He stared at her, his gaze green fire, hotter, somehow, than the red flames in the stove beside her. And then he blinked.
"What?" she demanded. "Say it."
He waved a hand. "It's nothing."
"Don't lie to me, please. Not now. Now I really need you to help me to understand."
He glanced away.
"Look at me. Please…"
He dragged in a breath. "It's only… Someone else said something similar to me recently—that you were not a woman who sought safety, that I would have to learn to accept you as you are."
"Someone else?"
But he only looked at her.
It must have been Valbrand who said it, she thought. The idea pleased her, that while her brother hardly knew her, he understood her so well.
And if Valbrand had been the one, Eric wasn't going to tell her so. She let it go and moved on. "You've taken chances—chances that anyone might call insane. Remember, in the camp of the kvina soldars? If what you did—walking right into that camp when you knew they might kill you for it—if that wasn't reckless, I don't know what is."
"That risk was well calculated. I knew you were there, knew you would claim me and knew the warrior women to be honorable."
"The risk we took today was calculated, too. And you can't deny that it worked. It gave us information we badly needed. I would do it again in a heartbeat—and I think you have to get used to the fact that I'm going to keep on doing what I have to do."
"No," he said, closing the distance between them in two long strides and grabbing her hard by the shoulders.
His fingers dug into her healing wound. She cried out at the sharp stab of pain.
He let go—but only to grab her again, by the arms. The shawl slid to the floor. "I will never get used to it, not if the price could be your life. You almost died today." He spoke low and furiously, his twisted face inches from hers. "That NIB bastard son of a fitz could have killed you." She saw the murder in those burning green eyes.
And the blazing desire.
"Oh, Eric," she whispered. "When will you see? The rules have to be the same for both of us. Or it's no good."
He released her and stepped back. She watched the bright fury drain from his eyes, leaving them suddenly lightless. Dull. "There is no point in this talk. It goes in circles, leading us nowhere. And you leave tomorrow."
"Come with me." The words were out almost before she knew she would say them.
His answer was just what she expected. "It's not possible."
"Why not?"
"You know why not."
She stared at him. It was the closest he'd ever come to admitting that Valbrand lived. "Because of my brother, right? Because he—"
"I cannot speak of it." He put up a hand. "Please. Let it go."
Let it go?
She made a scoffing sound. He should know by now that letting it go was just not her style.
He had to get it through his thick head. Time was running out. They couldn't afford to hang around in the wilds anymore. There were traitors to deal with, a kingdom to save. They needed to go, the three of them, united, to the south. Every day they put off facing their enemies only made their enemies stronger.
It was all there, on the tip of her tongue, what he needed to hear, what she had to say.
And then, in a flash of blinding insight, she saw all her righteous arguments for what they really were: cruel taunts, and no more.
Why torment him when she could see the anguish in his now-lightless eyes? Why goad him when at last she understood that she wouldn't be saying anything he didn't already know?
"All right." She spoke softly. "I'll let it go." She crouched to snare the fallen shawl and then stood to her height again, the shawl trailing from her fingers. "I'll just…" She met his eyes again and forgot what she'd been meaning to say.
She was … captured.
By the sight of him, so tall and proud, his ash-brown hair shining in the lamplight, his mouth a bleak line, his jade eyes shadowed and infinitely sad.
She whispered the truth that lay waiting in her heart. "I … oh, God. I will miss you."
A ridiculous flush crept up her cheeks—she could feel it, burning red. Oh, now why had she said that?
Now he would get macho on her again. He'd bark out some surly command: Then stay or Don't go.
But he only whispered, "As I will miss you."
His stark and gentle words blasted through all her defenses. She heard herself say way too dreamily, "I wish—"
He shook his head before she could get out the rest, the sweetest, most tender of smiles curving the bleak mouth to softness. "Remember, I am but a man. If you tell me your wishes, I will only strive to make them come true."
Astonishing. All their battles, his constant refusal to accept her as she was, and yet at that moment he knew her better than she knew herself. He understood before she did that her wishes and their fulfillment had to be up to her. Well, mostly…
All at once she felt absurdly shy, couldn't even make herself look at him. She stared down at the red knit toes of her socks and didn't know if she dared to raise her eyes again to his. Finally she managed it, though in a shamelessly girly way, glancing up at him from under her lashes. "There is one wish that you could, uh, help me with."
He knew that, too. He understood. She heard it in the quick, indrawn rush of his breath, saw it in the sudden hot light that shone from his eyes. "You're certain?"
She swallowed, nodded. "Even if I can't … be what you want me to be, I've got to have your arms around me. I can't just go away from you tomorrow without…" She let out a small moan. Where were the right words when she really needed them? She dragged the shawl upward, clutched it to her breasts. "Oh, please, Eric. At least for tonight?"
He looked so gorgeously, infinitely regretful. "I am Gullandrian."
No kidding. She gulped. "And that means…?"
"No child of mine will be born a fitz. And I have nothing to protect you from pregnancy. Are you saying that you do?"
