Corrie stared at his offered hand. Big, steady. Dried blood streaked his skin. His. And hers, she remembered, because he’d been cleansing and bandaging her wounds when she’d roused from her swoon. She looked at his long blocky fingers and remembered the rasp of his calloused skin when he’d touched her. And he would have to touch her to guide her hand and hold it in place until she worked the healing. He would be close, closer than they were now. Already she could feel his emanating heat. Already she had a difficult time staring at his hand rather than his broad chest with its thin scattering of hair as golden as his mane.
She would have to remove the borrowed shirt and stand before him, once more covered only by her old chemise. Preferable, she admitted, to the wounds putrefying. She could feel their poison starting to work into her blood. She had seen people die of poisoned blood. They would call for Freithe too late. Only three times had the hill witch and Corrie saved the ones infected by such poison.
She rocked back on her heels then stood. “We can try.”
He sprang up. And grinned. So Corrie scowled. He was healed while she ached from her wounds. And his grin bespoke his eagerness to enjoy her state of undress.
“We should also check under your skirt.”
“Stop trying to get under my skirts, Sverr.”
He didn’t flinch at her snap. His grin lost none of its brightness. “The rooks could have pecked your legs.”
“I would feel any injuries. There are none.”
“I should have looked while you were swooning.”
“I don’t swoon.”
“Fell unconscious,” he amended.
She folded her arms. “There are no injuries on my legs, Sverr. Just my upper body. I was crouched down, under your cloak, for most of the attack. Remember?”
“I remember.” He turned somber. “I remember I couldn’t keep them off you. When your magick roared out, I thanked the gods.”
“Norther or Souther?”
“All of them. I didn’t want you to die, not that way.”
She stilled and dared to meet his ice-cold eyes. Only they weren’t ice-cold. They gleamed with something she couldn’t decipher. “Weren’t you afraid you would be incinerated?”
“But I wasn’t.” He reached for his shirt-tail riding over her skirt.
She batted his hands away. “I can do it.”
“Spoilsport. Besides, you’ll ruin my bandaging.”
“The point of this is to need no bandaging.” It hurt to lift her arms as she towed herself out of the enveloping linen. As she dragged it over her head, she realized he had an excellent view of her entire torso. Her face flamed. She reminded herself he’d already seen everything, but the reassurance didn’t help. She tried to act unaware of his scrutiny as she handed his shirt back. He flipped it over his shoulder and then crossed his arms over his broad chest as she worked the healing on her arms. And when she would have missed claw marks on the back of her upper arms, he quietly directed her to them.
Yet when she pulled on the bandage on her shoulder, he shook his head. “Not yet. Stomach first.”
She kept pulling off the bandage. “I want to get to the worst ones.”
“And they’ll take more of your energy. Shallow wounds can be as bad as deep ones when they’re neglected. I don’t want you putting any of them off.” Before she could stop him, he took control. He gathered up the threadbare chemise with its dried bloodstains and bundled it between her breasts as he redirected her hand to her stomach. He guided her fingers onto the torn skin. “That’s the first, here. Then we’ll do the second.”
These were deeper than she’d realized. As the heat flamed from her hand into her skin, he released her. But he didn’t step back. She concentrated on the wounds, feeling the infection, burning it out, searing the ripped flesh. The rook had dug both feet into her, using all eight talons as it torn her stomach. And she didn’t even remember that rook. She remembered the one in her face, the one that ripped her shoulder, the one that attacked her back, the ones that swooped and pecked at her head.
Maybe she did need to look for wounds under her skirts.
Her eyes unglazed as she finished the wounds on her stomach. Sverr’s gaze shifted. What had he been looking at? He examined her work then nodded.
Once again he took her left hand, the one she healed with, and guided it to her head. “These next. I counted six earlier. None on your face.” He stepped closer, filling her vision with his bare chest. Corrie tried to step back, but his grip on her chemise brought her back the step she’d taken away. “Stand still, will you? There. The first one.”
“You can put my chemise back down.”
“Maybe I need to hold it. Keep you from backing away.”
