The Northman's Bride (A Sons of the North Romance Book 3)

by Sandra Lake

  After several long, silent minutes spent staring into the embers of the dying flame, Tero spoke. “Producing a child with her would help build a foundation of trust between you.”

  “You go too far, Tero,” Stål said, though his temper had faded. “Keeping our borders secure for this generation is more than we should ask from Hök’s sacrifice.”

  The wine was sinking into the overtaxed muscles of Hök’s shoulders, and he slouched further into the chair, allowing his defensive mental guard to slide off his shoulders and onto the floor.

  Seeing his exhaustion, Tero and his father began quietly discussing another topic.

  Hök closed his eyes, and sometime before dawn he felt his arms raised up and draped across two sets of shoulders. He was half carried, half dragged up the stairs and down the long corridor to his chamber. His escorts made to drop him on the floor, but they were equally drunk, and the three of them collapsed in a tangle.

  “Fak! Get off me, dog.” Hök shoved his brother Aron off his chest.

  Colliding with the floor had woken Hök up. He pushed up to his knees.

  “Missed you as well, brother.” Aron reached down, offering a hand to Alexander, who appeared content to sleep where he lay.

  “Come on, Zander. Let’s leave the drunk hawk to his love nest.” Aron slung their younger brother’s arm over his shoulder and stumbled back out and across the corridor.

  Hök stumbled over a chair he didn’t remember being there before. “Thor’s toes!” He hopped on one foot, grasping for his toe and aching for the thicker boots that he usually wore in battle. He continued through the dark until his foot connected with a softer obstacle in his path.

  “Agh,” a small voice groaned.

  He tripped, falling to the fur rug and nearly crushing the soft heap of his wife. “What are you doing in the middle of the floor?”

  “Sleeping,” she said.

  “Fak!” He staggered back to his feet and to the mantel, where he found the fire starter and in one strike had a lick of flame catching on the prepared kindling waiting in the hearth. He lit a candle and turned back to the chamber.

  The ball of fur squirmed on the floor without making noise. He pulled down the top corner but Sovia held it in place, covering her face.

  “Let me see where I kicked you. Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” she said, her voice muffled, fighting him to keep her covering.

  “No, you’re not injured, or no, you’re disobeying your husband by not allowing me to check on your injury.”

  “No to both. And as for a husband, I have none.”

  “I hold a contract that states otherwise.”

  She sat up and in a huff said, “According to church laws, I am not a true wife, nor you a husband, until this union is consummated. And this union will never be consummated, will it? Because consummation risks more of my contemptible ‘crimson-haired spawn’ coming into the world.” There was an air of true pain in her words.

  He deflated. “Sovia.”

  “Let us both get some rest.”

  “’Tis too late for that,” he said, concentrating hard on not slurring his words. He scooped up the little heap of furs and wife, walked across the chamber, and dropped them down on his bed. He snatched the fur from her, leaving her exposed, wearing a simple, thin white nightdress. Her eyes were big and beautiful, and her mouth was set in an angry pout that made her full lips appear even more plump and tempting.

  “Not my true wife, aye?” Bloody oath, every part of him wanted her, yet the question still remained: at what cost to his soul?

  “Damn you and your taunting glare. I can take no more!” She came at him like the mountain cat, scratching and striking out wildly. “I hate you, you godless Magnusson.”

  He easily caught her flapping arms and secured them over her head, pushing her onto her back and holding her legs down with one leg. Her nostrils flared. Her cheeks were bright red from her little display and the rims of her eyes red—red from what? She had left his father’s hall proud as the shameless creature that she was.

  “Are you done with your tantrum? Can I let your hands go and examine your ribs now?”

  “May the devil take you,” she said, grinding her words through her clenched teeth as she struggled on.

  “Oh my, sweet wife, if I do go and meet the devil, you will have to introduce me, aye?” He lowered his hips onto her, pinning her below him.

  “Torture me all you want. I will never beg you for mercy. That is what you want, isn’t? For me to beg. Well, I won’t do it.”

  He ignored her rant. The heat and pulsing vibration of her body beneath him were too distracting. “Did I kick you here, or here?” He slipped his hand from the left side of her torso across to her right. She had stopped struggling. His hand rested on her ribs below her breast. He could feel her heart hammering like a snared rabbit about to meet its end.

  “Not there,” she said. Her lips parted slightly, as if she was about to ask a question or argue but then thought against it. The fiery spark of desire had been lit between them and in this moment, she was the same young girl from whom he had stolen a kiss in the dark corner of a feasting hall. He could remember her taste so clearly from all those years ago. What kind of man could forget?

  “Here?” He slid his hand to the other side and she bit her lip again, not with pain, but with clear desire. Of that at least he was certain. Her want for him was shallow compared to his want for her, but still she warmed to his touch, pressing into his hand. The last scrap of restraint peeled away. He had lost control, and there was no going back.

  He unlaced the collar of her nightgown, peeling away the left side. Her breast heaved with a heavy fullness that made his mouth water.

