his limbs were held fast by iron bonds. It was the first time he had heard her admit even the possibility of defeat.

  But he did not feel relief that she was facing the facts at last. The sight of her in despair, lying there alone and hurt and fighting so hard to keep it all inside, tore at him. Made him hate himself—almost as much as she must hate him for taking her away from her little girl.

  And suddenly the tears overwhelmed her, wrenching sobs that she could not hold back, though she buried her face in both hands.

  Hauk did not know what to do, did not know how he could comfort her.

  But he could not lie there in silence while she suffered alone. He reached out, touched her shoulder.

  And instead of flinching away or cursing him as he had expected, she allowed him to pull her close, just as she had in the water earlier tonight.

  He gathered her to him with the blankets, offering her his strength and his silence, stunned that she would accept solace from the very man responsible for her pain.

  She cried her tears against his chest, her body shaking with the force of her sorrow, and he shut his eyes, burned by each salty droplet.

  He could not allow her to continue suffering this way. Damn him to Hel, he had taken vows to protect and care for her and see to her happiness—and he had failed at every one. In trying to spare himself misery and torment, he had inflicted both on her.

  For her sake, and her safety, he had to persuade her to accept what could not be changed. Had to do what all the other grooms on Asgard had been doing the past several days.

  Begin wooing his wife. With care and gentleness and affection.

  Not only because of the vows he had taken—but because he had been lying to himself, mayhap from the very beginning. From that moment on the streetcorner in Antwerp when she had knocked him off balance and left him breathless.

  She had been making him feel that same way every moment since.

  And it was useless to keep trying to convince himself that he could keep his distance from her, that he had no feelings for her. That he could somehow have this fierce, enchanting lady in his home and in his life and even in his bed and yet... keep her out of his heart.

  Because she was already there.

  Odin help him, she was already there.

  ~ ~ ~

  The pain was gone. That was the first thing Avril became aware of as she slowly awakened. Her last memory was of feeling shattered and hurt, but now she felt rested, whole.

  Safe.

  Mayhap because she was still lying in Hauk’s arms.

  That made her open her eyes with a start. The first glimmer of dawn had crept in through cracks in the shutters, forcing its way into the dark vaningshus and lightening the room’s shadows. She did not move, realizing he was still asleep. He lay with one arm beneath her pillow, the other a slack, heavy weight over her waist. She could feel his chest rising and falling evenly beneath her cheek, his breath soft in her hair.

  His heavily muscled body felt solid and warm against hers, even with the blankets wrapped around her.

  For a moment, she let herself remain there. Just for a moment. Let herself feel enveloped by his strength and warmth. It had been such a long time since she had allowed herself to be held like this. Allowed a man to soothe and protect her.

  And care for her.

  She blinked hard as the faint morning light blurred in her vision, remembering how he had nearly lost his life saving her last night. Her heartbeat unsteady, she lifted her head, looking at his bronzed, chiseled features, so peaceful in sleep.

  A tingling ache filled her as she remembered all that had happened, how the terror of almost drowning had left her so disoriented, she had mistakenly thought he was dead. How she had felt such sorrow in that moment, she had cried for him.

  Then later turned to him for comfort when she felt so full of despair.

  And he had offered the solace she sought. Gently, silently. Was he even aware of how tender he could be?

  Closing her eyes, she rested her cheek against his chest, reluctant to leave his arms, to resume their endless battle of wills.

  Saints’ breath, if only he were a barbarian, a brutal Viking raider with no honor and a heart of ice. It would have been so easy to hate him.

  Instead he was a man of courage and intelligence, devoted to protecting his homeland and his people. So honorable and maddening and... tender.

  And hatred did not number among the feelings she had for him.

  She opened her eyes, her heart beating too fast. God in Heaven, what was wrong with her? She was acting like a woman who had lost her wits, like a woman...

  She stiffened, remembering Josette’s comment about the early days of her marriage to Gerard, how she had fallen in love with him slowly, almost without noticing.

  Trembling, she pulled away from Hauk, trying to quickly unwrap herself from his hold and the twisted blankets. He made a sound in his sleep and his arm flexed around her, pulling her closer again. She uttered a whimper of distress and he opened his eyes.