She scowled and tried not to think about his enveloping heat or his hand resting between her breasts, the other holding her fingers in place on her head, the wind off the steppe blowing her skirt around his legs and her hair into his face.
“You’re not going to win this one, Lyse Oyne. I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.”
She had to admit Sverr was stubborn enough to stand there until dark. And even with the warmth pouring from him, she shivered in the cold. Father Sun had cast toward the western horizon, and as it sank the temperature would only drop more. When she sighed her defeat, he grinned—and she wanted to kick him.
Corrie finished the wounds on her head then the ripped flesh of her shoulder. By then she was desperate to get away from his gentle hold. When he’d guided her hand to the back of her skull, he leaned in to see where he was directing her fingers. His chest had pressed against her face. She couldn’t retreat; he was holding her hand against her skull. She had to endure. Her concentration wobbled. Only years of the discipline of spellwork enabled her to follow the steps of the healing and not shame herself by tasting his flesh.
Her shoulder healed, he dropped his dual hold—but he didn’t step back. She dragged in a breath both disappointed and relieved.
“Now the horses,” she said desperately.
“No. One more. Three actually, on your back. It will be a stretch, Corrie.” He crossed her right arm over her breast, pulled her hand under her other arm, then pushed her elbow as he curved her left shoulder—and huffed as she couldn’t reach. “Let’s try it this way,” and he bent her right arm over her shoulder then guided her fingers to her spine. He pushed her arm back.
Corrie’s joints complained at the stretch after being bound before her for two days. She hissed. He pulled her hand further—and she fell forward with the pull, planting her face in his chest.
“Damn. Sorry.” But he didn’t let up. His left hand splayed across her lower back, holding her against him. “Nearly there,” and he towed on her arm.
She whimpered.
“Easy. I know it hurts.” He separated her fingers. Carefully placing each, he held them against the wounds with his own. “There. You’re touching it. All three fingers on it.”
She couldn’t concentrate. The painful stretch caught one part of her attention; his flesh and heat and smell caught the other. In defense she closed her eyes and pressed hard on the raw wound. The pain burned out the lust, and Corrie got enough sense back to concentrate on the healing spell.
But Sverr didn’t lift his fingers from hers. Burning out the wound would burn him. The raw injuries were a deep line by her spine, as if the rook had stabbed with intent. The three punctures felt like acid poured into her muscles.
Corrie turned her head so she could breathe air that wasn’t Sverr. “I feel them. Take your hand away.”
“No. Your fingers will slip off. Heat it up then close it.”
“You’ll get burned.”
“Do it, Corrie,” but she just tilted her head back to glare. He frowned. “Shite. Look, I’ll hold your wrist steady. Don’t move your fingers.” He peered over her shoulder then met her gaze. “There. Do it.”
She burned the magick in, sending it deep into the damaged muscle. Her body jerked with the pain. If he had
n’t held her steady, her fingers would have slipped off, and the burn would have missed the wounds. He flinched as well, and she knew he hadn’t protected his hand enough. As she poured healing into the wound, she poured another measure into his hand. Tension seeped from his body as cool soothed the pain. Corrie sighed as the last acid burn left her flesh.
Sverr unbent her arm. He guided her hand back into position then lifted it, pressing her fingers against his nape. “Good, Lyse Oyne. You did good.”
“What are you—?”
“Sh-h,” he said and kissed her.
Chapter 6
For a first kiss, Corrie could not have dreamed of better. For any kiss. She had watched. She had imagined. Neither prepared her for the sensation of his mouth on hers. Nothing could have prepared her for the way he took immediate advantage of her opened mouth.
He pleasured her lips. He licked the sides of her mouth then explored inside. And when she sighed with delight, he thrust his tongue into her mouth. Her mind linked it with the way he would claim her body, and she groaned. The rough scrape of his stubble added to the pleasure.
Sverr lifted his head. Her eyes fluttered open. He watched her: watched the sweep of her lashes, roamed over her face, fastened on her needy mouth. He thrust her wild hair back, cupped her head in his big hands, and claimed her mouth again.
