Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
N ails.
That was what he would make this morning. Nothing too technical, nothing too complex, nothing that would be ruined by his lack of concentration. Magnus stoked up the fire with renewed intent. Today he was only fit to do something he could have done in his sleep, and anyway, people always needed nails, didn’t they? It would not be a lost endeavor.
As he worked, he tried his best not to think of Agnes’ delightful body, or imagine her washing her clothes. What would have happened if Wolf had asked for the hammer last night instead of this morning? He would have walked in on her naked, bent over the bucket, the most arousing scene he could imagine. His shaft went as hard as the poker in his hand at the thought. He’d seen how perfect her rounded ass was this morning when she’d fled to her room. Such a sight was enough to make a man want to?—
A vicious curse escaped Magnus’ lips when a hot piece of metal singed his skin, calling him back to the reality of what he was doing. Nails. He’d purposefully chosen to make nails because he’d thought he could do them with his eyes closed.
Apparently, he’d been mistaken.
Staring at the long welt on his arm, he muttered under his breath. How long had it been since he’d injured himself while working? Years. He was usually able to focus and not allow his mind to wander over delectable women or anything else when he handled white-hot metal. He cursed again, louder, and threw the tongs to the floor in an angry gesture. A moment later, the door of the forge opened.
“Is everything all right?” Agnes walked in gingerly, as if unsure of the reception she would get. “I was outside, milking the goat, and I heard?—”
“Yes,” he cut in. “Everything’s fine.”
That was a lie.
Everything was most decidedly not all right. But he couldn’t tell her the truth, couldn’t say he’d been obsessing about her naked body, imagining every inch of delicate spine, from her slender neck to her perfect buttocks, as she bent over the bucket of water. It was already a miracle she wasn’t afraid of him after what had happened this morning. It wasn’t difficult to guess he’d looked like a predator in front of his prey when he’d seen her in her glorious nudity. And then later, when he’d brought her Ingrid’s clothes, he had been unable to stop himself from staring at her lovely form. Seeing her clad only in his shirt had been both intimate and arousing, the perfect combination to make him lose his mind.
“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly. “I burned my arm, that’s all.”
He was a smithy. He worked with fire. There was nothing more normal than for a man like him getting burned, so he hoped the explanation would not raise any further comment.
But, to his surprise, Agnes looked horrified, as if he had just admitted to having been bitten by a rabid dog. “We need to bathe the wound!” she exclaimed, dragging him by the arm. “Without delay. It’s the only way to prevent the burn from spreading. Come, before it’s too late.”
He had no choice but to follow her. For such a slight woman she was impossible to stop. As he didn’t want to risk hurting her, he did not dare restrain her in any way, so he let her lead him outside and plunge his hand into a bucket of water she had placed by the fence.
“It’s lucky that I’ve just been to the well to draw some fresh water,” she explained, keeping his arm submerged in the cool liquid. “The cold will help with pain as well. Then if you have some honey, we will apply some on the burn once the skin has dried. Where do you find your honey? In the forest yonder, I imagine. Do you know, it’s one of my favorite things to eat in the morning.”
The sentences ran into each other without pause. It seemed to Magnus that she was trying to prevent an awkward silence from settling between them, which made sense. They were within kissing distance of each other, and their hands were touching under water, a somewhat disturbing sensation. The situation was admittedly more intimate than their short acquaintance warranted.
“I will show you the hive tomorrow, if you want,” he rasped, looking at her straight in the eye. “You’ll be able to have all the honey you want while you stay with me, not only in the mornings.”
The promise sounded more solemn than he’d intended, almost like a pledge.
After a while, the burning sensation eased. He sighed in relief but Agnes made a sound he interpreted as disapproval when she turned his arm over so she could look at the inside of his wrist.
“I’m afraid it will leave a mark.”
Yes. He already knew it would. This. Their meeting. The pressure of her fingers on his skin, the way she was taking care of him. No one took care of him, ever, or worried about the injuries he might incur, or the scars it would leave, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it.
Magnus tensed. It was subtle, but unmistakable. His hand, so pliable only a moment ago, was now heavy and cumbersome. Agnes gulped, suddenly very aware of their proximity, and of his strength. With that hand he could have choked the life out of her. With that arm, as thick and hard as a piece of wood, he could have sent her sprawling to the floor with one swipe.
“I’ve never met anyone as wild as you are,” she whispered, disentangling her fingers from his. What was she doing, touching a stranger so intimately, bringing her face so close to his?
