Far After Gold

by Jen Black

  Her skin tingled beneath the touch of his finger when it drifted down the curve of her cheek. She drew in a quivering breath, and caught the faint aromatic scent of myrtle emanating from the pores of his skin. His gaze devoured her. The fingertip turned, his hand cupped her jaw and drew her closer. His warm breath fanned her brow and cheeks as his lips covered hers.

  Trepidation held her rigid; but at the same time, excitement rioted through her bloodstream, and rocked her senses. This was what she had feared from the first day on the beach when sailors snatched her from her island home. She had evaded it for a long time, but it was going to happen here and now, where anyone could walk in at any moment.

  Strange, confusing sensations quivered through her. This would be her initiation into the intimate ways of men and women. He was not the brutal, dirty stranger she had feared, but handsome, and clean. He was young, too, and bold. Her fear fought against curiosity and the guarded admiration of him that had grown so slowly over the past few days. The fear also fought against a strange, heady mix of need and her body’s response to him. Her knees trembled and weakened.

  She could not evade him any longer, and some deeply hidden part of her was glad. She breathed in the scent of his maleness, reached out to hold him and sent up a small, jumbled prayer of thanks that it was Flane who would finally take her over the threshold into womanhood.

  He lifted her off her feet. His scent coiled through her bloodstream like some magician’s potion, and her senses reeled and rendered her incapable of summoning a sharp, witty remark or indeed any kind of remark at all. Deprived of her most potent defence, Emer doubted, and then welcomed his advances.

  As if from some small spot in the corner of the room Emer looked down on the two figures clinging together, and saw how her head turned accommodatingly under his mouth, how her hands held him close. Her body, it seemed, was his already.

  The sense of isolation did not last long, no more than a few heartbeats. His warm hands held her, his mouth visited her eyelids, drifted over her cheek to a spot beneath her ear, found the elegant line of her long white throat and she was there with him. Heat radiated out of him, heat so strong it passed through the thin layers of cloth between them and raised perspiration down the channel of her spine.

  A soft moan began somewhere. Emer realised the sound came from her own throat. Shame gave her strength; she tore free of his embrace, jerked back and used the only excuse she thought might sway him.

  “Stop! You are to marry Katla! And I told you, I won’t be your bed slave, Flane Ketilsson!”

  He held onto one of her wrists. Panting, her skin on fire, Emer struggled to disengage. Flane’s hands stilled, let go and then came to rest lightly on her shoulders. He hardly held her. Even now, she could break free and run, for he simply watched her from half closed, heavy-lidded eyes that seemed darker than normal in the firelight.

  Emer hesitated, suddenly unsure. He grasped her by both hips, and this time he held her fast. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said softly.

  The half-smile on his strong young face flipped her insides over, for he had answered her fear rather than her words. When she did not move, he knelt in front of her, turned his head and laid his cheek against the slight curve of her belly. Emer gasped at the intimacy, and the sensations that rippled through her.

  “I don’t want you to be my slave,” he said, and she felt the movement and vibration of his mouth and voice against her body. “I want…oh, Emer, I hunger for you. I ache for you….” He pressed his mouth hard against her belly. Emer felt the heat of his breath through the old green linen even as he tightened his grip of her hips.

  Her last sensible thoughts vanished like a wisp of smoke on the breeze. Dazed by the emotions spearing through her, Emer’s unfocused gaze circled the pine wood cabin. All the while she heard a humming in her ears, her heart leapt about in her chest, and her knees felt strangely weak. Before she knew what she was doing, she slid down to kneel before him. “Oh, Flane!”

  He was so much taller, even when they knelt facing each other. His hands hovered at her temples; his mouth curved in that slow, delicious smile that had always thawed even her worst temper, and when his fingers brushed stray hair back from her eyes, she sighed and leaned into his hand. “You must…” Emer hesitated, cleared her throat and began again. “This isn’t wise.”

  “I know.” He stared down at her. Lines bracketed his mouth as his smile deepened. “But I don’t want to stop.”

