by Gina Conkle
“Who are you?” He sped across the room and yanked the shutters wide open. “Where is Safira?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Moonlight poured over a naked woman, holding a sheet to her breasts. Ice-blond hair shot with curls spilled thick around her shoulders.
“I am Lady Brynhild of Fecamp. Your future wife.”
His feet rooted to the floor. Lady Brynhild was a prize for any man. Slender arms hugged upraised knees. Her nose a straight line above a wide, amused mouth. By night, she was attractive. By day, she would stun. Lady Brynhild was Viking. A widow of decent wealth and respectable standing with a holding of her own not far from where the Seine met the sea. Perfect for him.
Except she wasn’t Safira.
Her throaty laugh was seduction itself. “By the shocked look on your face, I am not the woman you expected to find in your bed.” A blonde brow arched. “What are we going to do about this?”
“For the moment, nothing.”
She patted the bed beside her. “You could do a lot of nothing right here.”
He raked a hand through wind-blown hair. Years he’d lived by brain and brawn. Never his heart. Once he found it with Safira, he didn’t want another woman. None would cherish the banged-up, stony organ. None would challenge him like her. There was no denying Lady Brynhild’s appeal. His body could be convinced to rouse to her charms, but with Safira...
He burned to plant his seed in the raven-haired maid. No other woman.
“It would appear the gods are demanding their due.” His voice broke the silence.
“How so?”
Outside, crickets sawed their night songs. A solid breeze blew through the jarl’s grain field, causing the tips to bow north. Lazy clouds rolled across the sky, the edges blurring the moon.
“It would be an honor to have you as wife, but—”
“Oh,” she winced. “It’s always bad when a man compliments a woman then says but. It wipes out whatever good he said in the first place.”
“I cannot lay with you.”
Bed sheets shushed. The plush mattress sank as Lady Brynhild shifted on the bed. The linen covering her slipped lower and lower until small breasts greeted him, up-tilted and mouth-wateringly soft, if he judged by the glow of her skin in moonlight.
She twirled a lock of silvery hair. “Are you sure?”
He pushed away from the open shutter and gathered his things. “Very.”
Lady Brynhild watched him. She knew how to play seduction’s game. He shot a prayer of thanks to Freyja that the woman in bed covered herself with the sheet again. Sucking in a deep breath, he scrubbed a hand over his face.
Above his head was the gifted tunic—the jarl’s colors.
Standing up, he held his sheathed sword in one hand, his saddle bag and rolled up hudfat in the other. “The gods have been testing me of late. You are the latest and—” he bowed his head “—most tempting trial.”
“But your path is set. So too is your heart, I think.” She linked her fingers over her knees shrouded in linen. “I am a practical woman. A patient one too. Given time, hearts and minds change.”
“You want marriage?”
“With the man strong enough to defend what I own...yes. And you look very strong,” she said, giving him a bold once-over. “The jarl enticed me with a bargain of more land and a strong arm to help protect what is mine.”
He was tired. He’d ridden hours to lay with Safira’s body curled against his. Late night negotiations were the last thing he wanted.
“This is a discussion for Longsword’s return. Until then, I must get to the Sons’ tents.”
“You won’t find your woman there. It rained earlier.” Lady Brynhild yawned. “Apparently she does not favor tents when it rains.”
“Where is she?”
“Astrid settled the raven-haired woman and your man, Erik, on the jarl’s drakkar ship.” She lay back on the bed. “The one beside the Persian merchant’s vessel.”
He bade Lady Brynhild good-night and took off for the largest ship moored to the shore. A sleepy housekarl slouched against a closed merchant’s stall. Rurik marked him with a nod and crossed the jetty. Wind kicked up. The river splashed against heavy rocks lining the shore. He stepped onto the Longsword’s drakkar ship where Erik sat upright against a barrel, iron glinting in his lap.
The whites of his eyes showed in the shadows. “You’re back.” Erik pushed to full height and pointed at a trap door. “Safira sleeps below deck.”
