"Okay. I take him to my tent…"
"And then—" Rinda's grin widened "—you have your way with him."
"My way?"
Rinda laughed. "You do take my meaning. I see it in your eyes."
Brit sighed. "And after I have my way with him?"
"Then you may keep him for as many as seven nights, though I suppose, in your case, it would only be the one night, as tomorrow you are leaving us. If you are pleased with his performance, it is the custom that you let him go." Rinda's grin got wider. "If he doesn't please you, you can offer him to another of us. Or simply kill him for being useless as a lover."
Bizarre. "And what if I don't claim him?"
"Well then, if no one else wants him, we'll kill him right, now."
"You're not serious."
No one said anything. Ragnild looked determined. Rinda continued to look way too amused. The bloodthirsty children watched with wide, eager eyes. And Eric simply waited, his angular face a patient mask. As if it made no difference to him whether she took him or the warrior women stabbed him in the heart.
Finally Ragnild asked somberly, "Cousin to only daughter, will you claim this man?"
The choices were severely limited. "Okay, all right. I claim this man."
* * *
Chapter Eight
« ^ »
"What are you, nuts?" Brit demanded. "I really think they might have killed you." They were alone in the tent Grid and Rinda had given them for their supposed night of sexual delights.
Eric stood over the low central fire, warming his hands. Firelight glinted off his clubbed-back hair, bringing out bronze gleams in the ash-brown strands. "No harm is done, for you have saved me."
Was he smiling? Brit swore, a very bad swear word. "You have blood on your neck."
"And you have a new bruise on your cheek."
Lightly she touched the swollen spot where Grid's knuckles had struck. "I spoke when not spoken to."
"A good thing you don't receive a blow every time you do that."
"Chuckle, chuckle."
He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his shearling coat and wiped until only a faint smear remained. "Better?" He stuck the cloth back in his pocket.
"Not particularly. How can you stand there and grin? That was stupid, what you did. Those women out there take their beliefs seriously."
"I had complete faith in you."
"What if I wasn't here, what if I hadn't come back to the camp, for some reason? What if I had refused to claim you?"
"But you were here. You did come back … and you have claimed me." That haunting deep-set gaze was on her.
She felt her skin grow warmer, felt the hungry shiver sliding through her. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"You know what. That … look. You give me that look and I get all…" She let the sentence die unfinished, since she was getting herself deeper in trouble with every word.
He showed no mercy. "You get 'all' what?"
"Just … don't, okay?"
"Don't…?"
She flung out both hands. "Don't give me the bedroom eyes. Don't get … ideas."
"Bedroom eyes? You Americans. Such amusing figures of speech." He took something from another pocket, then shrugged out of the coat and tossed it on the pallet that lay against the side of the tent, to his left. His leather shirt was the same one he'd been wearing that morning. It had lacings at the neck. She could see a slice of firm, smooth chest.
And a few links of silver chain, shining. "I see you found your medallion."
"Would you like it back now?"
"Uh. No, I would not."
He circled the fire and came toward her. She debated: shrink back or stand proud?
As usual, before she made a choice, there he was. Right in front of her, mesmerizing eyes and broad shoulders filling the world. "Give me your hand."
"I said I don't want the medallion."
"I have something else of yours."
She should probably take issue with the word else. Then again, better not to belabor a point made far too many times already. She settled for a sneering curl to her lip and a surly, "What?"
He simply waited.
"Oh, all right." Grudgingly she held out her hand.
He cradled her palm, his hand warm and firm around the back of hers.
The problem was, she did like it. When he touched her. She gloried in the shivery feelings he aroused, though she kept trying to tell herself she shouldn't, that her obvious response to him only egged him on when it was absolutely paramount that she keep him at a distance.
Carefully, so as not to spill them, he laid a pile of peanut M&Ms in her cupped hand.
She looked down at them and back up at him. He was smiling again. And so was she—now. It was just too rich. "Pretty good, huh?"
"You are a woman of greatest resourcefulness."
"That I am."
"Not that I wouldn't have found you without the bright-colored trail you left for me. I would find you anywhere."
"Oh, I'll bet."
The fire behind him crackled cheerily. Thin gray curls of smoke drifted up through the tent hole above. Outside, faintly, she could hear the sounds of the women of the camp as they prepared to settle in for the night. A woman called for a child and a thin voice answered, "Coming, Mama!" Brit stared at Eric and he stared back at her and they smiled at each other like a couple of fools.
"I was curious," he said. "I ate one."
"Did you like it?"
"It was excellent. That smooth outer shell, the silky, melting ball of chocolate, the crunch of the nut within…"
He had it exactly. She confessed, though it was the last thing she ought to be telling him, "I like to suck them. Slowly."
He whispered, his voice rubbing, velvet soft, along her every nerve, "Show me."
She made herself frown. "Oh, puh-lease. They've been on the ground."
"So fastidious…"
"That's me." She was thinking of that big plate of night crawlers in blood balls she'd lapped up that time on Fear Factor. Fastidious. Oh, yeah. Fershure. At least when she could afford to be.
She noticed that he was bending his head.