Well, as a matter of fact she didn't. She'd come to the Vildelund prepared for action—just not this kind. "Sorry," she muttered, feeling silly and sheepish, "but I don't."
"Then I would want your vow first. Should there be a child from this, you will become my wife."
Her first response was suspicion. Was this a setup? She got pregnant and they got married, as he'd been insisting they were going to do for days now?
No. It didn't add up. If he'd wanted to pull something like that, he would have let nature take its course in Rinda's tent—not to mention in the cave last night, while they waited out the storm. She'd hardly been a shy, blushing flower either time.
Uh-uh. This was no trick. It was only Eric being Eric. Honorable and straightforward … well, at least, about the two of them.
He was offering her the clear chance to back out. If she had any sense at all, she'd take it.
And tomorrow would come and she would go back to the palace. With traitors lurking everywhere, anything could happen. The possibility was achingly real that they would never see each other again—at least, not alive.
Sometimes you just had to go for the old carpe diem—or maybe, in this case, it was the night getting seized.
She clutched the shawl all the tighter, a regular Linus response. Next, she'd be sucking her thumb. "Ahem, well. It just occurred to me…" He waited. He wasn't going to help her out at all with this. He was letting it be completely her choice. Big of him. "I mean, well, I guess I have to admit it. Who else would I marry—if I ever do get married—but you?"
He didn't look particularly impressed with her stammered, astonishingly wimpy admission. "No buts," he said. "No ifs. I want your word that, should you become pregnant, you will be my wife."
She had to hand it to him. The guy had no trouble making his position crystal clear.
The least she could do was stand up tall and tell him straight out what she was willing to do. She pulled back her shoulders and dropped he
r arms to her sides, letting the shawl trail again to the floor. "All right. We're agreed. If I become pregnant, we'll get married."
"You will contact me immediately. We'll be married as soon as I can arrange to come to you."
"Okay. All right. If I get pregnant, we'll get married right away." She still held the shawl by a corner. She let it drop. "So … what do you say?"
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
« ^ »
Eric led her to his furs.
They undressed quickly, not quite daring to look at each other, tearing off their clothes and tossing them aside, as if they both feared any hesitation might mean the other would think twice about the wisdom of their actions.
But somehow they made it out of their clothes and, in a scurrying flash of bare flesh and goose bumps, beneath the soft furs.
The bed was narrow, only a smidgen wider than a single. Brit, on the inside, scooted over as close as she could to the rough-hewn wall. She stared at the whirling patterns in the wood and shivered, wondering—though she'd all but begged for this—if it was, after all, a bad idea.
Things weren't really right between them.
And Asta could walk in on them at any time…
Then Eric whispered, so tenderly, "Your sweet body speaks of second thoughts."
She gulped. "Well, yeah." She realized she'd just said that to the wall. She turned her head and there he was—just inches away, smelling of soap and manliness. Looking good enough to eat. She cleared her throat and hated the sound. She'd been doing it so much lately. "Uh, well, we were fighting each other, all day. And we don't know what will happen tomorrow. And now we're here and I…" She didn't know how to finish.
He didn't seem to mind, didn't seem to need her to finish. He canted up on an elbow and gazed down at her, the furs falling away a little. The silver chain slipped to the side, and the medallion dangled along the flexed muscle of his bracing arm, catching somehow a random ray of light and gleaming.
Medwyn had promised the medallion would keep her safe. She sent up a silent prayer that the wise old man had told her the truth when he said that. If the one who wore it was protected, then it would keep Eric safe.
Oh, please, God. Whatever happens, won't you keep this man safe?
Eric touched her forehead—so warm, so right, whenever he touched her—and traced the line of her hair as it fell along her temple and back against the furs. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Shall I put out the light?"
"No." She forced a smile for him. "It's not the light."
"Then…?"
"Eric…?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever happens…"
He bent close, brushed a kiss at her temple, at the spot where the faintest bruise still remained—where she'd hit her head and been knocked out cold the day her plane went down.
He kissed the tip of her nose, brushed his mouth, too briefly, across her waiting lips.
And she gave him the impossible truth, the one she hadn't known fully until just that moment. "Eric. I love you. I will love you, always. No matter what."
He lifted away—a fraction. And he whispered, "As I love you."
Equal parts joy and sadness swirled through her. She would do what she had to do. But this moment, right now, beneath his furs, naked beside him, their bodies not quite touching, yet still sharing warmth… Her words of love—and his given back to her—no one and nothing could take this away.
He pushed the furs away a fraction. She felt his gaze on her, moving, hungry and tender, along her neck and lower. He bent his head to her left shoulder and pressed a kiss, gentle, lingering, on the white bandage, right over the wound.
With the touch of his lips there, at the warmth of his breath through the white gauze, her sadness vanished.
There was only joy.
She freed her arm from the prison of fur and laid her hand on the warm, hard curve of his shoulder, pulling him closer, moaning a little as his body touched hers, all the way down, in one branding caress.
He had that leather strip tying back his hair. She took it and slipped it off and the silken strands trailed to her shoulder, brushed at her breasts. She let go of the leather strip, had not a care where it fell. He kissed his way along the curve of her collarbone, licked a trail up her throat, over her chin to her waiting mouth.
