The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  Jorund’s hands had healed enough for him to carry out the hearth-tasks and do some fishing. He discovered a shed elk antler while passing through the woods toward the fishing hole in the stream, and he spent his spare time whittling and carving a comb from it. She would want something to groom her hair when her time was over, he thought, and he would give it to her as a gift. And someday, he thought with a grin, he would use it on her hair himself.

  Each morning and each evening, he carried food and drink and offers of wood and assistance to her in the bathing house. At first, she refused them all. But by the second day, she hesitantly accepted the food he brought, and by the fourth day she sat on the wooden bench in the bathing house, surrounded by food-gifts, fragrant pine boughs, a pallet made of woven blankets stuffed with dried grasses, and small bunches of dried flowers he’d found at the edge of the meadow. She looked around her at the visible evidence of his caring and felt tears rolling down her cheeks again.

  What in Godfrey’s Heaven was she going to do?

  It was no longer just a matter of her honor and enchantment, it was a matter of their loving, and of the cruel bonds that the fear of his own strength and his own deeply held beliefs had placed on him. She had to uphold her enchantment, had to find a way to overcome the obstacles to their loving, and—hardest of all—had to free Jorund from the beast he carried inside him. It sounded hopeless. It was unreasonable to expect a mere mortal to cope with all of that. Her woman’s heart was twisting in her breast, weighted with despair.

  But her warrior’s heart, accustomed to finding opportunity in adversity, rose up to buoy her sinking spirits. And as she sat staring into the hearth flame, a familiar voice spoke out of the depths of her memory . . . a voice of wisdom and caring. Father Serrick.

  “Fight, my daughter,” he said to her again through time and distance. “Fight and be valiant . . . and if you are true in your heart and true to your honor, you will triumph.”

  “Fight?” she murmured, her gaze raking the roof beams, the hearth, and the stone pool, as if trying to find a route of escape. “How can I do that, Father Serrick? It is the fighting that has brought all this trouble upon me. Please, I don’t want to fight—not this time—not anymore!”

  But again the voice echoed in her mind and she could not say whether it whispered from the past or the present. “Fight, my daughter. You have the victory-luck . . . A warrior can have no finer gift.”

  “Victory-luck”—she groaned—“when what I want is to be defeated honorably.”

  “Victory-luck,” Old Serrick whispered yet again.

  “But the only victory I want is to be finished with this cursed enchantment . . . to have Jorund fight and free me . . . and then love me.”

  “Be true in your heart . . . you will triumph.” Again and again she heard it in her head, until her father’s raspy voice merged with her own and began to work a kind of charm on her.

  The words struck a deep, new chord of resonance in her innermost mind. Victory-luck, triumph . . . if she truly had luck, if she was meant to triumph, then Jorund would fight her and defeat her. And she would have his loving and she would learn the joys and pleasures of her woman’s heart and frame.

  “Fight. It is the only way. Oh, Jorund,” she said with all the longing and desperation in her, “you must fight me . . . and trust that my victory-luck will see us through.”

  FIFTEEN

  ON THE seventh day of Aaren’s self-imposed confinement, the Sky-Traveler threw off his cloud-cloak and smiled brightly, melting the land’s thin garment of snow to a tattered lacework of white. Jorund stepped outside the lodge and greeted the morning with relief, stretching his back and arms . . . and awakening his awareness of his male need, which he had forced into cramped submission for the last several days.

  Today was the day, he had decided. The long hours of solitude, punctuated by brief, tantalizing glimpses of Aaren’s womanliness, had both sharpened his desires and deepened his determination. The scratches and cuts on his hands were completely healed, and now her time was through . . . in more ways than one. No more sparring, no more evasion. He wanted her; she wanted him. And he intended to see that they had each other before another day passed.

  He ducked back into the lodge and set about moving the furs he had given her back to his sleeping shelf. In the process, he uncovered her blade and paused with a fierce glint in his eye. “She won’t be needing you again, Bone-biter.” He seized it and leaned it in the far corner with his own blade, then began to prepare grautr and venison for their morning meal.

