Norse Jewel (Entangled Scandalous) (21 page)

He lay down beside her, and she nestled in his warmth. Helena pressed the shell of her ear to his chest and found the steady beat that promised strength and honor and comfort.

“I love the smell of you. Sea air, leather, and your skin…all of you.” She sewed soft kisses over his chest, inching toward the hollow at the base of his neck. “You’ll never be free of me.”

His arms tightened like manacles, squeezing her closer. “Never have I wanted to be free of you.”

“I vexed you often for my freedom.” She closed her eyes, relishing being in his arms. “Now I’m here, and I want to go back to Svea.”

“You’ve suffered much, but in time…” His voice vibrated from his chest to her ear.

“I’m sad at the loss of my mother and father. . .” She pulled away and peered up at him. “But I couldn’t bear the loss of you. I love you, Hakan. I would be with you…always.”

Her voice quavered, thick with a tumble of emotions and desire, both pained and sweet. Tears burned her eyes, blurring his face. Helena’s eyelids fluttered shut and Hakan brushed his lips, feather light, over her eyelids. His warm mouth moved a tender trail over one eyebrow and then the other.

“Come back with me…as my wife.” The muffled words came low as his lips moved in her hair. “I’ve been to many lands, but you are my rarest find…worth more than a thousand of your red stones.”

Elation spilled through her chest, mixing with the heady arousal of being in his arms. She pulled back and searched his face, needing to see him fully. Her lips parted but words failed her, so fogged was she by want and need and surprise. Her hard Norseman had shown a tender side, and in the doing befuddled her. The corner of his mouth hooked up.

“I’ve rendered you speechless.” He kissed her forehead and lingered there, his warm breath touching her face. “Do you know why I was so ill-tempered on the ship?” he whispered between kisses. “On the journey to your village?”

She shook her head, pressing her lips to his whiskered jaw. “Why?”

His mouth moved across her wounded cheek, following the trail of her scar. “Because I saw what a fool I was to think I’d never want a wife again. Truth finally sunk into my stubborn head that you’re nothing like Astrid…nothing like any woman I’ve ever known.”

She pulled a hands breath from him, sliding her palms up the hardness of his chest. “None of that matters.”

She wanted to comfort him. Helena shook her head, but Hakan’s face pinched as the painful revelation flowed from him. He would have his say.

“I didn’t think you wanted me.” He shut his eyes at the admission.

“Oh, Hakan…” Her hand slid into his hair.

“You think me an honorable man? I was a fool not to marry you long ago. I should’ve married you the first time you made me laugh.”

Joy sung through her. Helena grabbed him, pressing her fingers into solid ribs and muscled flesh. She twined one leg with his, rubbing brawn with languid strokes. Her skirt hitched higher from the sensual tangle, and wondrous, wanting heat spread low in her abdomen.

“And when was the first time I made you laugh, my lord?” she asked, huskiness edging her voice.

“In the streets of Uppsala. Telling me the goats understood Frankish.” His strained chuckle rumbled near her cheek. “Letting you go made me realize how much I love you.” He stroked her hair. “How much I need you. ‘Twas a mistake to say I’d never love again.”

“I love you, too,” she whispered. “And now I
need
you.”

Her questing hands tugged at the waist of his trousers, demonstrating what kind of need.

“Does this mean you’ll marry me?” His voice worked to keep evenness under her questing hands.

She kissed his flat male nipple and then the other. “Yes.”

“Will your holy man wed you—” He sucked in a sharp breath and tremors of pleasure shook his frame as her fingers skimmed low on his belly. “—to a Norseman?”

Helena laughed, a low, muted sound, liking this power she had over him.

“None will deny you.” Her hands ran up the broad plains of his chest, and she slipped her fingers into his loosely tied hair. Helena pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to the center of his chest, working her way higher. “But are you ready to bear witness here?”

“’Tis time I believe in something greater than me.” His voice thinned, apparently weakening from her kisses.

He grabbed her questing hands, moving them to her sides.

“I promised not to rush,” he said, and levered on his side, looming close and trapping one arm.

