by Sandra Lake
Sun-scorched, Lothair awoke to the sting of taut skin, a stiff neck, and the sore jaw that the lumberman had gifted him. He collected Homer, who was grazing farther up the riverbank, and led him the short walk home to the stable.
The fields and yards were nearly empty. Lothair had sent his mother to spend the summer with Margery and her growing family. Only a handful of servants remained in Hanseatz.
The solitude had been welcome, offering him time to be quiet and think. He had a world of opportunities—political advancement with his father’s continued support, military postings open for glory serving the Holy Roman Empire. Or he could pursue his own path—establish a group of traders and merchants, an independent legion of defenders of the Baltic Sea, a security force for freemen. The more prosperous the ports of Lubeck, Turku, and Tronscar became, the more stable and peaceful the region would become as a whole. Jarl Magnus had listened to him last winter and had offered his pointed advice and input.
And yet all he really wanted to do was sail north and court a certain iron princess, petition her for an audience, and wait for her to come down the stairs and hear him out.
Lightness lifted his heart, and the aching in his head lessened. He had decided. He brushed his horse, collected his gear, and made his way to the side entrance of the kitchen. He needed ale and then a good night’s sleep.
Smoke billowed out the open kitchen door—strange, since he had no household staff for the next few days.
He wiped his boots on the iron bar outside the entrance and ducked inside to see a flustered maid pulling a burnt pie out of the brick oven. Cursing, she fanned the smoke away from the carnage.
“It’s fine. A little cream and it will be fine,” she said to herself.
“A little cream or a good bottle of brandy, ma’am. Solves all the world’s problems.” Lothair flopped down on a chair, reached for a pitcher of water in the middle of the table, poured himself a drink, and then leaned back, watching the chaos. “I thought Mistress Isa gave you all a week’s leave to visit your families?”
The maid froze her flustered motioning and slowly turned. “Hell’s bells, you frightened me. What are you doing here?”
Lothair waved his arms out to the side to keep from toppling backward. “What am I doing here? This is my home!” he said. This was a surprise attack. He forced his breathing to slow. She was here and she was nervous, meaning she had to want something from him. He would not allow her ambush to take away his advantage over her.
“Again, what are you doing here, Kat?”
“Obviously I’m baking a pie and making dinner. The housekeeper is visiting her sister in Garum.” She perched her hand on her hip, trying to act natural but failing miserably.
“Baking?” Lothair crossed the kitchen to inspect the charred brick of a pie.
“Well, it looks easier than it really is, you know. Tosh just makes everything wifely seem easy, but it is not,” she said. Her words were a rush of chatter, as they always were when she got nervous, but Lothair’s ears were stuck on only one word: wifely. “It turns out being a wife is very, very hard and it may take some training or at least adjusting. Oh, damn, the roast.” She tore off across the kitchen, cursing all the way, burning her hand removing the meat from the spit.
Lothair felt like he was walking in quicksand. She had come home—dear God, she had come home to be his wife. He walked over to examine her latest piece of blackened cookery. She hacked and sawed at the small round lump.
“Good, the inside is salvageable. Do you care for lamb, Lothair?” she asked, keeping her eyes on her task.
“How can you be certain that it is lamb?” He gazed down at her. She wore a flimsy, pale pink linen gown. Her hair was arranged in a careful collection of smart braids, with a lace cap pinned on top. She looked nothing like her normal self. Usually she preferred practical leather and armor. The woman before him had a tight corset, her bosom proudly on display, and mouthwateringly tempting. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of her kitchen fires, and a small amount of perspiration had collected at the base of her throat. She looked well—better than well. She had gained a small amount of weight back, and she resembled the young maid he had met five summers ago in Tronscar. She had been nothing more than a wisp of a girl back then, with all the fire and brimstone of hell housed just below the surface.
His mind still did not fully accept what his eyes were gazing upon. Katia had come back to him. He thought his heart would burst.
Stepping closer behind her, Lothair caged her between his hips and the counter. He swept aside the silky strands of hair that had escaped from her braids and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, igniting in him the instant need for more. He did not know why she was here, or for how long; a part of him didn’t care. She was here now and he had dreamed of what he would do if given the chance to hold her again.