“Wild?” He sounded affronted by her choice of words. “Like a beast, you mean? Is that what you think of me?”
“No!” She was horrified to have offended him because she had actually meant the word as a compliment. He was wild like a proud wolf roaming the land where he belonged, not bothering to try and join the pack of domesticated dogs. He was wild in the sense that he was not playing any game or pretending to be anything else than what he was at heart. He was strong and free. “The men in my village were all the same, tame and boring and predictable. You, on the other hand, seem...”
She floundered when she realized that, once again, the word that came to her mind was “wild,” in the best possible way. But he had not seemed to like it, so she had better not risk repeating it.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to explain yourself. If that’s what you think then there must be a reason.” Magnus put an end to her embarrassment by asking a question. “Anyway, why is it that you know so much about burns and how to treat them?”
She reddened. “Because I’ve been burned on more than one occasion myself.”
“How come? You’re no blacksmith.”
She understood from the way he frowned that he was worried the burns had been inflicted by someone in her family. This proof that he worried about her warmed her. But no, no one had hurt her. Not in that way, at least.
“I was rather clumsy, growing up, so I ended up with my share of scrapes and burns.” She lifted the hem of her skirts to show him what she meant. Only when Magnus’ eyes caught fire did she realize what she was doing. Feeling caught out, she covered herself once more. Of course she could not bare her legs to a man thus! What was she thinking? Wasn’t it enough that he had seen her naked earlier that day?
But Magnus didn’t seem surprised by her willingness to expose herself, or even eager to see her leg. He seemed only concerned to see the extent of her injuries.
“Show me,” was all he said.
Slowly, she uncovered her lower leg to show him the white patch in the middle of her calf. It was about the size of her hand, puckered and wrinkled. She had always hated it and could not explain the odd urge to show it to Magnus but the way he looked at it made her think it was nothing to be ashamed of.
“This is the worst one,” she whispered, moved by his reaction.
“What happened?”
“I dropped a bucket of boiling water over my leg when I was about eight or nine, while making pottage for the family. It hurt like the devil.”
“Yes, it would have.” Magnus looked so appalled she could not help a laugh. Hadn’t he suffered much worse at the forge? Then the laughter got stuck in her throat when he asked, “Why were you the one hefting buckets of boiling water when you were aged only eight? It seems to me you were not clumsy, you were simply too young for the task.”
That was one way of seeing it. And it was true she had not burned herself as much later on in life, when she had been older and strong enough to see to her household chores adequately. But she had not been given the luxury of choice. In her father’s mind, a girl had to work to feed the family, and that was that. Her age was irrelevant.
“Not all of them are as bad,” she reassured him.
“Show me.”
There it was again, the quiet order, as if he had every right to see parts of her body no one else ever saw. It caused her to shiver, because, well, he had seen all of it only this morning. “I can’t. They’re... not in a place I can easily show you.”
Or modestly.
From the way he let his gaze roam over her, she guessed he was trying to imagine where the other scars would be. She had the sudden, mad idea of making him kiss each and every one of them, starting with the one on her shoulder blade before allowing his lips to glide down her back in search of the one on her left hip and then opening her legs so he could lick the small one on the inside of her thigh.
She shivered at the scandalous thought.
“How many scars are we talking about?” His beautiful eyes, usually so blue, had gone the color of a dusky sky. His voice, already rough, had gone the texture of tree bark. She shivered again. Yes, wild did not begin to describe the man.
“It’s not as bad as you think. Only three more.”
“Three too many, then.”
“I wager you have suffered more, being a blacksmith.” To illustrate her point, she lifted his arm, turning it this way and that, exposing the white streaks crisscrossing his forearm.
His muscles flexed. My. He was so strong, and, yes, so wild. It always came back to this with him. She had never seen men like him. Even Bjorn, who had struck her at first, when she’d met him in her village, didn’t have this rough edge. Was it because he was older? Because he worked with fire and made sparks fly with his hammer, like a demonic, untameable creature? She didn’t know. But he drew her like nothing else.
“Yes. I have suffered more burns than you,” he said, removing his arm from her grasp. “But it’s not the same. I asked for it.”
“No one asks to be hurt, or deserves to be.”
He plunged his gaze into hers. For a moment it looked as if he would say something. Then he thought better of it and stood back up.
“Come. Let’s find that honey.”
The next two days were spent in easy companionship.
