The Shipwreck (14 page)

Her breath quickened as his fingers drifted down her throat, settling upon the place where her pulse now raced.  She swallowed hard, knowing he could strangle her with one hand and yet trusting he would not.

Indeed, his hand moved with such sweet leisure down her neck, sweeping across her collar bone, and slipping beneath her kirtle, that she felt no desire to resist.  Slowly, he teased the garment from her shoulder, running his fingers over the design inked there.

“What is this?” he whispered.

She furrowed her brow, startled that he spoke to her.  The men she’d bedded before never uttered a word—not that she’d given them the chance.  She hadn’t wanted to know their thoughts.  She’d simply wanted to use their bodies and be done with them.

It was disconcerting.  Nonetheless, she managed to answer him.  “An endless knot.”

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.  “What does it mean?”

She hesitated, uncomfortable with his question.  Somehow, the exchange of words made what they did more intimate.  She couldn’t pretend he was just another body.  Speaking forced her to acknowledge he was a man...with thoughts and ideas and intentions.

Though it was difficult for her, she answered him in a stilted whisper.  “The three circles are...spirit...life...and love.”

“Ah.”  His hand left her shoulder then to brush over her ankle, which was nestled against his hip.  “And this one?”

Lusty lethargy made her voice ragged and foreign to her ears.  “A broken sword...in honor of my father.”

He was silent for a moment.  Then he asked, “Did it hurt?”

His puzzling question made her open her eyes.  Then she remembered he had no such markings on his skin.  Her designs must seem strange to him.

“Nay,” she told him.

He shot her a dubious glance.

“A wee bit,” she admitted.

He grinned at her again, and the fond shimmer in his eyes made her return his smile.  Suddenly she felt more than just the sharp heat of lust and longing.  There was also a gentle warmth like that of a banked fire.  And as he continued to hold her gaze, she sensed he could easily stir the coals of that fire to life.

His eyes lowered to her mouth, and already she longed to taste him again.  As if drawn to him by the force of his will, she closed her eyes and leaned toward him.

This time she made no demands of him, but let him lead.  His kiss was tender and tentative, like the touch of a honeybee upon a blossom, and soon a pleasant buzzing filled her head.  Again and again he sampled the nectar from her lips, until she ached for more.

As she gasped against his mouth, he deftly loosened the laces of her kirtle and slipped it from her shoulders.  When it caught on the points of her breasts, he freed it, sliding one fingertip under the linen.  When his knuckle grazed her nipple, desire welled in her like the swelling of an ocean wave, submerging her in its powerful current.

She clenched her thighs around his hips and moved against him.  But he refused to engage her yet, focusing instead on her bared bosom.  He kissed his way down her throat and across her breast, pausing as he reached the inch-long strip of puckered flesh there.

“Your battle scar?” he murmured.

She nodded, and he traced its length with his tongue before blazing a searing trail toward her nipple.  When he sucked softly there, she cried out in wonder at the divine sensation.

Then, just when she thought she would burst from pleasure, he moved to her other breast, lavishing it with equal attention.  Moans issued from her throat unbidden, and her fingers tangled in his hair as if to keep him close.

While she reveled in a languorous haze, his hand delved beneath her skirts, traveling up her thigh with silky stealth.  Even knowing where he was headed couldn’t prepare her for the shock that rocked her when the tip of his finger touched her at the spot where their bodies joined.

He rubbed gently there, and she squeezed her eyes shut, caught in a paralyzing tide of euphoria.  She arched against him, elated yet languishing, knowing she wanted something more, something she could neither define nor understand.

This was far more potent than the intoxication of his surrender.  It was a savage craving that satiated and tormented her all at once.  Lost in a fog of emotions, she was nonetheless compelled to sail onward.

It was only when his arm wrapped around her shoulders and his thigh curved possessively over her buttock, when he tried to roll her onto her back, that she stiffened.

Only once had a man ever dominated her.  And that had been against her will.  After she’d been raped, she’d never allowed a man to toss her onto her back.  She’d been helpless once.  She’d vowed never to be so again.

“Nay!”  She dug her nails into his shoulders, ready to resist with all her might.

To her surprise, he responded immediately, relaxing his grip on her and withdrawing his hands.  She searched his face, wondering what game he played.

But there was only patient affection in his eyes.  And as he lay submissively beneath her, giving her time to reason, she was forced to confront her demons.  It wasn’t long before she realized the truth—those demons clearly existed only in her imagination.

Brandr was not a berserker.  He had no desire to hurt her, to demean her, to dominate her.  He obviously cared for her.  He’d confessed his love.  He’d bared his soul to her.  Hell, he’d even offered to fight for her.  Why, then, was she reluctant to cede the tiniest bit of control to him?

If anyone was obsessed with power, Avril realized, it was she.  After all, she’d held him prisoner.  She’d kept him at her mercy.  She’d had her way with him.  What more did she want?  Must he grovel at her feet, yielding to her in every way?

At her brooding silence, he smiled ruefully.  “Maybe you don’t truly care for me.”

She frowned.  How could he think that?  She’d practically saved his life.  She’d fed him and housed him.  She’d set his arm.  She’d protected him from her neighbor.  How could she not care for the man who had promised to get her castle back?  “Of course I do.”

“But do you trust me?”

She bit her lip.  It was true she’d learned to be wary when it came to trusting men.  And yet Brandr had done nothing to deserve her mistrust.  Even when she thought he’d betrayed her, he’d only been trying to protect her.  She looked into his expectant eyes—eyes as beautiful and unclouded as a summer sky—and then lowered her gaze to his inviting mouth.

She couldn’t let the damned berserker who’d raped her win.  She couldn’t let her wretched brothers win.  She wouldn’t let what had happened to her in the past ruin her chances at happiness in the future.

