The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  He had hungrily watched her every movement, his fears for her recovery subsiding more with each small evidence of her resilience. As he absorbed the darting of her tongue and the way she sucked the tip of each finger, he felt a familiar drawing in his loins. And when she slid her gaze from her breast straight into his eyes, he felt a spontaneous wave of heat rushing through his blood.

  That instinctively lusty reaction appalled him and he buried his nose in his dwindling bowl of food. After a few moments, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye and found that she was still staring at him.

  “You defeated me, Jorund,” she said quietly. There was a deep undercurrent of feeling in her voice.

  “I wounded you, Aaren,” he corrected, with a darkening scowl. He set his bowl aside and picked up a piece of wood to nudge the stone crock away from the coals.

  “So you did,” she said, discerning the reason for his pensive mood. He felt a burden of guilt for having injured her. She tried to lighten it. “But not before I wounded you.” He reacted as if her blade had just bitten him again.

  “Dammit, Aaren—no more of this warrior nonsense!” He pushed up from the hearth, shifted his weight irritably, and ran his hands through his hair. “I could have broken your shoulder or hacked your arm off—or worse.”

  “But you didn’t break my bones, Jorund.” She flashed a beaming smile and spoke those all-important words: “You broke my enchantment instead.”

  “Enchantment?” He stiffened, reacting to that one word, not to the suggestion embedded in it. “I don’t want to hear another word about that wretched curse. It’s caused nothing but—” He bit off the rest of what he was about to say and turned away, struggling to contain himself. A moment later he announced, “I’m going to bathe,” and seized a glowing brand from the fire, started for the door. He turned back briefly before striding out into the frozen night. “And you . . . Get yourself into those furs and rest.”

  The cold draft from the slamming door and the impact of his abrupt withdrawal struck her in the same moment. She sat, stunned. What was the matter with him? Surely he understood what ending her enchantment meant. They could be together . . . they could . . .

  She shivered and wrapped her arms around her waist, wriggling closer to the coals. His reaction to their fight went deeper than she realized. His dread fear of raging out of control and hurting her had made fighting her an ordeal for him. And to have wounded her, then tended her and worried over her, had deepened his remorse.

  It was too late to do anything about what had already happened, but she could certainly comfort him now. She cast a speculative look toward the door and her face lit as she remembered his parting order. Get yourself into those furs. She eyed the warm, soft pallet, recalling his earlier promise . . . something about her bare buttocks and his warm, silky furs.

  And for once, she obeyed.

  By the time Jorund returned to the lodge, the coals were dying and Aaren was half asleep. She roused at the sight of him, sliding to the far side of the furs to make room for him beside her. Her heart was pounding, and she felt jittery and shivery inside. She held her breath in anticipation, admiring his handsome frame and his easy, graceful movements in the dim light. He stirred the coals and put more wood on the fire . . . then sat down on the stone ledge, leaned back against the wall, and folded his arms over his chest. She frowned. After a pride-battle with herself, she finally pushed up on one arm and spoke.

  “Aren’t you coming to sleep?” Her voice startled him and he jerked straight, locating her in the furs.

  “Nej, I have slept enough.” His voice was ragged. “Go to sleep.”

  He sat back, refolded his arms, and stared at the fire. His troubled mood sent an intense heart-longing through her.

  Years ago, in their mountain home, she had held her little sisters in her arms and stroked their hair to comfort them. She recalled that day in the meadow with the other children; it had worked for them, too. But Jorund was a grown man, a warrior, and she wasn’t sure if a woman should do that to a man . . . if Jorund would allow her to do it. She sank back into the furs, grateful that the darkness hid her confusion and the mist forming in her eyes. Comforting was women’s work. If only she were more of a woman, he had once said to her. Now she said it to herself.

  In the quiet darkness, that longing to love and comfort became a wish and the wish became a powerful force moving within her heart. And the walls that had contained and shielded her softer self came crumbling down before it. What good was her strength without her softness? What good were the hard virtues of power and honor . . . without the softer gifts of wisdom and compassion to guide them?

