“We needs leave at once. The Picts approach.”
“I must return to the cave to retrieve the rest of my weapons.” As he spoke, Konáll marched to the trail. “Why have you returned? What of your mortal blood thirst?”
The lion snorted. “The gods are preparing for battle. ’Tis Æsir against Vanir.”
“How know you this?” Konáll scanned the beach, but saw no sign of their clothes.
“After I disposed of the rest of the Picts, I attempted to cross Bifröst—”
Konáll swung around to face the lion. “You set foot on the rainbow bridge that connects this world with that of the gods? Ne’er had I believed such a thing truly existed.”
Mús shrugged. “Neither had I afore Aegir’s curse. Odin refused me entrance to Asgard, but not afore I heard of the coming war ’tween Æsir and Vanir.”
His blood curdled. No good could come of a war between the two sets of gods. “To what purpose do they go to battle?”
“To decide who rules o’er the progeny of half immortals.”
Hjørdis. Skatha. Nyssa.
Konáll hissed and cursed every god in turn.
The three females were all born half immortal; his half sister, Hjørdis, the daughter of Thōrr, Skatha, his brother’s new wife, born of the goddess Skaði, and Nyssa with her jötunn mother. What mischief was afoot?
“Are you cert of this? What mean you rule o’er half immortals?”
Mús rolled his amber eyes. “Methinks Nyssa stood correct. The blow to your head addled your brains. Yea, I am cert. Odin seeks sole reign o’er half immortals.”
“Odin is of the Æsir, a warrior god. Think you he seeks to destroy those like Nyssa?” And his beloved Hjørdis? Brökk’s precious Skatha? Nyssa whose strength, not only of limb, but of mind, shone so bright and clear?
“Nay. He seeks to use us to his own end.”
Konáll frowned. “Us?
You
?
You
are born of a god?”
“Nay. But any who is transformed by a god and can shift from one form to another becomes part immortal.”
Konáll tried to keep his expression neutral for ’twas shocking news to him. He said through gritted teeth. “You have not answered my other queries.”
“I left for the land of the gods after Nyssa healed me. When Odin refused me entrance to Asgard, he cast a spell binding every living being to the world they now occupy. Odin seeks to avoid war and forge an agreement between the Æsir and the Vanir.”
Konáll snorted. “Why would Odin shun battle?”
“The Vanir control fertility and they can see the future. In the future, the union of the Æsir and Vanir continues.” Mús sank his claws into a beetle crawling over a rotting tree trunk and popped the insect into his open mouth.
While Konáll had eaten all manner of creatures during long sieges, never had he lowered his standards to ground vermin. The snap of Mús’s teeth did little to alleviate a welling nausea. He locked his jaw and climbed to the narrow path cut into the cliffs.
“You will explain this enchanted cove. First there are hordes of rocks, then all disappear in the blink of an eye. The foul odor that once plagued the beach is gone and sweet peas have sprouted from the cliffs.”
“’Tis the work of Rán.” The beast padded alongside him.
Konáll paused long enough to glower at Mús and then hiked at a furious pace to the cavern’s entrance forcing the lion to lope to match his long strides.
“And the vanished rocks?”
“My father’s men. Those who were wounded when the Picts took Castle Caerleah. Rán cast healing stones around them and bargained with Odin for their lives. Aegir argued against any intervention and Odin was loath to go against him while bargaining for a settlement, so Rán cannot release them.”
“Where are they now, these warriors?” Konáll struggled to absorb all the beast had told him.
“I know not. You broke Aegir’s curse afore Thrimilci’s dawn and ’twould seem the lifting of one spell has led to the lifting of many. The cove has long been known to be the haunt of gods and goddesses. Many moons afore there were hot pools at the base of these cliffs.” The lion climbed to the top of a flat rock.
“And the blow to my skull?” Had any of it happened? Was he even now locked in a dream?
“Your Saracen captor has a hatred for you.”
“Aye, and I will have my vengeance in good time. But what has my captor to do with the blow to my head?” He halted at the cave’s entrance.
Mús rocked onto his massive haunches. “’Tis no time for that tale. Make haste, Viking. I can smell the vile odors of those that approach.”
Konáll liked not a creature besting him, but the cat had.
“Wait here.” Konáll ducked into the cavern and laid Nyssa on the blankets she had used for Mús.