Fat rain drops sprinkled the deck. Clouds covered the moon, shrouding them in darkness. With Midsumarblot over, few torches burned in Rouen. Rain fell harder. Both men squinted at the heavens.
“Find shelter,” Rurik said. “I will see you in the morning.”
Water pelted Erik’s face. “The men?”
“Are well. They return tomorrow.”
Erik smiled, unbothered by squalling skies. “It will be good to have them back.”
Relief was writ plainly on Erik’s face. It was as close to an admission of wrongdoing as Rurik would get. The surly warrior had erred in drinking too much when he was supposed to have watch the night of the feast. Erik trotted off the boat, his swords rattling across his back. Lightning crackling overhead showed him heading for the jarl’s barn.
Rurik flipped open the trap door, dropped his things below, and crawled into the hold.
“Safira.”
“Rurik?”
Her groggy voice was music to his ears. On hands and knees, he crept through the narrow hold to her make-shift bed of pelts. She sat up and a light weave blanket fell away from her body. Safira clambered into his lap and showered his face with kisses.
“You are well, no?” She muttered foreign words against his cheek. “I was so worried about you. You and the men...you are all safe? Unharmed?”
He settled her into his lap. She wore silk, the whispery cloth riding up her thighs. He cupped her bottom, the soft globes filling his hands. He was dizzy, breathing in her scent. His fingertips slid to her cleft. Feminine heat and curls grazed his fingers. The dewy petals of skin parting for him. He exhaled against her neck, a long, shuddering breath. He was home.
“I didn’t expect this welcome.”
She peppered his jaw with fast, hot kisses. And tears. “I... I...oh, Rurik...” She shook in his arms and buried her face against his neck. “You have come to me.”
“Safira. Why are you shaking?”
“Seven days without you. This has been torture.”
Her body was flush to his, straddling him. He stroked her skein of hair from the crown of her head to the small of her back. Breath skittered fast in and out of her lungs. Lush lips seeded his neck with gentling kisses. Each one healed him. Lust was pure emotion, born of heat and need bound by arousal. Safira stirred his body and his mind. He wanted to talk with her as much as he wanted to tup her.
What was the pull of this woman?
Why did he yearn for Safira above all others?
Reason should have kept him in the jarl’s feast hall with Lady Brynhild.
A squeeze to her hip, and she pulled away. Her face inches from his, a fine-skinned foreign beauty full of strength...the kind a man like him could feast on for days and not be sated. Ample, curving breasts spilled over her low neckline. Glossy scarlet silk rested against her smooth skin.
Outside, a summer storm battered Rouen. The ship rocked. So did her body against his.
Safira whisked the underdress from her body and sent it floating onto the pelt. A wave crashed the side of the ship. Full breasts swayed, ripe for his pleasure. Slowly, she hugged her knees to his hips.
Heaviness flooded his cock. “I should go away more often.”
Head lolling sideways, black hair spilled over Safira’s shoulder. Desire changed her. Turned her body into a pliant treasure meant to please him. The inviting th
rust of breasts. Her spine made supple with carnal want. Confident in her sensual gifts, she untied his trousers. Her smile was a secret. Seductive and unafraid of the delights to be shared. Small nipples pinched to tiny nubs, and he had yet to touch them. This was a woman to discover long into his old age. He’d never tire of Safira.
His waistband slackened. He wore no loin cloth this time. Safira’s hand rooted in his trousers. She leaned forward. The tips of her breasts mashed against his chest.
Her mouth was a finger’s width from his. “I can show you how much I’ve missed you.”
His heart thudded, and his balls ached. Legs sprawled, and fully dressed, he couldn’t remember a more sensual moment with a woman. She teased the thatch of hair between his legs. Safira wiggled against him. Riding him. Artless. Striving. Slow.
He swallowed hard, glad the ship’s hold was at his back. He needed some propping up when her searching hand went deeper between his legs.
