The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  “This is just like you, Woman-heart!” she shouted. “Low and cowardly . . . and despicable . . . and cruel . . .” The door slammed shut on her tirade and she heard the scrape of something being lodged against the door, trapping her in the chilled, darkened lodge.

  She stared around the cabin in the dimness, then at the door, feeling angry and confused and oddly bereft that he’d stripped her and then just left her there. Chiding herself for her divided feelings, she seized her hotter emotions and used them to purge the others while she huddled close to the iron ring and drew her knees up, banding them with her arms. If he thought a little cold and nakedness would humble her . . . he was badly mistaken!

  IT WAS JUST past dark when Jorund returned. With only the heat of her burning pride for warmth, Aaren had steadily grown more chilled and miserable. Her muscles were drawn into hard knots, she seemed to have lost most of the feeling in her lower half, and her teeth chattered uncontrollably. During the long wait, she had seized each bit of discomfort to bolster her anger against Jorund, constructing flaming word-spears to hurl at him the moment he returned. But when the door opened, she jerked her head up from her knees and her burning arsenal of denouncements was drenched by a wave of relief. His arms were full of wood and provisions, and he seemed big and warm; the mere sight of him made her go limp inside. He paused inside the door, calling her name, but she couldn’t seem to answer; the muscles in her throat suddenly seemed as frozen as the rest of her.

  “Aaren? Come now . . . don’t be so stubborn . . .” He stopped dead—staring at her balled, quaking form—and dumped everything in his arms onto the floor. In two strides he was beside her, kneeling on one knee by the stone ledge, feeling her chilled face and arms, running his hands down her lower legs to her icy feet.

  “You’re half frozen,” he said grimly.

  “I’m f-f-fine, B-Borgerson,” she croaked, trying to jerk away from his hands, and failing.

  He scowled and ripped his fleece jerkin from his shoulders and wrapped it around her legs. Without another word, he hurried across the lodge to rummage in the cedar box for oil and a wick to fill the hanging lamp . . . then carried the wood and tinder back to the stone hearth beside her and began to build a fire.

  After the first shock of his return, she tried desperately to resurrect her ire and to pretend that her legs weren’t cramping and her bare bottom wasn’t numb and that she didn’t feel small and wretched and humiliated. But all her efforts were increasingly undercut by the warmth that lingered in his garment and the fledgling heat of the fire he was nursing to flame, both of which only seemed to make her quake more. She clamped her teeth together, praying that she wouldn’t make a complete fool of herself.

  When the fire was well caught and crackling, he freed her from the iron ring and began to lift her onto the floor by the hearth. She insisted on moving on her own, but stumbled and slid to her knees before the fire. As his warm hands untied the knots and gently massaged her bruised wrists and cold hands, she searched for a bit of protest inside her and found none. He worked his hands up her arms, then along her shoulders, rubbing warmth back into them with smooth, circular motions. And as his touch restored warmth and feeling to her icy frame, it also worked a broadening charm on her senses. Her shivering slowed to small, lingering tremors that had less and less to do with cold.

  “I did not intend to leave you alone so long. I would have been back earlier,” he said, sliding his hands up the sides of her neck, “but I had to unload, then repair the pole shed for the horses. And it took a while to set a snare and take a rabbit . . .”

  The golden glow of the fire set warm lights in his eyes as he caressed his way down her shoulders and sides, until he reached her hips. His hands paused, holding her, as he sought her eyes. “I did not mean to hurt you.” He shifted back onto his knees and pulled her feet onto his lap, holding them for a moment before massaging her toes, the arches of her feet, then her ankles. “Just like a woman.” He grinned. “Women always have cold feet.”

  Her very senses began to melt beneath his warm ministrations. He raised a quizzical brow to her and his handsome lips moved. It took a moment for her to right the sounds in her head.

  “And do you know why?” he had asked.

  “W-why what?” she mumbled, losing her flow of thought in the shimmering pools of his eyes.

  “Why women always have cold feet,” he prompted.

  She blinked, then shook her head, bewildered by the question, since she hadn’t been minding his words.