And claimed her. If he wanted to lay her on the hard turf and have his way with her, Corrie would welcome it. She wanted this man, this Norther swordsman. Angry as he made her, he had protected her and tried to shield her, explained things to her and flirted with her. And drove heat through her body with the way he kissed and touched and held her.
The thrust of his tongue toppled the stone wall she’d kept between herself and others. He claimed her mouth, and his hands claimed her breasts. He cupped them, squeezed them, worked his fingers over them, scraped his thumbs over her nipples, then pinched the hard nubbins. Corrie flinched and moaned. He set her on fire with a conflagration as powerful as the magick that had surged out of her.
Sverr scooped her legs from under her then lowered her to the ground. He followed her down without breaking the kiss. As he drank from her, his right hand roamed restlessly, cupping her breast, skimming her waist and hip, curving around her buttock to lift her to him, scooping her leg out, rucking up her skirt. He settled between her thighs as his hand roamed back up.
Then he broke the kiss. She tried to bring his mouth back to hers, but he kissed a line down her neck. He licked the hollow at her collarbone, sucked the tender spot beneath her ear. She gave up trying to tug him back for a kiss and gave in to the riot he’d caused in her senses.
He kissed his way to the valley between her breasts, nuzzled over the plump flesh then fastened on her nipple. She jolted with a cry. He licked the sensitive flesh, nipped it with his lips, then sucked it into his hot mouth. Pleasure ricocheted through her. Corrie cried out and scored him with nails as fierce as rook claws. His hand roamed while he feasted at her breast. His fingers found a place at her core that burned her will to cinders. He touched it, rolled it, rubbed it, and she went up, exploding white-hot behind her eyes.
As she came down, something pushed into her. Gasping, she opened her eyes to meet his pale pale blue ones, hot enough to melt a glacier. How did I ever think him like ice?
“Sverr,” she whimpered.
“Corrie.”
“What are you doing to me?”
“It’s just a finger, Lyse Oyne. And now it’s two fingers.” Her legs opened wider, giving him all the access he wanted. “Gods, you’re wet. Let’s try three.”
His name became a wail when he applied his thumb to the sensitive nubbin while he worked three fingers in and out.
“Sh-h, Lyse Oyne,” and he sucked her other breast—while her hips moved jerkily to meet the thrust of his hand. She spiraled up and up—then something released in her again, as sharp as the twang of a bowstring, reverberating across every nerve ending. Like the explosion but different, somehow different. She cried out and arced beneath him. And he didn’t stop.
She came down. She had to have come down. Her eyes opened to find him biting her nipple, his stubble rough on her tender breast, his fingers still working inside her.
He glanced up from his fascination with her turgid nipple. He removed his hand. At the loss, she whimpered, but he shifted above her. He kissed her mouth. And something bigger than his fingers pushed into her.
Corrie wasn’t a fool. She knew he was deflowering her. Gods, what a strange word for the way he worked himself into her, inch by powerful inch, stretching her almost painfully then easing back only to push in again, deeper. Those pale pale eyes watched her. They roamed her face as she shuddered to accept his penetration. They dipped to her heaving breasts as she moaned.
He met her maidenhood. Open-eyed, he took her mouth again, teasing her, licking her until she sought after his mouth. Then his tongue thrust into her, imitating his body until she groaned and wanted all of it. And he thrust through the last barrier.
Seated deep, he seemed to be content to kiss her while she shuddered from the pain and the invasive fullness. “Corrie, Corrie, look at me. Come on, Lyse Oyne, look at me.”
She opened her eyes.
“That’s my Corrie.” He eased out and back in, out and in, slow, slicked by her blood and her arousal.
She bit her lips then lifted her head and pressed a kiss to his mouth.
“Better?” Before she could answer, he increased the pace, the force. He groaned, and she could only echo him. It was better, somehow better, getting much much better. She managed to tell him that, and his eyes burned hotter. He scooped under her shoulder blades, gripping her shoulders. “Gods, your eyes. Put your legs around me, sweetling.”