His tongue dipped in. She drew on it as the medallion pressed itself, warm and heavy, against her upper chest.
He touched her as he kissed her, his hand moving along her eager flesh, leaving waves of longing and delight in its wake. He stroked her arm, learned the shape of each rib, the inward curve of her waist, the swell of her hip…
And lower…
He brushed the side of her thigh.
And then he wrapped his arm around her and rolled until she was on top and he lay beneath her, still kissing her, his lean body a cradle for hers.
She felt him, the hardness of him, pressed at the cove where her thighs joined. It was the most natural thing, to spread her legs and brace her knees to the furs on either side of him.
He groaned into her mouth. And they both went still. She lifted her mouth from his and looked down at him, at his flushed, yearning face, at his eyes, gray-green now as a stormy sea.
She whispered his name. He took her hips and levered her upward, seeking her breast.
He captured it in that tender mouth and drew on the nipple. She felt the wonderful, shimmering shock of connection, as if a thread of sensation pulsed between her breast and her womb. She moaned as his fingers slid over her belly and combed through the curls between her spread thighs.
He found her, long fingers sliding along the wet folds and then entering her. She gasped and then she shuddered. His fingers stroked, so slowly, in and out. The fleshy pad at the base of his palm rubbed knowingly at the center of her pleasure.
She was so wet and so eager. She moaned and moved in a liquid slide against his rubbing hand, at first holding her breast to his mouth and then, unable to go another second without kissing him, bending her legs a little more, taking her breast from him so she could have his mouth pressed to hers.
Another kiss. Endless. Wet. Seeking…
His hand went on stroking, sending waves of pleasure shivering through her.
Until she could bear it no longer.
She reached down and found him and guided him home.
There was a low, guttural moan. His? Hers? Who could tell? The rough, hungry sound echoed in her head. His tongue stroked the wet surfaces beyond her lips.
She lowered herself onto him, inch by slow, delicious inch.
When at last she had him fully, she stilled, her legs folded beneath her, her body holding him, hard and deep. She pushed at his shoulders.
He held her tightly, at first. And then, with clear reluctance, he surrendered. Let her go.
She threw back the sheltering furs and rose above him. He opened his eyes and looked up at her.
"Fearless one," he whispered, the sound ragged and needful and a little bit angry.
She put her fingers against his mouth—to silence him? Maybe.
Or maybe just to feel the hot scrape of his tongue against her fingerpads. She moaned. He sucked her fingers into his mouth, his hips pressing up, as if he couldn't get far enough, deep enough, inside her.
Oh, she could not bear it. She had to move…
She pulled her fingers, dragging, wet, from his mouth, and braced her hands on his shoulders. The medallion had fallen to the side of his neck. It lay, facedown, gleaming, on the furs.
She shut her eyes against it and she began to rock her hips.
They both moaned then. There were hard sighs and soft cries. His strong arms came up and closed around her.
She gave in to him, let him guide her to the side—somehow, he managed it so they remained joined. They faced each other, her outer leg draped over him. He pushed in hard.
She threw back her head and groaned.
He chuckled then—a hot, knowing sound that sli
d along her nerve endings, striking sparks as it went. She dragged her head back so she could glare at him.
And then she was smiling, too.
And then she couldn't smile. She couldn't glare. Her eyes drooped shut and her lips went slack. She could only moan and sigh.
He took her by the nape and pulled her mouth to his and rolled her the rest of the way until she was under him and he was rocking into her and she didn't care … who was up, who was down.
It was all one, a river of joy and sensation, flowing from him into her and pulsing back again.
She cried out at the finish and he called her name.
There was a silence like snow drifting softly down, a luxurious feeling of floating on air. She was, for that moment, exactly where she wanted to be.
He cradled her close and she snuggled against him.
They were one, as it ought to be.
As it might never be again.
* * *
At the hour when the night is darkest, not long before dawn, Asta at last returned to her longhouse. She had her heaviest shawl wrapped tightly around her, yet still she shivered with the cold. Her breath came out as a cloud.
Her steps were heavy with weariness—but her heart was light. A new baby—a girl—was born and cradled in the loving arms of her exhausted mother.
And Brokk—a good boy, that one—had brought the news that Eric and Brit had returned safe and sound.
Asta saw the light gleaming through the narrow slits of the high windows as she trudged up to the door. Were the young people still awake, then? She frowned.
Perhaps having some kind of argument?
They were at odds far too often, in Asta's opinion. Life was so much shorter than the young could ever realize. Young people grabbed every day—and sometimes each other—by the throat.
Of course, it was clear as fresh springwater that Eric loved Brit and the king's willful daughter loved him back. Still, they had to fight about it, worry their love between them like two greedy dogs with a single bone.
Yes, there were real impediments to their happiness. Brit knew the false story of Valbrand's death for the lie it was. And Eric—like Asta herself—was sworn to vouch for the lie at every turn. It didn't make for trust or easy communication.
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