  “It’s because all the warmth in a woman goes to her heart,” he said quietly. His hands stilled, splayed on her bare thighs and pouring heat into them, as his tone wrapped around her senses like a blanket. “You have a warm heart, too, Long-legs. I’ve seen it in your eyes. I’ve felt it beating next to mine.” He slid one hand up her thigh, then lifted it to her chest as he sought her wide, wondering eyes. When she did not move, he pressed his hand over her heart and slid his fingers downward, between the stiff edge of her breastplate and the yielding softness of her breast.

  “Such stout armor”—his whisper caressed her—“must protect something very soft.”

  She wrapped a hand around his wrist, but in truth, she was not sure whether it was meant as a rejection or a claiming. It was only when his hand moved to deepen that possession that she came out of her trance and used her grip to thrust him away. That movement broke the spell and brought her vulnerable position crashing back to her.

  She scrambled back shakily and summoned a glare. “Keep your hands to yourself, Borgerson,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve warned you.”

  He studied the spark in her eyes and the burst of color under her cheekbones and smiled, seeming perversely pleased by her revived spirits.

  “Yes, you did. Now what was it you promised me?” A wicked glint came into his eyes as he leaned toward her on one arm. “Oh, yes. Something about my throat . . .” He tugged at the ties at the top of his tunic and lay his corded neck and the top of his shoulder bare . . . offering her the sleek, bronzed skin of his throat and his visibly throbbing pulse.

  “It’s yours, She-wolf,” he said huskily. “Anytime you want it.”

  The temptation to seize him and bury her mouth in that seductive curve hit her like a rogue sea wave, staggering her. She panicked and hit him back with her palms, sending him rolling onto his rear. “Stay away from me, Woman-heart!” she demanded.

  He sat for a moment in his graceful sprawl before a knowing grin spread over his face, then he rolled to his feet and began to unpack the provisions, placing them on shelves above the great cedar box built into the wall.

  Aaren pushed stiffly to her feet, tugging her tunic down over her hips and eyeing the door. Even if she made it outside and managed to find the horses, it was dark and she still had no boots, no breeches, and no idea where they were or how to get back to the village. She was trapped here. Captive in her enemy’s camp. Prisoner to a man who wouldn’t fight . . . but had just managed to storm and conquer both her body and her senses.

  She sank down onto the stone ledge near the fire, shaken by his demonstration of power over her. Her obligations to her sisters’ welfare, to their enchantment, and to her own warrior’s honor were sacred to her. But all he had to do was look at her with those soft blue eyes, extend his hand to her, spin a few silken words . . . and she forgot both her honor and her enchantment. She held her cold, stiff hands out to the fire. For all his gentleness, Jorund Borgerson was the most dangerous man she knew.

  “Here you are, Serricksdotter.” She raised her gaze to find him presenting her with the carcass of a skinned hare and an iron rod on which to spit it. “A prime, fat one. I caught it . . . you can cook it.”

  “In a sow’s eye, Borgerson,” she declared, huddling back on her seat. “I’ll not work over the hearth like a woman for you.” He studied her angry pose, then shrugged and proceeded to prepare their meal himself.

  AFTER EATING, HE reached into the storage chest for a great bundl
e of furs, which he unrolled with a flourish. She eyed that warm, inviting stack—some so lush and silvery that they looked blue in the firelight—and felt the rise of temptation in her loins once more. To counter it, she expelled a harsh breath and glowered at him.

  “Only one set of furs, Long-legs. But it is plenty big enough for two,” he said, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

  “Share your furs like a woman? Like one of your many women?” she announced with exaggerated disdain. “I’d rather freeze.”

  His eyes narrowed briefly, but then he snuffed the wick in the hanging bowl lamp. He dragged the pallet in front of the door and crawled into his furs alone, propping his arms behind his head. As the fire settled into red-glowing coals and the light lowered, his breathing slowed to a steady rhythm and she guessed he was quickly asleep.

