“Am I?”
He nodded. “Let me warm you.”
In answer, she pulled his mouth down to hers. He took from her, transforming the kiss into the desire he felt. He’d not expected her to reach out to him, and his sense of honor went on alert.
She didn’t mean this. She didn’t truly want him. It was about negotiating, trying to coerce him into letting her go. And though it was the hardest thing in the world to do, he broke away from her.
“We have to go.” He lifted her into his arms, walking toward the horse. When he raised her onto the horse and then swung on behind her, he was careful not to get too close. It didn’t matter. He breathed in the scent of her hair, like a cool May morning.
Innocent, she was. And he was about to give her over to the king. Magnus would not hesitate to accept the beautiful slave.
But afterwards…
If Aisling did not please him, Magnus would give her to his men. He suspected that she would not hesitate to kill any man who threatened her. She would lose her life, if she did.
Strands of her hair whipped against his face, and he pressed them gently away. A sense of unease came over him, at the thought of her coming to harm.
His arms curled around her while they rode, and the fit of her body to his felt right. Against the snowy whiteness, the black runes upon his forearms stood out. Would Aisling’s life be marked by one of them? He tightened his hold upon her.
Though it went against his duty, he no longer wanted to surrender her to the king. And Odin help him, he didn’t know what he could do about it. She was here only as an offering, a gift to secure his sister’s safe return.
He had tried on numerous occasions to talk Magnus into letting Jóra go, even offering gold as a ransom. But the king wanted her with an unnatural longing. Already he might have defiled her.
Tharand quickened the pace of his stallion. They needed shelter before the snow grew too deep for travel. With each mile, his guilt intensified.
Hours later, just as the sun began to sink into the hills, the rath stood before them. It was one of many estates conquered by King Magnus, taken from the Irish who had dwelled there before him. The stronghold was meant to defend the eastern coast of Erin. Already there were murmurings of a war brewing north of Dubh Linn.
When they arrived, Tharand gave his horse over to a slave and drew Aisling to his side. He kept his arm around her, in an unspoken message that she was not to be touched by any man.
Any man, save the king.
Jealousy snaked through his gut, strangling his good sense. But though he turned over different possibilities in his mind, none of them would save Aisling.
The slave led him to the visitor’s quarters, and after a repast of wine and venison, they were given a small pallet for sleeping. The room had no privacy, with several couples sharing the space.
Aisling folded back the coverlet and slid beneath it. She propped her face upon one elbow, waiting for him to join her. He half expected her to keep the blade in her hand, as a warning. Instead, she met his gaze with a steadiness.
“You may sleep alone.” He sat up against the wooden walls, his hand resting upon the handle of a bronze battle-ax. It was easier to guard her this way. For this night, he would keep her safe from harm.
And after that, he’d have to let her go.
* * *
Aisling tried to sleep, but her mind wouldn’t allow it. She watched Tharand keeping guard, knowing that he had no intention of sleeping.
Such a paradox, it was. He’d brought her here as his prisoner. And yet he’d never treated her in that way.
She closed her eyes, remembering how he’d defended her from one of his own men. He’d given her the coverlet from his bed the night before, the wool still warm from his body. He’d held her close while riding, teaching her what it meant to feel desire.
When he’d kissed her, it shattered every image she held. It wasn’t the kiss of a lover, but of a man starving for a woman’s touch. This afternoon when she’d reached out to him, the ground beneath her had shifted. She wanted to kiss him, though it was wrong. He was her captor and a man she should despise.
Instead, he seemed ready to surrender his life for hers. He watched every man as though anticipating a threat. As though she were a treasure to be guarded instead of a slave.
The empty void stretching inside startled her. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything for him, this stranger who had stolen her away. Especially not the unfamiliar sensitivity, the longing to kiss him again.
Aisling drew her legs together, crossing her ankles. The motion tightened the aching within her woman’s flesh. Sinful, wanton thoughts poured through her as she imagined his strong body moving upon her. His hips driving against hers as he filled her.
Her breath caught and she fisted the coverlet. In the morning, he would leave. She’d not lay eyes upon him again.
But there was still tonight. A chance to quench this thirst, to understand him.
He possessed a deep sense of honor, despite his Lochlannach heritage. And even when he’d taken her body to an ecstasy she’d never known, despite her unwillingness, he’d wanted to please her.
That, perhaps, was why she hadn’t used the knife against him.
Aisling sat up and drew her knees forward, resting her wrists upon them. Look at me, she bade him. For in his eyes, she would find her answer.
His gaze snapped toward her. The raw need was almost savage in its nature. He did not relinquish the sight of her, and she unbound her hair for him while he watched.
“What are you doing, Aisling?”
She stood and held out her hand. Like a stranger inside her own body, she hardly knew herself. But right now, she wanted a night with no regrets.
Tharand rose and followed her outside, his large hand covering hers. The storm had ceased, but the frozen earth held a light dusting of snow.
“I want to be alone with you.”
He cupped her nape, resting his forehead upon hers. “You don’t belong to me.”
