The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  “I do like the sight of your long legs.” He grinned, dragging his gaze down her.

  “And I’ll ride out with the warriors to hunt. And I’ll drink with the warriors in the hall.”

  “As long as you don’t take it into your head to sleep with them in the hall, as well,” he said, laughing. She was behaving a little wine-happy and he savored watching her spirits rising again. Then she paused for a heart-stealing moment, her gratitude and love shining in her face. Then he noted a subtle shift in the lights of her eyes.

  “But, Jorund, I don’t know about wearing these kirtles.” She looked down at herself, running her hands over her breasts. “I am accustomed to sturdy breeches and a good, hard breastplate. . . . I feel all naked underneath.” She raised her head and swept him with a long, flirtatious look as she swayed closer. “Don’t I feel naked underneath?” She nudged his hand with her hip and he laughed and picked her up, bearing her back onto the furs.

  She sighed, luxuriating in the width of his shoulders and the weight of him against her breasts as he rolled her onto her back. His free hand gathered up her new kirtle and slid beneath, across the bare skin of her thigh and up the crest of her hip.

  “Ummm, you feel wonderful underneath,” he whispered into her ear as he nuzzled and kissed her.

  She shifted slightly, twisting so that his hand slid onto her woman’s mound and her hip rubbed seductively against his hardening flesh. When he raised his head to look at her, her eyes twinkled.

  “You can make me feel even better.”

  THAT NIGHT, IN front of the great hearth and the entire village, Jorund and Aaren spoke the vows of binding, pledging their love and support to each other with the words Brother Godfrey suggested. Borger interrupted twice, demanding to know if that “till death” part was strictly necessary, and later, demanding to know what sort of magic Godfrey was dispensing with all the hand-waving and sign-making he was doing.

  “I am entreating the Master’s blessings,” Godfrey answered tersely, turning back to the nuptial pair.

  “Well, I already gave them my blessing,” Borger declared. “Now get on with it.”

  Godfrey turned to the high seat with a long-suffering look. “I meant our heavenly Master’s blessings.” He poked a pudgy finger skyward. Borger scowled as a wave of titters went through the hall.

  “Well, while you’re at it, tell him to send a whole quiverful of sons.” He turned a surly look around the hall at the numerous faces resembling his own. “A jarl cannot have too many sons.”

  Godfrey bristled, but, not wishing to anger the jarl any more than necessary, did as he was bade. Promises given, arm-rings exchanged, property bestowed, and a quiverful of sons dutifully requested . . . they were declared husband and wife. Jorund and Aaren knelt while the teary-eyed priest blessed their union in the name of his god and his god’s son, and some other, ghostly, party. Then it was over and Jorund seized Aaren, whirled her around in his arms, and kissed her senseless.

  Miri and Marta were standing by with a silver bowl of wine for Aaren and Jorund to drink . . . and when they had downed it all, a great shout went up from the people and the feasting began. The newly wedded pair wobbled to the table at the right hand of the high seat, which was spread with a linen cloth and draped with fresh-cut pine boughs.

  They ate and talked and jested with Garth and Erik and Miri and Marta, who had been relieved of their serving duties in honor of their sister’s celebration. When their meal was finished, they enjoyed the various contests of leg-wrestling, hand-walking, and knife-throwing. When the full wrestling began, Helga appeared with a number of women bearing harps, drums, and pan pipes, and after a shaky start, music floated out over the chaotic merriment. Borger glowered at his old-wife, but Helga stood her ground. After a while, even Borger was grudgingly smacking his thigh in time with the music . . . between calling out dire threats and lucrative rewards to those who wrestled on the floor before him.

  The strong drink quickly took its toll on heads used to weaker ales . . . including Aaren’s. She leaned into Jorund with a mead-warmed smile and a wicked twinkle in her eye.

  “Perhaps we should agree to wrestle a match.” Her voice lowered to a provocative purr. “We could show everyone that special hold . . . where you pin me on my back . . . and wedge yourself tightly between my thighs . . .”