  Sliding back up onto the ledge by the fire, she tucked her knees under her chin and snuggled her toes as close to the coals as she could. She dropped her head against the cool stone at her shoulder, fighting the emotion rising in her chest and crowding into her throat. His words echoed in her ears: such stout armor must protect something very soft. She understood now, he had not been speaking of her body alone. He had sensed her struggle to both contain and shield her softer self behind that inner wall inside her. And he had devised the perfect strategy for breaching it . . . letting his tenderness call to hers, rousing her gentler feelings against her, using them to storm the fortifications of her heart from inside as well as out.

  A pricking began in the corners of her eyes and she squeezed them shut. But as she wrestled with her stubborn feelings, the tears surged and began to slide down her cheeks.

  She was at war with herself. One moment she snapped in anger, the next she sighed with longing; one minute she was vengeful, the next she was sick with regret. With one breath she blew hot; the next, cold—it was like chills and fevers in her very soul.

  She swiped at her tears and settled her gaze on him, feeling a deep, painful stirring within her. For the first time in her memory she was truly afraid. What would happen to her at this man’s hands? Each time he touched her, or stroked her with his words, she could feel her warrior’s heart fraying a bit more at the edges, unraveling inside her. What would she be if it came completely undone? What good was a warrior with a heart that had come unstrung?

  THE CRACKLE OF flame brought Jorund wide awake the next morning and he started up . . . to find Aaren perched on the edge of the hearth with his fleece jerkin over her knees, feeding small twigs and bark to a fragile flame. He smiled and dropped back on his elbows, relishing the sight of her and studying the care with which she nurtured that developing heat. When the first small log was securely caught, she glanced up and found him watching her. Their gazes locked and she tensed, coming visibly to the edge of her nerves again.

  “That was helpful of you . . . starting the morning fire,” he said, stretching his long legs and arms, then arching his back.

  “I was cold,” she responded, tearing her eyes from the display he was making of his muscular male frame.

  “Then perhaps if you grow hungry enough, you’ll tend a cook-pot, as well,” he teased. She was not amused.

  “I want my clothes,” she declared flatly. “You have no right to keep me here like this.”

  “I have every right, Serricksdotter,” he countered, sitting up. “According to your code, my might gives me the right. Unless you are strong enough to defeat me, I have the right to do whatever I want with you.” His mouth took on a wry cant. “Is that not the way of the warrior?”

  “The way of the warrior is to honor a worthy opponent, to respect him,” she answered, her voice strained. “To respect her.” Tiny flames at the backs of her eyes flared. “You dishonor me, Borgerson . . . whether you think me a warrior or a woman.”

  “And just how have I dishonored you, Serricksdotter?” he demanded, shoving to his feet and towering over her. His features lost their just-wakened softness. “Do I dishonor you with my teasing words . . . with the way I fondle and adore your body . . . with the way I hold my temper when you swagger and boast and goad me with your warrior nonsense? Do I dishonor you with my desire to hold you, or with the pleasure I stir in your loins, or with the joy I take in simply watching you move?” He stalked closer, his eyes hot and his tone fraying with frustration.

  “Why is it honorable of me to fight you with a blade and possibly kill you . . . but dishonorable of me to try to love you with my body?”

  He stared down into her face, sorting through the jumble of emotions he glimpsed in her and willing her to understand the destructiveness of her warrior illusions. But as the pull of wanting deepened within him, he watched her confusion being replaced by pained determination.

  “Why can you not see that in mocking my warriorhood and my enchantment . . . you mock my honor, my very heart?” she said with a tremor in her voice. “And as long as you refuse to defend your honor and respect mine, I cannot prize being joined to you. There would be no honor and thus no pleasure in our mating . . . not as long as I am a she-wolf and you are a woman-heart.”

  The muscles in his face worked visibly, then he drew a deep, irritable breath and wheeled to retrieve her garments and boots from the storage box. He tossed them at her feet, lifted the bar at the door, and strode out into the frigid morning air.

