The Viking's Heart

by Jacqueline Navin

  She stood before him, no longer timid, no longer rejected. Magnificent, she shone in her defiance, and in his eyes she saw the admiring reflection of that spirit. This was her at her best—at last unafraid. And, she found to her amazement, she approved of herself like this.

  With relish, she declared, “I am not afraid of what you describe—a husband’s rage, the disapproval of others. I think I am afraid of nothing any longer. Because of you, I am strong.”

  His voice, when he spoke, was filled with emotion. “But I have given you nothing.”

  “You have given me everything. I have so much time to make up for. No more hiding. No more shuddering in fear and living in my head, telling stories to distract myself from my dismal life. I shall not beg you, Agravar, but I have had quite enough sheltering.”

  He caught her all of a sudden, taking the breath out of her as she was enveloped in his arms. He kissed her soundly until she could hardly breathe.

  “Have a care not to become a tyrant,” he warned. “You may find getting your way has its attractions.”

  “I am finding that is so already.”

  “You are fearsome, do you know that?”

  She wrapped her arms about his neck. “I think I shall endeavor to make it so that you do not mind so much.”

  He had no reply for that, only a slow smile. Then he grew serious as he played with a tendril of her hair. “I would do nothing to harm you.”

  “I know it.”

  “I shall ask you one last time…are you certain, Rosamund? There is no going back.” But his eyes were dark, the lids heavy and his teeth were set edge to edge.

  “I want you to love me. I want to belong to you.”

  “Then come, beautiful Rosamund,” he said, taking her hand. With slow backward steps, he led her over to the ground where she had made him a comfortable bed out of the blanket and a soft padding of leaves. “Lie with me,” he commanded gently, pulling her down with him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  She found she was trembling, but she thought it was from anticipation rather than doubt. His hands were large and strong, as one cradled her head, the other gripped her hip. He pulled her to him.

  “What do I do?” she asked.

  His eyes were fastened on her lips. His hands brushed over them, outlining their shape. “Give me your mouth,” he replied roughly, then dipped his head to claim the prize.

  She settled into the crook of his arm as his tongue slid over hers. She liked this new way of kissing. She had never thought that a man could invade her like this, and that it would feel so delicious. Timidly at first, then more boldly, she answered with her own delicate parries until she heard a small, low sound come from deep in his chest.

  His hand came over one breast. It felt hot. She gasped at the contact, and he froze as if uncertain. She didn’t want him to stop. Something instinctual prodded her to arch into his palm. He made that sound again and moved his hand, grazing the tip of her breast. It was the slightest of touches, but it caused shimmers of delight to pulse into her body.

  She craved more, but she didn’t know what it was she needed.

  Spreading his hand over her collar, he paused. Rosamund opened her eyes to see his head bent over. The sound of his breathing, the fall and rise of his shoulders betrayed the veneer of control he exercised as he moved his hand little by little so that the tips of his fingers just dipped under the neckline of her gown.

  The feel of his touch on her naked skin spread a languorous feeling through her. Slowly, he went lower, slipping his hand over a shoulder to bare it. Then he kissed her there, and it felt like the touch of fire.

  He shifted her in his arms and worked the other side. Obeying his will, she slipped both of her arms free, waiting breathlessly for those strong, callused fingers to close over her exposed breasts, wanting to feel that shimmer again.

  He moved so carefully, taking her dress to her waist while his mouth occupied hers, leaving her panting and desperate. His tongue began to move in gentle flicks at the corners of her mouth, then at her ear. Down the column of her throat. Toward her breasts, he went on to where the flesh began to swell, the tips hard and aching for his attention.

  “Please,” she begged.

  Tangling her hands in his hair, she waited. Then his tongue touched her there and everything else dissolved.

  “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, his breath raising gooseflesh over her skin.

  “Touch me,” she gasped, wanting more.

  “Shameless,” he muttered with a wry chuckle as he attended the taut peak.

