“
Jorand, undress him,” Astryd ordered. Then she
turned to Rika. “Bathe him and dose all the small punctures
with this.” Astryd handed her a small bowl filled with noxious-smelling paste.
“And then what?” Rika’s eyes widened. She’d never been in a sickroom before, let alone nursed someone who’d been grievously wounded.
“Sit with him and tend to his needs,” Astryd said.
Jorand cut away Bjorn’s clothing to avoid moving
him any more than necessary. Then the young man spread a thin blanket over his captain to cover his nakedness. Without a word, he gathered up the scraps
of fabric from Bjorn’s tunic and leggings and filed out
after the Lady of Sogna. Rika was left alone with Bjorn.
She lathered up a small cloth and began washing the
spatters of dried blood from Bjorn’s arms and chest.
His tunic had offered
little
protection from the scrapes
and jabs, but she patiently removed slivers of wood
and gently cleansed the abraded skin. The ointment
Astryd had ordered her to doctor him with was pun
gent with ammonia. It made her eyes water and she al
most envied Bjorn his oblivion as she dabbed some on
each scrape and puncture wound.
When she reached his waist, her gaze was drawn to the narrow ribbon of dark hair that started at his navel and spread downward. What if he were damaged in
his most sensitive male part? Holding her breath, she
drew the blankets down.
He seemed to be intact, with no injury she could see.
She stood there for a moment just looking at him, the
mysteries of a man becoming clear to her. What an odd
combination of strength and vulnerability Bjorn was,
and nowhere more obviously than in the tangled thicket of dark hair between his legs.
She’d seen him fully engorged and aroused, and the
disturbing image had flashed through her mind unbid
den several times since. It was hard to believe this soft, limp tissue was the same organ. Something that might have been tenderness swelled in her chest.
Gooseflesh rippled over the darker skin on the bag of his seed and she was startled out of her study of him. Guiltily, she drew the blankets up to his chin and folded back the
bottom edge to soap and doctor the hurts on his well-
muscled legs.
Tend to his needs,
Astryd had said. Rika soon dis
covered the needs of an unconscious man were few.
She held a wet cloth to his temple, willing the lump to
subside. She rearranged the blankets over him and tucked them around his feet. When she could think of nothing else to do, she perched quietly at his side on
the bedding, with one of his hands in hers.
He had strong hands, broad fingered and lightly
peppered with dark hair. A little bit of dirt had col
lected under his nails and she used a knifepoint to clean it out.
She searched his face. The hard lines around his
eyes etched by years at the steering oar battling the
wind and waves had relaxed and he looked years
younger. His skin was so pale, with an unhealthy un
dertone, almost gray. She put a hand on his chest to feel the great muscle of his heart constricting under
her palm. The rhythm seemed steady, if a little fast.
“
Open your eyes, Bjorn,” she whispered. Her stom
ach twisted like raw wool on a spindle. Why should
she care what happened to this man? Wasn’t he the en
emy? The blood of Magnus Silver-Throat might just as
well drip from his hand. The hand she held gently,
even now. As she willed him to wake, part of her heart
damned her for a traitor.
“
Poor little brother.” The voice behind her made her
jump to her feet. She was so intent on Bjorn, she
wasn’t aware when Gunnar slipped into the room,
silent as a cat. “He must be dying. If you sat on my bed, I’m sure I’d rouse.”
Gunnar’s voice was greasy, like a slick of
whale oil on the waves. She didn’t like the way his gaze traveled over her body.
“He hasn’t wakened?”
“
No, lord.” Rika folded her hands before her, keep
ing her eyes cast down. When he took a step toward
her, crowding closer than he should, she reflexively
moved back. Before she knew it, he had her cornered.
“
Nowhere else to run, my
little
skald,” Gunnar said,
his pupils enlarging to make his pale eyes nearly as
dark as Bjorn’s, black holes ringed with icy gray.
“
I’m not your skald,” she said. “I belong to your
brother.”
The words sounded strange to her ears, yet if
it would protect her from the jarl, she would readily admit to being Bjorn's property.
“That’s an odd turn now, isn’t it?” he said, still
crowding close. “Ever since we were boys, Bjorn has
always wanted what I have. He wants the land, you
know. Always, he’s wanted the land.”
Rika remained silent. She didn’t dare meet Gunnar's gaze, so she studied the plank floor trying to con
trol the tremble that threatened to take her.
“
He’s always been eaten up with envy,” Gunnar con
tinued. “Seems strange that now
I’m
envious of him.”
The jarl leaned toward her and inhaled deeply, nuz
zling along her neck, where the wisps of her shorn hair
curled around her ears. Her breakfast of cheese and
bread curdled in her stomach.
Gunnar placed a possessive hand on her waist. “But
of course, even though Bjorn can never have what’s mine, there’s nothing of his that didn’t come to him through my good graces. You were mine by right. I think I may just decide to take you back, Rika.”
“
Bjorn might have something to say about that.” She
schooled her face not to show her rising panic
. Bjorn the Black may have had compunctions
that guarded her against rape, but she doubted that his
older brother was troubled by any pangs of conscience
in that regard.
