Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (20 page)

“I hope you’ll at least
leave me a drop or two of my own jug. That mead is some of the best in the
Northlands,” he grumbled as he brought the bowl of broth to his lips.

“We’ll make sure to
enjoy it for you,” Alaric said mischievously. “Besides, I deserve an extra cup
or two, since it was my idea that you two should wed.”

“Alaric—” Eirik gave a
swift jerk of his head to silence his friend.

“What is it?” Laurel
asked, looking back and forth between them over the rim of her cup.

Alaric’s eyes flickered
in understanding. “’Tis only that Eirik was being a blind, stubborn fool. It
was clear as day that you two wanted each other,” he replied smoothly.

Eirik exhaled slowly.
Thank the gods his friend hadn’t accidentally told Laurel that a marriage was
in some ways strategic. Even though the thought of marriage had originally
started as a way to evade Gunvald’s decision to sell her, how could he explain
now that his reasons were much deeper than that? It was a conversation he
wasn’t looking forward to, but one that he would need to have—soon. Once the
threat of Laurel being sold in Jutland was completely removed, he would tell
her. He didn’t want to frighten her unnecessarily.

“Clear to an equally
blind fool?” Madrena snorted. “What do you know of such matters, brother?”

“More than you, you old
piece of leather,” Alaric shot back. Madrena punched him hard in the arm. It
was true that she wasn’t like most other young women her age, Eirik thought as
he watched the twins bicker. She’d been slow to take to Laurel, and yet now
Madrena seemed protective and even…warm toward her. Apparently Laurel had the
ability to soften more than one hardened warrior’s heart.

Alaric refilled their
cups and Eirik’s bowl of broth as they settled into easy conversation. Eirik
would have to talk to Alaric and Madrena later about how the village fared
beyond their basic assurances that things were mostly intact. And he needed to
discuss how his marriage with Laurel would go over with his uncle and cousin.
He didn’t need more trouble from Grimar, yet he couldn’t imagine that he’d be
happy. And Gunvald…

Eirik pushed the dark
thoughts aside for the time being. He would mull over how his uncle might react
to the circumvention of his ruling later. And even if, gods help him, Gunvald
held fast in his command that Laurel be sold, Eirik would still marry her and
find a way to save her from the slave market.

As the fire receded
into coals, Alaric stood and pointedly looked at his sister. “I think we’d best
be off,” he said. “Eirik doesn’t seem to need us anymore.”

Madrena stood but shot
a narrow-eyed look at both Eirik and Laurel. “I saw that kiss earlier. Don’t
even
think
about what you are both clearly thinking about. You need to
rest, Eirik.”

Laurel’s dark eyes
widened
,
and Eirik watched with amusement as a
rosy blush came to her cheeks and neck. She’d been raised to disavow and look
down on all pleasure. He’d have his work cut out for him in showing her just
how right, just how wonderful, shared pleasure truly was. He felt a stirring in
his blood at the thought. He would prove himself up to the task.

Alaric chuckled and
took their cups and Eirik’s bowl. Eirik gave Laurel a wink and entwined his
fingers with hers, trying to convey the promise in his touch.

As Madrena continued to
warn and scold, Alaric shuffled her toward the door.

Once they’d closed the
door behind them, the cottage was quiet, yet tense energy vibrated in the air.

Laurel lowered her eyes
to their entangled fingers. “What is your people’s custom regarding marriage?”
she asked softly. Her blush lingered, her skin cream and pink in contrast to
the dark lashes resting against her cheeks.

“It is the tradition to
have wedding ceremonies on Frigga’s Day, which is only three days away, but we
might not be able to bring in the
goði
by then.” His mind suddenly
churned with a combination of anticipation and apprehension. There was much to
do, yet the first step would be to confront his uncle to ensure that he would
accept Eirik’s plan to free and marry Laurel.

Laurel’s eyes fluttered
up to him, a look of confusion in her gaze.

“Forgive me,” he said.
“You have been speaking so well and learning so quickly that I forget sometimes
that you are still an utlending. Frigga is the goddess of marriage. Frigga’s
Day falls once every sennight and is a good day to get married. A
goði
is
like a priest. We don’t have one in Dalgaard, but there is one only a day’s
journey from here. He is usually brought in for ceremonies.”

“And what is involved
in the ceremony?” She still eyed him cautiously, but he hoped with some
explanation she would begin to feel more comfortable with the customs of the
North.

“Well,” Eirik began,
thinking back to the last wedding celebration he’d attended. “The bride and
groom begin their preparations early on Frigga’s Day. They bathe and dress with
care. Then they meet the
goði
in a field or under a bower of trees.”

“Outdoors? It doesn’t
happen in a church or…or a temple of some sort?”

“Nei, for the couple
wishes to be as close to the gods as possible, without rooves and walls getting
in the way,” Eirik said, brushing a strand of chestnut hair from her face and
tucking it behind one ear. “A marriage union is about the joining of two lives,
two families, and about creating a new family. We want the gods and goddesses
of fertility, abundance, fair weather, and bounty to see us clearly.”

She swallowed but
nodded for him to go on.

“Then we will place
both of our hands on my father’s sword, which was his father’s before him, and
pledge in the sight of the priest and the gods that our lives are forever
intertwined, that we will carry on the honor of our families and pass it to the
next generation.”

Her gaze faltered and
she lowered her eyes once more. “I cannot speak to my family’s honor or what I
can pass down from them,” she said quietly.

He took her chin in his
hand and lifted it gently. “That is not so unusual, Laurel. In fact, some
Northmen know their families quite well and exclude them from their marriage
pledges intentionally. The most important thing is that we are forming a
new
union. The honor of the future can still be determined.”

