The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  “But I . . .” She couldn’t swallow, could scarcely speak. Tears welled in her eyes, turning them into shimmering pools in the dim light. For days now, he had demanded she leave him alone, had rebuffed her kindnesses, and met her brave mien and even temper with unrelenting disdain. But there was always something in the way he looked at her—an ill-hidden longing, a tender edge to his gruffness—that tugged at her heart. And it was to that hint of protectiveness, to that suggestion of wanting, that she instinctively turned tonight, as her fears overcame her.

  “Did you see what happened to my sister Aaren?” she whispered, her voice clogged with unshed tears.

  “I saw.” His eyes traveled gently over her pale face and silky hair.

  “I am afraid for her.” Tears spilled down her cheeks and her chin quivered. She suddenly felt empty, standing there, needing something she didn’t understand from a man who seemingly had nothing to give her.

  Leif watched his curvy and courageous little keeper—the solace and the torment of his captivity—struggling to control her tears, and his whole being was thrown into turmoil. He was torn between his desire to comfort her and his desire to protect her, between his raging need for her gentle strength and his dread certainty that he would only cause her heartache. It took all of his self-possession to force his body to remain still; he had no strength left to guard his tongue.

  “If your sister has but a small part of your courage, Little One, she is in no danger.”

  Marta held her breath as she searched his taut features, sensing how fiercely he held himself in check. She shook her head slowly, her eyes luminous and haunting. “I am not brave, Leif Gunnarson. I must not be—for I am afraid of what will happen to us all.”

  The sight of her standing there, overcome by tears, struck the final blow in his battle against his own desires. He flung the fleece aside. Two crouching steps were all his chains would allow—but they were enough. He hovered over her, straining at the ends of his bonds, and raised one huge, battle-hardened hand to wipe away her tears. His touch only seemed to produce more tears, and he groaned and cupped her face between his hands.

  “Little Marta, do not cry,” he said hoarsely, running his callused thumbs back and forth over her soft cheeks. When she looked up at him with that awful blend of misery and maiden-hunger in her eyes, he felt as if he’d taken a battle-blow to the chest . . . he could scarcely draw breath. When she leaned toward him, he just managed to grab her shoulders and push her back to arm’s length. His heart pounded and his gut churned.

  “Do not come any closer,” he said. When she raised her quivering chin and pressed against his restraining hands, opening her arms to him, he groaned and gave her a shake. There were pride-battles and blood-feuds and long-nursed hatreds between their people . . . there would be only pain and dishonor for her if she was caught with him. He stared at her, wanting yet fearing to want her . . . unable to send her away yet unable to draw her close.

  “I am a captive in your jarl’s hall,” he said in a tortured voice. “Who knows when the ransom may come . . . my father is not so rich as Borger.”

  She answered with her eyes. They shone defiantly through her tears.

  “Do you not see, Little Maid?” He gave the chain weighting his arm an agonized shake. “I cannot even stand straight before you.”

  “You stand taller in your chains than most men do in their freedom,” she whispered. And the longing that filled her sweet face battered the last of his will to resist. His voice was choked as he uttered one last, feeble objection.

  “I . . . have fleas.”

  Marta smiled through her tears as she slipped through his hands and pressed close, invading his arms and capturing his warrior’s heart.

  “Then I will soon have them, too.”

  BY MOONLIGHT, JORUND guided his great Norman horse along the familiar trails leading up into the high reaches of the densely forested hills. The rhythmic, muffled thud of hooves kept the passage of time as they left the village far behind and entered a frost-kissed realm of stark moon-silver and night-shadows. The barren trees rustled as they passed, like the old Sisters of Fate, the Norns, gossiping over their time-spinning and fate-weaving . . . trading whispers of portent on the night breeze.

  Again and again, he turned in his saddle to search Aaren’s bobbing, silent form, welcoming the cold night air into his lungs and overheated thoughts. He had acted on pure instinct, overpowering and carrying her away, and now was somewhat unnerved by his violent response to her challenge and by the potent male pleasure he felt at having conquered her. It had never been his way to force a woman, but Aaren Serricksdotter pulled passions from him he had never experienced before . . . some exhilarating, some tantalizing . . . and some disturbing.