Katia was still rightly his wife as far as Lothair was aware. The jarl had never sent the documents to petition the church for an annulment. He tasted her damp flesh again, and his hands went to her hips as he pressed against her lush backside. He pushed her gently forward into the counter and she sighed as he continued to kiss her neck, rolling her head over to the side and offering him more area for his mouth to travel across. The small, surrendering gesture shredded the tether of Lothair’s restraint.
***
His right hand came over her shoulder, plunging down the top of her gown, and grasped her breast. He rolled her nipple ruthlessly in his powerful grip and she gasped with the sudden intensity. Her knees buckled, making her collapse forward onto the counter.
Clearly he was not in the mood to be gentle. Thank God.
Lothair’s hand pulled at the fabric of her gown, not stopping until he reached the apex of her legs. Holding her possessively, his palm claimed her, pressing on her center without mercy.
His touch was punishing, possessive, and everything she’d ever wanted. In chorus, he toyed with her nipple, pressed his erection into her backside, and rubbed his palm against her at a frantic pace. The pleasure built until she gasped and cried out.
He pulled his hands away, leaving her breast cold and exposed. As her mind returned to earth, she thought to protest, but he had released her only long enough to free himself from his trousers. Before she could take in her next breath, he was bending her over. Her hips pressed sharply against the edge of the counter and he entered her roughly from behind, His fingers dug into her hipbone as he slammed into her over and over again. It felt wicked and dangerous and perfect.
“Yes,” was all she could say. She was enslaved by this intoxicating pleasure. Her mind went blank, her body humming, more, harder, faster.
“What am I to you, Katia?” Lothair growled, never slowing his rhythm.
“You are my . . .” she gasped, unable to catch her breath.
“What am I to you?” He hammered into her harder, more frenzied. She was so close—just one more and she would come apart. He slammed in again, hard.
She screamed out in sweet, climatic agony of it all. “Lothair!”
“You. Are. Mine,” he snarled. This was a Lothair she had never known, but the one she always knew existed—the proud, passionate, dangerous protector. The Lothair she had been attracted to the day they met. He may not have forgiven her, but he did want her, and if she worked hard enough, she was convinced that she could make him happy.
***
Lothair slumped over her back. He wrapped both arms around her and held her, their bodies connected. Was she a ghost?
He couldn’t release her. Out of his arms, she was beyond his control; here like this, she’d have to stay.
“Oh, Lothair, the potatoes!” She wiggled to get free, arousing his member back to stiff life.
“We’ll put cream over them. Cream fixes everything, apparently.” He picked her up and turned her around, landing her bare backside on the counter. He bunche
d her gown up and pulled down the front, groaning at the sight of her supple breasts.
God help him, he had missed the sight of her breasts. He cupped the deliciously soft flesh in his hands and entered her swiftly. She simply touched his cheek, smiled, and made no protest.
***
“Well, you ruined supper.” Katia twirled a lock of Lothair’s wavy hair between her fingers. She lay on the kitchen floor with her husband dozing next to her, resting his sleepy head against her breast.
“You already ruined supper before I arrived,” he said.
“Not ruined . . . well, perhaps it was a little on the dry side. But it was my first baking expedition. I couldn’t get the damn crust in the pan. It kept breaking. It was the most challenging thing I have ever tried to do.”
He snorted. “Solo sailing across the Gulf of Bothnia was not more challenging?” he said dryly.
“That was fun. This wifely business is hard.”
He propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over to kiss her lips. “Is that what the pink frock was about, and the arson in my kitchen? Being wifely?”
She shrugged. “Lothair, I am going to be a terrible wife, but I am determined to improve my baking. I have thrown down the gauntlet. I will conquer a piecrust.”
He burst out laughing. “A buttery maid can make my bread, Kat. Only my wife can sail circles around half the northern fleet.” He kissed her again, savoring her. Pushing himself up off the table, he extended his hand down to her. He righted his trousers and started to brush the flour off her skirts.
“It’s hopeless, Kat. The gown did not survive. Did you bring more wifely frocks or was this my only chance to see you soft and submissive?”
“I can be submissive.” She bit her lip and batted her eyelashes at him.
He laughed from his belly this time. “Submissive! The next thing you are going to tell me is that you’re hanging up your sword for needlework?”
