The Temperate Warrior (6 page)

Truth be told, this was not how he had intended to take her; swift and demanding. He’d spent the better part of his journey from Inis Mór to Skúvoy fantasizing about all the things he wanted to do to Æsa upon his return, none of which were hurried or brief. In fact, he wanted to take his time with her. Savor her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her ivory skin, nibble every freckle dotted across her shoulders, and dip his tongue into every cute indentation dimpling her body. He wanted make love to her agonizingly slow even if it took hours upon hours to satiate his hunger.

But buried within her, it was too late for slow and agonizing. He knew it. She knew it. And nothing felt more right than an unrestrained, euphoric stint of heart pounding, powerful sex. At this moment, wild horses couldn’t hold him back.

Together, they met each other thrust for thrust. Her body took all of him as he repeatedly sank into her, deep and hard. Their carnal pleasure rose to heights so far above their control, neither had the ability to withhold it. Like two blazing flames, they fused as one, body and soul.

Æsa’s release came moments before his, her final sweet gasp sending him over the edge. Surging like the hammering pulse of his blood, he let his head fall back and emptied himself into her. Her body constricted around him, milking him, and his strength drained from his body. Eventually depleted of might and mind, he untangled himself from her legs and collapsed upon her.

He felt her arms wrap around his back as he fought to catch his breath, her rapid heartbeat thumping in his ear. Pulling her close, he inhaled deeply. The scent of primrose and perspiration on her beautiful naked breasts was the last thing he remembered before a deep sleep consumed him.

Chapter Seven

A fit of muffled male laughter broke the pleasantry of Gustaf’s dreams. His eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, flitted open and a blurry sight of seven men sitting around his hearth came into view. He moaned and stirred about in his bed, thinking he was still lost in a dream, and reached across the boxbed for Æsa. When he came up short, he sought for her warm body with a sluggish hand, patting the spot where she had once lain entangled with him.

Finding the place beside him empty and cool to the touch, his eyes shot open. He sat up in a jolt to find himself surrounded by the company of his men. The shock of their presence had him bewildered. He searched their faces, each looking at him as though he knew some secret Gustaf didn’t.

“Sleep well, m’lord?” Jørgen asked coolly.

“Where’s Æsa?”

“Out back. Perhaps gathering the pile of clothing you two left behind.”

He glanced down at his bare body, the warm hide hardly covering his lower half. “Is she?”

“Walking about as naked as her lover?” Jørgen finished for him. “Nay.”

A brief spell of snickering hissed around the fire and Gustaf wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or maddened. Given his vulnerable state, he let it slide. He’d only look like a buffoon barking out reprimands in his nudity.

“How long have I been asleep?” he finally inquired, running his hand down the length of his tired face.

“Long enough for us to hear you talk in your slumber,” Snorri remarked.

Gustaf stopped mid stroke, glancing between each man. “I talk not in my sleep.”

“Tell that to my stomach. I could barely keep my food down while listening to you all evening.”

Gustaf sat helpless as Snorri lay his head on Jørgen’s shoulder and imitated him in his sleep, spouting off exaggerated words of affection about Æsa. A few more joined in, offering their best impersonation of their chieftain in love, each one more inflated than the next.

“Enough,” Gustaf waved. “If you wanted not to hear it, you should have excused yourself from invading my home.”

“And miss the soft, delicate side of the eldest warrior son of Rælik?” Snorri badgered. “I think not.”

Gustaf rolled his eyes and slouched back into the boxbed. It was useless trying to convince Snorri of anything. Everything that came out of his mouth was a snide comment and it was best to ignore the old brute.

“E-e-e-e-r!”

Gustaf nearly came out of his skin upon hearing a harsh, high-pitched shriek seconds before a bird dive-bombed from the rafters and landed on Øyven’s forearm. Clutching his chest, he glowered at Øyven sitting at the far corner of the room. “Odin’s blood, what is that?”

Øyven glanced at the bird and spoke the obvious. “’Tis a falcon, m’lord.”

Gustaf was not amused. “I know what ’tis. Why is it in here?”