  As they rode along, he considered what lay ahead for them and realized that his brash demonstration of power would have consequences . . . probably volatile ones. If the past was any guide, she would be bruised and pride-sore and blood-letting furious by the time they reached his lodge in the mountains . . . just itching for another confrontation. She would snap and snarl like a cornered she-wolf, and he would have to begin the taming process all over again. He let his eyes roam the provocative curve of her upturned buttocks, recalling her helplessly sensual responses, reliving the way she had responded to his gentling touch. And he expelled his lingering tension on a long breath, and began to smile.

  When they were well into the forest, he stopped the horses and dismounted, untying her from the saddle and hoisting her onto his shoulder, then lowering her to the ground. She moaned, rousing as he laid her in a pile of leaves at the side of the trail and untied her legs.

  “Hold still, Serricksdotter,” he said, grappling with her wriggling feet. “I’m only rubbing some of the feeling back into your legs.” He paused at her strangled gasp of disbelief and gazed down at her. “Unless you’d rather I did more . . .”

  When she glared at him, he smiled.

  “Not speaking to me, are you?” He made a “tsk-ing” sound. “You were not so word-scanty a while ago, my haughty she-wolf.”

  She levered up onto one elbow as he exchanged one foot for the other and gave it a thorough rubbing, which soothed the throbbing. But her relief evaporated when he dragged her to her feet and hoisted her over his shoulder again. An instant later she found herself plopped upright onto her horse, then repositioned astride it.

  “Behave yourself,” he ordered, seizing her foot and wrestling it back down when she tried to swing it up and over the saddle. “Or you go right back over the saddle.” Then he picked up the reins and led the horse to his own, where he seized his own reins and began to lead them at a walk.

  “Are you not curious about where I’m taking you?”

  She refused to answer.

  “Since you asked so sweetly,” he declared, with a nod to her narrowed eyes and stony countenance. “To my shieling—in the mountains. It is a small summer lodge I built with my own two hands. I’ve never taken a woman there before.”

  “You’re not taking one now,” she gritted out, furious that he’d overpowered and shamed her—hauled her about like a bag of turnips before the entire village! “You’re taking a she-wolf, remember?”

  He paused, flashed her an infuriating smile that claimed her response as a victory, and continued, both walking and talking. “It’s a tight little log hut—built into the side of a cliff overlooking a small meadow. In summer there are berries everywhere . . . and there’s a rock spring for fresh water . . . and plenty of wood nearby . . . a winter’s worth, if it comes to that.” He glanced up at her with a questioning look and she returned a snarl.

  “You may have pulled Rika’s fangs, Wolf-lover,” she warned, “but I still have mine. And if you come near me, I’ll use them—I swear it!”

  He smiled and strode on. “I have plenty of warm furs for sleeping . . . including some beautiful blue-silver fox pelts that I took on a journey into the far north country. Think of it, Long-legs . . . my warm, silky furs
beneath your bare buttocks on a snowy winter’s night . . .” She stiffened, feeling an ominous trickle of excitement from her stomach down toward those parts of her she dreaded awakening.

  “You’ll not strip my buttocks bare,” she snapped. “Not without a loss of blood.”

  “There will be long nights ahead.” He glanced up at her. “Long quiet nights . . . with only you and me beside a hot, crackling fire. I know how to set you ablaze, too, Long-legs. I’ll start with kisses . . . long, slow, patient kisses . . . on your lips . . . your ears . . . your throat . . .”

  “Come near my throat at the risk of your own, Borgerson,” she threatened, outraged at his battle tactics and not a little aroused.

  “A whole winter of long, sweet nights . . . lying side by side . . . and breast to breast, thigh to thigh. I’ll feast on your skin and drink from your lips . . . rest in the valley of your breasts . . . wrap myself in the warmth of your thighs.” His voice grew thick and sultry as he described the sensual tortures he had in mind for her. “And I’ll make magic for you . . . conjure lightning and thunder inside your very body. Then after the pleasure-storm passes, I’ll spin rainbows through your senses. Think of it, Honey-maker,” he said with an irresistible grin.