Konáll retrieved a few chunks of dried, salted beef from a pouch in his trunk and ate while he worked. In no time at all, he dressed Nyssa in warm hose, a tunic, and fitted boots onto her feet. He swaddled her in a warm blanket and retrieved a skin containing sweet mead from his chest. ’Twas a drink his brother’s wife, Skatha, had insisted he take on his travels. The potion contained nourishment and herbs to heal many ailments. Though she did not awaken, Nyssa drank a quarter of the mead afore clamping her lips closed. He studied her serene features uncert whether to force her to drink more or not.
“Viking. We needs hurry.”
The lion’s muted roar spurred Konáll into hasty action. After setting Nyssa down near the open chest, he retrieved a large burlap sack from the top. His brother, Dráddør, had gifted him not only with the harem master’s tools, but also several jeweled daggers and glass bottles containing erotic potions and oils. He filled the sack with those items, his remaining weapons, and added the velvet-wrapped dildo. Konáll pulled out a few hoses, tunics, and a cloak and changed quickly.
He armed himself, tied the sack diagonally across his back, scooped Nyssa high against his chest, and walked into the early morning daylight.
“We needs journey to the other end of the isle.” Mús pointed his black nose to the East.
“To what end?” Konáll set a pace a tad beneath a run.
He could have sworn the lion wore a superior sneer.
“The Picts will expect you to try to regain Castle Caerleah. ’Tis less than an hourglass away. They will not expect you to retreat. And ’tis the place where your men await you.”
Konáll’s jaw dropped.
His men were alive?
* * *
Nyssa had learned to lie still and feign sleep when she first awoke after her uncle, Ánáton, and her aunt, Maura, took control of Castle Caerleah. ’Twas while they thought her deep in slumber that they plotted their evil schemes and, if she lay still long enough, she could sometimes learn enough to thwart their plans.
The low murmur of conversation reached her ears.
A rumbled belly guffaw crackled above the deep, male voices. Answered by a shout and chortles and hoots.
Men. Many men.
Panic threaded through her veins.
Trying not to blink, or change the cadence of her breathing, she inhaled. Soap, musk, and smoke.
She was swaddled in a blanket of the finest warm fabric and lay on a firm pallet. The air around her was still. The cave? Nay, for a hint of brine rode the other aromas.
“You are with me and my men in a camp on the north end of the island.”
She held her breath at the familiar, rich voice. The rumble belonged to Konáll, the Viking who bore the ring of the Saracen, the magik ring she had fingered before he…
“It comforts you to pretend to slumber. ’Tis matters not to me. I am in need of sleep as well. It has been a long day.”
How did the infernal man know she pretended slumber? Irritation prickled her fingertips, the urge to shake or scratch him sweet and insistent.
Metal clinked.
Nyssa heaved a long sigh and rolled, glimpsing the cream canvas of the roof of a tent as she turned to face Konáll. To the right of the Viking a fat tallow candle, a jug and a clay pot, sat on a table made from a wooden plank and two tree trunks. For a moment, his shadow blurred his actions, but then she saw he was disrobing. She sucked in a breath and crushed the woolen fabric between her fingers. “Are you addled, again Konáll? What do you do?”
Their gazes met. He winked. “’Tis not the custom with the Scots to disrobe afore slumber?”
“Aye. Nay.” Confused, fighting the urge to openly gape at him and memorize every detail of his chiseled stomach, she studied the rushes lining the sandy floor. The healer in her cataloged the herbs threaded through them, rosemary and broom.
The lopsided smirk he wore spoke of bedevilment. “’Tis not as if you have not seen all of me afore.”
Nyssa squeezed her eyes shut when he untied the ropes holding his hose in place. She dug her nails into her palms and chewed her cheeks. But Satan himself had ahold of her. Slanting him a shuttered peek, she held her breath at his bronzed beauty. Not a single scar marred his perfect torso. She frowned, recalling the myriad cuts across his belly and groin and his blood dripping onto the moss when the Picts had pushed him into the cave. Had her eyes deceived her? She raked him from head to bare feet.
Broad shoulders melded into a bronzed, sinewy, chiseled chest. Layers of muscles defined each rib bone and led to a flat belly and narrow waist. A sprinkling of gold hair dusted the middle of his pectorals and tapered to the top of his hose.
Choking back a gasp when he slid the woolen breeches down his thighs, Nyssa’s eyes widened when his pecker, thick, reddened, veins bulging, sprang free of the fabric. When he twisted to set his folded tunic and hose on the ground, the metal ring threaded through the flesh below his sac glittered in the flickering candlelight.