To Magnus’ delight, Agnes turned out to be an efficient helper. Not in the forge per se, as he refused to have someone who’d already suffered her share of burns anywhere near the scorching fire or the bellows. But she allowed him to focus on his work by talking to the people coming by, handling payments and making notes of what the villagers commissioned. Her way of doing it was ingenious and endearing at the same time. One evening he’d found a chain on his workbench, arranged in an unusual shape.
“What is that?” he asked, arching a brow.
“Oh. A man called Arne came to ask if you could make him a chain to hang a cooking pot over the fire. You were busy hammering away so I put one here because I did not want to forget to tell you.”
“You did not just put it there, though, did you. You arranged it there.” There was no mistaking her effort at disposing it in an artistic manner.
“Yes. In the shape of a bird. He told me his name meant ‘eagle’.”
“Oh, so that’s a bird ? I was wondering.”
The teasing had the desired effect. Agnes blushed a delicious color. “Yes, or at least, it was supposed to be. I thought it would help me remember who requested the chain, as it seemed important to deliver the message accurately. I wanted to be useful.”
Something in his heart fluttered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mocked you. This was very kind and clever of you. Let’s hope next time you don’t speak to Wolf.”
To his relief, she smiled. “Yes. A wolf’s head would be rather hard to recreate.”
The next day he’d found five nails in a woven basket. The thing that had fluttered in his chest the day before stretched its wings again.
“Let me guess. Sigurd came?” The man had a talent for basket weaving, so it made sense. “How many nails does he want?”
“Fifty. I thought the long nails would represent ten, the short ones one.”
“Very good. If you carry on like this, I won’t want you to leave,” he told her as they sat down to eat. “You are far too valuable to me. You help while I work and you ensure I eat like a king as well. That mushroom stew is excellent.”
He chewed on his mouthful thoughtfully. It was true that she was a helpful companion, and a talented cook, but that was not the reason why he wanted her to stay. It was good having her with him and he felt sure he would have felt the same had she been useless in the forge or in the kitchen.
“It’s nothing,” she said in her usual shy manner. “And you roasted the partridge to perfection. How did you even catch it? I didn’t see you take any sling or bow or anything this morning.”
“I don’t need anything. I just use stones.”
“Stones?”
He shrugged. “From a young age I have hunted birds with stones. It amused me to test my accuracy, and I have become quite adept at it.”
“Will you show me how you do that?”
“Why? You don’t believe me?” He let out a short laugh he regretted when she flushed to the roots of her hair.
“N-no, it’s only... I’ve never heard of anyone doing that before and I?—”
“I know. Forgive me. More stew?” he asked, hoping to regain the ease between them. Why was he constantly teasing her and making her ill at ease? One of these days he might go too far.
Agnes shook her head and nodded toward his left wrist instead. “How is the burn?”
“Much better, thank you.”
It was better. He only noticed it because every time he did, it made him think of how she had taken care of him. More than once he’d thought that he would gladly singe his whole body if it meant her running her fingers over him to soothe the burn.
“Show me.”
The same two words he’d told her the other day. Why did they sound so arousing? He had no idea.
When he made no move to obey, she came to stand by his stool. His breath hitched in his chest because in that position, his mouth was level with her maddening breasts, the perfect shape of which he had not been able to forget. Did she have no fear, coming to him like this? Wasn’t she worried about what he might do? Not that he would ever hurt her, of course, but there were still many a thing he could do to her, things he wanted to do to her. Slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, he lifted the cuff of his shirt. His whole body tensed when she took his wrist to turn it around and expose the burn.
“It’s not too bad,” she murmured. “I think the honey helped.”
“Yes.”
He had to go, now, or he would do something unwise. Draw her onto his lap to run his hands all over her too tempting body, grab the back of her neck to kiss her too luscious mouth, rip the bodice of her dress open to suckle her too perfect breasts. The possibilities were endless, each worse than the other.
He stood up, feeling ten feet tall in front of her, and wild, just as she’d said the other day. And though he’d not been sure what to make of the word at the time, he now understood it had been a compliment. Because the difference in stature and appearance between them was undeniably arousing. It highlighted both his masculinity and her femininity, intensified the tension between them and made their proximity all the more explosive.
Together they would set the sheets on fire, he was certain of it.
He took a step back, warding off the temptation to put the shocking thought to the test there and then.
“Well, good night then, Agnes.”
She bit her bottom lip and he almost broke through his self-imposed restraint. Would it be so bad to reach for her? To draw her into his arms and?—
“Good night, Magnus.”