  When the food was ready, he went to the bathing hut to fetch her. “A fine morning, Aaren,” he said, smiling his best when her face appeared in the crack of the door opening.

  “So it is,” she answered evenly.

  “It has been six days,” he said, testing the waters.

  “So it has.” Her expression remained carefully neutral.

  He shifted feet and felt his gut tightening. “I have prepared a morning meal.”

  “I have already eaten, thank you,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “And I have yet to bathe. Later, perhaps . . .” She closed the door and he was left staring at the rough cedar planks, embarrassed by his own eagerness.

  He returned to the lodge and ate his meal alone. Then after seeing to the horses, splitting more wood, and checking the snares he had set the evening before, he stalked toward that stolid, forbidding door with a scowl. What in Godfrey’s Hell was taking her so long? He narrowed his eyes and produced a fierce grin, realizing he had the perfect gambit to open the door and coax her out.

  He hurried back up the slope to the bathing house with the elk-horn comb he had spent his every spare moment carving. When she opened the door, he put on his most winning smile and held it out to her.

  “I thought you might need a comb for your hair.” He was gratified by the way her whole countenance softened and her eyes took on a luminous, heartfelt glow as she reached for it.

  “A comb? Jorund, how wonderful of you. And it is beautifully made. I thank you.”

  She clasped it to her breast, then quickly closed the door, leaving him standing there in bewilderment. He stalked back down the hill, his expression and thoughts growing dark as storm clouds. He pacified his more drastic impulses with the thought that he would give her just one more hour to finish . . . then either she was coming out or he was going in!

  AAREN STOOD WITH her back against the door, hugging the comb he had carved with his battered hands and feeling as if her heart were coming completely undone. All morning she had been in turmoil, dreading facing him again, hoping against hope that the separation might have diluted the longing in his eyes or caused her desire for him to wane. But when she had looked into his face just now, it was all still there . . . the desire, the promise, the determination. And she felt an answering swell of tenderness in her chest, which crowded her lungs and sent her heart into an erratic rhythm.

  She made her way on weakened knees to the wooden shelf where she had passed recent nights on the stuffed pallet he had made to comfort her. She sat running her fingers over the smooth, even teeth of the comb. He had whittled away her defenses just as surely as he had cut away those bits of horn. And what had he made her into? Tears welled in her eyes as she answered: a warrior who dreaded the most important battle of her life.

  Some time later—she wasn’t sure how long—there came another round of pounding on the door. It startled her and she thrust to her feet, gazing around her and feeling trapped and panicky. After a pause, the pounding resumed and she heard him calling her name. When she lifted the small bar and opened the door, he planted a shoulder in the planks and exerted pressure, forcing the door back.

  “It’s been seven days for me, too, Aaren,” he declared irritably. “You’ve had the bathing hut to yourself long enough. It’s time for me to bathe, now.”

  She swallowed hard and swung the door wide to admit him, knowing as she did so that she was admitting her fate and future, as well.


  “Of course. I was just finishing my hair,” she said calmly, moving back to the wooden shelf as he entered. She perched on the edge and leaned her head to the side, dragging his comb through her hair several times, feeling his stormy eyes on her.

  Jorund’s woman-starved senses fastened on the sight of those pale fingers of bone sliding through that burnished, erotic softness. The sight ignited the volatile vapors seeping through his blood. He hadn’t counted on just how womanly and desirable she would look or on how the smell of dried flowers, the sweet clover he had used to stuff her pallet, and her own musky-sweet scent would invade his lungs and fill his head. He had honestly planned to bathe . . . later to share a meal and perhaps a walk with her . . . then to take her into his arms by the fire and let the heat between them have its way.

