What? Was staring at you naked? Thinking? God, what was she thinking? That she had never known her mother, or father—really. That what was that to this? That was his breeches on the rock there. He shifted uncertainly, wanting to reach them. She couldn’t remember ever wanting anything so much as to stop him.
“Don’t tell me Rat-face is up to more—”
“Rat-face?”
A stupid question. He may be hip deep in water, he was going to reach these breeches first. And she . . . she was never going to get her hands on them thanks to her inability to move her feet, while he waded casually, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, towards the rock.
“Ragmoose, then? You did make some extravagant promises. And claims. Not for the first time either.”
True. But she had never been so fortunate, so blessed in the matter of looks as him, or indeed, so it seemed at times, half the population, Scandinavian or otherwise. Perhaps he was third best, Snotra hadn’t greeted him with the Viking equivalent of salacious whores—male ones—on their wedding night, had she? When she thought about it, she had only ever wanted to be wanted and for someone to understand that. All these petty things she’d done were things she’d wash her hands of if someone did.
“And you are lily white?”
Besides, to save him earlier, she’d have done anything. Told them she was Cleopatra’s Aunt Elizabeth, her Uncle Tom, her nine cats and each of their nine lives. She’d have swallowed the ocean. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it.
“No.” A huff of breath. At least she’d arrested his shadow’s progress across her path towards his breeches. “You’re right there. Actually I’m anything but.” He rubbed his neck, awkwardness invested in every scratch. An awkwardness she couldn’t afford to think of here.
“Well then.”
He tilted his chin. “But I am the one who’s going to have to protect you when they find out just how extravagant these claims are.”
What?
“And they are extravagant.”
“Really?”
Well, didn’t he like to give himself his place? By keeping her in hers. But then he was a man and men liked to have their place. It would be in his breeches in another moment now his shadow lengthened across the rock. She knew by the determination with which he lifted them. Unless she did something to stop him. He drew his brows together.
“That one about the kiss . . .”
“Actually.” She stepped into the water, ignoring the stones that cut her feet and ducked between him and the breeches. “It’s more than a kiss.”
“Malice . . .”
Speaking might make her a coward too. Already the terrifying chill sweeping up her legs was bad enough. So the thought he might believe this was the way to make her go away for good would only undercut her. If that was what she read in his eyes, it was something she couldn’t let herself see. Because she wasn’t going away.
She gripped the sides of his face. Even before she drew his mouth to hers, this felt different. And his body . . . his body needn’t pretend it didn’t want her. Not the hard edges she felt against her. Everything she feared and nothing she denied.
When she thought of last night and that time at his homestead, it had all been so hot and dark, impassioned, and just plain greedy. On both their parts. That the breeches fell from his grasp, this man she’d somehow found across time and space, that his hands cupped her face, his fingers moving over her cheekbones, was all she wanted.
The warmth of his mouth melted her insides, increasing her need. She wound her fingers in his smooth, silky hair. A moan escaped her. One of pure pleasure. And she dragged him closer still. Their ravishing of each other’s mouths was so intense, she’d bobbed from the water, or maybe he’d lifted her, before she knew it and there she was, with her legs wrapped around him.
“Turn around.” His fingertips traced her cheekbones so softly, liquid fire filled her. “First things first.”
Where was her argument? Her quibble? He ran his fingertips over her arms and she dropped her legs and turned. Her gaze fell on the lichened rock. As for what gleamed on top of it . . . she swallowed.
“These stories you told could get you into a lot of trouble.”
He ran his fingers through her hair. The touch was sensual enough to force another moan. Then he slipped them under the collar.
“I know you said the Reindeer was coming back for us, but if we attract the attention of another ship, I’d be better passing you off as my wife.” His rich melting as honey voice washed over her. He grasped the knife. “That’s providing you can stand my lack of finesse.”
Thank God she was leaning on the rock. What gripped her in that second was the desire to melt. The effect of his closeness numbed her mind to everything but his hard maleness. And that hardness was what he wanted her to feel. Her centre tensed. What was this? A mind drugging demonstration of the fact he could hold off? His lips quirked, driving her insane with the need to kiss them. What was he going to do with the collar?
“So you can’t wear this here. A wife wouldn’t.”
Her breath caught. First the tip of his nail, then cold steel worked the edge. For a second the cold flat of the blade moved against her skin then something scraped as if a catch was being released. One she’d never found in weeks of tugging and filing. A splash and her skin breathed. So, in that instant did her lungs. He put the knife back on the rock. What was this? The closest to admitting he shouldn’t have put it on in the first place?
“And what will Snotra say to that?”
“She’s not here is she?” He moved closer, curling his hand around her head. “Anyway.” Deliberately he speared his fingers in her hair, turning her to face him.
“I’m not married to Snotra.”
Not?
She almost died at his touch. The feel of his fingers sweeping her hair back from her forehead. He bent his head. She closed her eyes, her lips meeting his with a sense of shock. This was absolutely the right thing to do and if she opened her eyes again to find herself in London, she’d die. He pulled her closer, taking charge in a way that left her in doubt that this time he meant to prove a point. Desire built, driven by the way his tongue explored her mouth and his fingers her face. Even them he held off.
