The Enchantment (21 page)

“A buck,” she said simply.

“Well, where is this great stag, Serricksdotter?” Freeholder taunted, rising up from his seat and craning his neck to look for her kill. “I see no carcass.”

“It was too large for me to carry. I had to leave it in a tree. I will need help fetching it in the morning.”

There were snickers and mutters of derision until Borger raised his hand for silence and cocked his head toward the upstrung carcass of the massive boar Jorund had taken. “Bigger than yon boar, Serricksdotter?” She glanced up at Jorund's prize, then at Jorund himself.

“Bigger,” she said matter-of-factly.

Jorund narrowed his eyes at her.

“This I must see for myself,” he declared, annoyed by her subtle challenge . . . when he had been feeling protective toward her. “I will go with her to this great ‘kill' tomorrow morning. And
if
it is still there . . . and
if
it is bigger than my boar . . . then I will carry it all the way back to camp on my own two shoulders.”

“I'll come, too! This I have to see!” Garth declared. A number of others joined him, insisting on going as well.

Thus, the next morning there were at least eight witnesses to Jorund's unpleasant shock when he looked up between the branches of the great oak tree to behold a massive stag wedged securely. Those same warriors laughed at his glower when Garth climbed up in the tree and measured the heavily racked stag's length with a marked strip of leather . . . and called down the fateful finding. Those same warriors threw back their heads and let loose great wolf howls . . . which made Jorund's face red as madder dye . . . and made Aaren laugh for the first time in a fortnight.

Just at dusk, as the light was turning golden and the forest was settling into stillness, Aaren left the camp for the nearby stream, to wash. She did not see Jorund take note of her departure, or see him set out after her. She caught sight of him only after she had cleaned herself and turned back toward camp. The pace of her heart picked up. He was walking ahead of her, to her right, thus was the first to enter the trees nearest the stream. She found herself searching the trees for sight of him as she walked. She froze, midstep, hearing the low, blood-chilling growl of a wolf.

Jorund's cry pierced her senses an instant later and she bolted through the woods, her heart pounding in her throat and battle-fire erupting in her blood. Jorund—a wolf had
Jorund
!

She jolted into a break in the trees and spotted him on the ground, tussling wildly with a great, twisting ball of gray-and-brown fur. She reached for her knife and found only an empty loop at her waist—she had left her blade back where they had been carving up meat for drying, in camp! She faltered for one heartbeat and panic welled in her chest—
Jorund!
Then, in the grip of a feral, protective instinct, she charged the heaving beast, seized the fur and flesh on the back of its neck, and planted her legs to haul up and back with all her might. The animal yelped in surprise and let go of Jorund to turn on her, but she managed to brace and thrust the wolf away before it could sink its fangs in her.

Curling and tensing, she set her body to deflect the animal's charge. But the wolf scrambled to a halt in the dry leaves, crouched, and laid its ears back, showing its teeth. She moved back slowly, scanning the ground for a branch or rock to use as a weapon, and stumbled on a root—smacking straight into a massive tree. She sucked in breath and braced for the animal's impact.

“Don't move, Serricksdotter.” It was Jorund's voice. Aaren pulled her eyes from the beast just long enough to see him rising and brushing himself off. The sound registered in her ears, but the sight of him was incomprehensible to her. He'd almost been eaten by a wolf and she was in imminent danger of it—he couldn't possibly be
smiling.

“Easy, old girl . . . this is a friend.” It took her a moment to realize—he wasn't talking to her, he was talking to the wolf! “Easy, Rika.” The animal's growling eased only slightly. “Stand still, Serricksdotter. The way you charged in to do battle . . . she thinks you're an enemy.” There was a trace of amusement in his voice as he crossed his arms over his chest and watched the beast sniff at Aaren and prowl closer.

“
I'm
an enemy?” she rasped out. “The way
I
charged in?” She looked from man to beast and back, her eyes widening. “I was s-saving your miserable hide, Borgerson—that beast was about to tear your throat out!”