  She sagged to a seat by the fire, staring after him, feeling drained and shamed by her own impulses, and confused. She had lied just now, she realized . . . or at least part of her had. Part of her didn’t want to mate with a man who had no pride or honor, but part of her desperately wanted the tenderness and passion he stirred in her. Honor and dishonor, fighting and loving . . . wretched Odin must be delirious over the success of his revenge.

  Pushing those plaguing thoughts to the back of her mind, she dressed hurriedly, then slipped out the door. Before she had taken two steps, his hand clamped on her arm.

  “Where do you think you are going?”

  “Women and warriors alike have morning needs, Borgerson.”

  He looked a bit chastened, then nodded and led her to the shelter of the trees. When she was finished, he took her by the arm and led her across the stream and up the slope to the other hut. It was a bathing hut, built over a rock spring that trickled slowly from the side of the cliff on its way to join the larger stream. There was a wide wooden bench, a small oven for heating rocks, and a clear pool hollowed out of natural stone. He allowed her to wash, as he had done, then escorted her back to the lodge. When they were safely inside, he released her arm, but did not move away at once. She felt his gaze on her and stiffened.

  “Let me go,” she said calmly. “Let me return to my sisters . . . to the village.”

  “I cannot.” He searched the tension in her face. “There is much to settle between us. And I have sworn that neither of us will return until it is done.”

  “It can be quickly settled,” she insisted. “Just pick up a blade and prepare to fight.”

  “Do you not see that what we must settle requires far more than just the spilling of blood?”

  His words sent a slither of anxiety through her. She couldn’t listen to such talk.

  “You—you’re just afraid to raise a blade against me,” she charged, scrambling to find a footing in outraged pride. But the minute her barb struck, she wished to recall it. He blanched and his jaw clamped and the muscles worked tautly beneath his skin.

  “Yes, I am afraid!” he declared fiercely. “Afraid of hurting you.” Her heart hovered and quivered strangely in her breast, as if uncertain how fast to beat. He was afraid for her? That was the one thing she hadn’t expected to hear.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Aaren.” His features tightened and his eyes grew strangely luminous. Suddenly she could read them the way she always felt he read her own. She glimpsed the need, the wanting, and the pain within him. And she saw there was more . . . so much more that she did not understand in the depths of his matchless eyes. It took her breath. He was
summoning forth the woman in her; tenderness seeking tenderness, need calling to need. For a brief moment, her confusion, her own woman’s longings, were visible in her face.

  “Fight me, Jorund,” she whispered, entreating him with all her heart. And he answered from the depths of his.

  “I am fighting you.”

  His penetrating gaze drove his meaning into her very bones. He was indeed fighting her . . . with kindness and pleasure, gentleness and promise . . . all the things a woman’s heart must desire and a warrior’s heart must scorn. And the success of his chosen arms—his weapons of the heart—was evident in her growing desire for him and in her waning desire to fight him. Panic collected in her stomach as she felt another of her heartstrings unraveling. She lurched back, her look of longing turning visibly to contempt.

  He watched the change of her expression and felt the woman he had touched so fleetingly sliding out of his grasp. The pain of her withdrawal was so sharp that it set off a defensive explosion in him . . . full, gut-roiling, limb-quaking fury. With his last bit of reason, he realized he had to get out of there, away from her, before he did exactly what she wanted . . . what he dreaded with all his being. He snatched up his fleece jerkin and slammed out into the frigid sunshine.

  But the contempt he had seen in her face had not been for him; it had been for her own weakening.

  She stared at the door, still seeing his swollen shoulders and the pained anger in his face. It was a long moment before she realized that she was seeing the meadow, as well, and the trees around it. The door was open—he had forgotten to bolt her inside!

  Her heart skipped a beat as she rushed to the door and peered outside. She was frantic to flee both him and the sense of shame temptation created in her, and after a moment’s indecision, she rushed to the storage bin and rummaged through it until she located an extra tunic and a small eating knife that had been stowed in the bag of provisions. She quickly donned the garment for added warmth and tucked the small knife in the empty loop at her waist. Then with a last, quick glance around, she darted out the door and made a run for the trees.