At last he lifted her. She groaned. Was it any wonder when he also kissed her again? That kiss left her limp against him. The closeness of his eyes held her all the way to the shore and then, when they reached it, down onto the sand.
He had such a beautiful body. Wonderfully honed. Without an inch of superfluous flesh, especially on his stomach wall. If this was just lust would she feel quite this emotional intensity as she trailed her knuckles over it? Perhaps she would? But this was more than that.
She almost wanted to stop him. The expectation was so intense, she longed for him as much as she couldn’t bear for it all to be over. Was that possible? Desire pulsed in every pore. Now he tugged her gown over her head, whether anyone was about, whether anyone saw, didn’t matter a damn. There was something primal about this. About the feel of the wet sand, the tiny pulses that swept her body like shivers. Maybe they were shivers for that matter? She’d been in that freezing sea, hadn’t she? But most of all there was something primal about properly exposing herself. Not in a hurried, rushed fashion in that cupboard bed. But here. Her. Malice Studds. Who no man had ever wanted. This was going to be so good.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you are?”
Her? A good job she was sitting down. She’d have collapsed otherwise. A flush spread to her hair roots.
“I . . . I thought you said I was troll toothed.”
Another cinch of the sensuous lips. His thumb pad brushed her lower lip. “Well, it’s part of my showing you my finesse, to tell you you’re not.”
Whether it was only that or not, he ski
mmed soft fingertips down her arms and any thought she could take issue vanished like a spark. The world retreated. Not so far she didn’t know that in it, she grasped his shoulders and met his mouth with hers.
Not like last night, the satin silk sensuousness of the tongue that met hers, the fingertips tracing patterns on her spine.
She felt the smooth pressure of his manhood against her stomach. The tanned skin stretched tight over his cheekbones, the taut rasp of his breath against her lips said what this restraint cost him. Tracing his beating heart with her fingertips told her too. He did want to demonstrate this, didn’t he? That he could take his time?
She closed her eyes. What she was going to give herself up to here probably meant she couldn’t put this back.
She didn’t belong in this situation and not knowing what might happen next, how could she want anything else?
Except never to go home again.
Fishing his breeches out of the waves, Sin Gudrunsson did his damndest not to glance over his shoulder but he did it anyway. All right. Curse this mess he was in to Valhalla and back again. He’d done it again. How was he to help it though? One look from these scorching eyes of hers had inflamed him. Even the evening shadows now lengthening in shimmering strides across the water, didn’t cool him. The soft breeze against his skin either. He should be cool. Troll’s teeth, look at his breeches. Soaked through. How, in the name of Faen was he going to go back to the other beach and take charge of the situation without them?
The look she cast him as she sat up, didn’t just lick his skin like a burning flame, singe it either, the look that crept into these vagabond eyes of hers took him by surprise. Uncertainty and something he couldn’t quite fathom dragged another lip cinch from his. He believed it might possibly have been a smile. It was so many years since he’d given one freely, he wasn’t sure.
Sure or not, he’d just pull the breeches on anyway. Wring them out first, then flap them, then drag them on. He was used to all sorts wasn’t he? For years he’d fended for himself.
Perhaps he was just off-balance. The last thing he’d expected was to lose the Raven and be caught here with a temptress. Or perhaps that last thing was to find his nose nearly broken as a result. Perhaps he’d been on a leash too long selling his soul to the highest bidder. Slaves. Gold. Raiding. All to make himself acceptable. To a woman who hadn’t wanted him enough, to take him anyway.
Shock burned along his veins that he even felt this way when his face was an iceberg to the world and the raids had continued without mercy. He had gold and maybe he was tired of trading in human misery. It just wouldn’t be enough to appease Snotra. While this woman was his thrall. He couldn’t very well make her anything else.
The cool hand descending on his breeches drove all thought of just from his mind.
For a second he stared. Did she think he wasn’t capable of putting them on for himself? She had to do it for him? Well, he wasn’t going to say fine and stand there letting her. She had such soft hands. He didn’t need the touch. Her help either, just because he now hopped on one foot like this and it didn’t matter how hard he tugged, the legs of the breeches seemed welded together. He grasped the waistband. With a tug he fastened it across his hips. So now he could stroll back to the other beach.
He hadn’t even taken one step when his gut tightened though. And not just his gut. Troll’s teeth, he really must be riddled with insanity. One tickle of these silky damned tresses beneath his nostrils, never mind their icy scent, and he was unlikely to make it anywhere, except inside her. Odin’s breath, while he wanted to stop this, it was hard. He sighed and gritted his teeth. Tried anyway.
Damn she was so pretty when her gaze darkened like that, cold sweat coated his palms. What kind of oaf was he? All she’d been through today, the same as him and he didn’t have a word of reassurance to give her? When she’d given herself as she had earlier, was he really going to walk back over that slope without her? When he’d felt second best all his life? When she’d made him feel for once, he wasn’t? When she’d wanted him? She had, hadn’t she? Come down that hill, or wherever it was she’d come from and while he didn’t know about these Norse sagas she told, he certainly knew she’d taken him like a Norse goddess walking the earth.
