Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (16 page)

Nellore’s heart soared. At long last, they were wed. “Now is the time I know ye both have been waiting for,” Father Conall said before turning toward the groom. “Garik,” he said. “Ye may kiss your bride.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with a passion that seethed from deep within his soul. Everything disappeared except for her, every cheer from the pews, the tolling of the bell. It all faded and for that moment there was no war, no threat from the MacLeans. The only thing that existed was their love. But the moment ended too swiftly. The doors leading out of the kirk swung open and the merriment began. It pained him to lift his lips from hers, but their kinfolk were ready to celebrate.

They made their way to the Ledaig House. Holly and evergreens hung from the beams. In the hearth a fire roared and upon the table steaming trenchers of food awaited the revelers. Garik escorted Nellore to the head table, and then with a kiss he promised to return. From within one of the storerooms at the rear of the hall, he found what he had hidden early that morning.

“Attention,” he shouted while making his way back into the hall. Above his head he raised an over-sized wooden cup with several long handles extending from around its rim. “My friends,” he said. “This is a cog. On the Orkney Islands a wedding is not a wedding unless a cog is continuously being passed about, from which all must drink. We do this to ensure everyone partakes in the joy of our union. To you, my love,” he said to Nellore before he gave her the cog from which to sip.

Logan, who was seated at Garik’s side, accepted the cog from Nellore. He raised it high before he drank. “Speaking of wedding traditions. I believe I ken why ye made to marry so soon,” Logan said before passing the cog onto Duncan.

Garik raised his brow at Logan. “Is there another reason besides the infinite love in my heart and our imminent departure?”

“Aye, ye wished to escape the creeling,” Logan said.

Garik laughed. “Do you mean that cruel torture where the groom is forced to carry a backbreaking load of rocks around the village until he’s nigh ready to collapse?”

“Aye, that ‘tis the one,” Logan said, smiling. “I might see fit to force the creeling upon our return.”

“Agreed,” Garik said. “Either way, I get off easy. On the Orkney Islands we have a far more dastardly tradition.”

Logan raised a skeptical brow. “What could be worse than the creeling?”

“I will let you be the judge,” Garik said. “To begin with, they strip the man of all clothing, regardless of the season and then bind him with rope and douse him in honey.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Logan gasped.

“It does not end there,” he said. “Then they roll the poor sap’s naked, sticky body in a pile of grasses and feathers. And if that is not enough, he is paraded through the village on a wagon while all the unmarried louts who tortured him to begin with beat drums and shout and draw as much attention to his feathered arse as they can.”

“Are you lying to me?” Logan asked.

Garik shook his head while he tore off a piece of bannock and dipped it in the thick stew. “It is called the blackening, and it is one tradition I am damned grateful to be spared.”

“I think I’d become a priest rather than face that ordeal,” Logan said.

Garik picked up his tankard and raised it high. “To marrying a lass from Mull.”

After several merry hours of feasting and dance, Garik leaned close and whispered in Nellore’s ear, “The celebration will carry on until the morrow whether we linger or not.”

Her eyes filled with a hungry glint but he knew her appetite for food had already been sated. “I’ve never been inside your house,” she said before pressing a long kiss to his lips.

He stood and extended his hand for her to accept. “Let us go home.”

With Garik at her side, Nellore hastened through the village to escape the chill of the night. Relief from the cold was hers the moment she stepped into his home. A warm fire crackled, imbuing the air with currents of heat. She wandered around the large room, stopping to run her fingers across a beautiful table, and then it dawned on her—this was now her home, her table. She smiled as her fingers curved over the intricately carved detail.

“Did you make this?” she said, looking up. She found him studying her from across the room.

He nodded in reply.

“’Tis beautiful,” she said as she once more stroked the fine wood. Peering through her lashes, she saw a pleased smile tug at his lips. His workmanship was extraordinary. While she studied the complexity of the carvings, her heart grew heavy.

“What is it,” he said. “You seem sad.”

She flashed him a smile. “On the contrary, I’ve never been so happy. ‘Tis just that I did not know ye could do this,” she said, gesturing to the finely made furnishings. “I suppose there must be many things I still have yet to learn.” She fought against the despair that pushed to the fore of her thoughts. He would be gone from her side sooner than later, taking the secrets of his life with him.

“Come here,” he said softly, holding out his hand for her to accept. He pulled her toward the far end of the room, which he used as a workshop, and then he placed a wooden plane in her hand.

“Have you ever shaped wood?” he asked. She shook her head. She had never even held a plane before. It was long and not overly thick and surprisingly heavy for a wooden tool, but then she peered inside and spotted a sharp metal edge.

“Here,” he said, placing a short wooden stool before a thick cut of wood, “have a seat.” The bark had already been stripped away and the top was leveled but still rough. “Place the plane blade side down.” She laid the plane on the wood. He knelt behind her on one knee. His arms came around her, and he showed her the proper way to grip the tool. “Now smooth the wood,” he said. She pushed the plane across the surface, peeling away a thin layer of fiber. The smell of freshly cut wood teased her nose, and she inhaled the scent.

“Push down harder,” he said. “It takes a strong back to carve and shape wood.”

His hands covered hers, and together they pressed the metal edge deep into the log. Blonde, wooden curls fell to the ground and began to collect at their feet. She found the action very pleasing. “’Tis wonderful,” she said
“Indeed, you are,” he whispered in her ear.

She laughed and swatted him playfully. “Ye ken I meant the wood,” she said.

He kissed her then and pulled her to her feet. “I’ve often thought of you when I’ve sat here working late into the night with only the fire to guide my hand. Time and again, I wondered whether you would enjoy working the wood. There are greater purposes for a pair of strong hands than gripping a sword, Nellore.”