  She had struggled valiantly to safeguard her inner softness, the woman-heart of her, against the harshness of the world and the role into which she had been thrust. Now it rose up against that well-meaning restraint, refusing to be suppressed any longer . . . demanding a rightful share of her heart and mind, whatever the consequences . . . demanding she use her vaunted warrior’s courage in the service of her heart . . . to risk being tender. Jorund needed her softness. He needed her to be a woman tonight.

  “By the Norns . . . I cannot sleep either,” she said thickly, throwing the furs back and sliding to the floor. “Not with you making so much noise.” He looked up in surprise, then frowned.

  “I did not make a sound,” he protested, sitting straighter, uncrossing his arms. Then he noticed the moisture in her eyes and froze.

  “But you did,” she declared, pinning him with her gaze. “I could hear your heart-groanings all the way across the lodge. You are sitting there feeling miserable for fighting and giving me a nick with your blade. You cannot deny it.” The mist in her eyes became deep, glittering prisms of liquid.

  “Aaren . . . I don’t want . . . to . . .” He floundered, staring at her glowing face.

  “Don’t want to what? Think of it? Speak of it? Neither do I.” Her voice softened to match her gaze. “I will bury it, Jorund . . . if you will.”

  For a long, tense moment neither spoke. She stepped closer, her movements supple and womanly.

  “Will you, Jorund? Will you accept that I hold nothing against you . . . and then hold nothing against yourself?” Her heart ached at the way he, who had forgiven her so many times, had so much difficulty forgiving himself.

  “I swore to myself—I even promised you—that I would never hurt you,” he said. “Then I fought and the madness came on me . . .”

  “It was not much hurt, Jorund,” she said, reaching the edge of the hearth beside him. “No more than I dealt you and less than the pain you have dealt yourself since. A little discomfort is a small price to pay for honor and duty, and for the pleasure yet to come.” She summoned the courage to place her hands on his shoulders and caress them. A shiver went through him. “Do not make your heart pay wergeld for a slaying that never happened.”

  “Do you honestly not recall what it was like?” His voice and countenance were pained. “I might have killed you. . . . I might have lost you forever. . . .”

  “I remember it all. But I especially remember that as we fought I was never afraid. Not even when the battle-fury came upon you. You see, I trusted your heart-weapon, your love, to protect me. And it did.” She swallowed hard and slid her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, hoping he would accept the comfort of her embrace. Then she risked all, pouring her melted heart from her eyes into his.

  “Now . . . trust the love in my heart to comfort and heal the hurt in you. For I do love you, Jorund. With everything in me.” And she held her breath.

  “Aaren—” Jorund’s arms flew around her waist and he buried his face against her breast, hugging her with all his might. “Aaren, oh, Aaren . . .”

  Then he looked up at her and grinned. “You love me!” Bounding up with her in his arms, he whirled her around before he remembered her injury and stopped instantly, setting her back on her feet. “Are you all right? Did I hurt anything?” She shook her head, then squeezed her eyes shut, dis
lodging the tears down her face. They stood in the flame-glow, holding each other, letting their love fill the silence as it filled their hearts.

  “Say it again,” he demanded in a thick voice against her hair.

  “What part?” she said, laughing, guessing what he wanted and feeling suddenly buoyant and victorious.

  “Say it,” he commanded, squeezing her waist and lifting his face to her, his eyes shining. “Say it again . . . then kiss me.”

  “Are those the terms of my surrender? Heavy tribute, I say.”

  “Sweet tribute,” he countered, and she could not argue. “Say it again.”

  “I love you,” she said softly.

  He closed his eyes, savoring those words, letting them wash through his body and soul. When his eyes reopened, a new light burned in their depths. She wiped the wetness from her face and grinned, too.

  “Now kiss me,” he demanded in a rougher, deeper tone. Those stark, male vibrations set the tips of her breasts tingling. A new tension was suddenly rising between them . . . a hot, sweet excitement. His hands slid down the curves of her hips, claiming them and all the treasures enclosed within their bounds.