Mischief curled the corners of his mouth once more. Hakan tucked her other arm to her side and kissed her full on the lips. His subtle growth of whiskers scraped soft skin around her mouth, but the kiss, so deep and long, was welcome. The odd pleasure of his firm but tender restraint thrilled her to the core. A braid of heat, emotions, and want twirled within Helena, pooling betwixt her legs. Her Norseman demanded belonging with that kiss, and her seeking lips answered him back.

Who laid claim to whom?

Helena opened to him, pliant and yielding. ‘Twas a woman’s power, softening under him, and his warrior’s body jerked. His breath came all the more ragged. A lazy, triumphant smile curved her mouth at that little victory of pleasure. But Hakan battled back, and his arsenal was a single touch, her neckline the battleground. He hooked a finger in her neckline, and his dark eyes studied hers, watching as he dragged the fabric down inch by agonizing inch. The contact, the waiting, pained her.

A rush of excitement flamed when he dipped his head and nuzzled her neck, a slow feast of hot kisses. Helena stretched back her head, hoping, waiting.

“Please…” she said, her voice hoarse to her ears.

Hakan’s mouth moved lower, invading new, exposed skin. His lips grazed her collarbone, keeping a slim fraction of space as he hovered over the high swell of her breast. That white flesh had never seen the sun, much less born the attentions of a man, and her skin singed from the heat. ‘Twas leisured devotion the way he moved from one moonlit breast to the other, his whiskers tickling soft flesh. Her nipples hidden at the edge of the fabric tightened with yearning need. She writhed beneath him, and he let her arm go. Freed at last, she turned on her side and stretched herself like a fevered cat against the length of him.

“Oh,” he groaned. Air hissed from Hakan when she scratched his ribs lightly.

Helena laid hot kisses on his neck, where sun-browned skin tasted of him. Her hand travelled lower to his trousers, and the woolen fabric felt so warm to her touch. Tremors shook his frame under her wandering fingers, and she rejoiced in the giving.

This way between a man and a woman moved her, so mystical and wondrous, yet hot and solid. Hakan gripped her hip under the onslaught of another shiver as she explored his skin, halting to trace a smooth scar or two. Years of swordplay and battle had wrought his frame to hardness. She would not be denied this measured discovery, finding the slopes and valleys of his torso.

“Vixen.” Hakan’s deep voice vibrated through his body to hers.

“You like this?” She breathed the question and glanced up at him, already knowing the answer.

His eyes, so piercing and intense, stared back. “’Tis the best kind of torment.”

He kissed her, a reverent connection that led to more. Four of Hakan’s fingers traced the length of her spine, a gradual trail that circled low on her back where her dress gathered. The touch, downy soft, sent sensual quivers across her back.

She curled into him, moaning. “Feels so good.”

A sound of masculine contentment rumbled in his chest. Hakan’s searching fingers moved over fabric and slipped into the cleft of her bottom, rubbing gently.

“Oh!” She yelped at the singular invasion.

He answered with a squeeze to one rounded globe, massaging the flesh through wool.

All thoughts and words melted from the spiraling heat, a heat that turned them into a whirlpool of fevered touch, a heat of give and take. Moonlight and darkness painted limbs twined into a tangle shaded black and white, so like the image of the elk creature and wolf beast that once circled Helena’s arm in a fierce clash. But this…this was the sweetest battle.

Chapter Twenty-One

Animals stirred below as mounts from the night watch were rubbed down and fed. The servant boy, Giles, moved around with the stealth of a donkey. He tip-toed, trying to be quiet, in deference to the guests sleeping in the loft, but the watchmen, ending their night’s duty, snorted and coughed.

Grumbling loudly of their increased patrols, they groused about Sir Arval’s fear that Nor’men would besiege them in the night. Two men carped about having to ride the perimeter of Aubergon, rather than guard the village from the warmth and comfort of the watchtower.

Hakan called out to the whining guards below. “Be glad you serve an easy master. You’d not last a sennight in my service.”