  Sexual lightning shot along his nerves and struck his loins, igniting his desires. He shoved up from the table and pulled Aaren to her feet. Before she had time to ask what he intended, he made it clear to all . . . by stooping and hauling her onto his shoulder, then striding for his sleeping closet.

  All watched in lusty fascination as he paused to snag the grease bucket in one hand and carried his laughing, protesting bride straight to his furs.

  When they were gone, Miri felt Garth’s eyes hot upon her and blushed, rising to carry a stack of bowls back to the small hearth. She did not see him follow her, thus was surprised when he caught her in the stone passage between the hall and the hearth and pulled her out the side door into the night. Pressing her against the wall, he trapped her small moan with a hungry kiss. She wound her arms about him, absorbing his heady passion until she grew dizzy and her knees lost their strength.

  He pulled her sagging form against him and slid his hands possessively up and down her back . . . then onto her buttocks. Cupping his hands, he lifted her against his swollen desire and groaned, rubbing his aching ridge against her ardently. She shivered and her tongue darted into his mouth, exploring her new power to excite him and to revel in the pleasures of her woman’s body. They kissed and caressed and rubbed against each other until the wanting was unbearable.

  “By the gods, you are the sweetest thing I have ever tasted,” he said hoarsely. He set her on her feet, groaning as her softness slid against his hardened flesh. Running quaking hands up her sides and beneath her kirtle, he cupped her lush breasts and teased their hard tips through her soft linen tunic. She shivered against his hands. “Now, Miri. The enchantment is broken and I cannot wait any longer.”

  “But Garth . . . the jarl’s ban. He has not yet lifted it,” she said, covering his hands with hers to still them and lifting her passion-darkened eyes to him.

  “He will. It is only a matter of days, hours. He never says me nej. And he has not once objected to my claiming you.” He smiled fiercely and kissed her. But this time there was no responsiveness in her mouth.

  “But, Garth . . .” She swallowed hard. “Aaren fought hard to defend our honor. Would I be worthy of that honor if I defied the jarl’s decree to go to the furs with you before he releases me? I want to take pride in being your woman. Can you understand?”

  “‘Honor’? But what has honor got to—” He glimpsed reproach in her dented brow.

  “Please, Garth. Can we not wait a day or two more?”

  He expelled a deep, shuddering breath. Honor. For some reason, when she said it, he felt a sinking in his stomach. Before Miri, he’d never counted honor a consideration in dealing with women and pleasure. But it had become a matter of honor with him never to hurt Miri, or even disappoint her. As much as he wanted her body, he’d come to recognize he also wanted her admiration, her tenderness, and the sweet outpourings of her heart. He thought for a moment of the little house he had started to build at the edge of the village, with its handsome upraised hearth and its cozy sleeping closet. It could be finished soon. He had planned it for her and her children. He felt the passion-heat in him subsiding.

  “Very well, then. Tomorrow . . . I will speak to my father tomorrow. And if he doesn’t release you,” he declared with a fierce grin, pressing his forehead to hers, “I’ll steal you. I swear I will. And I’ll pay fines for you. I have silver of my own.” She laughed softly and stroked his face, then offered him her mouth for a long, sweet kiss.

  THE TORCHES IN the long hall were sputtering their last, deepening the shadows over those sleeping on straw-strewn benches around the hearth and walls. Marta slipped through the door, as sh
e so often did late at night, and paused, making sure no one was awake to see her. She hurried to Leif’s corner, sank onto her knees beside him, and slid into his embrace.

  There was an unusual intensity in the way she held him, and when he set her back to search her face, he saw that she wore a desperate, poignant smile.

  “Did you see her? Did you hear?” she whispered. “Jorund fought Aaren and he won. And this evening—”

  “They were wedded,” he supplied, nodding. “I saw. Jorund is a fair man . . . one of the few in Borger’s hall. And it is rumored, even in my village, that he has much woman-luck and word-skill.” He smiled wryly. “Your sister will enjoy that, I suppose.”

  “She is very pleased to be his wife. And very pleased to have upheld—” She bit off the rest, looking down, and slumped to sit back on her heels. When he coaxed her chin up, her eyes were moist. “The enchantment is broken, Leif.”

