Avelynn (11 page)

“Why did you not turn the wolf into a bird or a frog?” he asked.

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to determine if he was serious. “Were you testing me?”

“I was trying to determine if you were a
völva
—a witch—or a Seiðkana—a priestess. You practice magic, but I do not think it is very powerful.”

“Are you willing to take that risk?” Where my hair had come loose from its braid, it was disheveled, sticking out at odd angles, and my underdress was torn and ragged, my face filthy. I hoped I looked formidable.

He smiled. “Not just yet.”

I watched him prepare his supper, powerful arms barely contained beneath his linen tunic. “Why didn't you attack me, on the beach?”

“I respect those touched by the hands of the gods.” He turned the spit, and the fire sputtered as more fat dripped from the crispy carcass. My mouth watered.

“We heard the drum, and when I saw you dancing around a sacred fire, I knew you to be one of the chosen ones. Ingolf was an ignorant fool for defiling your circle. I am sorry for his actions.”

I nodded.

“It is a sacred time of year for our gods also. Though, our priestesses dance nude. A sight I would have been pleased to observe.”

Heat rose in my cheeks.

He pulled the hare from the spit. “Come. You will be hungry.”

I picked up the cloak, wrapped it tightly around my shoulders, and sat close to the fire's heat, opposite to where he sat. I eyed him curiously. He had saved my life, and now he shared his meal with me. He was the least threatening Viking I could ever have imagined. Yet I saw the long knife he wore on the right side of his belt and the sword that hung from the left. Both were innocuous, protected in their scabbards, but a mere flick of the wrist or sweep of the hand would produce their ruthless edges all too readily. I remembered his axe and the way the blade had stuck fast in the dead man's spine.

He cut the hare into smaller wedges, offering it to me first.

“Thank you,” I said, surprised.

The heady scent of the crackled skin reached my nostrils, and my stomach growled noisily. I flushed in embarrassment.

He handed me another piece. “I cannot have you starving to death.”

Watching him devour his food, I figured the chances of him starving to death were remote. He was the epitome of health, in peak physical condition. He must have weighed over fifteen stone and stood over twelve hands tall, with a broad chest and shoulders, and legs as thick as tree trunks.

“How's your arm?” I asked.

“Fine.” He flapped it experimentally.

“May I see it?”

He proffered it without hesitation. It was swollen and bruising, the surface coarsely abraded, dried blood and dirt filling three deep gouges.

“Do you have any wine?” I asked.

He rummaged through a satchel and produced a leather flask.

“I want to use it to wash out your wound.”

“Seems an awful waste of good wine,” he said, watching me rip a length of linen from the bottom of my underdress. I poured the wine onto the cloth until it was soaked through and dabbed at the raw skin.

He jumped, caught off guard by the alcohol's sting.

I laughed. “I find it hard to believe a little wine could hurt someone as tough as you.”

He smiled back, and I found myself growing very warm. Disconcerted, I concentrated on tying the linen around his arm and then shuffled back closer to the fire.

The air seemed charged as if it pulsed around me, and I became very aware of his presence.

“How is
your
arm?” He stood and closed the gap between us.

“My arm?” I asked, bewildered, conscious only of his intimate closeness, his thigh a mere hairsbreadth from my own.

“Yes.” He lifted the limb in question.

Using the back of his palm, he brushed aside the cloak. Sparks shot along my skin from the center of his touch. I sat up very straight. My heart beat faster.

“You scraped it when I pushed you aside.” His grip loosened until his hand slid down onto mine. He held it tightly. “I am sorry for that.” He traced the outline of the scrape with the finger from his other hand.

I looked down and followed his finger with my eyes. I hadn't even been aware of hurting myself, but I was vividly aware of my arm now. In fact it had become the only thing I was conscious of—that, and his featherlight caress.

“It's fine,” I heard myself say, as if from a distance. His touch moved in larger and larger circles, getting higher and higher toward my shoulder. My skin caught fire. My stomach cramped. Then something else, something much more powerful awakened. A deep, low tension, a stirring ember, hot and white, burned between my legs.