And yes, it was true. She was lifting hers.
Their lips met.
Well, what do you know?
She was doing it. Kissing Eric, though she knew she shouldn't.
Okay, all right. It was a problem she had. Just ask her mother. There was always what she should be doing: college, finishing one of her novels, stuff like that. And the various dangerous activities that tempted her: to learn to fly, to earn a black belt, to explore what was left of the world's wildernesses, the kinds of places where if you didn't know what you were doing, you could end up dead.
Oscar Wilde had said it best: "I can resist everything except temptation…"
You go, Oscar!
His mouth to hers … so lightly. Just brushing. And what a mouth it was. Exactly as she'd imagined it, velvety soft as his voice could be.
He spoke between those brushing kisses. "My dreams. At last. Coming true."
She pulled back. "Don't get your hopes up. It was only a—"
He silenced her by taking her mouth again. She let him do it.
Only a kiss, she promised herself. It's only a bone-melting, sweet, tender kiss… Oh, and it was … all that.
Really, she had to be honest—at least, with herself. He was … all that.
His lips settled in, covering the whole of her mouth. She heard an eager, needful sound—a sound that came from her own throat. And her mouth was opening—just a little, she promised herself. Only enough to let in the wonderful moist heat of his breath.
But then, what do you know? His tongue came in, too. And she didn't close her lips against it. In fact, she slid her own tongue beneath his. Oh, my, yes.
Their tongues sparred and slid, up and over each other. His retreated.
Hers followed. Into the wet cave beyond those beautiful, tempting, velve
t-soft lips.
Chaka-boom, she was going.
Going, going…
Gone.
With a hungry cry, she grabbed for him, wincing a little as her hurt shoulder complained. She slid her eager hands up over his hard chest, his strong shoulders, until she had him around the neck, until her body was pressed to his, her breasts to his chest, her hips just below his. Against her belly she could feel his desire. Heaven, that hard ridge. At the center of herself, she was warming, softening, hollowing out. Melting like the chocolate beneath the outer shell of an M&M, the sweetness spreading…
She opened her hand. The candies rolled down his back and hit the dirt floor with soft plopping sounds.
He chuckled at that.
She pulled back enough to grant him a mock scowl. "You know we shouldn't be doing this."
He laid a finger against her mouth. "No. You have it wrong. We must do this. I must please you. Or you'll have to kill me."
She stuck out her tongue and licked that finger of his—it tasted salty and a little bit dusty. Altogether lovely.
Fastidious? Brit Thorson? Not right this minute…
She felt his low groan as it rose from his chest. Delicious. Perfect.
No, she would not marry him, no matter what the fates predicted. But this…
How could she turn away from this?
He brought up his other hand and cradled her face in his warm, cherishing palms. His eyes looked into hers. She was falling. Down and down…
"You have claimed me. You shall have me."
Oh, well. All right.
But then again…
"I have an idea." Her voice came out husky, hungry, low.
"Share it."
"How 'bout we don't? And just say we did."
He only shook his head at that, his eyes so deep, his mouth swollen with kissing.
Crazy, she told herself. Way, way insane.
A leather strip held back his hair—another temptation, more of the only thing she couldn't resist. She took that strip and pulled. It slid away. His hair fell loose around his shoulders. She let the bit of leather drop, down there to the dirt, with the scattered M&Ms. She combed her fingers through the strands—so silky, alive with the warmth of him.
"You don't need this coat," he said.
She didn't argue. She let him push it from her shoulders and toss it to the pallet where his own coat lay.
He gathered her close again, enfolding her in those lean, strong arms. And he kissed her, his tongue pushing in, finding hers waiting. To welcome him.
To play…
He had her sweater by the sides. He raised it, fingers trailing over the bumpy fabric of her thermal shirt, thrilling her with the simple pressure of his touch. The kiss was interrupted as he pulled the sweater over her head. She lifted her arms straight up too fast.
A small cry of pain got away from her.
He tossed the sweater away, his brows drawing together. "Your wound…?"
"No. Nothing. It's…"
But he was bending close again, pressing his lips to her shirt, right over the bandage that covered the place where the arrow had struck. He blew out a breath. She felt it through the layers of cloth and the bandage. It was lovely. Warm and moist. So tender. So soothing.
So right…
She cradled his head against her shoulder and stroked his hair. "Oh, Eric…"
He pulled back and took her by the arms. And he looked into her eyes, deeply. For an endless span of time.
She shook herself. Really, she had to clarify things a little. "This doesn't mean—"
"Shh." His finger sealed her lips again. "Explanations are for strangers. We are not strangers. We never were that." She put her hands flat against his chest. She had a thousand things to say. But they all kept flying away. His eyes were so deep. They went down and down forever. "I assume nothing. You needn't fear."
He did assume. She could see it there. Shining in his spruce-green eyes.
But—right then, did she care?
Uh-uh.
He was holding her. He wanted her, and, oh, she did want him, want his hard body against hers, his strong arms around her. For this night, in her cousin's tent, in the camp of the kvina soldars.