Her mind's eyes was suddenly filled with the vivid, terrifying images of Jorund, lying bent and savaged and bloodied—images she hadn't had time even to conjure, but which had propelled her mad race to rescue him. Her knees went weak. He might have been mauled and killed . . . or maimed. Her stomach turned over at the thought of it. As she shoved that disturbing inner vision aside, she focused on an equally disturbing outer one: Jorund, standing with his hands on his hips,
laughing.
Cold confusion drenched her from head to toe.

“I know this wolf, Serricksdotter. She would never tear anybody's throat out. Her lunge surprised me a moment ago, but we were merely having a bit of a wrestle in greeting.” What he absorbed from the anxiety in her face, and the concern her words betrayed, brought a glint of insight to his eyes. “And you thought you were rescuing me from a wild beast?”

The teasing tone of his voice aroused something unexpectedly vulnerable in her. How dare the wretch make sport of her when she'd been defending him . . . and was almost physically sick at the thought of what could have happened to him?

“I expected you would need some help defending yourself,” she declared, her throat tight. Then the sense of his words struck her. “You
know
this wolf?”

“Of course. I raised her from a pup. She runs in the mountains during the summer, and comes down into the village to winter with me every year. Her name is Rika.”

Aaren watched the big, tawny-eyed beast approach, sniffing, eyeing her warily. Her heart was beating so loudly in her ears she could scarcely hear him say in a firm, soothing voice: “Rika, behave. This is a friend.” The animal paused, glanced at Jorund, and gave her tail a wag. But when Aaren moved, she snapped to attention and growled from low in her throat, causing Aaren to freeze against the tree again.

“She is not convinced you're friendly,” Jorund said with a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “
She-wolves
can be so stubborn.” He laughed at the sparks that struck in her eyes. “I suppose I'll just have to show her you're not dangerous.” As he moved slowly across the clearing toward her, Aaren felt the air being crowded from her lungs. “And you'll have to help me, Long-legs. No fighting . . . and no biting.”

Soon he stood before her, gazing down at her. The fear and confusion she felt were all driven from her mind as he filled her senses . . .

“See, Rika?” he said without taking his eyes from Aaren. “She won't hurt me . . . or you. She's a female . . . like you. And a huntress . . . like you. But she can be gentle, too. Come, girl. See for yourself.” As the wolf lowered its head and ambled closer, he patted the side of his thigh to encourage her. Aaren stiffened as the wolf nudged between them, brushing both of their legs. The wolf's head bumped against her as it nuzzled Jorund's hand.

“Now, you pet her, too, Long-legs. And she will take your scent and think of you as a friend.”

Aaren wasn't sure she wanted to be thought of as a wolf's friend, but there was something compelling about his voice, and she reached out to give Rika a tentative stroke, then another. She froze as she felt the beast's wet nose against her hand. She glanced down in amazement to find the wolf alternately sniffing and licking her.

“Go on, Serricksdotter . . . pet her,” he coaxed, backing up a step to give them room.

Aaren bent slightly and extended first one, then both hands, giving the wolf's head a pat, which gradually enlarged to become a thorough ear-scratching rub. When she straightened, Rika leaned into her knees and trampled her feet, insisting the treatment continue. Aaren could have sworn there was a grin on the beast's maw. It was strangely pleasurable, running her fingers through the animal's thick, warm fur. Jorund's chuckle made her look up.

“You have a soft touch, Long-legs.” His eyes were lit with that warm teasing she knew was more dangerous to her than any wolf. He bent and picked up a piece of dried branch and waggled it over Rika's nose. “Here, girl—make yourself useful and fetch this back to me.” He sent it sailing off across the break and into the trees. Rika bounded after it and Jorund turned to Aaren with his mouth curled in that boyish, irresistible way of his.

“Rika is not my first wolf. I have another byname in the village, you know,” he said, his voice low and caressing as he closed the distance between them.
“Wolf-tamer.”
He made no move to touch her with his hands . . . there was no need to, with his words gliding over her like warm honey. His blue eyes tugged at hers until she surrendered them to him, holding her breath. “And do you know how I tame a wolf, Serricksdotter?” She could make no sound; her throat was caught in the hard grip of desire.

“First I hobble it . . . gently, so it won't hurt itself.” He flexed and pressed the lower part of his body into hers, pinning her to the tree. The impact of his hardening flesh against her poured heat into her loins and sent it spilling down the insides of her thighs.