Startled, I pulled my hand and arm away and wrapped the cloak securely back around myself. “I'm fine.”

He nodded and moved back to the other side of the fire. He had two bedrolls laid out as far away from each other as they could get. The fire would be closest to our feet, to prevent any accidental hair searing.

“Get some rest, Seiðkana.”

“Avelynn,” I answered quietly. “My name is Avelynn.”

“Avelynn,” he echoed, his voice deep, his accent foreign yet soft.

“I wanted to thank you, today … for the wolf … for saving my life.”

“It was my pleasure.”

We sat there silent, watching, waiting, neither one of us moving. The air was oppressive. Fear, uncertainty, confusion, hope, excitement, and arousal hovered like smoke from a peat fire, heavy and thick, choking my words.

“I will not hurt you,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.

“What about my friend?” I wanted to hear impunity for the both of us.

“You are both safe. I give you my word.”

Relief washed over me. I wasn't sure I could trust him, but I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him.

“Why are you here, in England?”

He leaned back on his forearms, stretching out his legs. “We stopped to rest and replenish our supplies. We are on our way to Ireland. I was surprised to find you. I had thought this part of the coast uninhabited.”

He'd said he respected those touched by the gods, and that at least explained his actions when he first saw me, but what of afterward when he followed me into the forest and killed the wolf? “Why did you save me?” I didn't think fear of being cursed could account for all of his actions.

“I like you,” was all he said.

A tempest of butterflies took flight in my stomach, and any other questions I might have had evaporated on my tongue. My pulse charged forward, like a stallion given leave to run.

Was this how it was when my parents had met? Did my mother feel this kind of connection too, this bewildering tension between her and my father? Could it really happen like this—two people from disparate worlds colliding by chance in a moment that should never have happened? She had been shipwrecked, and I had picked this time to travel to the coast, to appeal to the Goddess. Was it fated?

I searched his eyes in the firelight. Guileless and infinite. “Good night, Alrik.”

An enchanting grin lit up his handsome face. “Good night, Avelynn.”

I lay down onto my back and gazed at the sky. The full moon was glorious. A pale orange light illuminated its mottled surface as it hovered in the sky. The night was clear and crisp. A few brilliant stars were visible, despite the moon's impressive glow. Tiny pinholes in a black blanket, each star flickered and shimmered in the translucent darkness, its silvery light reaching out to me. I closed my eyes and sighed in ludicrous contentment. He liked me.

“Having trouble sleeping?” He appeared above me, blocking the stars from view.

“A little,” I replied, my heart pounding at the fright from his sudden appearance.

“Why?”

“Thinking too much,” I said. He stood in profile to the fire, and I watched the shadows dance across his bold features. “Are you having trouble sleeping too?” I asked, trying to ignore the fact that he was breathtakingly close, and that we were completely alone—the trees, the moon, and stars our only witness.

“Yes.” His voice was husky.

My body stirred. “Thinking too much?”

He sat down on the ground beside me. “Thinking about you.”

I swallowed, my throat gone dry.

“I want you.” He placed his hands on either side of my waist and leaned over top of me. His fierce gaze sent waves of heat and lightning coursing through my body. “But I will not force you. You may choose.” He leaned closer.

When I didn't object, he leaned closer still. I could feel the warmth from his breath on my cheek. He stopped, searched my face in the pale moonlight, and waited.

I couldn't speak. I nodded.

He closed the gap. His lips, soft and full, brushed my cheek, and my lips quivered as his mouth covered mine. His beard tickled and brushed the smoothness of my skin as his kiss grew deeper. My body trembled. His tongue, eager and gentle, sought mine, and they met in the briefest of glances. I gasped and clutched the woolen blanket beneath me. Air became scarce, my breath fast and shallow.

Drawing his lips from mine, he dropped his weight onto one elbow and gazed down at me. He released my braid, his fingers twining and combing through the long strands until my hair pooled around me. “You are beautiful,” he murmured. His finger followed the curve of my ear, trailed down the side of my neck and tucked just beneath the braided edge of my underdress. He continued his advance, sliding over my shoulder, and down to the rise of my breast. He hesitated, hovering. My breath hung suspended.
I want this. I've wanted this all my life.