“Why do I feel like if I let go of you, I would be swept away—”
Neck arching, he hissed. Warm fingers wrapped around the crown of his cock.
She was good at this.
“Because we are swept away, Viking, by something greater than you or me.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
Safira’s hand stroked him up and down. He’d go to his grave swearing she was the goddess Freyja in that moment, bewitching him as she freed his hardness from his trousers. Light fingers stroked him. Played with the sensitive underside of his cock. Swirled the drop of his seed with the pad of her thumb. Tired from his long, midnight ride, he let her have fun.
She scooted back along his thighs, her head dipping low.
“My boots—”
His hips bucked. Hot, wet mouth kissed his erection. Lust seared him. He fisted a hand in shiny, jet-black hair. Safira’s seductive laugh tickled between his legs. She suckled his cock...the round tip. Temptation was her mouth, the vision of her curved, pale body draped across his clothed legs and boots. She was learning fast how to pleasure a man.
Stormy water buffeted the ship. Rain pattered overhead.
But the sucking noises...
“Safira.” His voice cut jaggedly in the hold.
“Hmm?” Her head popped up. Glistening lips curved like a sated cat.
“I would have you ride me. Face to face.”
“Why? Am I not doing this right?” she asked, petting his balls.
He grunted. “A woman can rarely get that wrong.”
“Then I will finish pleasing you.” Her head dipped but he caught her chin.
“I would see your face. I’ve missed you.” Was there a plea in his voice? A note of desperation for this woman?
Her amber eyes were bright in darkness. He cosseted her cheek, his thumb stroking the contours of her temple, her brow, the slant of her cheekbone. There was joy in touching her face...the same as he found in seeing her naked.
Stripped down. Honest. Yet full of secrets. Delicate. Yet full of strength.
“Come,” he beckoned, his spine against the side of the ship.
She swung her leg over his thighs. Pushing up on her knees, she grasped his cock jutting from his trousers. “You realize, Viking, this means conversing with me.”
“The best kind of conversation a man can have with a woman.”
“But not a quiet one,” she purred.
With him firmly in hand, she seated herself on him. His erection nudged her cleft. Slickness coated him. Sweat beaded under his leather vest. His hairline. She had control. He couldn’t take it from her if he tried...he was weak as a newborn lamb with Safira.
She spread her nether lips wider and ever so slowly slid her body down his length...one...fraction...at a time.
Her long, pleasured moan was worth the midnight ride.
Safira’s thatch of hair rubbed his. She rocked against him. The ship swayed. Wood creaked and groaned. Her keening cries blended with the storm. He craved the taste of her skin, planted hot kisses on her neck, her mouth. His tongue plundered the seam of her lips the way he wished to slide hotly in and out of her body. Her inner muscles squeezed him as if testing his length and hardness. His fingers dug into her hips. The agony of letting a woman take control...
Wide, round breasts mashed his leather-covered chest. He caressed her waist, her ribs, the texture of her skin there like the downy feel of her breasts. Safira bumped harder against him. She scratched both hands through his whiskers. The length of his beard was proof of how long they’d been apart. How much he missed her. Chasing fighters in the forest, there was no time to scrape a blade across his jaw. His roughness didn’t repel the raven-haired Paris maid.
It drew her in.
Safira’s nose touched his. “I smell the forest on your skin.”
Their breaths mingled in fits and bursts.
His seed would come. Primal, driving hunger forced his hips up into hers. Thighs tense knots. His heels jammed the ship’s hold. Safira’s wet heat gloved him. Perfection. Complete.
A flawless connection with this woman—the only one he wanted.
“Rurik... Rurik...” His name was a hoarse whisper on her lips.
His body reached for its pleasure.
Safira kissed him fiercely. He swallowed her lustful cries as she found her end.
Her body quaked with tiny tremors, desire’s peak rolling through her. He could see it in the erotic tightening of her face. And the letting go.