“Ye’ll have to show me more,” she said. “What are ye making?”

“A new chest for your garments and linens.”

Her eyes widened with delight. “Thank ye, Garik, but ye ken ye don’t need to fuss over me?”

“I know,” he said, “but I like to.”

“Well, then, I won’t complain,” she said as she began to survey the rest of her new home.

“What are these?” she asked, picking up one of several small, wooden figures from the table. He drew close.

“They are Viking gods. That is Odin. He is the god of war and of wisdom and magic.”

She smiled, returning Odin to the table. “And who is this,” she said.

“That is Freyr. He is the son of the sea god. He is the god of virility and prosperity. This is his twin sister, Freyja,” Garik said, showing her a different figure.

She returned the wood carvings to the table, and then her hands gripped the belt at his waist. “I must remember I’ve married a Viking,” she said as she pulled him close and pressed herself against his hard chest.

“Aye, ye have,” he said, imitating her accent. “And I’ve married a fine Scottish lass.” He stroked his finger down her cheek and whispered, “Jeg elsker deg,” threading his fingers through her hair.

“What did ye say?” she asked.

“I love you,” he replied.

He gazed into her sultry, green eyes. “You’re my wife,” he said in awe. A shy smile teased her lips, drawing his attention to her full, sensual mouth. “Enough talk,” he said, his tone harsh as he swept her into his arms. Then he lay her down on his pallet beside the warmth of the fire.

The glow of the flames made her black hair gleam and warmed her skin so that it glowed like amber honey. Her eyes and her arms beckoned him. He moved over her, covering her with his warmth. A sigh escaped her lips as he rested all of his weight on her. Her arms came around his neck and she kissed him with a tenderness that deepened with every stroke of her tongue until he was reeling with the intoxication and finesse of her lips. She surrounded him with her lavender scent. Her strong hands stroked his skin. His heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing became labored as he tried to kiss and touch every inch of her trembling flesh.

She gasped as his fingers grazed the skin of her stomach and then lower still. Sensation shot through her limbs as his fingers stroked her heat. Soft gasps escaped her lips as an aching need grew and spread throughout her entire body. She arched her back, pressing her hips into his touch. His lips trailed down her throat and then curved around the peaks of her breasts. He slowly caressed each sensitive mound with his tongue. Her hands dug into his long, black hair as she cried out. Searing desire struck her core like fiery streaks of lightning. She begged for more, wanting him to fill her. She needed to be his.

He could hold back no longer. He shifted over her and felt her legs open for him. Then he entered her with one smooth thrust. She cried out, wrapping her legs around him, pressing him deeper and deeper inside of her. She enclosed him within her tight sheath, meeting each of his thrusts with a fervor of her own. Her ragged breaths and urgent groans fed his desire. He lost himself to the ache that erupted within him like a blazing torrent of sensation that rippled through his body. She shuddered around him, her honeyed pleasure coaxing him over the edge. At last he cried out from the sweet agony that gripped his body and he collapsed, lost in a euphoric haze.

*

The same blissful, sultry haze clung to their hearts and bodies as they remained sequestered in their hut for two days and two nights. They left only to see to their most basic needs, but to all else they refused any consideration. They let the world slip beyond their reach, erecting a shield of pleasure and fulfillment to distance themselves from the looming uncertainty.

She could not remember ever being more content. Laughter filled their quarters. He had become everything to her, more profound than she could have ever imagined when, for so long, he had only been a fantasy, something loved at a distance. Their love had blossomed from a wistful flower to something rooted and strong and growing in grace and purpose like the very emblem of their clan: the mighty Scottish pine. For that was what their love was—mighty and grand, something that transcended desire and affection and had become like air to breath and food to nourish. Garik had become essential to her very survival.

His sleeping body curved around hers, and she nestled closer to his warmth. She looked at his strong hand resting possessively on her stomach. Closing her eyes, she breathed in his scent and listened to the sound of his even breaths.

A glimmer of light peeked beneath the door, drawing her gaze. It could not be morning already. Her eyes widened as fear gripped her heart. Slowly, she pulled free from his grasp and tiptoed to the doorway. She eased it open, letting the light fall upon her bare curves. With a sigh she realized it had been the moon she saw, bright and bursting with fullness. The night was still theirs.

She felt the gentle warmth of her plaid as Garik wrapped it about her shoulders. She smiled when his body pressed against hers from behind. “Although ‘tis unlikely anyone will be out wandering the village paths at this time of night, I would rather not share the feast of your body with anyone,” he said.

“Even the moon?” she purred as she turned in his embrace.

“Even the moon,” he said, sweeping her into his arms.

He cherished the feel of her lush curves as he carried her back inside.

“I long to go with ye, ye ken,” she said, “to fight by your side.”

He stopped and looked down at her. “You say that, but I do not believe you truly understand what longing is. I long for the war to end. I long for days without another’s blood clinging to my body. I long to feel the sun on my bare skin, to throw off my armor.” He set her on her feet. “Have conviction to fix wrongs, but long only for what your heart desires, what it truly craves. And what your heart craves is this—” He kissed her long and hard. Then he pulled slowly away. “And this.” He turned her around so the bare skin of her back pressed against his chest. His hands curved around each of her breasts. “And this,” he whispered.

He loved her that night as if it were to be his last, catapulting her soul to soar as high as the stars in the heavens. He fed her spirit with every tender and ardent stroke of his hand and every touch of his lips to her skin, nourishing her with love so she might sustain her hope during his absence. And in return she gave to him everything she possessed—all of her strength, all of her being, all of her love to carry with him over the sea and through the lands gripped by war’s dark fist. They collapsed in slumber with their souls replete so that when the sun at last rose and bid them open their eyes, they faced the new dawn together.