Gunnar tossed a dismissive look over his shoulder at his brother, who lay pale and drawn and still as death. “I don’t hear him objecting.”
She tried a new tack. Ducking under his arm, Rika managed to get away from the corner. “Have you con
sidered the danger you bring to yourself?”
“
I see no danger,” Gunnar said. “You’re not big
enough to fight me, and Bjorn is in no mood to.”
“
But what of the danger of bedding a skald?” Her
mind worked feverishly, as her feet managed to keep
her out of his grasp. “
I’m
a gifted poet. Suppose as a lover, you suffer in comparison to your brother and I
compose a
little
ditty about your . . . inadequacies?”
“
I’d cut out your tongue.” The hard glint in his eyes told her it was not an empty threat.
“
And how would you explain that to the men who
expect to hear me each night at your table?” She side
stepped to avoid his grasp. “I promise you I would
only have to sing it once and my words will dog you
for the rest of your days. It will be too deliciously
scathing not to repeat. Whether they sing it in your
hearing or not, you’ll be forever known as Gunnar
Short-Sword to the men you want to
lead.”
He stopped for a moment as if weighing her words. “Of course, that supposes that you will not be pleased
with me.” Then one pale eyebrow lifted and he strode
toward her with purpose. “But I think you will be.”
He feinted one way and when she dodged the other
he caught her and crushed her to his chest. Gunnar plastered his lips to hers, driving his tongue against
her teeth to force her mouth open. He bruised her with the force of his kiss. She pounded his chest and shoul
ders, trying to get away. When he finally released her
mouth, she gasped for breath.
“Let me go, you worthless crust of lint from a beggar’s navel,” she railed at him. “Filth from Loki’s un-
wiped arse! Limp-sworded, pea-balled troll!”
Gunnar laughed deeply. “Very good insults, but
you’ll sing a different tune once I slip my ‘sword’ into
you.” He fumbled with the front of his leggings. “You
see, it’s not limp at all. Or short.”
“No!” She didn’t care who heard her, though with
the foot-thick walls, she feared no one would.
“Let her go, Gunnar.” The voice was ragged, but it was Bjorn’s.
The jail whirled to face his brother. Bjorn was
propped up on both elbows, his face a white mask of
fury. Murder swirled in the reddened whites of his dark eyes.
Gunnar laughed uneasily. “Come, little brother,” he
said. “Don’t distress yourself. What’s a wench, more or
less, between us?”
“If you don’t take your hands off her right now, you’ll find out.”
Gunnar narrowed his eyes at Bjorn. “Stop talking
like a madman. You’re weak as an old woman. You’re
in no position to stop me.”
“If you try to take her, I swear on our father’s grave mound, I will beat you bloody.” Bjorn raised himself stiffly to a full sitting position. His face set like granite, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rose to
his feet, leaning to keep most of his weight on his good
leg. The muscle in his left cheek ticked. Naked but determined, he confronted his older brother with both fists closed tightly at his sides. “As you can see, maybe I am in a position to stop you, after all,” he said through clenched teeth.
Gunnar glared at him, then back at Rika. He made a low noise of disgust deep in his throat. Rika wondered
how the jarl would explain a fight with his injured
brother. Besides, Bjorn had the pain-
deadened look of a
berserkr.
He was as dangerous as a
wounded bear.
“She’s not worth the bother.” Gunnar turned on his heel and stomped out of the room.
When the door closed, Bjorn weaved a little, then collapsed shakily back onto the bedding. Rika hurried
to his side to help ease him into lying down.
“
You’ve started bleeding again,” she scolded, as she lifted his legs back into the bed. She ripped another
section of cloth from her hemline and bound it tightly
around his bandaged thigh.
He settled into the bedding, letting her fuss over him without protest. After she tucked the blanket
across his chest, his belly jiggled with a small chuckle.
When his mouth turned up into a broad smile, Rika
noticed for the first time that a deep dimple was carved into one of his cheeks.
“Limp-sworded, pea-balled troll,” he said softly be
fore he drifted off again, this time just settling into a
light sleep.
Rika hoped it was a sleep without dreams.
“Healing is not a footrace,” Rika reminded him. “You can’t force your muscles to mend themselves in little more than a week.”
“I’ll never heal if I let you turn me into a slug-
a-bed,” Bjorn said, allowing a sly smile to steal over his
face. The woman was a walking distraction. He might
yet be an invalid, but she stirred his blood just with
her nearness. Bjorn tossed the blanket back in invita
tion. “Unless you want to give me reason to stay here.”
She frowned. He longed to kiss away the deep fur
row creasing her brow.
“You know better than that,”
Rika said. “I’m still not your bed-slave. I just want to see you well, and you’re not helping matters. It’s time
you admit that there are some things even you can’t
control.”
Bjorn shook his head and pushed himself all the
harder, but only time would fill the deep gouge in his
thigh with muscle and flesh. The swelling at his temple
was gone, though Rika told him the skin was still washed with deep indigo and yellow.