“Then I feed it well, from my own hand, until it is full and sleek.” He ran a finger around her lips, setting them afire. Her stomach yawned with sudden hunger and her knees buckled.

“Then I pet it. Firmly. Gently. And often.” That beguiling hand slid from her mouth and along her shoulder, massaging with slow, sure movements. It moved up the side of her neck to caress her cheek. It was all she could do to keep from curling around that hand, from arching her suddenly heavy and sensitive breasts into him.

“And if it gets out of hand . . . I give it a good smack.” His hand dropped to give the side of her buttock a playful bounce. The jolt made her gasp—both from surprise and from the sensual reaction it set off in her. A smoldering ember of desire exploded in her core, blowing its burning fragments along her nerves, setting them afire.

Neither of them had noticed Rika's return, or the way her ears stood on end, or the way she stalked closer, every sinew taut with anxiety as she watched them. Aaren arched and surged against Jorund, meeting his mouth with hers, and the wolf barked and lunged at them, pouncing on Jorund's shoulder and knocking them both sideways.

“Wha-at—” He caught his balance and shoved the furry menace aside. “
Nej
—Rika!” he commanded furiously, seizing the animal by the neck and wrestling her to a halt. “I was only kissing her!” he declared. “Go lie down—here!” He picked up the stick Rika had dropped at his feet and threw it again. “Go chew on that.”

He turned back to Aaren and pulled her into his arms again. “She doesn't understand kissing. It must look to her like we're biting each other.”

“Kis-sing? What is kis-sing?” she whispered, letting the soft sibilant sound roll over her tongue.

“This.” He demonstrated, clasping her against him and gliding his mouth over hers in lazy, silken circles.

“A mouth-meeting is called a kiss?” she whispered breathlessly.

He laughed, staring down into her liquid amber eyes. “The Franks name it that. I learned it on one of the first raids. . . . You like it, this mouth-meeting with me?” When her tongue flicked over her bottom lip, he lowered his head and fulfilled that wordless and irresistible request for more.

Their bodies blended, curve to hollow, mound to valley, plane to plane. He swirled her tongue with his, taking the kiss deeper, drinking in the lush heat of her response. After a long, bone-melting minute, he slid his mouth from hers and whispered softly.

“Now, isn't this better than fighting me?”

His throaty words lodged in her mind, refusing to be swept away in the tide of passion he was drawing from her. Better than fighting him? Ummm. Much better. This was warm and tender and so achingly soft. She much preferred a mouth-meeting with him to a blade—

Her drowning wits suddenly broke the surface of that treacherous, engulfing stream of thought. She preferred kissing him to fighting him? The idea shocked her. What was happening to her? What was she doing . . . in his arms, her mouth opened to him, reveling in the way his body undulated against hers? She was
surrendering
again, that's what—both to him and to her own volatile desire for pleasure!

She shoved him back forcefully, breaking his embrace, and he staggered, his passion-weighted eyes flying open. She saw no more as she bolted for the camp, but behind her she heard his shock turning to anger.

“Aaren—come back! Dammit, Serricksdotter—come back here!”

He ran after her, dodging snags and forest undergrowth, his face bronzed with anger and his blood hot with need. But at the edge of the camp, he jolted to a stop. She was already striding into the fire circle, being greeted by Garth and several others, who cast glances toward him and smirked, as if intuiting that something had happened between them. He turned to his pallet to give the visible evidence of his passions time to subside, and busied himself with cleaning his boning knife. He was furious. He had an overwhelming urge to treat her like the warrior she claimed to be and trounce her bodily . . . or take a blade to her!

His hands trembled as he drew an oiled cloth over the edge of his knife, and, once raised, the temptation to take up a blade rose inside him like a dark, shapeless specter . . . formed of his thwarted longings for her woman's body and the long-denied habit of violence that his early life had imbedded in his very sinew. The clamor of old battles echoed in his hungry core, and the dim, surflike roar of battle-lust surged in his blood . . . seductive sounds, growing louder, calling to him out of memory, like a siren song.
Power . . . satisfaction . . . honor . . . fame. . . . Just take up a blade—be your father's son.