I felt him pull away, the warmth of his body replaced by a gust of cold air.

“Tollak,” he growled.

“There's trouble, Alrik.” Another Viking stood at the edge of the clearing, the full moon's light bathing him in a silvery glow. The effect was unnerving—he could have been one of the fae people. “When you killed Ingolf this day, his brother Ingvar banded with several men. They tried to burn the ship.”

Alrik was already putting on his mail coat. “Stay with her.” He pointed in my direction. “See that no harm comes to her in my absence.” He laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Of course.”

Without another word, Alrik disappeared into the night.

Tollak sat on Alrik's bedroll. His hair was the color of freshly cut straw, and a tidy beard framed a full, bemused mouth. His clothes were well kept, and a gold brooch clasped the edges of his fur cloak. He was clearly of some importance. Other than this Viking and Alrik, the other members of the crew I'd seen looked more like an assembly of rabid dogs.

He gestured to my bedroll. I shimmied under the covers and pulled the wool blankets up to my chin.

“Peace,” he said in perfect English, his empty hands raised.

I nodded.

He took his sword from its scabbard and began oiling and sharpening the edges. After what seemed liked hours, I decided he wasn't a threat and closed my eyes, the events of the day dragging me down into exhaustion.

I didn't know what to make of my torrent of feelings or this unfathomable situation. I was betrothed against my will to a brute, due to be married within the year, due to have an abysmal life of misery and inferiority, constantly wishing and hoping for some beauty, some passion in my life. And here it was, inexplicably before me—but with a Viking, the very scourge of England. It was an impossible, hopeless match.

I was wading into treacherous waters, but that just made it all the more enticing.

*   *   *

Dawn broke cold and wet. A fat raindrop landed squarely in the middle of my brow, waking me from a fitful sleep. I rolled my head to the side, brushing my face on the rough woolen blankets that cocooned me. I'd had a horrible dream.

I was falling through the air. There was blood everywhere. Ravens flew alongside me in hungry pursuit of the eyes of dead men on the battlefield. Off in the distance, shields clashed and men screamed.

“Fly with me,” a raven called, gliding beside me, its wings outstretched wide as a man's height.

“I can't,” I cried. “I'm not a bird!” I tried to stop my fatal fall, flapping my arms uselessly, but the ground approached fast, details emerging swiftly—a blanket of new snow, crisp edges of rocks, and divots of mud.

“Fly with me,” it urged.

I continued my acrobatic writhing, my weightless dance, arms and legs flailing in vain. “I'm not a bird.”

The ground approached with brutal finality.

There was no longer any uncertainty. War was coming. I sat bolt upright, remembering Alrik. I searched the campsite, but both Alrik and Tollak were gone. Alrik's bedding was rolled and leaning against his satchel, so he couldn't be far.

The fire had been relit. Raindrops sizzled as they burst on the blistering wood. I breathed in the fresh morning air and stretched. The ache of lying on cold ground grumbled in my cramped legs. I shrugged deeper into Alrik's cloak and rolled up my bedding, placing it beside his. Thirsty and wishing to wash my face, I wandered off in search of water.

Not far from camp, I heard a creek's gentle sloshing and followed the sound. I pushed through a clump of billowy reeds and froze. Alrik stood in the middle of the stream, rushing water up to his knees, his back to me. Sunlight gilded his naked body.

I stood transfixed, afraid to make a sound. I felt the full weight of his nakedness and drank it in. His body was firm, etched, rippling in hills and valleys. Shadows and hollows highlighted taut muscles that hugged his body like leather wrapped around hard steel.

He bent over to splash water on his face, granting me a most striking view of his behind. It was tight and wonderfully sculpted. He rose, shaking water like a wet dog from his blond hair, and turned in profile. I gasped. His manhood hung in plain view, resting against his thigh, and I found it difficult to avert my eyes.