Katia dropped the flirty expression and picked up the overturned chair and sat down. She’d best get this nasty apology business over with. She could not try to sleep another night wondering if he hated her deep inside. Air the ugly bits out and see what can be fixed—that had been her grandmother’s advice. She studied her hands, collecting her thoughts. She had practiced this moment for hours, for days. She must get it right.
“I’m sorry, Lothair.” She braved a glance up to read his eyes. He gave nothing away, but pulled over a chair and sat beside her. “What I did was immeasurably stupid and careless and foolish and—”
“I get the point, Kat,” he said in a kinder tone than she deserved.
“I wanted my life to have purpose and I thought, foolishly, that I could truly save my brother.” She let out a defeated sigh. “But I see now that it was all vanity. Delusions of grandeur, arrogance, overreaching, immodest—”
“Kat, I get it.”
“I was so worried about Urho and his family that I tossed aside loyalty to my own family, loyalty to you. It was so very wrong. So wrong and . . . and I . . . I did not protect your babe. Our babe.” Tears rained down her cheeks, but she would not allow them to halt her apology. “My wretchedness and stupidity killed our child and I completely understand if you never forgive me for that. I will never forgive me for that, but I still need to say I’m sorry.”
“You did not kill our child,” he said in hushed tone. “How long had you known you were increasing?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t know, not till—it is no excuse. I should have. My mother is always increasing. I know the signs, but I just did not—”
“I knew.”
“You couldn’t have. I didn’t.”
“You can navigate your ship by the northern stars but you do not keep track of your monthly courses. You missed them twice, Kat. You lost several meals due to a nervous stomach, which you never had before. Your breasts were more tender when I touched them. I was waiting for you to tell me.” He rubbed her back and gave her time to breathe. His arms circled her and he gently tugged her out of her chair and into his lap. The months of suppressed tears rained onto Lothair’s broad shoulders.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she wept. “I forced you to wed me. I’m sorry for that too. You are just too noble and good a man to ever push me away.”
Lothair did not wipe away her tears, understanding that they needed to be released. “I have my share of failings as a husband. You are, in fact, an immeasurably brave woman, and that frightens the hell out of me. You have a tendency to plow straight ahead with your own plans, but that can only reflect poorly on my management of you.”
She snorted. “Management? When have you ever tried to manage me?”
“My point exactly. A good leader leads his best swordswoman with an air of comrades in arms, not as a dictator. I should have accepted that you do have certain . . . talents for defense and strategy. I should have included you. You would never turn against one of your fellow soldiers, would you?”
She wiped her eyes and looked up, astonished at what he was saying. She shook her head.
“I didn’t think so.” He kissed her temple. “My wife, a soldier through and through. At times I am going to be the leader of this family, Katia, and you will need to trust and rely on me. Other times, I will look to you to take the lead in areas where you excel, but it will all start with trust.”
She nodded and flung her arms around his neck, overwhelmed by what he had said. He wanted her on his team. He still wanted her.
“Oh, Lothair, I am going to make you the very best wife.” She kissed madly across his cheeks and down his neck. “Grandmother was right. ‘Only by joy and sorrow does a person know anything about themselves and their destiny.’ I know you will learn to be the very best husband for me.”
“I will learn?” He pushed her away and arched his brow. She was smiling at him wickedly. “You’re the one that needs the learning.”
“Oh shut up, Lothair, you grouchy lout, you are ruining my reunion.” She beamed with expanding joy.
***
Lothair could not argue with this woman for a second more. He pulled her toward him and kissed her tenderly. “I love you more than life, more than air, more than the sea itself, Katia. I will learn to tame you yet. The effort it will take will be worth the exercise.”
“What! Worth the exercise! Tame me!” She pushed up off his lap and he pulled her back down astride him.
Lothair locked one arm around her waist and the other around her back, holding her in place. She fought, wiggling and straining against him, both passion and mischief in her eyes. “Tame me then, my little iron princess. I challenge you to try,” he whispered against her lips.
She pulled his hair, locking her arm around his shoulders. “Oh, I will tame you. And I believe I will quite enjoy it.”
Sandra Lake is the author of The Warlord’s Wife. She was raised in rural Canada and married her childhood sweetheart (who, like the heroes of her novels, is blond and on occasion shirtless). They are currently living happily-ever-after along with their musical sons and unruly husky.
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