  “Surely a cause for rejoicing, my little Marta. Not for tears.” He wiped her cheek with his fingertips. “You are free now.” The words struck a quiver in his heart and he looked down at his manacled hands. She was free . . . and he was not. He sat back on his heels, as well.

  “Little enough cause for joy, Leif. It means the jarl is also free to give me to a warrior as wife. And I have heard that he plans”—she could scarcely get the words past the constriction in her throat—“to give me to Brun Cinder-hand.”

  Leif’s eyes closed. There came a fierce, crushing sensation in his chest as he thought of Marta in another man’s furs, another man’s arms. Worse . . . he knew there would be nothing he could do to stop it. Even if he weren’t a captive and had all the silver in the world, Old Red Beard would probably still deny his request for her out of hatred for his father, Gunnar.

  “Leif,” she said with tears in her voice, “I don’t want Brun. I don’t want any man . . .” When he opened his eyes to look at her, she added, “Except you.”

  “Marta, I cannot bear to see you cry.” He took her hand and led her over to the wall. He sat down and leaned against it, drawing her onto his lap and wrapping her tightly in his arms. “I want you, Little Morsel, down to the very marrow of my bones. And if I were free, I would find a way to have you.”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she rested against his hard warmth. “If you were free . . . would you ask for me? Would you try to wed me?”

  “I would,” he said thickly. “I would take you to my village . . . to my father’s hall. You would like my father’s hall, Little One. It is not so large as Borger’s, but it is very handsome, with many carvings and half-wooden floors and snug sleeping closets.” An odd tenor of home-longing crept into his voice. “I have my own chamber, and my younger brothers and sisters sleep in three others, and there is the one for my father and mother.” He paused, wondering if he would ever see it again.

  “Would you take me in the Christian way?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “You women . . . you will share everything with one another but a man.” He chuckled, but briefly, then sobered. “Yea, I would forsake others to have you to wife, Little Marta. You are beyond precious to me.”

  “And you to me,” she said, stroking his chin. “I cannot bear to think that someday you might meet Aaren on a battlefield,” she whispered. “And you might wound her . . . or she might wound you . . .”

  Leif stared at her, glimpsing the cruel effects of the long-standing feud on her brave but tender heart. She loved her sister and she loved him. Yet, once he was ransomed, there was a good chance that he and the battle-maiden would indeed meet on a battlefield. With awful insight, he realized that for the first time in his life he dreaded meeting an enemy . . . and that it had nothing at all to do with cowardice.

  “Why does there have to be so much fighting? Why can we not make peace . . . and live and trade and marry together?”

  “There will never be peace as long as Red Beard is jarl here,” Leif said thickly. “He is a greedy and treacherous old boar with an unholy thirst for the dew of wounds.”

  Marta’s eyes closed and she clasped him desperately, sealing away those bleak thoughts of the future to treasure the present with him.

  “I almost forgot . . .” She sat up and fished around in her kirtle for a small leather pouch. She pulled out a small, flat tablet weaving, made with rich blue yarns interwoven with finer, golden strands. Pressing it into his hands, she murmured, “I brought you this. I made it myself.” The tenderness in his handsome features as he stroked it made her heart contract. She would never feel that touch on her body, would never know the sweetness of his loving. “The gold is my hair. I made it for you to remember me . . .” Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “I . . . I would never forget you, Marta. Not in a thousand lifetimes.”

  “Oh, Leif!” She threw her arms about his neck. “Take me . . . here . . . now,” she whispered. And before he could speak, she pressed her lips to his and leaned her soft young body against his stark leanness.

  He had no power to resist, returning her kiss deeply, softly . . . losing all awareness of time and place as he explored her shape through her clothes. But even as his passion for her rose and he thought desperately of ways they could conceal themselves and protect her from discovery . . . he knew he could not take her there, on his captive’s pallet, with shackles on his limbs. She deserved better. The conflict between his care for her and his desires boiled up hot and potent in him.