  Trapped, Rosamund savored every delicious touch of his lips, every darting thrust of his tongue. The pleasure flooded through her whole body, pooling in a lake of fire low in her belly.

  When he pulled away, it felt as if a part of herself had been ripped away. Rising to shuck his clothing, his eyes never left hers. He was not smiling now, not making any jests. The heat of his stare was as potent as the stirring caress of his mouth. Coming to her knees, she helped him off with his leggings. Her hands shook as his body was revealed. He seemed like some god out of Norse legend and she felt a surge of triumph well up within her.

  He was hers. Not her husband, but in her heart. It was an exhilarating feeling.

  Lying back, she ran her hands over her hips and slid her dress down, then kicked it off so that she was as naked as he. Then she held her hand up to him. He took it and reclined gingerly, favoring his side a little.

  “Is your wound troubling you?” she asked.

  “Nay.” He shot her a quick grin. “Now quiet yourself. You shall not distract me.” Rolling over her, he braced himself on his elbows on either side of her head.

  She had a fleeting impulse to protest his testing his newly recovered strength this far, but the feel of his skin touching hers was too wonderful. She wriggled against him and he thrust his hips in response, his hardened manhood a ridge of heat against her thigh.

  “I want inside you, Rosamund.”

  Hardly able to believe her courage, she slipped her hand down his side and over the flat of his stomach until her fingertips brushed against that part of him.

  His eyes squeezed shut and he gritted his teeth. “Ah, Rosamund.”

  Bolder, she felt wonderingly at the velvet length of him. “It feels warm.”

  “That is because I am on fire.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  A short, choked laugh. “Nay. ’Tis bliss and torture, but not the painful kind.”

  She liked this power. She stroked again and watched his reaction with fascination.

  Catching her hand, he pulled her away. “Do not test me too far, or we shall have a rather disappointing end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I can only take so much before…never mind. When you know more, you will understand.”

  “Show me,” she said. “I want to understand. I want to know what pleases you.”

  “What pleases me, my lady,” he said through gritted teeth as he reared back, “is to please you.”

  “Where are you—oh!”

  His mouth closed once again over her breast. This time, he suckled in short, tight contractions that left her writhing and dazed, so that when his fingers slipped into the folds between her thighs, she bucked in shock.

  “I merely touch you,” he said soothingly. She settled back in degrees. “There,” he whispered into her ear. “You are ready to ease my way. Do you feel how wet you are?”

  “How—? What has happened?”

  “This is how a woman makes ready for her man’s entrance.”

  “Will you come into me now?” Please, she wanted to add.

  “Not yet. Let me show you what I can while my willpower holds out. There are pleasures a woman finds that I would give you.”

  Her mouth opened to ask what he meant when his thumb found her. She hissed in a sharp breath and nearly came up to a sitting position.

  “Nay, lie back,” Agravar told her gently. “See, I but strok
e you. It feels good, aye?”

  She couldn’t answer. She could only bite down on her bottom lip and nod jerkily.

  He made tiny circles, tiny exquisitely maddening circles, with the pad of his thumb. Every bit of her was focused on the spot he caressed, soaring with dawning wonder as a strange sort of magical tension began to grow.

  Sometimes he whispered encouragement at her ear. Sometimes his mouth lingered at her breasts, teasing while his hand stroked her between her thighs until she began to rock her hips under his rhythmic touch. She found herself yearning, reaching, straining toward some primitive place her body somehow knew.

  “Aye, love. Come,” Agravar said to her. “Come for me, Rosamund.”

  “What?” She battled for thought. What had he said? Come with him where? “I do not know—”

  “Feel it. Just feel it within you.”

  “Aye,” she breathed, and she did feel it. Throwing her head back, she gave herself over to the sudden surge of sensation. All at once it was upon her, cresting with excruciating rapture that rained through her body in small, delectable darts of pleasure.

  He held her tight against him, murmuring words she couldn’t comprehend. Yet the sound of his voice added to the tremors, creating sizzling little thrills of feeling up and down her spine. She thought he spoke words of love, words of possession.