The two men cast nervous glances at the loft, then slunk away, mumbling an odd mixture of curses and prayers. Hakan’s gaze shifted to Helena, now stirring beside him, her dark blue eyes half-opened in protest.

“Twould appear our hosts have arisen,” he whispered in Helena’s ear.

“And by the sound of it, you endear yourself to them.” She yawned, curling close to him. “Let me sleep.”

“Wake up, Helena, for today we wed.”

Bolting upright, long stalks of hay clinging to her hair, she looked bleary eyed and beautiful to him.

“Wed. Aye, that has a pleasant sound.” She wrapped her mantle close and gave Hakan a soft kiss. “There’s much to do. We must go to Father Renaud and explain the need for haste.”

“The only thing that needs our attention is your holy man. The sooner he says his words over us, the better—”

She punched his shoulder and laughed. “If you want to convince Father Renaud that we should wed today, you need to make an effort to better understand what we’ll do.”

“
Solace
,” Hakan said, pointing to his gleaming sword and smiling at their morning banter, “is all I need to convince any man of my will.”

Helena chided him. “Some things need delicacy.”

He set two fingers under her chin and kissed her again. “I can be as delicate as you need me be. But I know a score of warriors who won’t think that so important. We need to move with all haste. Otherwise Emund and my men will.” He punctuated his words with another slow, soft kiss.

“I forgot about the men,” she said, softening to him. “I’ll see what can be done. We need to be on our way before mid-day.”

I’ll have to remember the effect of such a kiss in the morning.

He grinned, well-pleased with the first revelation of a soon-to-be-husband. Helena’s husband.

“Come, we’ve much to do.” Helena lowered one foot and then another on the loft’s ladder.

Outside, ducks quacked and chickens pecked their jerky rhythm, searching the ground. A woman bent over a well, knotting her russet headscarf about her head.

“Good morn,” Helena called to the woman. “’Tis a beautiful morn, I think.”

The woman picked up twin buckets at her feet. “Some might think so.” She looked up at the same silver-gray sky. “Others not.”

Pushing open the great hall’s door, Helena and Hakan moved inside to the stirring of the hounds. Guerin sat in the lord’s chair, mulling over a cup.

“I trust you both slept well?” he asked, stirring in his chair.

Sliding onto the bench, Helena burst with the news, but Hakan remained standing. He itched to be on his way.

“Hakan and I are to wed this day.” Helena’s red-lipped smile spread across her face.

Guerin’s jaw dropped, and his eyes resembled bulging fish eyes.

“Guerin,” she sighed. “You should close your mouth and congratulate us.”

“I wish you well.” He raised his cup in salute.

Hakan nodded his thanks, glad to soon leave this odorous wreck of a tower.

The boyish lord grinned, revealing even teeth. “Aye, congratulations. Today’s feast will serve as a wedding feast.” He rose from his chair. “I must awaken Marie. There’s much to do—”

“We leave by mid-day,” said Hakan. He set one boot on the bench and reached for a hunk of bread. “No later.”

Guerin issued instructions to three astonished servants who scampered away. ‘Twas plainly writ on their faces: How could a Frankish woman willingly marry a Nor’man?

…

The next hour flew with the clatter of copper pots and wooden buckets. Old rushes were swept away, and new ones were scattered with precious herbs to add a pleasant scent to stale air.

Hakan went hunting to contribute to the feast. Helena, wearing yet another borrowed dress, cooked in the kitchen. This dress swayed about her, loose and tent-like, save for the apron she wore that braced the garment to her. Helena kneaded dough, sprinkling oatcakes flavored with honey. Women she’d known all her life and some strangers who must have come from Lady Marie’s Paris home worked alongside her.

“Helena,” Lady Marie called from her seat at the worktable. “Are you ready to bathe?”

She held up flour-streaked arms and hands. “I am sorely in need of a cleaning.”

“Come. There’s a silk dress I have ‘twould fit you nicely…better than my old green one.” Lady Marie’s eyes sparkled as though she understood the fate of that ugly dress.

“’Tis gracious of you,” Helena said, her mouth opening a fraction from surprise. “I’ve never worn silk.”