  “But—”

  Strands of gold hair brushed his shoulders as he shook his head. “You should be mine,” he whispered fiercely. “You will be mine.”

  “But what…” Emer swallowed hard and forced her thoughts into some kind of order. “What about Katla? And her father? Skuli Grey Cloak will think you’ve insulted his daughter, and Katla won’t let him forget it.”

  Flane shrugged. “I’ll persuade him he needs me. I’m the best warrior he’s got.” His hand slid beneath her thick, wet hair to cradle and support her head. In the same moment, his mouth found hers.

  Emer’s eyes closed. His large hand gently cupped her breast. Emer started, not at his touch, but at the sharp sensation of pleasure that streaked like lightning to her loins. Tipping her head back, breaking their kiss, she struggled to get the words out. “Katla wants you, and she’ll do anything to have you.” Her voice rose to a squeak as his fingers moved over her sensitive flesh. “I think she truly loves you.”

  Flane regarded her. “Her eyes are greedy,” he said softly. “She wants only what she sees. She does not know me.” The point of his tongue touched her lips, drifted to the corner of her mouth and settled there, coaxing, persuading.

  “I feel dizzy,” Emer murmured.

  “Hold onto me, then.” From his kneeling position he stretched out for something, and Emer, scared of falling, grabbed at him. Her palm caught his leather wrist guard, slid higher, encountered the long hairs of his forearm and wondered at their silkiness. Pressed so close against him, she could feel hard muscle and bone against her breasts. An insane urge to rub against him roared through her; instead she let her palms slide up the curve of his arms and over the smooth hardness of his shoulders.

  “I am holding on,” she muttered against the pale silk of his hair, “for my very life!” Matching him kiss for kiss, her breath came in shallow gasps and she revelled in the wondrous madness of it all.

  “Stay with me.” He held her with one arm, hooked something closer with the other and tipped her down to the softness of the pale fleeces. In one supple, easy movement he laid full length beside her. With the fire at her back and the long, lean length of his body before her, she looked at him with delight as his hard palm slowly travelled the length of her thigh.

  Shivering with sensation, she dared to reach out and put her fingertips to his skin, allowed them to trail across the muscles of his chest and shoulders. Her insides hollowed, and a strange ache grew low down in her belly, so strong that it frightened her. She bit her lip and pressed up against him.

  “You’re not afraid?” His voice was a low murmur of sound reverberating inside his chest.

  “Yes. What are you going to do?”

  “Surely you know what I’m going to do,” he said on a ripple of amusement. His hand, surprisingly delicate, moved against the soft inner skin of her thigh and ravelled the fabric of his old green tunic up until the linen bunched around her hips.

  Emer had no clear idea of what would happen next. Animals she knew, but not men. She glanced down at his hand and immediately averted her eyes at the sight of so much bare skin. His fingers ran up between her thighs. Her breath shortened to a sharp gasp. Her gaze flew to his face. She could feel her own slippery wetness as his fingers moved lightly over and within her, and worry warred with wondrous sensation. His fingers tortured and delighted her.

  Growing bolder, she mouthed his skin, licked his chest and tasted saltiness.

  “You are so beautiful.” His voice sounded as if his throat hurt.


  Small jolts of pleasure, shooting through the general ache and pressure, made Emer gasp aloud, but the fear that the pain would sharpen alarmed her. She lifted her hand to his face, hesitating on words that would stop him, and then couldn’t think at all. She gasped, her wide eyes fixed on his face while her heart thundered in her ears. She gasped again, and again.

  “I…I want…Oh, Flane!” The last word was a sharp wail as muscles deep inside clenched and pulled her body inwards like a bow. Sweat sprang on her skin and she clutched Flane and buried her face in his chest, gasping and incoherent as a series of fast, lessening surges rippled through her.

  He held her close and rocked her against his chest. “Oh, my warrior,” he murmured against her ear.