  She held her breath, mortifyingly aware that her efforts to get free had only bared her to the waist. Her breasts were flattened against his chest, softness against steely muscle, pale ivory against bronzed darkness.

  He blinked, waking rapidly, his eyes uncommonly blue in the scant, gray illumination of morning.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was soft, low. Husky with sleep.

  “Aye. The pain is gone.”

  She almost clarified that she meant her physical pain but did not want to remind him of the other, deeper pain that had made her sob in his arms last night.

  Instead, she tried to sound calm. Unaffected by his embrace. “You can let me go now.”

  He did not speak, that azure gaze tracing over her face, her hair, her mouth.

  Her pulse started thrumming. She had seen that look before. “Hauk—”

  “Nay,” he said slowly. “I cannot.” His lips brushed over her temple, his voice deep and quiet. “I do not want to let you go.”

  Something in his tone stole her breath away. “Hauk... please...” Instead of sounding calm and cool, as she intended, the words came out wavering. Hot.

  “Nay, sweet wife.” His hand moved up her back in a slow caress. “Not until I have shown you how a proper Asgard husband bids his bride good morning.”

  “But you are not—”

  His lips stole her protest, covering hers in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened. His fingers threaded into her hair, urging her head back until her lips parted beneath his, allowing for slow thrusts of his tongue that sent her senses spinning. She breathed him in, tasted him—spicy and potent and male. Even as she flattened her hands against his chest, she knew that the trembling in her body had naught to do with protest.

  And he seemed to know it too. A sound of passionate approval rumbled beneath her palms. And when he finally lifted his head, she could feel his body rigid with strain against hers.

  “You—” She could not utter more than that one word before he kissed her again, a light, teasing kiss this time. “—are not—” A rain of teasing kisses left her dizzy. “—my h-h—”

  “Husband.”

  Avril could not voice a denial—because what she saw in his eyes robbed her of her ability to speak. Or breathe.

  She saw yearning that matched her own, saw the same caring and need she felt for him. And such tenderness.

  And passion that darkened his pale-blue eyes to a color like the sky lit by the sun’s hottest rays.

  It was the look she had seen in her dreams.

  She could not utter a sound.

  “Avril...” Still lying on his side, holding her close with one arm, he moved hi
s other hand to caress her cheek. “There is no shame in needing what you need... what I need. There is no point in being alone when we could be...” He slowly drew her mouth toward his.

  Still he did not kiss her, pausing, his lips so close to hers that she felt his breath as he completed the sentence.

  “Together.”

  He awaited her reply. She shuddered and closed her eyes, hearing a far different note in his voice than she had ever heard before. Request. Entreaty. As if he were not demanding that she accept him, but asking.

  “Together,” she whispered, all the longing in her heart spilling into that one word.

  She heard a low moan that might have been hers or his or both. He kissed her, his broad hands cupping her face, holding her still while he sampled and explored her mouth in the most leisurely, arousing way, as if he meant to spend the entire morning learning her taste.

  She shivered at the feel of his stubbled, unshaven jaw abrading her skin. The heat of his bare chest against her breasts. God’s mercy, she should feel afraid of what was happening between them—of what was about to happen. Instead she felt herself melting against him, afire with sensations that each movement of his lips sent coursing through her. With emotions that made her heart race.

  The covers had bunched around her hips. The blankets and the leggings he wore created only the most fragile barrier between them. But she knew no fear, no hesitation. She molded her body to his, welcomed the velvety, languid probing of his tongue, did not pull away when his hand moved slowly down the naked curve of her back. She knew it was wrong of her. Wrong for so many reasons.

  But she felt alive, fully alive in a way she had not felt in years. This maddening, gruff, tender Norseman stirred her soul. He breathed life into her, made her feel...

  She uttered a soft sound against his mouth, not daring to name this feeling in her heart, knowing only that she did not want it to end.

  Threading her fingers through the golden strands of hair at the nape of his neck, she held him closer, losing herself in the ravishing heat of his kiss. She glided her tongue against his, tentatively at first, then more boldly, seeking and claiming just as he did to her. He made a low sound of surprise and approval and his touch became stronger. His hands shaped her body with slow, erotic purpose. The first tendrils of fire darted through her, gathering low in her belly.