  But suddenly he couldn’t move. His belt and tunic seemed heavy and abrasive against the sensitive skin of his belly and his lips began to burn. He watched her rise and tie on her breastplate and it seemed that her every movement was slowed and magnified in his senses: the deep breath that thrust her taut nipples against her tunic, the slow slide of the molded leather onto her breasts, the twist of her body as she threaded and tightened the laces, the sideways toss of that soft hair when it tumbled in the way. By the time she turned to him, his arms felt empty, his blood drummed urgently in his veins, and his loins felt weighted and hot.

  “Is something wrong?” Her gaze dropped to avoid his and her heartbeat quickened. When he stepped closer, looming above her, she fought the urge to run. The silence heated between them. She understood: He knew, as she did, that their time had come.

  “I need your help,” he murmured, raising his hands and holding them as if they were still injured, “with my garments.” She lifted a turbulent look to him.

  “Your hands are well enough to wield a carving knife . . . you do not need me to remove your garments again.”

  “But I do, Long-legs.” His voice softened and came as smooth as honey. “I have never needed anything more.” Her breath caught in her throat and as she struggled to free it, he added the persuasion of his fingers feathering along her cheek. She closed her eyes, feeling that touch gliding across her very heart. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

  “I . . . I don’t want to touch you,” she whispered, knowing it was half truth, half lie.

  “Yes, you do, Long-legs,” he countered with compelling certainty. “And it is useless to deny it. Help me.”

  It was useless to deny . . . and impossible to resist. Perhaps it was weakness, she thought. Or perhaps it was fate.

  Every nerve in her body tingled when she touched the bronze buckle of his belt. The heat of his body had invaded that bit of metal and the leather that girded his waist felt hot and supple in her hands as she unhooked it and drew it slowly from his body. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she dropped it on the wooden shelf and paused, preparing herself. Then, with trembling hands, she seized the bottom of his tunic and pulled it up and over his head. She stumbled back a step and stood, frozen, as he closed the door and added another log to the stone oven.

  “Come, help me wash,” Jorund said softly, lowering himself to the edge of the shelf.

  She hesitated, studying him, and her eyes flicked nervously toward the door again. The need for him whispered in her blood—irresistible, inevitable—as she struggled to find solid mental footing, balancing precariously between determination and desire. She let out a ragged sigh and her rigid posture softened. It was no good trying to escape again; their problems would still be there and as difficult to solve. She dipped a pail of water and carried it to him, pausing, still uncertain. He smiled and reached for her, drawing her between his knees.

  “You’ve mended well,” she said in a soft, thick voice, wetting a small square of cloth and dragging it gently over his features. Her fingers left the cloth to trace a muted red line that began at the edge of his jaw and spilled down his neck and onto his shoulder. “Your scratches are completely grown over.” The sultry combination of tone and touch sent desire boiling up in him, hot and sweet and potent.

  “So they are,” he said, running his eyes over her breastplate, her shoulders, and her face, poised just above his. “But they still itch like Old Loki’s nose. Soothe them for me, Long-legs.” He reached for her hand and pressed her fingertips to his lips.

  His silken persuasion swirled through her will like the haze of warmth and wood smoke curled through her senses. She raked her fingernails gently over the marks on his shoulders and down the streaks on his chest. Somewhere in that intimate service, her desires slipped past her control and her fingers continued down where no injury had occurred . . . over his nipples, then downward still, ruffling the golden hair that trickled down the middle of his chest and belly. His stomach muscles contracted, then his whole body flexed like a supple birch bow.

  “Is that better?”

  “Ummm.” His hands came up to clasp her waist and their warmth unleashed a towering need in her. She lowered her head and pressed her lips against his new scars, wanting to banish them and the pain that had caused them, to replace them with pleasure. Then her mouth slid down the side of his neck and came to rest in the hollow of his throat, against his pounding heartbeat . . . kissing him, tasting him.

  Her impulse ignited the last bit of his restraint and his arms flew up to drag her hard against him. He lifted her chin and captured her mouth hungrily, wrenching from her a small, pleasure-filled groan. And her arms lapped around his neck as she leaned into him and gave herself up to his male strength.