  His heart thudded hard and fast. She searched for his lips and found them. The overlarge tunic slid off her shoulder, but it didn’t seem to matter. He shoved back from her in order to reel his belt from his waist, tug free the drawstring that held his breeches and kick himself free from the constricting folds of cloth. He saw her curiosity and waited. Balanced on one arm, her free hand lifted, reached for him and drew back when he reacted to the thought of her hand on him. Surprise and shock mingled in her expression.

  He shook his head. “I’d ask you to touch me,” he said in that same tight voice, “but I don’t think I could stand it if you did.” He caught her in his arms, rolled between her thighs and then hesitated. “Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “Don’t stiffen up. I want you to enjoy it, and you will, I know you will. Kiss me, Emer.”

  She could only trust him now, so she found his mouth with her own and explored it, softly at first and then with increasing fervour. What would it feel like when he finally—oh, there, surely that—oh! Flane pushed forward, and Emer couldn’t hold back her little mew of fright and pain. She stiffened, dug her fingernails into his shoulders. Sweat stood out on her skin.

  Breathing hard, he held still. “Freyja! Help her!”

  Emer heard his whispered plea to one of his old gods and felt better for it. He really did care, after all. She held him off for several moments, listening to her body and soon it seemed the worst might be over. She risked a slight movement and widened her eyes at the shiver of pleasure that followed. She lifted her knees experimentally, moved her hips again and wonderful sensations shot through her.

  Flane groaned as if she had hurt him. “Flane? Flane?”

  Beads of sweat stood on his brow, but he opened his eyes at her worried voice. “It’s nothing,” he said. Then he smiled. “I’m lying. It’s…Do it again!” He let her move at her own pace, tentatively at first, and then, as instinct and confidence surfaced, with growing certainty. It seemed she could move very fast indeed, and her own body drove her on, whippy and strong and the sight of his pleasure enhanced her own.

  “Don’t stop!” he begged, and with choked, breathless laughter let his body respond to her urgings. A broken groan came from him as he gathered her up and she thrashed helplessly toward him. Stroke for stroke they matched each other, cried out together and shuddered into an exhausted, sweating, helpless heap beside the dying fire.

  The cabin echoed to the sound of shattered breathing, gulps for air and brief snatches of laughter. They lay stranded in the circle of firelight and held each other until peace came at last. Emer lay in Flane’s arms, half asleep, half dreaming, with her finger tracing languorous circles on the smooth brown skin of his shoulder.

  The fire had almost burned down when he stirred. “Emer? We can’t stay. Someone is sure to come before long.”

  “We would hear someone if they came. It’s so quiet, now.” She giggled at the memory of when it had not been so quiet, and stifled it against his chest.

  “We would.” He cocked an ear. “You can hear the water lapping against the steps, and the wind in the trees. But we couldn’t get dressed before they were in the door and staring at us.” He lifted his head and his mouth turned down. “We should get dressed.”

  Emer held on to him. “Oh, Flane, I don’t want to move. I ache all over.”

  He disengaged, scrambled to his feet and his dense blue eyes travelled over the long length of her. “Really? All over?”

  She chuckled. “I couldn’t possibly tell you where I ache.”

  “I think I can guess.” Flane pulled his breeches back into position, grabbed his tunic and hauled it over his head. “We should really wash, but I think you’ve been washed enough today. I’ll come back later.”

  “Don’t go!” She groaned. “I suppose we must. I don’t think I could face Katla if she turned up at the door. But Flane, what are we going to do?” She scrambled to her feet, and swayed dizzily for a moment. Flane caught her arm, concerned but she smiled and shook her head. He picked up his old green tunic from the floor, shook it and held it over her head. Obediently she raised her arms like a child and let it slide over her. She looked down at herself. “I need a belt.”

  “Lace it up tight,” he said, yanking the two halves of the tunic together under her chin. “As it is, Gamel will think his hour has come when he sees your ankles. Where’s your chemise?”

  Emer pulled the laces tight. “There. I washed it.” She pointed to the clay pot where her chemise soaked in cold water. “My belt is being washed with my gown.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, my ring! I forgot it!”