  His eyes traveled down below her breast to her ribs, where he found a small red circle about the size of his big toe. He pressed his fingers lightly to it and she sucked in another shallow breath. His fingers pressed into the bone, sliding up and down a few inches.

  “It’s not broken.”

  Hök lowered his foggy head, keeping his eyes locked on hers. He placed his lips to the small red bruise, opening his mouth to taste her skin, and kissed. Thor’s breath, she tasted the same. That taste had lingered on his lips for years. This was dangerous ground, but the drink and his father’s meddling words about producing an heir made his own clear reasons to resist her turn murky. He inhaled deeply—another mistake—and held her scent in his lungs. How he had longed for that scent. What he would give to have never known this smell, so that it could not have toyed with his heart and left gouges in his soul.

  Words of adoration for her perfect, supple form flooded his mind. She was riper than any fruit on the tree, more rounded, more delicate and delicious than the most worthy reward. The younger version of himself would have showered the woman beneath him with love, worshipping her with sweet words and kisses. But Lady Sovia was not a woman that wanted soft words of love. She held no value in them, and had in fact shoved them back down his throat those many years ago.

  “Not my true wife, you say.” He rolled his hips into her. If she didn’t want soft from him, then he would give her hard. A thin layer of his leather and her linen separated them. “That is what you said, was it not, Sovia?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, excitement in her tone.

  He thrust gently against her and was rewarded with a stifled moan. “Shall I become your husband then, Sovia, in all ways? Is that what you want, or will you feign modesty and say that you do not want me?”

  “I have no modesty. But first, what will you give me?”

  He jerked his head up. Were her words spoken as a jest, mocking his perception of her as a woman who expected payment for carnal acts? Did she even realize that she sounded no better than a negotiating harlot? He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh at her or slap her for blatantly playing that role.

  “W
hat do you want?” he asked coldly.

  “To go home to Toraslotte,” she said.

  He pressed his knee between her tights, spreading her legs wider apart. “Nidaros is a fine place to travel this time of year, or so I am told.”

  Her body went rigid, her breath held again. “Truly! You will take me?”

  “Aye, as my obedient . . . wife. If you imagine yourself capable of such a role.” He ground himself between her thighs and lost the next words he thought to speak.

  “I am. I promise.”

  He was lost then. He lowered his face to her breast and wrapped his lips around her sweet flesh, suckling her deeply.

  “Beg me, Sovia. Beg me for what you want.”

  “Please, Hök. I can give you want you need.”

  “That, my sweet witch, remains to be seen.”

  Chapter 16

  Hök pushed off the bed and staggered slightly, struggling to remain upright. As soon as he regained his balance, he began stripping off his clothing. “Take off your shift,” he ordered. “Slowly.”

  She never blushed or looked away. Her hands worked quickly, loosening the ties and shifting her shoulders so that the fabric rolled off, revealing the creamy, flawless skin that he had dreamed of so many times . . . only her hair should be hanging in soft curls down her back, not cropped short and uneven. The difference reminded him sharply of what circumstances had brought this proud, unrepentant woman into his bed.

  She moved closer, raising her hands to touch him, to aid him in disrobing.

  Her attempt to bargain with him was a harsh reminder of the kind of lover his wife wanted. She cared not for tenderness so he forced himself to suppress his instinct to be gentle. “I will instruct you and you will comply.”

  She did not cower or cringe at his cold words.

  “Lie down and turn over.”

  She blinked, cocking her head to the side, curious at his command, and unhurried to comply. Slowly, she flipped onto her stomach, granting him a pulse-racing view of her backside.

  This would not be lovemaking. He’d need to remind himself of that if he were to guard his heart against her ploys to control him. This was no more than an act required by law to claim her, to bind her to him as his wife and beget a child upon her to secure his family. This was not to be soft and tender.

  He entered her with no forewarning.

  She cried out a loud moan, and began to meet him thrust for thrust, using the strength in her arms as leverage, actively participating in his claiming of her, which made him hate himself for the way he was treating her, hate her for wanting such treatment from him.

  The chamber filled with the sound of his thighs smacking against the firm skin of her backside. He had waited for so long to be inside her, he didn’t want it to end, so he tirelessly thrust until a sudden spasm seized her body. She cried out softly, and moments later her body went slack in his hands. She panted for air, continuing to softly moan with each exhale. She had taken great pleasure from his brutal handling of her, and he resented her in this moment more than ever, for turning him into a man that treated women with such a lack of care.

  In a daze of fatigue, guilt, and confusion, he retreated to the washbasin. He opened the window and took in a deep breath of fresh air to clear his mind. Returning to bed, he extinguished the candles and lay down feeling spent, but like a knot in his chest had loosened slightly. With one arm behind his head, he gazed through the open window at the sky as it shifted from darkness to lighter shades of gray-blue. It was already a new day, and with it, that day would bring a new layer of complexity and responsibility in his relationship with his wife. Accepting her—her past, present, and future—would require deep contemplation.

