The Enchantment (39 page)

“More than all right,” she murmured, rippling under his touch. A pleasure-filled smile curled the ends of her mouth. “I feel . . . wonderful.”

He had to admit, she looked wonderful. Her skin glowed in the dim light and she had a languorous, sated look, like a cat gorged with fresh cream. Her obvious good health reassured him and the tension finally flowed from his exhausted frame.

“I think I just met the
he-wolf
in you, Borgerson,” she teased, her eyes half closed. “And I think I like him.” With that, she let her eyes drift shut and was instantly asleep, leaving him staring at her in complete bewilderment.

He had never, not in his entire manly life, unleashed the full force of his passion-fury on a woman before. Mindful of his size and strength, he had always held back when taking his release, always considered the woman's smaller, more fragile frame. But just now, he'd been roused enough to erupt through his long-practiced restraint and plunge into Aaren like some wild animal. Like the he-wolf she had just named him.

He'd never imagined lovemaking could be like that . . . so furious, so wild and thrilling. And he understood instantly that it would only be so with Aaren. She matched him passion for passion, strength for strength, absorbing all of his intensity and returning it in kind. She not only withstood his overpowering strength, she wanted it, sought it. She was indeed the mate to his body and his soul.

And with his body at perfect rest for the first time in his life, he smiled and drifted into sleep with her.

She awakened some time later to find him watching her. She smiled, intrigued by the glow in his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Watching you. You wrestle very well indeed. I don't know when I've enjoyed a bout more.”

Her eyes danced and she gasped quietly as she felt his hands sliding up her belly and over the tips of her breasts, caressing and rousing them.

“There is only one thing that could have made it better . . .” he murmured, kissing his way down her shoulder to one of those hard-tipped mounds.

“And what was that?” she asked, closing her eyes and groaning as he sent lazy spirals of pleasure wending through her. She heard a perfectly wicked chuckle.

“A pot of grease.”

SEVENTEEN

T
HE FOLLOWING
days deepened the bond between Aaren and Jorund. They came together again and again, as strong, vibrant lovers, as playful children, and as quiet, deep-seeking souls. The intangible connection Aaren had always felt between them deepened and broadened to include every waking hour and every possible task, from the delicious intimacy of lovemaking and the fun of bathing, to the mundane chores of daily living. It was as if she were fated to be here with him . . . and he with her. And for the first time since she had left her mountain home, she felt a peace and belonging that reached all the way into her bones.

“Close your eyes.” Jorund's voice surprised Aaren as she knelt before the hearth, coaxing the coals to share their flame with the small branches she was adding as she prepared to make some roasted fish and flatbread. She turned halfway.

“No, don't turn around! I have a gift for you and you'll spoil it if you look,” he said with tantalizing excitement.

She dutifully closed her eyes and sat back on her heels, feeling a cold blast of air from the door and listening to the sound of his movements. A moment later something soft brushed her cheek. It wasn't his hand, she thought, frowning and concentrating harder on that brief sensation.

“Now hold your hands out . . . close together.”

When she extended her cupped hands he laid something soft and warm . . . and
wriggling
in them. Her eyes flew open and there was a small gray and black forest cat baby, all head and ears and eyes, not more than three or four weeks old. Her jaw dropped.

“A little forest cat!” The creature mewed and wobbled, sinking its needlelike claws into her wrists to steady itself as she held it up and peered into its big eyes. “Its eyes are just opened. And those ears . . .” She drew it close and rubbed one of its seemingly oversized ears with her nose. “It's a little heart-stealer! Where did you find it?”

“I came across a wrecked den while I was hunting. A badger or wolverine probably got the mother. Alone in the forest, it would line a marten's belly by nightfall. So I thought you might like it.”

“What a little mouse you are . . . look at you,” she said to it as she sat down with her back to the fire and began to inspect and play with the little beast, quarreling over its sharp claws, crooning over its fuzzy ears and tail. “We'll have to fatten you up, little beast. How about a nice piece of fish?” She retrieved a small piece of fish from the hearth behind her and let the cat baby eat it from her fingers.