It was not such an easy thing, this quest of hers. Mostly it seemed she was getting nowhere—except in trouble. And in one sense, he was her adversary, keeping from her what she needed to know.
But in another, deeper way she truly did feel bound to him. Beyond being adversaries, they were also comrades. He would fight at her side if it came to that. He would willingly lay down his life for hers.
And as she looked up at him, she knew she would do the same for him.
It was a bond between them. A powerful one. Wherever this all might lead in the end, it would be an honest thing, to be with him tonight.
She felt the smile of acceptance curve her lips.
In response he whispered her name. "Brit…"
She took the sides of his shirt and gathered the soft leather, sliding it upward, fingers skimming the firm, hot flesh along his ribs, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it in the corner with the rest of their things.
His smooth bare chest gleamed in the darkness. And there was the medallion…
The sight of it—of the twining serpent, the four mystic animal faces, the cloverleaf cross at the center—took the shivery, sexual moment and twisted it. Ruined it.
She turned her head away.
He caught her chin, guided her back. "Look. Know. It is there for you when you want it. And only then." She pushed at his chest—regretfully. But firmly. He dropped his hands to his sides.
They stared at each other, inches—and now suddenly, miles—apart. They were both breathing heavily.
"I can't do it," she said at last. "It just wouldn't be right."
He cocked an eyebrow at her. "And so, when the warrior women learn I have failed to please you, I die."
Like she could let him get away with that one. "Oh, please. You know that is so not going to happen."
"But I must—"
"Please me? That's right. And you have. Thoroughly. End of problem."
"I'd like to do more." He looked so sincere. And so devastatingly sexy. Damn him.
She shrugged, the gesture cool—everything she wasn't inside. "Get over it."
"So much bravado. Strange how it suits you."
"Bravado? This is not bravado. This is me. Trying, against all odds, to get through to you."
"And I have heard you. No more pleasuring. Not tonight."
"Not tonight, not ever."
"Ah," he said, as if he understood. But he didn't. He was absolutely certain tonight had been only the beginning of the pleasuring they'd share. He didn't believe for a moment that she meant what she said.
And how could she expect him to? She didn't believe it herself.
She pointed at the pallet where their things were piled. "You can sleep there. I'll take the other one."
"I am yours to command."
Oh, yeah, right. "Go to bed then."
"As you wish, so shall it ever be."
* * *
The hawk dropped from the sky. Its eyes were dragon eyes, burning red. Flames shot from its beak, searing all in its path. She put up her arms to shield her face and a single cry escaped her.
Brit woke sitting up, arms across her eyes. Slowly she lowered them.
The fire was down to a low glow of coals. Her pallet was a mess, the furs and blankets wrinkled and lumped up beneath her.
And Eric was awake, lying on his side, his head propped on a hand … watching her. The medallion hung to the side. His gorgeous chest gleamed at her. His blankets were down to his waist. She'd made a concentrated effort not to look as he got ready for bed. And now, she couldn't help but wonder…
If those blankets slipped a little lower, would she get a view of what she'd felt against her belly earlier?
She jerked her gaze—and her thoughts—away from where they had no business
going.
His eyes were waiting, way too alert, unsettlingly aware. "Bad dream?"
She grunted. It was answer enough. And then she concentrated on straightening her bedding. At first, she tried to do it without getting up. She only made things worse.
"Allow me to help you with that."
"No, thanks." At least she'd had the sense—unlike some people—to keep everything but her boots on when she crawled beneath the blankets. She was showing him nothing as she stumbled to her feet and tugged on the heavy pallet until it was reasonably smooth again.
She was just about to slide back in, where it was warm, when he said with infuriating good humor, "Always such an angry sleeper."
She shot him a look. Always, he'd said. That meant he must have watched her sleep, at Asta's house…
"Not angry. Restless." She lifted the covers, got under them and settled them over herself. "Good night." She shut her eyes.
"Brit?"
Outside somewhere an owl asked "Who, who, who," as she considered not responding. But in the end, she gave in and muttered, "What?"
"The blond warrior woman, the one called Rinda…"
"What about her?"
"She called you 'cousin.'"
"Because I am."
He was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, "She looks like you."
Brit stared through the smoke hole above. The night sky was cloudy, a deep grayness, hiding the stars. "She's the image of my mother at twenty-five or so."
Eric made a low noise in his throat. "I have it. Brian the Blackhearted…"
Brit felt a funny little sadness, a heaviness near her heart. "They called my uncle that?"
"They did. And he was."
"Blackhearted…"
"Yes. And was he Rinda's father?"
She could see no reason—beyond a petty desire to goad him—to keep what she knew to herself. "Yes. He raped Ragnild."
"Ah," he said, as if that explained everything. And really, it probably did. "So Ragnild wished to meet .you."
"That's right." She believes that I'll someday be queen, she thought. But she didn't say it. Many, after all, believed that Eric would one day be king. If Brit were to be queen, then that would mean…
No. Better not even go there. And besides. Since Valbrand lived, he would most likely be the next king, once all this confusion got straightened out. No way Valbrand would be marrying his little sister. Even in Gullandria, they weren't into stuff like that.
The Marriage Medallion Page 8