“I traded for her at the harbor,” Øyven said admiringly, watching the bird snatch the morsel of food from his gloved hand. “Is she not beautiful?”

Gustaf grunted, still waiting for his heart to settle.

“She is smart, too,” Øyven added. “She already knows to come to me.”

“It does not take much intelligence for a starving bird to come where food is offered,” Snorri sneered.

Øyven didn’t so much as bat an eye at the insult. Instead, he continued to smile and appreciate the bird as it perched on his wrist.

“Have you a cage for it?”

Øyven looked at Gustaf and his mood instantly dropped. “Aye.”

By the look on Øyven’s face, he knew Øyven didn’t want to trap the bird behind bars unless absolutely necessary. The lad’s sensitivity to animals reminded him of himself as a boy learning to hunt. It had taken a long time for Gustaf to become accustomed to trapping game and killing it. He recalled his mother once saying that because of his respect for living things, he’d be the best hunter there was—making certain each kill was swift and direct so there was no risk for the animal to suffer. As it turned out, his mother was right. Every kill he ever made was on target, which also made him a deadly warrior against his enemies. Many men would attest to that, if they were alive to speak.

“If I must cage her,” Øyven said, reluctance dripping from his voice. “I will.”

“Nay,” Gustaf relinquished. “I am only making certain you can transport the bird while we are at sea. I would hate for you to lose your trade before you get a chance to train it properly.”

Øyven’s smile returned. “Thank you, m’lord.”

“That chicken better not shite on me while I am sleeping tonight,” Snorri warned. “Or else I might have to boil her feathers off and eat her for breakfast.”

“For that little remark, I hope she does,” muttered Øyven. “’Twill not only prove her to be intelligent, but a good judge of character.”

Snorri didn’t look impressed. “Clever birds taste just as good as dim-witted ones.”

Gustaf had to laugh. “You would do best to keep that falcon of yours out of Snorri’s reach, Øyven. We all know how much the man likes to eat. Speaking of, I assume you set aside some fish for me?”

Jørgen handed Gustaf a few slivers of charred meat. “I think you will find your woman to be a skilled cook.”

His mouth watered as he lifted the savory flesh to his nose. Before he took his first bite, he gave Jørgen a look of severity. “Please tell me Æsa ate three fish as I instructed.”

“Of course, m’lord.”

Pleased with his friend’s answer, he bit into the meat, his eyes closing as he savored it. An abundance of flavor from herbs he’d never tasted before filled his mouth. As he finished the first piece and made quick work of the other, he hummed with satisfaction. “Æsa made this?”

“Indeed, I did.” Æsa entered the room carrying an armful of clothing and a bucket of fresh water. “You like it?”

He answered with an overzealous nod and scarfed the rest to feed his growling stomach. Licking each finger, he watched as Æsa folded his clothes and set them on the table, his boots neatly placed on the floor beneath. When she was through, she bustled around the room, refilling each man’s cup.

She was a natural, he noted. She seemed at ease with his men’s company, offering casual conversation as she went. He admired the way she took charge and tended to their needs. Even Snorri seem less cantankerous around her, actually smiling as she filled his stein.

He also noticed the kirtle she wore was not the one she had on previously. If he remembered correctly, it was the tunic he had purchased for her before he left the isle a month ago. The light shade of blue went well with the light hue of her eyes, the red embroidery coordinating with the vibrant color of her hair. The fabric hugged her curves in all the right places, despite the slight weight she had lost, which made him believe she must have altered it recently. But what struck him most was seeing her move about in a casual grace akin to a noble woman’s charm and elegance. His mother would be so proud.

He smiled at the thought of seeing her as a wife and mother, sewing clothes, cooking dinner in the hearth, and performing all kinds of domestic duties as his equal head of household. In his mind, a flock of giddy children tugged at her skirt as she busied herself about the home—a spacious longhouse, of course, to accommodate all the children he wanted to have with her.

As he continued to gaze at her, they eventually locked eyes and an unspoken appreciation registered between them. Æsa blushed as her eyes fell over his bare chest, biting her lip to hide her fleeting thoughts. She turned abruptly, as if to ward them off, and set to filling a wooden stein for him.