The reluctance in his voice had nothing to do with lack of desire, she realized. It gave her a measure of hope. “I won’t see you again, after this night.”
“No,” he answered.
She rested her arms around his shoulders, leaning in to touch him. “Who is she, Tharand? This woman you seek.”
He hesitated, but when she kissed his mouth, he answered against her lips, “My sister.”
“Is she the king’s lover?”
“She is his hostage. And only fifteen.” Tharand hissed when she pressed her body to his, cradling his length against her softness.
“You’re trying to save her. By sending me in her place.”
His shoulders lowered, and she had the answer she needed.
“You could save us both,” she ventured. “Let me help you.” She refused to believe that he would discard her so easily, that there was no hope.
He pulled her into a tight embrace, his breath warm against her cheek. “Would to the gods it were possible. But I am commander of the soldiers at Vedrarfjord. Magnus would not take kindly to a betrayal.”
“Could you free your sister without his knowledge?”
“I have already tried.” The dark, haunted look in his eyes returned.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, touching his upper arms. “We will free her tomorrow.” She slid her hands down his muscles to the dark tattoos upon his forearms. From his stance, she sensed him starting to pull away. “Why haven’t you given me to the king already?”
He ran his thumb over her mouth. “Because I am weak.”
Aisling took his hand again, but this time, he gripped her wrist in return. “You should go back inside. Sleep.”
“Is that what you want?”
His eyes raked over hers, leaving no doubt of his need. “If you don’t go now—“
“You’ll touch me in the way I want you to?” she whispered. At the disbelief in his blue eyes, she wound her arms around his neck. “One night, Tharand.
Give me a memory to hold.”
He cursed beneath his breath, lifting her into his arms. Aisling held tight, as though he were her shield in the midst of a battle.
Thank God. She needed him, if for only a few hours.
He picked up a torch and led her down to one of the underground cellars used for storing food. Though the temperature was freezing, Aisling felt none of the cold.
Tharand set the torch into an iron sconce and regarded her. In the flickering light, his dark-gold hair gleamed. His eyes pierced her with disbelief. “Why?” he demanded. “I am your enemy.”
She touched her hand to his, not at all certain of what she felt for him. “I don’t believe that anymore.”
“Then you are a fool.”
“As you say.” Aisling took the lead, bringing his hands around her waist. Leaning in, she kissed him. Against his mouth, she felt his reluctance. Did he no longer want her? She shivered in the cool air, wondering if she’d made a mistake. “Shall I stop?”
He responded with words in the Norse tongue, endearments that made her blush. He kissed her temple, cradling her face in his hands. “I will try,” he swore, “to get both of you out.”
It was enough. Aisling released the edges of the cloak she was wearing. The cloth pooled to the ground in the moment that he took her mouth.
Like the invader he was, he commanded the kiss until she surrendered. She held fast to him for balance as each new layer of clothing joined the cloak upon the ground. When she stood naked before him, he knelt. With his mouth, he worshipped her, kneading her bare bottom as he kissed a path up her thighs. He disarmed her, tossing both daggers to the ground.
When he probed at the juncture of her legs, Aisling froze.
“What are you—“
“Open for me.” His mouth teased her, soft bites that made her legs tremble.
“I can’t.”
He would not allow a refusal, and used his hands to ease her apart. At once, she felt like a true captive, unable to free herself from his touch. He spread her apart and caught her gaze for a moment.
“You’re a gift to me, Aisling Ó Brannon. One I intend to savor.” With that, his hot mouth kissed her wetness, his tongue invading where she wanted him most.
His arms supported her against the wall while his tongue moved against her, driving her into such desperation she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, as the fist of pleasure broke through her, spiraling until she sank against him.
“We have hours yet,” he promised, removing his own clothing until he stood naked before her. Lean and muscled, his body resembled a god’s. The dark tattoos entranced her as he lifted her hips.
And then, she felt the tip of him at her entrance. Thick and hard, he eased himself into her tight well. While he filled her, she wrapped her legs around his waist. It took a moment for her body to adjust to his size.
In his eyes, his own awakening dawned. Deliberately, he moved against her, raising her up before letting her slide down his manhood.
“I dreamed of holding a woman like you in my arms,” he said.
He didn’t ravage her, nor treat her like the slave she was. Instead, he made love to her as though she were cherished. Like a woman he wanted to keep at his side.
The swelling need intensified with each stroke. She gripped his hair, fighting not to cry out as he withdrew and entered her body.
“Don’t leave me here alone,” she responded, pressing herself against him until he increased his rhythm. “Stay.”
Be with me.
He groaned, taking her down to the floor. Though she winced at the freezing earth, the thought vanished when he thrust inside her once more. Aisling lifted her knees, and he drove himself within, marking her as his own.
This was not about conquering her body, but instead a gift of himself. With each joining, she pressed herself closer, wanting to merge her body with his.
He never ceased the rhythm, pushing her higher while his shaft hardened even more. Unexpectedly, she crossed over the edge, her body gripping him in a rush of fierce satisfaction.
When at last he released his own desire, covering her with his weight, she held fast to him while he broke apart. Power filled her, knowing that she had made him feel this way.