She stopped breathing as images flooded her mind. What day was it? Thrimilici? “Do I live, Viking? Or be there some magik afoot?”
He turned to face her, forehead lined, eyes narrowed. “You remember naught?”
“’Tis a muddle. I remember the Picts, the cave—what do you do?” She scooted to the edge of the pallet when he lay down next to her and slipped under the blanket.
“I am weary and ’tis time for slumber.” He flicked her nose.
Before she could protest he had her in his embrace. If she had one single burst of energy left, Nyssa would have fought him, but her limbs refused the command to slide away from the warmth of his body. The sweet intimacy of her cheek on his chest and the mesmerizing sight of his brown, flat nipple chased all thoughts from her head. She stared at the fat bud and an ache started between her thighs. She felt no bile, nay, her mouth fair watered with the hunger to taste his smooth flesh.
“Are you well, Nyssa?” He massaged her shoulder, and her bunched muscles yielded to the insistent pressure of his calloused thumb.
Well? Aside from the strange tension at her core and a peculiar giddiness, all her fingers and toes worked. She flexed them to be cert. And she felt no pain. Her stomach growled. A violent cramp hit her. Nyssa bent in half and choked back a moan.
Konáll helped her to sit up and cupped her cheek. His palm radiated both warmth and comfort. Their eyes met. “You have slept for the entire day and Mús told me you had not eaten before the two of you found me. I did force some of Skatha’s magik potion down your throat while you slept, but you should eat now.”
She blinked. “Skatha? Magik potion?”
Nyssa covered her ears when Konáll bellowed for a bowl of soup. When the tent flap opened she ducked her head and pulled the blanket over her eyes and listened. Konáll spoke to another in Norse, his words so rushed she could not translate. Shuffled footsteps, then a gust of icy air flitted over her forehead. She peeked.
“Sit up.” He held a clay bowl in one hand. “Broth. Sips at first.”
“I am a healer. I know what to do.” Her voice sounded as if she had been shouting for a sennight. The rawness in her throat spawned a small coughing fit. Her eyes watered.
He twisted her so she sat sideways across his legs. “Hush. Take a sip.” He brought the bowl to her lips. She sipped. The warm liquid tasted like manna, briny with a hint of smoked seaweed and cooked urchin. She closed her eyes and savored the broth’s journey down her throat.
“I am jealous of the paltry soup.”
He was staring at her, and she suddenly realized her position, sitting on his lap, the blanket and the tunic she wore her only shield from his unclothed flesh. “You are touching me and I am not vomiting.”
One eyebrow arched and his lips twisted to one side. “Aye. ’Tis wondrous how the mighty have fallen.”
“You make no sense, Viking. Thrimilici? The curse?” She held her breath awaiting his answer.
“Has come and gone and you still live. The curse is broken.” He tipped the bowl, and she swallowed a large mouthful. The fragrant potage heated her insides and settled her rioting belly.
“I remember a battle. Mús. The sword in his ribs.”
She wriggled in an attempt to stand, but he tightened his hold on her and brushed his lips across her temple. “Worry not. Your cat is well and roaring his impatience.”
“Mús is fully healed?”
“Aye.” He slipped a hand under the tunic and traced the raised welt along her ribs. “Mús explained that when you heal, the injury passes to you. How long afore his scars leave you?”
Shame lit her cheeks and neck, and she turned away from him. “Not all leave. Days. Once—a full season.”
He framed her face and made her look at him. “I owe you my life, Nyssa.”
Only after he had spoken the words did she realize the reverse stood true. “As I owe mine to you.”
Silence crackled between them. The very air seemed to vibrate as she stared at him. For four seasons, she had not dared touch another except to heal. How had she forgotten the simple joy of flesh-to-flesh contact? The comfort and poignant sweetness inherent in being held as if precious? ’Twas seductive temptation beyond bearing; the urge to snuggle against his skin, to sniff the base of his neck, overwhelmed her.
“Drink more.”
She wrenched her gaze away. “My stomach no longer lists.”
“’Tis good. Drink more.”
She tried to pry the bowl from his grasp. “I can well feed myself.”
“And deny me such a wee pleasure?”
His even, white teethed flashed in the dusky light and the charm of his smile washed heat from her brow to the soles of her feet. She misliked handsome men like her uncle, Ánáton. Though Ánáton was to midnight what Konáll was to sunshine, both men were of a beauty too blinding to look upon for long.