  He returned to the bed and pressed himself up tight against her back. Having her in his bed would at the very least compensate him for having to put up with her confounded opinions. Warm and soft, she fit well, tucked into the pocket of his curved body. He smelled the top of her silk head, missing the richer scent of honey and strawberry her longer locks had held.

  “Sleep well, Hök,” she whispered.

  He was in danger of whispering back an endearment, so he answered simply with a grunt. He tightened his grip on her and drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  Sovia woke to the warmth of Hök’s body and the scent of his pine soap all around her. His thick arm felt like a heavy belt pressing down on her, pushing her further into his down-filled mattress. She’d been with men before, but had never slept in the same bed with one. This feeling of being safeguarded, sheltered in the confines of his arms, was unprecedented. With the large, long frame of his body wrapped around her, she felt like the world could come crumbling down and she would remain unscathed.

  This was a strange new reality that she must adjust to. This man—or men if you included all the men in his family—hated her, yet they were her protectors.

  Hök’s mother—her mother-in-law—was another problem entirely. Sovia enjoyed spending time with her female friends in Toraslotte, and the chambermaids assigned to her at court, but she had never had success is befriending highborn, honorable women—not in the long term anyway. Yet the friherrinna seemed to be genuine in her offer of hospitality. But once the kind woman knew all of Sovia’s past sins, she was certain to treat her like an enemy as well. That harsh truth stabbed her heart. She wasn’t used to caring what others thought of her . . . but for some reason, it bothered her that Lida would think ill of her.

  Hök’s hips flexed into her from behind and her core awakened with the memory of last night. She’d loved every moment of the exhilarating passion that had taken Hök over so completely.

  His breathing grew heavier on her neck and a moment later, his large hand was clawing at the hem of her shift, bunching it up at her waist. His finger tested her readiness and a moment later, he thrust deep within her, without a word spoken between them.

  She tried to prevent her moans from becoming audible, but it was impossible, and they spilled from her lips with his next thrust.

  He pushed her over on her back, climbed on top of her, hooked her leg around his arm, and thrust deeper inside her than ever before.

  His eyes were half-hooded with sleep, his expression almost pained, and there was sweat collecting at his hairline. He rode her with determined endurance, her climax rapidly building. Sovia raised her hand to touch his face and soothe the furrowed lines of his brow, but he captured her wrists and locked them onto the pillow above her head.

  She tilted her pelvis up to meet him, and she shattered into the throes of bliss. A moment later, Hök collapsed onto her, his heavy weight a solid comfort. Her fingers were clenched into a tight fist, but they burned to touch him, to grasp his back and hold him with all her strength to keep him locked against her for always. The greed of her lust had never felt this strong, and all that he gave her only magnified the desire for his touch, for the feel of his lips on hers. He suddenly pushed up off her and away, and instantly she was cold.

  “The more roughly I treat you, the broader you smile,” he said. She hadn’t realized she was smiling but in fact she was. Physical bliss and the future dream of another child—how could she keep from smiling?

  “I beg your pardon, husband. Was I supposed to weep or feign sleep?”

  “Why must you continue to open your mouth and remind me that my wife has no shame?” He bent over, reaching for his leather trousers on the floor, and granted her a most splendid view of his naked backside. His body could easily become the temple at which she worshipped. He had muscles etched from steel, with war ink coiling around his thick arms, deliciously savage indeed.

  “Would you prefer that I did not take pleasure from your body?”

  “A modest woman would not be so smug after being bedded.”

  Sovia thought on that for a moment. Seemed an odd, wasteful sort of logic. She propped herself up on her elbow
to get a better view of his splendid back muscles flexing and stretching as he dressed. “So . . . you would prefer me to fake displeasure? Is no wife to take pleasure from mating with her husband?”

  He turned back around to her, his face angry. He raised his hand to say something but no words came out. His eyes locked on her breasts, then traveled down her flat stomach, lingering on the small patch of red curls between her legs. She had his attention—now the challenge was to keep it. Gliding her hand down her hip, she began stroking herself ever so softly. With the other hand, she massaged her breast. “I can pretend I do not enjoy mating. I can close my eyes and think of scrubbing floors and plucking chickens, but I don’t wish to.” She stroked her finger inside her thigh, and closed her eyes and smiled. “Why must women hide their desires when men jest and lewdly boast about their lust?”

  She opened her eyes. He was towering over her. He lowered his head to her breast and took her in his mouth, capturing her nipple between his teeth. She hissed out a breath. Their eyes met and he stared at her intently as he lapped at her nipple and squeezed her other breast.

  “Will you ever have had enough?” he asked.

  “Of you, husband? Never.”

  Chapter 17

  Her husband crashed his lips down over hers and plunged his tongue into her mouth. Their searing, punishing first kiss as man and wife went on and on, seemingly with no beginning and no end. Hök pushed his recently donned trousers back down to his ankles and thrust into her once more. Her skin was so sensitive and arousal so high, she climaxed immediately, crying out at the stabbing, pleasurable pain that he had gifted her.

  Hök reared back, and his powerful arm circled her waist. He stood without disconnecting them, and she wrapped her legs around him and he slammed her back into the wall, moving inside her over and over.