  “I doubt you made such demands of the other warriors you’ve defeated,” she said, feeling a delicious liquid heat invading her body wherever he touched her.

  “None of them had lips like yours, or breasts like yours.” He nuzzled her. “Kiss me.”

  “But we haven’t finished discussing the terms of surrender,” she insisted, raising her chin. She liked the huskiness of his voice, the thick, sensual undertone of his command, and the excitement it stirred in her blood. “I have a few demands of my own.”

  “‘Demands’?”

  “My shoulder,” she said, lifting her arm and grimacing as dramatically as possible. “You can clearly see . . . I will be unable to tend the hearth for quite a while.” A mischievous glow entered her expression as she conjured additional possibilities. “And no hunting or trapping or skinning. No carrying water. And chopping wood is much too difficult . . . I may not be able to swing an axe until spring. That means you will have to do the hunting and cooking and tanning and fire-making . . .”

  “Anything else, my greedy little captive?” He pulled her closer, staring at her mouth, anticipating the pleasures of sealing her surrender with something vastly more pleasurable than a handclasp.

  “A bath,” she said, slipping from his hands and eluding his attempt to retrieve her. She darted for the door and he sprang after her, slamming the half-opened door shut and trapping her against it with an arm on either side of her.

  “You demand a bath?” he said, lowering his head, crowding her with his heat. “At this hour?” She nodded, sweeping him with a long, sensual challenge of a look.

  “I’m not the least bit sleepy, Jorund. And I demand that you come along. To help.”

  She ducked under his arm. He followed her out and up the slope to the bathing hut.

  Moments later, she perched on the edge of the wide wooden shelf, watching as Jorund stoked the oven until the rocks heated and the bathing house grew warm. When he got to his feet and turned, she reached out with one long leg and kicked the door shut. There was a wry, tempting curl at one corner of her mouth, and her eyes glowed like liquid amber.

  “I need more of your help. I need you to remove my garments.” Her requirement, issued with a smile and carried on a husky purr, was a pure invitation to pleasure.

  “You can start with my boots,” she said, arching one long leg onto the low shelf and waving her knee ever so slightly—and suggestively—from side to side.

  He ambled forward, watching that knee, then glancing at the luminous, dark centers of her eyes. She was playing a game, he understood, kneeling by her upraised leg and working the laces of her boot. And he loved games . . . especially ones he was fated to win. As he worked, his eyes traveled up the shapely arch of her braced leg, lingered on the tantalizing wrinkles in the deerskin at the other end of that leg. His skin heated as he slowly peeled back the worn leather of her buskin and slipped it from her foot.

  “My leggings, too,” she coaxed, flexing her foot sinuously in his grip.

  The small bathing chamber filled with a tension as palpable as the light haze of smoke produced by the fire. She could both see and feel the effect she was having on him; his big, square fingers trembled as they made contact with her skin and a sheen of moisture appeared on his face. The tips of her breasts and her woman’s core tightened, responding to his arousal and to her own newfound sensual power. Over and over his words had invaded her body, and now she experimented with words of her own, discovering how it felt to compel such longing in another.

  “What is it about my legs that you find pleasing, Jorund?” She raised her bare legs one at a time, turning them to offer him a critical view of each side. “Their length? Their shape? Their hardness? Or is it just the thought of having them wrapped around your body that appeals to you?”

  Ohhh, she had struck a spark with that one, she realized, as a flame flared in the depths of his eyes. A trill of response raced through her shoulders.

  “You said . . . you could teach my arms and legs sweeter duties . . .” His lips parted and his chest rose and fell harder. She leaned back on her arms, luxuriating in the pull of wanting between them. “Now my breeches.”

  He slid closer, still kneeling beside the shelf, a willing participant in her exploration of sensual power. His hands trembled as he untied her breeches and peeled them down over her sleek, curvy buttocks. She lifted her bottom slowly to let them pass and sat up, bent her naked legs, then slid them over the edge of the bench, on either side of his big, heated body.