  He kissed her, this time not gently at all. This time with a demand that was nearly harsh. She reveled in his roughness, and when he nudged her legs apart, she slid her knees up to the sides of his hips.

  He came into her in one motion.

  The pain was expected. She had been told of this by Father Leon, rather gloatingly, in fact. She bit back her cry and buried her face in Agravar’s shoulder.

  Kissing her neck, he stilled, nuzzling her ear until she relaxed. “Now you are mine,” he whispered.

  The thought erased her injury. She pulled back to meet his eye.

  He began to move again, small thrusts to get her used to him, to the act itself. Taking possession of her mouth once more, he devoured her soft cries as the discomfort eased and pleasure blossomed again. His strokes lengthened, gained power.

  Sweat glistened on his brow, over his strong shoulders as they flexed with his movements. This she found fascinating, unable to keep herself from touching, tasting him as he had done to her. Her tongue tested the saltiness of his skin, and flickered over the corded muscles of his neck to trace the outline of his ear.

  He gripped her tighter, his rhythm increasing. Moving harder, deeper, he suddenly stiffened. A hoarse cry tore from his throat and he curled into her, against her, surging over and over to bury himself deep within.

  Clasping him close, she raptured in the feel of his body clenching and shifting as it rocked with his fulfillment.

  Eventually he slowed. A short, final shudder and he was still.

  Lifting his head, his blue eyes glowed and he said simply, “Mine.”

  She touched a damp strand of his hair where it clung to his brow and answered, “Always.”

  Then he lay his head down next to hers.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rosamund refused to weep. She bit her lips, she swallowed hard, she fought and she fought, but the tears slipped down her cheeks all the same, heedless of her embarrassment.

  She didn’t want Agravar to see. He wouldn’t understand. Damnation, even she didn’t understand. She wept for so many things—for the joy she had found in their mating, in the sadness she felt for their parting soon to come, for…everything.

  Blessedly, he was still not up to his full capacity from his injury. He fell into a light doze, giving her time to collect herself.

  She studied him at her leisure, touching reverently the smooth softness of warm, lightly furred skin over sinew and muscle. His body, so different, so appealing, was beautiful to her. From the heat in his gaze when he had looked at her, he apparently felt a similar sort of awe at her. How wondrous to be seen through his eyes.

  Odd. She had never thought herself special. Then again, with Cyrus and Father Leon warning her of the sin of vanity, she had never dared take pride in her appearance. She looked down at herself and saw her body, naked but for the thick arm flung over it from the slumbering Viking. She smiled and touched lightly. Agravar stirred but slept on.

  She was slim, and shapely. Full, firm breasts with small dusky peaks, a flat stomach with hipbones that protruded slightly. Narrow hips but rounded, and limbs that she had been teased about at the age of eleven for being too gangly. There was more curve to them now, but they were still lean and long.

  Ah, well, Agravar seemed to like her form. In her mind’s eye, she could recall his expression as he had run his hands over her, as if savoring every bit. It had been glorious to feel that way.

  Why in the name of heaven was this a sin? One would imagine a loving God would delight in his creatures finding such bliss. Surely, His great design of how men and women fit together so beautifully, His bestowing the capacity for such tremendous pleasure, meant He intended for this kind of mating. Father Leon would call it the work of the devil, but it felt blessed. In her heart, it felt like the most blessed thing she could ever imagine.

  Settling back, she took in a deep, cleansing breath. Her tears were gone. In their place was a deep, calm sense of peace. Contentment, she realized.

  Until her stomach rumbled. To her surprise, she realized she was hungry. Mindful of the need to restore Agravar’s health, she slid out from under his arm.

  He didn’t wake. Checking his side, she saw it was knitting together nicely. Grateful their lovemaking had not disturbed its healing, she slipped into her dress before going to find what was left of the food she had stolen.

  “What is this?” his groggy voice sounded from behind her. “Are you so anxious to be away from me now that you have gotten what you wanted? ’Tis most unpleasant waking without you here by my side.”