His eyes dropped to the
brooch on her chest. It rose and fell gently with her breath. “I should have
saved that as a morning-gift, but I was too impatient,” he said with a soft
smile.

“What is a
morning-gift?” Her brief sadness seemed to be passing already. She truly was
suited to the Northmen’s way of life.

“It is the gift that a
new husband gives his new wife. It symbolizes their…physical union,” he said,
reaching up to trace the circled gold with one finger. “And it is the first of
many gifts that passes between husband and wife.”

Her eyes dipped to
where his finger played along the brooch’s edge. Then he grasped the pin
between his thumb and forefinger and slid it out. He readjusted the pin so that
it went through the center of the circle.

Her eyes widened and
darted to his face. Though she was innocent, she apparently understood the
sexual implication of the brooch, and of the practice of giving a morning-gift
after a night of consummating the marriage. His blood stirred between his legs
at the look of surprised comprehension she was giving him.

“I couldn’t wait to see
it on you,” he breathed, his fingers still playing along the golden brooch. Her
eyes slid closed and she leaned almost imperceptibly into his touch. He brought
his hand closer so that as his fingers traced the brooch, his palm brushed
against the swell of her breast.

Her soft lips parted on
a little exhale at the contact. His blood pounded hotter to know that even a
light touch could bring such a passionate response from her. It was as if the
gods had made them each perfectly suited for the other, so intense was their
desire when they loosened the reins on their control.

He pressed his hand
closer, making their contact more firm. She moved against his palm, already
longing for more.

He attempted to raise
his other hand to her breast, but a sharp twinge of pain in his left shoulder
halted him. He gritted his teeth against a groan, but the sound escaped.

“Are you well? What is
it?” Laurel said, her eyes flying open. The worried crease between her brows
returned as she searched him.

“’Tis naught,” he said,
the pain already fading.

“Madrena was right,”
Laurel said as she stood. She looked down at where he lay half-propped against
the wooden headboard. “You need to rest and heal. I am ashamed that I—”

He caught her wrist
before she could spin away in embarrassment.

“Nei, Laurel, don’t,”
he whispered. “I want you so badly. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw
you.”

Her wrist stilled in
his hand, though she remained half-turned away.

“I tried to keep myself
from wanting you, first by reminding myself that you were Grimar’s thrall, and
then when you became my own thrall. Desiring you went against everything I
believed in—it threw the matter of my honor in my face.”

She tilted her head,
listening.

“But I was weak. I let
myself kiss you that first night after the council meeting. I told myself it
would be just one kiss. But then at the lake, I wanted to take you, to make you
mine
as a woman, not as a thrall. I succumbed to my own weakness again.
And before I was shot—”

He swallowed at the
memory of her taste, her wetness, the sounds of her ecstasy as she writhed in
pleasure under his fingers and tongue. “That night, I hoped you’d forgive my
weakness and accept me anyway. So you see, I’ve always been weak around you.
Tonight is no different, except that I only have to fight the pain in my limbs
rather than the pain of wanting you so much and denying myself.”

To his surprise, she
turned on him with a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “That
was a clever speech,” she said. Then she sobered slightly. “But are you sure
you’re well enough to—”

He gave her wrist a
sudden yank so that she tumbled down onto the bed next to him. “I’m still
plenty strong,” he said, rolling slightly so that he pressed into her. She
squeaked in surprise, but then he captured her lips in a kiss. He kept it light
so that she could turn away if she wished. But to his pleasure, she pulled his
neck down so that their lips were molded together more firmly.

He propped himself up
on his good arm so that his elbow took most of his weight. He inhaled and was
rewarded with the intoxicating scent of her skin and hair mixed with the
traditional Northland juniper soap.

He needed to taste her,
to fill his senses with her until the dull pain in his shoulder and leg faded
away. He flicked his tongue against her lips, asking entrance. She granted it
with a sigh of pleasure that sent his cock pulsing. There was indeed plenty of
strength and life left in him. In fact, the hot need coursing through his veins
made his pain seem distant.

As his tongue came in
contact with hers, he experimentally tried to lift his left arm again. Pain
still stabbed him, but it was less now, and the stiffness in his shoulder was
ebbing. He moved his hand so that it rested against her ribs, just below her
breasts.

He could feel her
breath growing shallow against his hand as their tongues swirled and caressed
each other. He let his hand inch upward slowly, feeling each delicate rib on
her inhalations. By the time the edge of his hand had reached the soft swell of
one breast, she was panting against his lips.

He luxuriated in the
contours of her breast, letting his fingers explore even while he kept his
wounded shoulder relatively immobile. Even through the wool of her overdress
and the linen of her shift, he could feel her nipple hardening into a bud as he
moved. He remembered just how sensitive she was there, and he almost lost his
patience and the silent vow he’d made to himself to make this first time between
them, her first time ever, slow and memorable.

She arched against his
hand, silently demanding more than simple exploration from his fingers. He
moved up slightly to unfasten one of the silver pins holding the shoulder strap
of her overdress. When the task was done, he pushed the woolen dress down so
that only her shift stood between her breast and his hand.

As his fingers circled
once more, this time with less material between them, she moaned into his
mouth. Her nipple was a tight bead now, one that was shooting pleasure
throughout her body, if her arching and soft moans were any indication. He
realized with a start that he’d never seen her fully naked yet. That would be
remedied this night.

At the thought, his
cock throbbed nigh-painfully against his linen pants. Though someone, likely
Alaric, had done him the favor of removing his torn and bloody clothes and
re-dressing him in a fresh tunic and pants, Eirik nevertheless wanted to curse
the act, for he wanted naught more than to be rid of his clothes. He longed to
feel Laurel’s bare skin against his, to feel their heat and sweat mingling, to
bury himself deep within her.