The wonder was her husband hadn’t brutalized all that desire out of her. Saxon men didn’t give a damn about pleasing a woman. Not from what he’d heard anyway. Imagine? It didn’t just take the pressure off them, their churches preached desire was a sin. Yet here she was. A real man’s dream that way. How would Snotra compare? What if she didn’t?
He reached out to touch her face. Her skin was so soft, yet even that faint caress didn’t just burn, draw, and fascinate him. It opened the rift in his heart wider. Her features were more compelling than any woman’s he knew, for all they were so different. Maybe that was why he couldn’t take his eyes off them. The mistake of his life to think so too, when he couldn’t be soft like this. When he was a Viking. But there it was. For a shocked moment he registered the affect her fluttering throat and brilliant eyes had on him.
“It’s all right.” The words spilt before he could stop them. “I’m going to get some firewood.” He wasn’t but now he’d spilt these words, he’d have to spill some more.
“We need a fire.”
“You mean you think we should stay here? I mean here, on this beach?”
He didn’t. Not if he was dragged kicking and screaming to hell, although he didn’t deny it would be pleasant. Now was the time to say so, only in that second his throat dried completely. Why the hell did her hand have to clasp his in that instant though?
Maybe these freezing damp breeches clung to his skin, they didn’t stop his groin tightening. His chest either. He just wished she hadn’t said what she had about his finesse. What it did was fill him with the desire to prove it to her.
Water splashed around her knees. Malice dragged a breath and continued dancing up and down in the foam swirling around her knees. Sort of anyway. She wasn’t exactly a dancing up and down person. Besides smoke spiralling from the crackling twigs on the shore, stung her eyes. But she’d certainly rushed into the waves, embraced the salt smell that hit the back of her throat, taking her breath away.
“You’re up early this morning.” His voice, rich and low carried across the sand. She reached a hand to smooth the wet tendrils of hair back from her forehead. Without his tunic, the tight brown breeches, accentuating his narrow hips, his sculpted chest bared to the sunlight he stood in, cutting tree branches, he was an impressive sight. Was she simply weak to this side of her nature? Or to the fact she was still here on this beach three weeks later? At least she was wearing her chemise—a concession to the burning sun and prying eyes. So she couldn’t be all bad, could she?
If what burnt in her veins vanished, would she find herself back in London though? She shielded her eyes from the glare, refusing the unwelcome thought. She couldn’t. It was one thing to tell herself she need only kiss Cyril. What if she couldn’t? What if he’d disappeared, left the country, got himself shot in a duel, or any of the things Cyril was infinitely capable of doing? Then what? Did this work by kissing anyone at all? And wasn’t there something tainted about doing that when the only lips she wanted to feel were this man’s?
“Oh.” She lowered her hand. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Well, I am. Now, if you’d been gone . . . Like you sometimes threaten to do . . .”
Nor could she accept the invitation to explain what she couldn’t, any more than she could tell him why she ran into the sea every morning. She must simply believe this was where she was meant to be.
He paused, canting his jaw. “Well, I’d be cooking that fish there for myself.”
She waded towards the shore with an ease completely beyond her three weeks ago when it seemed every pebble cut her feet. Damn him for that too. Because t
he best of it wasn’t that sculpted chest, the biceps that made the ones on the cover of Aunt Carter’s book look like two peas on a string, it wasn’t even his sun-kissed gilt hair. Although all of it, the biceps in particular, had awoken an unfortunate longing in herself.
The best of it was what she read in his smile. How much more relaxed he was here from the sometimes taut, the edgy, the at times downright picky man he was at home, or even on board the Raven. His eyes more haunted than Haggersly Hall was by Cyril’s great and small ancestors. Those sensuous lips straighter than it seemed to her he liked.
The best?
It was the worst. Really she wondered if she’d been prudent in her behaviour, or was now paying the price for her insanity. Still, so long as they lived here, she thought, dropping down beside the fire, why worry?
He tucked the knife in his belt and joined her. In the three weeks during which they’d set up a shelter in this little cove, hidden from the beach by the slope and the trees, he’d not just cooked the fish, he’d caught it too. “But you’re still here. I thought you’d be gone by now. I mean you said a kiss, didn’t you?”
She fought the urge to blush. When she’d told him about her little tendency to wander and how she had only to kiss him to do it, she had never expected to be put to the test, quite as she had. In a way that enslaved her as surely as that collar had.
Even now her mind returned to it, the perfection of that moment three weeks ago, the long slow slides into her body. A crescendo that built by the second. Her gaze caressed his broad shouldered yet beautifully taut form, the lock of hair that fell across his forehead. Her lungs breathed his scent. Hmm. Unquestioningly male. A little tang of the ocean that clung to his tanned skin and damp hair.
She closed her eyes. Every second, the man she hadn’t wanted to like moved further away, taking up residence in some far corner of her vision. Instead there was this man whose care of her was in danger of stealing her heart—if it wasn’t stolen already.
THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN Page 23