  This was a new and disturbing flyting—one in which her dire blood-threats were met with beguiling sensual promises. Alarming heat crept up her throat and into her cheeks as she found her ire softening, found herself sinking into his cunning word-snares. She lashed out in a near panic.

  “Perhaps you do not know that bees and women have something in common besides honey, Woman-heart. We both have stingers,” she declared fiercely. “And I am itching to use mine.”

  “Ummm . . .” He rubbed his chin and frowned. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a woman’s stinger, Long-legs.” Brightening, he waggled his brows at her. “I can see this will be a most instructive winter. Let me guess . . .” He scratched his temple thoughtfully. “I know that bees bear their stingers in their tails . . .”

  “Oh, you—” She groaned, struggling about on her seat, wrenching one leg up and over the saddle before he could stop her. But instead of the successful dismount and flight she expected, she found herself falling, and without the use of her arms to steady and balance herself, smacked the ground with her side. “Aghhh!” The horse shied and lurched forward, and Jorund grabbed the reins to halt it, then raced back to her and lifted her to her feet. Jamming his shoulder into her midsection, he hoisted her and carried her back to her mount.

  “What’s it to be, Long-legs?” he demanded, seemingly undaunted by her growls and struggles. “Fight and you ride on your belly. Cease fighting and you can ride on your buttocks.” When her struggles slowed but did not cease, he added with a taunting pat: “Such handsome buttocks. It would be a shame to waste them.”

  She had no choice, she realized through the resurgent roar of blood in her head. He had the advantage and further resistance would only tax her strength and weaken her ability to fight later, when conditions were more in her favor. She surrendered and stilled, and soon found herself planted back in the saddle and being secured to it by a rope tether looped through her wrist-bonds.

  Chagrin doubled the angry heat under her skin and she jerked away from his grip, staring sullenly at the path ahead and refusing even to look at him.

  Jorund’s determined smile cooled a bit, but he would not be daunted by her angry withdrawal. He had expected her to be furious, had steeled himself to take her worst . . . and return only his seductive best. Sooner or later she would succumb to the pleasure he would make for her . . . and to her fate as a woman . . . his woman.

  The night stretched on and the cold deepened. As the tension drained from her weary body, Aaren began to shiver. Jorund removed his fleece jerkin and draped it about her shoulders. When she shrugged it off, he grabbed her bound hands and held them with gentle force.

  “Do not be foolish, Serricksdotter. It will be a long night. Take the warmth I offer.”

  For one long moment their gazes met and something in his compelling words sent a frisson of anxiety through her heart. She jerked her hands and her eyes away, but not in time to forestall a painful crush of longing in her chest. After a while, she felt his warm fleece settling around her shoulders and she could not bring herself to reject it again, no matter how dangerous that warmth was to her warrior’s heart.

  THIRTEEN

  THE SKY-TRAVELER stood cold and bright above them the next day, when they reached the small mountain meadow where Jorund’s shieling lay. The high country frosts and winds had already stripped the flat-leafed trees to spread a golden blanket over the ground. The short-grazed grasses in the meadow were brown, but all around were tall, stately spears of vivid green, the needle-leaf spruce and soft-limbed firs, which soared to pierce the sky-vault itself. The sound of water rushing over rocks filled the silence.

  Jorund rolled his aching shoulders and dismounted to lead both horses up a slope toward a steep cliff that rose high above the great firs. At the base of that smooth rock face nestled a modest log structure with a hewn cedar roof. As they approached, Aaren could see another, smaller hut tucked into the rocks, farther away. But before she could examine it or the brisk stream that wound down the rocks between the two structures, Jorund stopped the horses and pulled her from her horse to set her on her feet.

  When she swayed, weak-kneed, he caught her against him and the contact with his warm, hard frame sent a shiver of alarm through her. She stiffened and pulled away, and he scowled.

  “We’re away from the village, Serricksdotter. Here there are no prying eyes or ears . . . no one to brandish your pride for. You can cease playing the warrior.”