  Their mouths merged and slanted, each seeking and exploring the sleek inner contours of the other. Her head tilted and her body melted against his, molded by his engulfing heat and aching to absorb his tantalizing hardness, to have him fill that tightening hollow within her.

  She felt herself slipping, surrendering . . . and tried desperately to hold back her reason while giving all of her response. He rolled back onto the wide shelf, carrying her on top of him, spreading her long, lithe body over him like a blanket while her unbound hair fell around his face like a curtain, closing out all other reality.

  Deeper and deeper his kisses took her, with slow, swirling motions of his tongue . . . hard and devouring one instant, soft and toying the next. Then his hands began to move over her shoulders, down her armored back, and onto her taut buttocks . . . massaging, caressing. He cupped her buttocks and shifted her higher on him so that she felt the ridge of his flesh riding against her tingling womanflesh. The next instant, his hands slid down the backs of her thighs and pulled them to his sides, opening her inner softness, settling it against his hot, unyielding flesh-spear.

  The shock of that new intimacy jolted her and she floundered, grappling for some foothold in reason. She wanted him . . . wanted this pleasure. It was so sweet, so close . . . But the conflict that had fermented in her heart these last days now boiled up inside her, searing and twice-potent for having been suppressed.

  This pleasure was not without price . . . and the price was her honor, her courage, and her hard-won sense of worth. She had to remember; this burning in her heart, this fire in her veins would consume her—and him, as well—if it were allowed to rage on.

  He moved, thrusting slowly and gently against her tender center, devastating her senses and coaxing an answering motion in her hips. She arched and strained, uttering a deep, resonant sound that was half pleasure, half anguish.

  He heard both the eagerness and the fear in her cry, but his passion-steeped wits were slow to understand their full meaning. He roused to take her face between his hands and gaze into her luminous eyes. “Aaren, love, don’t be afraid . . . I won’t hurt you . . . I’ll never hurt you.” He joined their mouths again, and his hands slid to the sides of her breastplate and began to work the leather ties free.

  Afraid . . . don’t be afraid—drummed in her heart. Fight . . . you must fight—echoed in her mind. The dissonance between them grew, becoming like a battle-roar in her head, in
her very blood. And suddenly she could not bear it—the wanting, the fear, the division in her deepest, most vital longings.

  She grabbed his hand and held it still as she pushed up onto her arm and stared down at him. Then with one swift, excruciating movement, she peeled her damp body from his and slid to the floor on her feet. Before he could draw a shocked breath to call her name, she had thrown the door back and darted outside. As she ran for the lodge, the pain in her innermost heart spilled out through her eyes. She felt her way through the door and wiped at tears to see to her sleeping shelf.

  Both her furs and her blade were gone and she whirled, frantic. She spotted the furs on Jorund’s shelf and turned toward the corner. There they were . . . a stark omen she now understood: her blade and Jorund’s resting together, leaning against the wall, waiting. She snatched them up and ducked back outside.

  Three strides brought her face-to-face with Jorund. He had run from the bathing house and now stood barring her way, bare-chested and trembling. His great arms were bulging, and his hands were clenched. The moisture and heat rolling from his huge body made it seem that he steamed in the cold air. And when he saw her standing there with a sword in each hand, his eyes went molten.

  “What in Godfrey’s Hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Put those cursed things down!” She hesitated for one moment, then complied, tossing his sword at his feet and unsheathing her blade in a single practiced stroke, slinging the scabbard aside.

  “I’m doing what I must. Do you want me, Jorund?” she demanded past the tears clogging her throat.

  “Curse you, Aaren—you know that I do!” he roared, understanding now the strange tenor of desperation in her lovemaking. His whole frame began to quake.

  “Then fight for me!” she cried. “I cannot surrender to you, Jorund, without it. I have lived too long as a warrior, I cannot just turn my back on the code I have spent my life learning and upholding. I could not face your father or your people ever again—I would have no place among them if I did not honor and defend my enchantment. It is as sacred to me as your way is to you.” He roared a groan, shaking an impotent fist at the sky, then leveled a look of anguished fury on her.