She obeyed. His next thrust felt deeper and hit—something that made her want to howl with pleasure. He pumped into her, and the pain cascaded into something like pleasure but so intense it couldn’t be.
His snow-bright eyes, his harsh grip on her, his fierce thrusts into her body combined to ratchet up her emotions. She couldn’t look away. Her fingers clung to his shoulders, clinging as he thrust so deep he hit her soul. He kept hitting that wondrous spot, again and again and again, and another explosion sparkled through her. At her cry, he pistoned into her then stiffened. His body jerked several times. Then he melted onto her. He buried his face in her neck and breathed.
Corrie tried desperately to slow her pulse, catch her breath, drag her heart back into her own chest.
Sverr lifted. He propped on his elbows and gave her more room to breathe. His breath shuddered in and out, as ragged as hers. She soothed a circle on his nape beneath his braid. His eyes were twin blue flames. He kissed her again, quickly, then gave a satisfied smirk. “Your eyes, Corrie. They burn me up.”
She managed a smile on her well-kissed lips.
He groaned and kissed her again before tucking her against him. “That was a couple of days sooner than I planned.”
Her body lost its melting softness. “You planned this?”
“Bad choice of words. I didn’t think I’d get you under me so soon.”
“So soon?” she repeated, her voice dangerous.
He blinked. “Another bad choice of words. I wanted you as soon as I saw you, there in that inn, trying to hide your eyes behind that hair. I thought I’d have to woo you more—. Shite. It’s a big hole I’m digging.”
He was so rarely muddled that she had to hide her grin. “You probably should pull the dirt over you now.”
“I’m ruining it. Don’t hate me.”
“I won’t hate you if you get off me.”
He settled closer. “I like it here. Great spot for a hard man.”
He gave a hip thrust. Her eyes widened, for he had hardened again. Many of his earlier comments suddenly had new meaning. “Wait. Every time you said ‘hard’ to me, you meant this.” His grin confirmed it. She dropped her head onto the turf. “I am a fool.”
“No, just a virgin. Well,
not virgin anymore, but innocent like one. Not anymore—you’ve got a lot to learn, and I’ll enjoy teaching you. Not that you need help to get me started. Just looking at you—but you still need to learn. All about kneeling and—.”
“You’re ruining it again.”
Again that flustered look. “I need to stop talking.” And he kissed her.
Corrie forgot all about practicalities as he took his time with her second lesson. She shivered with delight and gasped with pleasure and panted with need. “Gods,” she gasped.
“Oh aye,” he agreed as he thrust to completion inside her.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
She liked him too much, Corrie decided as he led over Smoke for healing.
Sverr had called a halt to their kisses before they explored a third lesson to her satisfaction. He made her insatiable even as her body warned against overuse. She wasn’t certain if she were pleased or displeased that he had stopped. He had averted his gaze as he restored his shirt to her. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe he would have kissed her again if he looked at her while she slid into his shirt.
Someone had to have sense.
Maybe.
The horses hadn’t suffered as many wounds as they had. The rooks had concentrated on their human prey. While she soothed away the wounds from the gelding, the sun fell several rungs from the sky-bowl.
Sverr gathered up her shirt, dried by the endless wind but still too tattered to wear. He stuffed it into his pack and handed her his cloak.
“We’re leaving? The sun will soon be down.”
“You wanted shelter tonight, and I agree. The attacks are increasing. We’ll need more between us and whatever comes next.”
“Increasing?” she repeated, her grip slack on the cloak.
He finished rolling a blanket. His look was somber, all his earlier humor gone. “Three attacks, Corrie, each one worse than before. Dust snake. Wolf. Rooks.”
“Not the snake. I just disturbed it.”
“Out of what? Cold as yesterday morning was, snakes would have stayed curled in their holes. You did stomp around, angry at me, but that wouldn’t have brought a cold-blooded snake into the frost-cold morning.” He exchanged the blanket for the cloak then swirled the garment around her.
More than a Wizard Page 8