“Whoa—that was my meal!” Jorund said, laughing as he removed his outer tunic and sat down beside her. But his protest was belied by the warm light in his face. He was utterly charmed by the girlish pleasure she took in his gift.

“I had a tame forest cat once before. A long time ago.” Her eyes shone and her cheeks turned rosy. “Father Serrick brought it back to me from a hunt. I fed it goat's milk and let it sleep with me in my fleece. It followed me everywhere until . . .”

“Until?” he prompted.

She winced. “It wandered too far from me while I was picking berries with Miri and Marta, and a fox got it.” The sadness, the longing in her face touched him. “I heard it cry and ran to help. I had just begun my training as a warrior . . . and I picked up my small blade and chased and chased it. But it was too late for my little cat.” The feelings she had known then lived again in her face, and he slid close and put his arm around her and rubbed her shoulder. “I found that old fox later and killed it.”

“Females are at their most dangerous when defending their young,” he mused, scratching the little cat's ear with a finger. Then he teased to lighten her mood. “What a ferocious mother you will be.”

“A mother?” She stopped dead still and looked at him. “Me?”

His smile was irresistible as he leaned close to whisper in her ear and send a hand sliding down her belly. “You might even now bear a cub, She-wolf. Why do you think the women often call loving by the name cradle-filling?”

She sat up straight, setting the kit on the floor beside her, and clasped a hand over his on her belly. “But, Jorund, I don't know anything about being a mother.” She turned wide, frightened eyes on him. “I . . . I never even had a mother myself.”

Jorund felt a shiver run through his shoulders. “But of course you did, your mother was—”

“A beautiful raven-haired Valkyr,” she repeated, as if she'd said it a thousand times. Her voice dropped to a hush. “She left us not long after she set me upon Father Serrick's knee. I never saw her. I do not even know her true name. Then Father Serrick found Leone and brought her back to us. She was so beautiful, so kind and good. But when Miri and Marta had two summers, Fair Leone began to pine for her home in Asgard . . . and to waste away. When he finally let her go, Father Serrick wept and wept. I had six or seven summers by then, and I missed her, too. After that we did not even see the few women who sometimes came with the trappers into the mountains.”

He watched the emotions in her face as she spoke and imagined her as she must have been as a little girl . . . dark, fiery curls and huge golden eyes . . . running barefoot in a meadow . . . then wiping tears away . . . grieving for a little cat . . . wishing for a mother.

“Do you know, I had no mother, either,” he said wonderingly, lifting her chin to look into her eyes. “My birthmother died before I was weaned. The women of the village took me in. They nursed and fed and taught me and cared for me. After a while, I began to think of them all as my mother.” His laugh was a bit pained. “I spent much time with them, and they kept my hands too busy for mischief and my ears filled with their talk. You had no mother . . . well, I had many . . . often too many.”

Aaren returned his poignant smile, then suddenly thought of the village children and their reaction to her. Her smile died.

“But what if . . .” In the last fortnight she had learned to trust him. There was no one else in the whole world to whom she could reveal her deepest fears and longings. She took one more step into that trust. “What if my child is . . . frightened of me? All of the rest of the village children are.”

As her face paled and her eyes grew rimmed with moisture, he recalled the devastating blend of hurt and longing on her face that afternoon in the bee meadow . . . when the children scurried back to their mothers' arms. An odd pricking began at the corners of his eyes and he pulled her against him, wrapping her securely with his arms.

“They will love you, Aaren. All your children will love and revere and adore you . . . I can promise you. Babes take in their mother's love with their mother's milk, and they cannot help but return it. It is the way of things.” He saw the stifled hope in her eyes and sighed, trying to think of a way to convince her. Then it came to him.

“Like your sisters . . . they love you, Aaren.”

“But I'm not their mother. I just took care of them when they were small . . . tended their ills and helped them learn to walk . . . and milked the goats so they would have something to grow on . . . and made sure they wore their fleeces in winter . . .”