“Kiss me again,” she murmured, certain that she
did
trust him after all.

His touch was tender and coaxing, soothing and arousing all at once.  He cradled her chin and kissed her with care, as if she were a brittle seashell.  He stroked her hair with the gentle caress of the ocean combing the kelp.  His fingers swept over her like the incoming tide washing across the shore, exploring higher and farther with subtle stealth.

And this time, when she willingly rolled onto her back, it felt as natural as turning over in the sea on an afternoon swim.  And though he rose above her, as massive and menacing as an ocean wave, she felt no panic.  He moved with the steady languor of the sea, rocking her gently along the current until they floated there together in rising bliss.

Before long, she realized this was like no other voyage she’d taken.  The sensual weight of his hips, the tantalizing touch of his hands, the fiery caress of his tongue took her to a place she’d never been before.  Her breath expanded as an ember sparked within her, filling her with glowing heat.  Her body moved of its own accord, squirming in pleasure.  Her fingers pressed into the supple muscle of his buttocks, urging him closer, and when that wasn’t enough, she wrapped her legs around him, arching up against the divine pressure of his belly.  She closed her eyes tightly, relishing the erotic delight of his flesh on hers as he teased her lust to a fine point.

Farther and farther into uncharted waters they sailed, and Avril clung to him, half-afraid, half-obsessed, seeking…seeking…

“Look at me,” he suddenly breathed.

She couldn’t.  She’d never felt so vulnerable, so exposed.  If she let him glimpse the helplessness in her eyes…

“Look at me,” he softly urged, pausing to smooth away the crease between her brows with his thumb.

With a small whimper of protest, she reluctantly complied, and her face grew instantly hot with shame.  But then she gazed into his eyes—his shining, smoldering, sea-colored eyes.

As he stared down at her with pure, beautiful, unflinching love, her fears vanished.  A sweetness filled her spirit, softening her, comforting her.  And when he moved within her again, the tenderness between them heightened her desire.

She sailed with him on the journey toward passion, and the lovely torment in his eyes fueled her own as they grew closer and closer to the edge of the world…panting, gasping, then breathless with intensity as time froze and the earth dropped from below.  Lightning struck her with stunning force, making her cry out in shock, while Brandr echoed her with a low groan.

Their shudders of release made powerful thunder, and she held tightly to him as they careened earthward again, falling…falling…back into the deep calm of the sea.

For a long while she drifted on the lazy current, miles away from care, letting waves of contentment wash over her.

Gradually, the fog of sensuality receded, and she began to notice small details like the skirt rucked up indecently around her waist, the adorable lock of hair drooping over his forehead, the rock-hard object stabbing into her spine…

With a frown, she reached behind her back and dug out Kimbery’s slate and a piece of charcoal.

He lifted his head and grinned at the smeared slate.  “You may have a new design on your back.”

She smiled back.  “I suspect it may be a drawing of you.”  She tossed the slate and charcoal aside and reached up to touch that irresistible blond lock.  “You know, I think I could get used to these
althings
of yours.”

He turned her hand to kiss her palm.  “Strange, but I don’t remember them ever being so…invigorating.”

She lowered her gaze to his delectable mouth, and he accepted her unspoken invitation at once.  They were mid-kiss when there was a loud banging on the cottage door.

Avril gasped and yanked her kirtle up to her chin.

Brandr muttered, “My brothers no doubt fear you’ve thrust me through with your sword.”  With a last light kiss upon her brow, he rose from the bed and pulled up his trousers.

As she worked hastily to repair her appearance, he retrieved Kimbery’s slate and drew a few strange runes on it with the charcoal.

“What does it say?” she asked.

He gave her a sweet, lopsided smile full of affection and mischief.  “Da.”

Her eyes welled with joy and gratitude as she took his hand and tugged him toward the door.  She couldn’t wait to tell Kimbery she’d been right all along.

Rivenloch was returned to its rightful heir.  And in that place, generations of Vikings and Picts intermingled and intermarried to create the sturdy stock of Scotland.  The descendants of Brandr and Avril upheld the honor in which their clan was forged.  Their veins flowed with the courage and loyalty of their Viking father and their Pictish mother.  For centuries, they bravely defended the land from invaders with an unconquerable army, an army made strong by the marriage of their two powerful and illustrious cultures.

But one day, their courage and loyalty would be tested, for there would come to Rivenloch an enemy so formidable it would take warriors of unmatched mettle to face the daunting challenge.

These warriors would be the progeny of a centuries old Viking invader and his Pictish bride, and the fate of the clan would lie in their unlikely hands.  Thus was born the legend of the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch…

By Glynnis Campbell

Book 1 in the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch Trilogy

Where is the
third
wench?” Sir Pagan murmured casually, feeling
far
from casual as he and Colin du Lac hunkered behind the concealing cloud of heather, spying upon the two splendid maids bathing in the pond below.

Colin almost strangled on his incredulity.  “God’s breath, you greedy sot,” he hissed.  “Isn’t it enough you have your choice of the pair of beauties yonder?  Most men would give their sword arm to—”

Both men froze as the blonde woman, gloriously drenched in sunlight, sluiced water up over a creamy shoulder, rising above the waves enough to bare a pair of perfect breasts.

The blood drained from Pagan’s face and rushed to his loins, making them ache fiercely.  Lord, he should have swived that lusty harlot in the last town before he came to negotiate such matters.  This was as foolish as shopping for provender with a full purse and an empty gut.

But somehow he managed an indifferent grunt, despite the overwhelming desire disrupting his thoughts and transfiguring his body.  “A man never purchases a blade, Colin,” he said hoarsely, “without inspecting all the swords in the shop.”