  Aaren drew on her deepest reserves, sensing that whatever ground she surrendered to him now—even from fatigue—would be forever forfeit. “I am not playing the warrior, Borgerson,” she said tersely. “I am a warrior.”

  After a long moment, he seized her shoulders and thrust her toward the small summer lodge. Swinging the low door open, he pushed her inside. When she straightened, she found that her head brushed the bottom of the roof beams, but the interior was considerably larger than it had seemed outside. By the light coming through the door, she could make out a wall formed by the cliff face, along the far side, and saw that a vertical channel had been hewn in the stone, leading upward to a smoke hole that admitted additional light. At the foot of that wall, a low, flat ledge ran the length of the lodge and in the middle of the ledge was a hollowed, blackened spot, directly beneath the channel—apparently a hearth. From the two side walls hung sleeping shelves and there was a rough cedar storage box built against the wall near the door.

  “Over here.” He pushed her toward the stone wall. “Sit.” When she didn’t comply, he seized her shoulders and forced her onto the ledge beside the hearth. She jerked her shoulders defiantly as she landed and she saw that his eyes narrowed and a muscle in his jaw flexed. He uncoiled the rope from her arms and shoulders, using it to tether her still-tied hands to an iron ring imbedded in the stone beside the hearth. Then he stood over her with his hands on his hips, considering the ring, her bound hands, and the hostile look on her face.

  “Still the warrior, Long-legs?”

  “Yea, always a warrior, Woman-heart,” she answered, testing her stiff arms and bracing for whatever the glint in his eye promised.

  “Very well. Then I will treat you like a warrior.” He abruptly dropped to his knees beside her and seized her legs, banding and dragging them against his side as he worked the lacings of her buskins. With her hands tied to the ring, she could only writhe and kick, uttering dire threats. But with a few deft movements he had ripped the laces from her sandal-boots and had her footgear wrenched from her wriggling feet. Next, he seized her leggings, unwrapped them, and tossed them onto the floor. Then, to her horror, he shifted and pulled on her legs so that she was stretched out along the stone shelf, lying with her hands bound by ropes above her head and her knees caught hard in his grip.r />
  “No! Curse you, Borgerson! If Odin doesn’t have your blood for this—I will!” she snapped, bucking and heaving with all her might as he attacked the ties of her breeches. He had her pinned on her back and was apparently bent on stripping her buttocks as well as her legs!

  Curling his fingers over the waist of her breeches, he pulled and succeeded in baring one hip. Then he leaned his body across her knees, trapping her legs with his ribs, and used both hands to peel her breeches down her thighs. He paused and grinned when they reached her knees, letting his eyes roam her sleek, naked thighs and applying force with his body to roll her over so that he could scrutinize her bare buttocks. As she choked on her outrage, his grin broadened and he sought her gaze.

  “No stinger,” he pronounced solemnly.

  “Ohhh! Wretch!” she exploded, arching violently—which only allowed him better access. In one coolly executed movement, he shoved to his feet and ripped her breeches from her, dangling them before her with a triumphant smile. She rolled onto her side and scrambled back on the cold, abrasive rock, pulling herself upright and dragging her legs beneath her, trying to shield herself with the meager tail of her tunic. “Give me back my clothes and boots, curse you!”

  “You want to be treated like a warrior, Serricksdotter,” he said with satisfaction. “Well, one of the perils of being a warrior—of which you spoke so knowledgeably—is being held captive in your enemy’s camp. And one of the hazards of being a prisoner is being stripped to keep you from escaping, especially in cold weather.” He bent to gather up her sandal-boots and leggings, wrapping them together with her breeches into a ball, which he stuffed under his arm. Then he ran a hot, appraising eye over her bare feet and up her long, naked legs.

  “I need not tell you that without boots and breeches you would not last long in these cold forests. I have things to do—tend the horses, gather wood, find meat. These”—he held up her clothing—“will assure that you are here when I return.” He turned away, then back, with a most reasonable and accommodating tone. “Anytime you wish to be treated like a woman, instead of a warrior, I will gladly return your clothes and boots, Long-legs.” He waited a moment for that to register and when he saw her face redden and her chest swell, he ducked outside.