He whispered against her skin, and no longer was he her master. Lying in her arms, he caressed her. As an equal.
Stay. The thought reverberated in her head, gathering intensity. A foreigner, he might be. A Lochlannach, and a man who knew nothing of her people.
But he’d sworn not to abandon her. And she held fast to her faith, hoping he would keep the vow.
* * *
Tharand didn’t move, resting his weight atop her. He still couldn’t understand why Aisling had offered herself, and though he wanted to believe she desired him, his common sense denied it.
She was an Irish noblewoman, a chieftain’s daughter. He hadn’t expected her to be any different from the other female slaves. But like a warrior, she had fought to survive. And she possessed the skills to kill anyone who stood in her path.
He rolled to his side, withdrawing from her warmth. “If a man tries to touch you, use the blade. Do not hesitate to kill.”
She traced a pattern over his chest. “You will be there to protect me.”
“Not always.” He could not be within the king’s private chambers. As time crept forward, he had no idea what he would do to save both Aisling and Jóra.
Her mouth covered his in a light kiss. “I trust you.”
Tharand closed his eyes at the words, knowing he was unworthy of her trust. And as he took her for the second time, it tormented him to imagine giving her up.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aisling stood beside Tharand, her wrists lightly bound. She didn’t like it, but had not questioned him. He knew the king’s men better than she. Afterwards, he’d run his fingers beneath the ropes to ensure that they weren’t too tight.
She wore a new gown that he’d purchased, a saffron silk overdress and léine. Though slaves did not wear such expensive colors, she supposed it would help raise her status.
Tharand had also returned the two daggers. One knife was strapped to her thigh, the other near her ankle. Neither was easy to grasp beneath the weight of the skirts, and she prayed she would not need them.
“Don’t let anyone see your weapons,” he’d warned. “Slaves are not permitted to carry them.”
As they moved through the crowd, Tharand’s hand tightened upon her wrist. Aisling kept her gaze forward, but her skin prickled as the eyes of the Norse warriors watched her.
Among the men she also spied a few Irish chiefs, which startled her. Whether they were allies or enemies of the king, she couldn’t be sure. She doubted if any of them would help her escape.
“Why have you come to the north, Tharand? Have there been problems in Vedrarfjord?” The king sat upon a dais, a man of strength and power. Perhaps eight and twenty years of age, he held a determined air.
“No, my king.” Tharand knelt in deference, then stood when the king commanded it. “I have come for my sister, Jóra.”
The king’s expression turned displeased. “Jóra has received many marriage offers, thus far.” He signaled to one of his men and added, “She will make a suitable bride to one of my loyal warriors. I have seen to it.”
Aisling didn’t miss the way Tharand’s hand moved toward the handle of his battle-ax. Grim lines settled upon his mouth. “I am honored by your care for her, sire. But I have come to bring her home.” He drew Aisling forward and added, “And in return for your generosity, I have brought you a gift. This Irish slave, who was once daughter to a chieftain.”
Fear bolted in her stomach as Tharand released her into the king’s custody. His eyes remained locked upon Magnus, as though she didn’t exist, nor matter to anyone.
Her discomfort multiplied, for fear that he’d broken his promise. Perhaps he had lied, accepting her embrace without caring anything about her.
The memory of last night res
onated within her. Dear God, what had she done?
A slight smile played upon the king’s mouth. Aisling found it hard to look at him, but worst of all was Tharand. His stony expression was that of a mercenary.
Moments later, a young girl with fair, braided hair appeared within the hall. She wore a blue silk gown, with golden brooches clipping the overdress to her shoulders. It had to be Jóra, from the way Tharand’s tension dissipated.
Aisling had no time to think upon it, for two soldiers dragged her forward. One gripped her by the hair, while the other held fast to her arm.
Tharand didn’t react, and his denial hurt worse than any physical pain.
You were wrong about him. He said only what you wanted to hear.
Aisling bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. As the soldiers dragged her forward, she stumbled upon the dais.
King Magnus studied her. He reached out to touch her arm, then cupped her face. Heat rose up in her cheeks, but she didn’t move. The taste of betrayal soured her mouth.
The king shrugged. “I’ve seen more interesting slaves.” With a nod of his head, he ordered his men to take her. Tharand didn’t even glance in her direction.
Her lungs tightened, her eyes stinging with tears she could not cry. He’d used her. Taken her body without any intention of helping her. And now she would become the Norse king’s prisoner.
“Jóra will remain here until I have seen to her marriage,” the king added. Though Tharand bowed in reticence, the gesture was stiff.
Before she could respond, the men took her outside the hall, toward one of the longhouses. Lust gleamed in their expressions.
And still, Tharand did not come.
She closed her eyes, preparing herself for the fight to come. No man would violate her. She would die before letting it happen.
Inside the longhouse, the first man tore at her gown, his hand groping her breast. Aisling wrenched her hands free of the ropes and reached for her knife. With a sudden slash, she drew blood across the man’s arm.
“Don’t,” she warned in the Norse language. “I am not yours.”
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 27