He took her face between his hands and smiled into her glistening eyes. “What more could a mother have done for them, Aaren?”

His words found a target in the very center of her heart. For a long moment she sat, stunned, seeing her care of her sisters in a very different light. She had not been just “sister” to them, but “mother,” as well, without even knowing it. She had fulfilled a woman's role for almost as long as she could remember. And somehow that realization freed her from the doubts that had plagued her about whether she could truly live as a woman. In one way, she already had! She slid her arms around his ribs and buried her face in his shoulder.

“Why is it you, a man, know so much about being a woman . . . and I, a woman, know so little?” she said, sniffing back tears.

“I don't know. The way I was raised by women, among women, I suppose,” he said, laying his cheek against the top of her head.

“Your many mothers . . . it was from them that you got your woman's heart,” she said, raising her face to him and running her fingertips over his lips. She saw him with different eyes now, understanding that the woman-heart in him had nothing to do with cowardice or valor. It had to do with the way he looked at things and the way he conducted himself, sharing the depths of his strength and his passion . . . lending them to others. “It's true, you do have a woman's heart in many ways. You value many of the things women hold dear . . . like children and harvests and peace-weaving. And you know and can do many of the things a woman must know and do.”

“I did not always,” he said quietly. “I was eager to be a warrior . . . to redden my first spear. Now, my life's path has brought me back to the things of my early years.” He looked at the sadness-tinged wonder in her eyes and suddenly wanted to fulfill every longing of her heart.

The little cat had wandered away and now mewed from the corner near the door, sounding lost. Aaren slid from Jorund's arms long enough to rescue it, then came back to settle in his embrace and gave him a lavish kiss that he would have pursued if the little beast caught between them hadn't started to yowl. Aaren pulled away, then laughed at his disgusted look.

“We're hungry, Cat and I. And I'm afraid you'll have to roast the fish.” She lifted the ball of fur with an impish grin. “Well . . . I have my hands full.”

T
HAT NEXT AFTERNOON,
Jorund persuaded Aaren to leave her new pet asleep in the lodge for a while and accompany him on a hike to collect sweet root and birch limbs suitable for arrow-making. They had ranged far from the lodge, along the banks of the stream, and were returning when they reached a small clearing and sat down to rest. Jorund looked up at the lowering sky and took stock of the moisture-laden wind.

“Snow.” A white breath-plume rose from his mouth as he pronounced his conclusion. “And plenty of it. It's good we have lots of meat and a sizeable stack of wood . . . we'll need them.”

She nodded, reading in his face that he had reached the same discomforting conclusion she had. “We should probably have started back for the village already,” she said with a sigh, rubbing her hands together and breathing on them to warm them. “My sisters are probably frantic.”

He got to his feet and rolled his shoulders. “I wonder how many wagers Borger has made on my neck.”

“On your neck?”

“He doesn't have much faith in my willingness to use a blade. He's been badgering me to take up a sword again for the last three years. And he finally found the perfect persuasion.”

“He did?” She looked at him in surprise. “What?”

“You.” He chuckled at her puzzled expression. “Surely you know that was why he decreed that only I could challenge you with a blade. He could see I wanted you and counted on you being either stubborn enough or enchanted enough to make me take a blade to you.”

She shifted the bundle in her arms and halted, staring at him, then she chuckled, too. “That was it? Truly?” When he nodded and continued along, she hurried after him. “I thought it was because he was testing me . . . my honor and my willingness to fight.”

It was Jorund who paused now, searching her, seeing more clearly why she had considered fighting him such a matter of honor. “I suppose that might have been part of it. But it is not the first time he has tried to force me to fight. He has decreed that whoever will succeed him on the high seat must fight him for it. He will not acknowledge me as heir unless I take the seat by force. The old boar . . . he knows how badly I want the high seat and is determined to use my own desires against me.”

“But why won't you fight him, Jorund?” she asked. “It would be only one fight . . . and you would make a wonderful jarl.” Her wholehearted support brought a smile to his face.