  She straightened and struck an impudent pose with one hand on her hip. “I was seeing to my beloved’s pleasure. Since one appetite has been quenched, I was merely looking toward the other.”

  He raised up his head and propped it on his fist. “Who said it was quenched?”

  Rosamund froze. “Oh.” She smiled. “Oh?”

  He held his other hand out to her and she dropped the parcel of food. She had just taken the first step when the sound of a horse approaching rumbled through the trees.

  She froze. Davey? Lucien?

  Her salvation in one, her condemnation in the other.

  Agravar shot to his feet, doubling over with a hard grimace and clutching his side. “Damn,” he growled. “Rosamund, come here and help me.”

  Her body moved even while her mind refused to work. She picked up his clothes and handed them to him. Tossing aside the tunic, he grasped the leggings and began shoving his legs in, grunting against the protests of his injury. He barked, “Get my sword. Damn me for not wearing mail.” Straightening, he pulled the waist ties tight and reached for the sword she struggled to unsheathe from its scabbard.

  Agravar went pale as he tried to take hold of the weapon. He dropped it, his hand coming to his side. Rosamund retrieved the heavy thing. He took it up again, clamping his jaw down tight against the pain. Brushing aside her efforts to help him, he commanded, “Get behind me.”

  The familiar weight of the broadsword was too much. Agravar’s hand trembled as he raised it. The pain in his wound seared him, but he refused to acknowledge it.

  Leveling his gaze at the trees, he crouched down. He could feel Rosamund’s slender hands resting on the bare skin of his back. Reaching around, he put his hand on her bottom and pulled her up tight against him. “Stay close,” he muttered.

  The man who rode in through the parting curtain of greenery made Agravar tense and Rosamund sigh in relief.

  “Davey!” she exclaimed. When she would have scooted out from behind him, Agravar’s free hand shoved her back.

  He raised his sword. “Get out.”

&
nbsp; Looking at the Viking with wide, wary eyes, Davey spoke. “I came for Rosamund. I have no wish to harm you. Rosamund, listen to me—the ship is here. ’Tis waiting.”

  “Get out,” Agravar repeated.

  “Let her go,” Davey said with force. He wasn’t as arrogant as he had been, but neither did he cower. “She wants to be free. If you…if you love her, then give her the only thing that matters. Release her.”

  Agravar felt as if a blow had landed squarely in his gut.

  Davey continued, “Hand her to me. I will take her away. To safety.” He shifted his gaze to Rosamund. “To freedom.”

  It was falling away. All of the delicious closeness, the sense of oneness, the sublime union that had gone beyond the communion of their bodies. He felt Rosamund stiffen and he knew the boy was right.

  Davey darted a look into the trees. “They have started looking for you. The Lady Alayna went to childbed, and Lord Lucien was called to her side. This is why he did not come sooner, but he is back and combing these woods with his men.”

  Rosamund said quickly, “Is my lady well?”

  “How the devil should I know?” Davey snapped.

  The little cur was not so changed after all, Agravar noted.

  Davey said, “Come, my lady. We must go now, else we have lost the chance. With Lucien’s men on the watch, the boat may have no choice but to strand us.”

  Agravar lowered his sword and turned to Rosamund. “Go,” he said.

  She looked back at him, her face a tortured mirror of his own heart. “Nay. I no longer want to.”

  “If you stay, you will be given to Robert. I can do nothing for you here.”

  Her eyes closed as if she could shut out the truth. They flew open again, a new light in their honey depths. “Come away with me. Please, Agravar. Come with me.”

  “You know I cannot. I have pledged myself to be exactly what my father was not, to hold honor above all things. If I betrayed that, Rosamund…please try to understand.” He forced himself to look at her. “I would be nothing if not the man I hold myself to be.”

  “I know,” she said, her gaze dropping. Her lashes were thick and dark against the paleness of her cheek. The sight of that demure gesture brought on a surge of tenderness. “I have no right,” she continued, “to ask it of you.”