  He dragged his mouth from hers and set her back, his expression dark and turbulent. “Nej, Marta. I cannot do that to you,” he said in a whisper so filled with anguish that it might have come from her own heart. She sat on his lap, trying so hard to be brave. It was too much for his beleaguered heart to bear. He pulled her to him again, and as she clamped her arms around his waist, he pressed his cheek against the top of her head.

  “There has to be a way, Marta. And I swear I’ll find it. The ransom is due soon . . . any day. Hold on . . . delay . . . kick and scream . . . hide, if you must. You must not let them force you to marry before I can come for you.” He crushed her tightly to him. “Promise me.”

  “I promise you, Leif. I promise.”

  And in their kiss mingled the sweet taste of love and the bitterness of tears.

  NINETEEN

  AAREN AWAKENED early the next morning with Jorund’s head on her shoulder and her arms around him. For a long time, she lay perfectly still, holding him, watching him. It was a particularly womanly pleasure, watching over the sleep of another . . . tenderly guarding him from wakefulness and thus from all the harms that lurked in wakeful hours. In dreams all was safe . . . all was possible . . . wealth beyond measure, joy without end, and pleasure without limit . . . even peace in the hearts of men.

  In those quiet moments, she understood that it was her destiny to be at his side, guarding his dreams . . . including the one of making a better lifeway for his people. She had always thought of her strength in warrior’s terms: as a god-gift ordained for fighting. Now she saw, as Jorund apparently had, that her strength had other dimensions: It would continue to shape her life and the lives of those around her. Including Jorund’s.

  When she could not lie still a moment longer, she gently rolled Jorund onto his side and slid from the furs, gasping silently at the impact of the cold air on her naked body. She sorted through the pile of silk and linen on the floor and held up her new garments, trying to recall how the ells of fabric wrapped and pinned.

  “Don’t bother putting it on again,” came Jorund’s sleep-weighted voice from behind her. Her heart skipped at the sight of him leaning on one elbow, looking irresistibly tousled and newly wakened . . . his eyes filled with morning hunger. “Come back to the furs, Long-legs.” He dragged a ravenous look down her naked side. “Come feed the he-wolf in me.”

  The raw desire in his words raked her like silky claws, setting her most intimate nerves vibrating, bringing her unexpectedly to the taut edge of arousal. Yesterday and again last night, he had been a generous and tend
er lover . . . the Breath-stealer, the Slow-hand, the Gentle-rider. But this morning, sated with gentler pleasures, he was hungry for more volatile ones . . . the kind to satisfy the Stallion-back, the Blade-wielder, the He-wolf. This morning he didn’t ask, he demanded. She clasped the silk to her bare body and leveled a defiant look on him.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “It is not wise to ignore a hungry wolf.”

  “Is it not?”

  “Have you not heard it said . . . hungry wolves take big bites?” He sat up slowly, bracing on a thickly muscled arm. An aura of latent but explosive power saturated every line of his body, each nuance of his movement.

  Big bites. The words sent a frisson of excitement through her, setting the tips of her breasts drawing tight. He liked being wolf-bit. Would she? And just what would it take to make him use his fangs on her?

  She wetted her lips and turned, giving him her back and peering at him over her shoulder. He loved the sight and the feel of her buttocks, her long legs, and the curve of her back, she knew. Now she displayed them for him, spreading her legs, swaying her hips slowly from side to side, then stooping as if to pick up something that had fallen . . . and rising, ever so slowly so that her thighs and calves flexed, her buttocks tightened, and her spine curved.

  She felt more than heard his movement as he sprang. A rush of exquisite heat engulfed her just before his arms did, and she came to exultant life as his great arms lashed around her. He hoisted her off her feet and dragged her—writhing and squirming—to the pallet, toppling with her into the still-warm marten, fox, and sable. With lightning quickness, he pinned her on her back, and his naked body bore down on hers with elemental force.

  Only her legs were free and she unleashed their sleek, sensuous power as he focused his weight against her belly. She raised them on either side of his hips and lifted him with her body, again and again, rolling, trying to dislodge him. Her thrusts grew wilder and more provocative, a seething parody of mating that challenged him to counter with his fierce male strength, to tame and take her if he could.