  “What ring?”

  “The ring my father gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I stitched it inside my dress so Katla wouldn’t see it and steal it like she stole my necklace.”

  Flane pulled a face. “It’ll probably still be there when your gown is washed and ready, but if it isn’t, tell me.”

  The door burst open behind them. “By all the gods!” Flane whirled to face the blast of fresh air, his bulk shielding Emer from view as he greeted the newcomers. Emer heard the feminine giggles and gathered some of the women wanted to use the bathing place. She grabbed the clay pot that held her chemise, and squatted by the hearth. She had to do something to hide the way her face burned with embarrassment.

  Laughter continued at the door as Flane chatted with whoever had arrived. Emer smoothed her hand over her hair, glanced around and saw a small but clear blood stain on the sheepskin. She froze, and then lurched forward to try and hide the clear evidence of what she and Flane had been doing in the hut. She tripped, knocked the pot over and her chemise slid out on a tide of water to hide the incriminating stain.

  Flane turned at the commotion, and three women peered around him. “What happened?”

  “I tripped,” Emer said. “I’m so clumsy. But I’ll make sure the skin dries out properly.” She glanced worriedly at the three women, and recognised Steini’s mother among them.

  Fortunately, they laughed. The eldest said, “Put it outside on the boards, Emer. It’ll soon dry in the sun.”

  She glanced at Flane, who winked and nodded toward the loch. Emer scooped up the wet skin, bundled her chemise back into the bowl and took everything outside. The door closed behind her, shutting off the sound of chattering voices and she stood alone, staring across the vast expanse of the loch. Shivering in the cooler air, she sighed and knelt on the boards beside the water.

  Her reflection showed the horrendous tangle of her hair. Emer bit her lip. The women would surely guess what she and Flane had been doing in the hut. Splashing her hand into the reflection dispersed the image and a handful of cold lake water would soon get rid of the incriminating stain.

  Chapter Ten

  Tempting as it had been to sit on the boards overlooking the water and enjoy the tranquillity while contemplating the wondrous thing that had just happened, Emer hurried back to the hall with the wrung-out roll of her chemise. While it dried, she could sit and think what to do about Flane, for the man was an enigma. Every time she decided she understood him, he displayed a side of himself she had not seen before.

  The feelings she had now were an added complication. Memories of his body brought hot blood rushing to her cheeks and disoriented her so much she t
ripped and almost fell. Strange warm feelings lingered within her. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, wondering if her lips looked as swollen as they felt. Her breasts flared and tingled beneath the green linen tunic. The special place, the place that gave her so much pleasure, still felt moist and a pang ran through her flesh whenever she thought of Flane.

  She looked out for him as she walked back to the hall, but he had vanished like one of the will o’ the wisps that haunted the marshes. She couldn’t decide if she were glad or sorry to be free of his presence. When he was nearby, her mind did not function properly; but when he was not there, she felt vulnerable and somehow bereft. Her understanding of him veered from clouded to clear and back again within the space of a few heartbeats.

  She understood from her mother that Viking women tolerated bed slaves and concubines, but it was perfectly obvious that Katla would never agree to Flane doing so. Yet Flane had insisted, ever since the day he split his sides laughing at her suggestion of marriage, that she would stay with him. He honestly believed he could live with both of them.

  There was little she could do, for she was hardly in a position to dictate what anyone should do in this community. She did not even have a maidenhead to bargain with now. She nibbled at her lip, guilt and doubt settling on her shoulders like a matching pair of crows.

  Nothing was certain. Without the protection of her family, she had to find a way of living amongst a community whose customs were strange to her. These people did not share her blood, or her religion. Flane could repudiate her tomorrow, and maybe would, if Katla and Skuli Grey Cloak insisted he should. Selling her would rid him of a problem and earn him good silver. A living death of slavery might yet be her lot in life, but she preferred to believe that the last hour had meant as much to Flane as it had to her.