Sex was freeing. Sex with Safira.
Plush lips brushed his as she spoke. “Whatever happens, know that—” Safira quivered with a last burst of pleasure “—I love you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
If sex and love were honest, why had a curtain fallen between them? He’d felt it drop last night—the moment Safira cried out her love for him.
Exhausted to the bone, they’d curled together into the pelt. He’d opened his mouth to say he loved her. The words had weighed heavy on his tongue, balanced against Safira’s whispered Whatever happens...
Wisdom bade him to swallow declarations of love.
What had happened while he was gone?
Awake for the new day, the storm was gone. Daylight beamed through an egg-sized hole in the deck that he didn’t see last night. More light poured through cracks in the trapdoor. Geese honked in the distance. The blacksmith’s hammer pinged an unhurried rhythm. The hold smelled of wood and sex and the curious peppery aroma... Safira’s skin.
She stirred beside him. Linen slipped off her bare leg. He drew a sluggish line from hip to knee. Her toes curled, and Safira yanked the sheet over her body.
“Why do you wake me?” she grumbled.
He pulled the sheet lower. Nipples pebbled to pretty points, the dark-apricot circles of skin the size of small coins.
“Time to rise.” His edict was met with a sleepy pout. There was no rush. Not when his fingers traced an impudent nipple. “You hide nothing from me.”
“It is cool this morning. I could use some warming.”
“Get dressed. Clothes will warm you.”
“I have a better idea.” She patted the fur beside her, a girlish smile on her face.
The sight stole his ease. What did he truly know of Safira? Deep secrets had been shared on their journey, but the simple things like what was her favorite fruit? Did she prefer a certain color? Or why did her skin have a faint peppery aroma? How little he knew the maid...yet he was ready to stake his future on her.
“Something wrong, Viking?”
Wisps fell like frayed threads around her face. Knuckles grazing her cheek, he let uncertainty go. It did a warrior no good. Surely the same was true for what went on between a man and a woman.
“I wonder at the woman I am with.” He played with a lock of her hair. “You have different smiles, but I’ve never seen that one on your face before.”
<
br /> She stretched against his leg and kissed his thigh. “I am content. Now what is this wondering about?”
Safira was happy lounging naked beside him on well-traveled fur in a half-empty ship’s hold. This was true wealth—being with her.
He rattled off his questions, to which she happily answered, “I love pears best. There is a shade of bronze silk that is my favorite. And I suspect the smell on my skin is from years of sprinkling cardamom on my food.”
“I have heard of cardamom...a costly spice.”
“It is. Astrid cooked with it for the Midsumarblot feast.”
“It’s one I could never supply for you,” he admitted.
Safira sat up, letting the linen fall away. “Is that why you’re doleful?”
Was this on purpose...her sitting bare of clothes to comfort him? Fine-grained skin aglow. Her hips shifting. Jet-black hair grazing the small of her back where her body curved as she thrusted her breasts...with the subtlest invitation. Signs of wanting sex. All of them.
But the day required more of him.
He opened his saddle bag. “We don’t have time to lay in the furs.” He pulled out two pears and offered her one. “I grabbed these off the jarl’s table last night. It appears I chose well.”
“Thank you.”
She nibbled the pear, and he ate his too. For their journey, they were a man and a woman. Simple. Elemental. Free. But their weave brought them to Rouen. Here things were different. Safira wasn’t a prize to hoard like gold. He could rail against that truth, fight to keep her by his side, but eventually, the unwanted would come. How would she fit?
And he still had to win the land.
Wind whistled above deck. Were the Norns cackling?
“You were in the jarl’s hall.” Safira licked juice-slick lips, appearing to choose her words with care. “I met your future wife, Lady Brynhild, there.”
His chewing slowed. Norns were definitely laughing at him, and they were about to heap trouble in the form of a jealous woman.
“You must have gone to our old bed and seen her, no?” she prompted.
“I did.”
“Yet, you came to me.”