In the background, a large frame filled the kitchen door. Hakan, a bloodied mess from skinning a deer carcass, held his hunter’s knife loosely as he ducked inside the feminine domain. He nodded greetings to the skittish women who bent their heads to tasks before them, and if they didn’t have one, one was quickly found.

The chieftain
leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed one boot in front of the other.
Mischief creased Hakan’s face. Flushed from kitchen fires, Helena brushed away a lock of hair with the back of her hand.

“I just met your holy man,” he called across the room. “He’s convinced we should wed.”

“Hakan.” Helena’s voice rose in warning as she rubbed clumps of damp flour from her hands.

He tipped his head at the carcass that hung in plain view from a tree. “Shall I carve the meat?”

Helena wiped her hands down the borrowed apron and marched across the kitchen, eyeing his knife. She tipped her head at the knife and poked a floury finger at his chest.

“Put that away and go clean yourself. You,” she sniffed the air twice, “smell.”

“I smell like a man.” He grinned, warming to their play.

“And you’re scaring the villagers.”

“I’m…
befriending
them.” His whiskered cheeks cracked with a smile, so easy was his mood.

“And I shudder to think how you convinced Father Renaud to wed us so quickly.”

“He’s a man.” He said, shrugging one dirt-dusted shoulder. “‘Twas simple reasoning.”

“Hakan,” she began to scold, but muffled her laugh in her apron.

“Shall I carve the flanks?”

“Let another do that. You. Need. To bathe.”

The audience of kitchen matrons gasped. Apparently, they could no longer contain their feigned silence. Hakan tipped his head at Lady Marie, who was nearby.

“Lady, have you any mint?”

“Mint?” she asked, confusion wrinkling her brow.

“Aye, mint. For cleaning my teeth.”

The room of women tittered and whispered into their hands at the revelation: a barbaric Nor’man would clean his teeth.

Lady Marie motioned for a serving woman. “Aeltha, the soap, linens, and…some mint leaves for our guest.”

While the serving woman retrieved these items, Lady Marie canted her head at him. “Would you like to bathe in the tub? I had it prepared for Helena, but we can heat more water for her quickly enough.”

“Nay, I found a barrel of water behind your barn last night.”

Helena moved aside for the serving woman to pass the requested items to Hakan. She stood behind Helena, stretching and leaning to pass the articles to the barbarian. She scampered away, eyes bulging from the sight. He reeked of deer blood, but Hakan was undaunted, planting a loud kiss on Helena’s mouth. They walked out the door, and barely were they gone when the kitchen exploded with voices.

“Did you see the size of him?”

“…all that blood…”

“And she told him he
smells
.”

“Father Renaud must’ve sprouted grey hairs at the sight of that knife. I think I sprouted a few.”

“…he requested mint? Imagine, a Nor’man who wants to smell good for his wife?”

“Imagine a
Frankish
man who wants to smell good for his wife?” An explosion of laughter followed.

“I can’t recall the last time my Eudes bathed…’twas a holy day, I think.”

The women prattled on and decided a wedding, even a Frankish woman to a Nor’man, was a good excuse for a bath.

From outside, Helena laughed softly. “See what havoc you’ve played? The men will beg you to leave, and not because of
Solace…
or that.” She pointed to his knife, where blood thickened on sharp edges, and then she placed an oil flagon in his hand.

“I vow these men could use lessons in the use of a sauna
and
weaponry.” Hakan clasped the flagon by his forearm. “What’s this for?”

“Oil. To clean your bloodied tunic. You look as if you have battled a bear.” She turned back to the door and blew a kiss over her shoulder.

Entering the kitchen, she went to the hook holding her hudfat and mantle.

Considering both thoughtfully, she called out, “Lady Marie, would you have someone tend to my mantle.” She eyed the cloak’s gorgeous fur trim. “And clean it? I’ll decline your gracious offer of the silk. I’ve something else to wear.”

…

“So you would wear this?” Agnes held the garment over a steaming cauldron, working wrinkles from linen. Her former neighbor, a woman who had known her since birth, had come to assist Helena in the absence of her mother.