Immediately he stood, drawing the hide around his waist. With it secured in his fist, he walked toward her, disregarding the two men he had to sift through to get there. “You look lovely.”

She smiled and handed him the cup. “As do you. ’Tis a pity you must get dressed.”

He accepted the drink and held it up in a toast-like fashion. “’Tis a pity my men figured out how to fish.”

Snorri cleared his throat behind them. “We would have returned sooner had it not been for Øyven bartering for the bird. Go on. Tell him what you traded for it, Øyven.”

Gustaf tipped the cup to his lips and turned to Øyven. The look on the young man’s face spoke volumes on the significance of the price. “What did you trade?”

Øyven glanced between him and Snorri, reluctant to say. Out of patience, Snorri spoke for him. “He gave away his sword—the one thing a warrior needs to survive in this godforsaken world. He might as well have cut off his cock.”

Øyven’s jaw clenched and he finally found his tongue. “With all due respect, m’lord, I have brandished my sword for your father and for my own. ’Twas a worthy cause, and I would do it again. But I am through fighting. I have no need for my sword any longer. I want to live in peace.” He threw Snorri a stern look. “What is wrong with that?”

“’Tis foolhardy and senseless, boy. Witty words are never enough where peace is concerned.” Snorri eyed Gustaf carefully, holding his gaze. “We all know how that sad story ends.”

Gustaf narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying my father died in vain?”

Snorri scoffed. “Harold ‘the Fairhair’—the man who issued your father’s death warrant so many years ago—has firmly seized the land you once called home, has gained more popularity than the late Alfred ‘the Great’, and continues to sit high on his noble thrown, feasting on the fruits from the very soil fertilized with your father’s spilled blood. You tell me, m’lord.”

An awkward silence fell upon the group. Snorri had made his point well by invoking the one thing Gustaf was very passionate about. Harold ‘the Fairhair’ may not have held the dagger that killed his father, but his hands were just as bloody as the ten paid to do the deed. Gustaf had spent so many years of his life dedicated to finding those who were directly responsible for his father’s murder that taking on the king, who’d ultimately funded the task, seemed insignificant at the time. Now that Snorri had laid it out before him, in such an irrefutable and straightforward fashion, he had no idea what to say.

In all honesty, he had no desire to go after the King of Norway. The man was more powerful than any army he could assemble, had more wealth than all the nobles of Wessex and Mercia combined, and had more authority than the Christian Pope of Rome. As far as Gustaf was concerned, Harold was untouchable.

A tender caress on his forearm broke his reverie. “If I may?”

Æsa’s fingertips on his heated skin calmed his beating heart and soothed his weary mind. If he’d not been holding the hide around his waist, he would have reached out and touched the gentle hand still laid upon his arm. He had no worldly idea what guidance she could offer on this complex issue, but he was certainly willing to hear it. He gestured with a deep nod of his head. “By all means.”

Æsa scanned the seven faces now staring at her intently, her nervousness showing in the way she rocked back and forth. Gustaf couldn’t help but inwardly note how endearing she looked at this moment. He almost wanted to scoop her up in his arms and ravish the angst right out of her. It amazed him how easily Æsa could arouse him, even at inopportune moments such as these. He tightened his grip around the hide, privately battling his body as he waited for her to begin.

“Like myself, many of you have lost family to Harold’s cruel reign. We all know what he is capable of and how far he is willing to go to secure a vast domain across Scandinavia. But may I remind you that your loved ones died so you might live. Someone once told me,” Æsa said, glancing back at Gustaf and smiling, “there is no greater love than when a man lays down his life for another.” She stiffed her back and raised her chin proudly, affixing her gaze back over his men. “Love is never in vain. I have seen many reasons why men draw their swords. Some for riches…or notoriety. Some over women…or even the last drop of mead. All are without honor, except for love.” She lowered her head in submission and bit her lip again, slowly raising her eyes to Gustaf’s. “And freedom, of course. So, nay, I say to you Snorri. Gustaf’s father died not in vain. ‘Twas for love that he gave his life.”