  “Now my tunic. Take it off.” She followed his burning gaze to her thighs, which were spread erotically before him, pale skin framing a dark wedge of shadows pointing to the liquid heat smoldering at the base of her belly. He grasped the ripped shoulder of her garment and eased it over her injured arm and her head.

  She sat before him, naked except for her wound dressing. His eyes became hot, simmering pools, his tunic clung to his damp body, and she could feel his tension through her knees, against his sides. But still he made no move to claim her.

  “My breasts . . . you said you like how soft they are,” she whispered, sliding her fingers across one full, rounded globe, cupping it briefly and lifting, as if offering it to him. She released it to rub her fingertips over the tightly contracted tip. “But part of them isn’t soft just now. Do you like their hard parts, as well?”

  Her sultry eyes allowed no evasion, demanded an answer. His hands rose and hovered. When they closed hotly over her breasts, a wild shower of sensation cascaded through her body and she gasped.

  “I love both their soft swell and their hard tips, Long-legs,” he whispered thickly, dipping his head to kiss one taut nipple, then to swirl it with his tongue. He suckled that peak, then paused, watching her sleek body undulate helplessly with pleasure and longing. “Such breasts. Like the rest of you . . . so hard . . . so soft.”

  “Oh, Jorund,” she said, feeling rivulets of liquid fire running along her nerves. Somewhere in the play of words and desires he had usurped her game and turned it against her. Her head dropped back and she arched into his hands, her whole body aching for his touch, for the half-remembered weight and feel of him. Unable to bear the yearning much longer, she lifted her arms, sank her fingers into his silky hair, and pulled him nose-to-nose with her.

  “The enchantment is broken,” she said forcefully. “But you must wield your blade against me one more time, Warrior-heart.” When his muscles stiffened, she reminded him with a triumphant smile: “To make good your vow to mate Odin’s she-wolf.”

  The challenge rang in his very blood. He grinned and slid his arms around her, reeling her hard against his body, devouring her lush mouth with his eyes as he savored the anticipation of tasting it.

  “I know which blade you want, She-wolf. Be warned—from this day on, it is the only one I will ever wi
eld against you. Now, wrap your long, dangerous legs around me . . . and prepare to reap the rewards of defeat.”

  Moving them back onto the bench, he spread himself over her body like a great bear skin. She wrapped her legs around his, welcoming him into the cradle of her thighs, and she laughed, knowing the victory was all hers.

  “Now,” she said huskily. “I surrender.”

  He plunged into her kiss, demanding and claiming her softer recesses, then gentling to explore and relish the territory he had conquered. Their kisses gradually lightened and became a varied feast of sensation—playful toying one instant, deep stirring penetration the next. Heat rose precipitously between and around them and he pushed up, sliding onto his knees between her legs. When she made a groan of disappointment, he laughed.

  “I’m roasting in these clothes. And I want to feel my bare skin against yours.”

  But when his tunic and boots and breeches were shed, and he knelt between her legs again, he did not move immediately to fill her outstretched arms. Instead, he surveyed her body with exquisite leisure, running his eyes up her parted legs, then up her flat belly and curving waist to the full, dark-tipped mounds of her breasts.

  She lay in a tangle of burnished hair, blushed with heat, dark-eyed with desire. Her lips were parted and reddened from his attention, and her body was covered with a light sheen of moisture that made her glow golden in the dim light. She was passion incarnate . . . the lush, receptive goddess of a warrior’s dreams.

  “I want to learn you, Long-legs. Every part of you. I want to know you with every part of me.” His fingers started at her ankles, tracing her form, reaching beneath the sleek exterior for the firm muscles beneath—massaging, caressing, stimulating every bit of her he could reach. And his mouth followed where his hands led. He tongued and kissed the curves of her calves, the bends of her knees, and the silky skin of her inner thighs. She started when she realized where he was headed and tried to prevent him, but he simply laughed and nuzzled the soft furring of her woman’s mound, then continued up her belly, her waist, to her breasts.