“Aye, ‘tis fitting. After today, I’m no longer a Frankish woman, but Norse.” Helena splashed in the lavender-scented water. They spoke of the same light blue tunic she had worn at the mid-summer festival.

“Well,” the older woman said as she nodded, “’tis a beautiful
heathen
garment. The stitching is most interesting.” Agnes’s fingers pulled at the draped neckline. “Where are the sleeves?”

“There are none.” Helena let Agnes’s shock abate before adding, “The top portion is held by a brooch at each shoulder. The Nor people like their jewelry.”

Agnes mumbled something about the source of that fine jewelry and laid the tunic over a chair.

“Come. You’re going to shrivel to nothing. The morn is half over and word is about you must be gone by mid-day.” Agnes wrapped a drying cloth around Helena.

The older woman combed Helena’s hair with the elk bone comb that she brought with her from Svea, alternating drying with cloth and combing.

A remark about the comb’s intricate carvings set Helena to regaling Agnes with tales of Svea. She told her about the carvings found on the doorways of the simplest homes. Rubbing scented oil on her skin, she told Agnes of the vanity of the Norse: bathing often after trips to those hot hives called saunas, the green glass smoothers for straightening wrinkles out of clothes, and, even gold and silver threads spun into their weft bands about their wrists.

Agnes clucked at the strange Norse, commenting on Hakan’s habit of chewing mint leaves.

“Well, as to that.” Helena stood up to have the tunic pulled over her head. “I enjoy the way he tastes.”

Agnes gasped in surprise. “If your mother could hear such words.”

The tunic was tied at the shoulders, and soft leather boots were strapped with cross-garters up her calves.

“What are these?” Digging at the bottom of the bag, Agnes pulled out the silver armband.

She cradled the ring in her hands, polishing the silver. “These marked me as Hakan’s thrall.”

“Imagine,” Agnes breathed her awe, squinting at the artful carvings. “A slave wearing such jewelry. What’ll you do with it?”

Helena turned the wide ring this way and that as Agnes draped her shoulders with the rich mantle. “I’m not sure.”

Agnes stepped around and flung open the door. Radiant sunlight washed over Helena. The older Frankish woman set aged fingers on her cheeks as she studied Helena.

“Don’t you look a fair sight. A heathen sight, but a fair one all the same.” She tipped her cloth-covered head in deference. “Come. Your Nor’man awaits.”

…

Hakan had polished clean every inch of his leather tunic, as well as the silver hilt of his sword and bone handle of his knife. Even his long, silver penannular clasp was polished to a sheen. But, ever wary, he wouldn’t be defenseless in a foreign land:
Solace
slanted from the neck of his red wool mantle.

Hakan was pleased with the look of his bride as she approached. Standing on the stone steps of the church, raided generations past by other Norsemen, those steps bore witness to the wedding of one. A crowd of villagers gathered, gawkers to the spectacle.

‘Twas no matter to Hakan as he kissed Helena when she took her place beside him.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

“I look like a Norsewoman.” She brushed back the heavy mantle, displaying the Norse tunic and the polished arm ring.

He frowned.

“What’s this?” His hand cupped her arm where the silver encircled her. “You’re no thrall.”

Her face turned at a proud angle. “I come to you willingly and wear this willingly…the same as I wear the Norse tunic. I’m a Norsewoman now. Your wife.”

He bent to kiss her again, and a warm glow filled him at the knowledge that his people had become her people. Hakan’s lips lingered on her cheeks and brushed her ear.

“Wear the ring, if it pleases you…wear it naked and willing beneath me.”

Father Renaud coughed his displeasure at the unwonted show of affection during a solemn ceremony.

“My lord, ‘tis not time for the sealing kiss…or such displays.” He rocked up on his toes and coughed into his fist. “The vows first, if you please,” he admonished. “Besides, you want to be on your way.”

“Of course, holy man. Quickly, say your words.” Hakan faced Helena, a loose grasp of her fingers in his. “In Frankish and your Latin.”

When the priest bid them kneel on the bottom step, he launched into rapid Latin.