Chapter 12
Twelve
Elara
Adizzying blend of roasting meat, woodsmoke, and ale milled about the hundreds of bodies gathered in the longhouse. Elara fussed with the silver brooches holding her soft wool overdress in place.
Astra had dressed her in so much finery. Elara felt the weight of gazes following her. Jade jewels accentuated the silver chain draping over her breasts, matching the beads in her braids.
Truthfully, she had never felt as beautiful as she did that night.
The way Njáll gazed at her—like she was the only person in the room—left her questioning her beliefs. Elara always considered herself a quiet, withdrawn woman. Pleasant looking enough, but often considered boring by most men.
Njáll made her feel like all her thoughts were a lie. That her mind betrayed her. That she was this beguiling, exquisite creature capable of bringing a jarl to his knees.
“You burn brightly tonight,” Njáll whispered, his hand searing the small of her back where it rested.
A breathless sound rattled her chest, his deep timbre doing terrible things to her insides. Sweat slid down the column of her throat, Njáll following the beads with rapt attention. Almost as if he barely restrained himself from tracing the lines with his tongue.
Fitted trews hugged his strong thighs; his bearskin fur draped over his left shoulder. Honeyed light glinted off the gold cuffs wrapped around his thick biceps.
Elara licked her lips, entirely too happy with the pleasing sight of the Jarl.
“And you are distracting,” she huffed.
“Only for you.”
His thumb circled the jut of her hip, making sparks zip in her fingertips. And for once, she didn’t resent the feeling of pressure humming under her skin.
Dozens of flickering oil lamps illuminated the walls, while a massive hearth roared in the center. Njáll carefully maneuvered her through the throng, dipping his chin as others raised their ale in salute as they passed.
Tankards clattered on the wooden tables. Drums and music blended with the low, guttural hum of thick Norse murmurings.
Unconsciously, she shifted closer, tucking herself into the protective crook of his body, inhaling his distinct scent.
With so many eyes on her and so many words she didn’t understand, it made her skin prickle.
However, that uneasy feeling couldn’t stop the grin making her eyes crinkle. The joyous shouts, the music, the drunken mumblings—it all reminded her of family. Belonging. Celebrations shared among friends.
The pad of his thumb rubbed a spot at the base of her spine. Heat chased his touch, and her body wriggled at the delicious sensation. His nose traced the hinge of her jaw, making her knees buckle.
A grin grew against her cheek as he held her upright.
“Demon,” she nearly moaned, her tongue pressing against the tips of her teeth.
“Your demon.”
Mine.
She liked that.
A little too much.
“You will be seated with Bjorn and his family,” Njáll said, steering her to a table on the right on the raised dais.
“Bjorn. Son of Amund,” she parroted, one side of her mouth lifting.
“Yes. It is a place of honor, to be seated with Konungr’s sister and former Jarl. Bjorn, not so much.” Elara snorted. “But the Konungr’s sister is kind. You will be most welcome. I will be at the high table.”
Elara found herself seated between a woman with soft eyes and Bjorn. Njáll shot daggers at him, murmuring something in Norse that made the other man smirk.
“I will come to you later,” Njáll said, kissing the top of her head.
Sweat trickled off her brow. His ass flexed in his tight trews, his body toned and taut to perfection. Elara would honor Freyja for an eternity for steering her towards someone like Njáll.
Even if he were a bit stubborn.
Njáll dipped his chin in respect to the Konungr and Dróttning—his parents—as he lowered himself into the seat beside the Konungr. Astra sat next to her mother, with her betrothed on the opposite side of her.
The sight of them all together was a formidable one. Astra had her mother’s curls, but was her father’s daughter. Njáll inherited his father’s sharp features, but his mother’s hair and eyes.
“Hello,” a tinkling voice murmured.
Wide-eyed, Elara turned to face the petite woman draped in furs beside her.
“You speak English?”
“Yes. I am Astrid. Both me and my bóndi. Husband.” Long blonde hair flowed over her slender shoulders as she spun to face the imposing man beside her. Gazing up at him, she pressed a reverent kiss to his greying beard. “Amund. Jarl before Njáll came of age.”
Grunting, Amund tilted his head in greeting.
The loud din in the hall slowly quieted when the Konungr stood. Elara shifted, fingers closing around the berry wine placed in front of her. A deep, booming voice carried across the beams sprawled along the ceiling.
A floor-length cloak clung to his broad frame, the tawny fur around his shoulders highlighting the silver beard framing his jaw.
That harsh, beautiful language flowed from him with such effortless command it was easy to see why his people followed him.
“Hail,” the thunderous crowd cheered when he paused.
Elara jolted; the sudden banging of tankards and unified shouts sent her nerves into overdrive. A tiny hand landed on her upper arm, squeezing gently.
“The noise is a terrible thing when not used to it. úlfr says a blessing to Odin and Freyja. To good health and to love. He is besotted with his kona,” Astrid whispered, the smile evident in her soft, lilting tone.
úlfr. Wolf.
Elara recalled her brief conversation with Astra as the room grew silent once more. The man spoke again, the assembled guests captivated by his words. He looked at Njáll, raising a horn of ale.
The clan followed his lead, raising their drinks and chanting again.
“úlfr salutes the Jarl on a successful raid, securing goods for the clan. Now we are to feast and celebrate,” Astrid said, giggling as Amund dragged her toward the drums.
Soon, the hall filled with the sound of music.
With his parents gone, Bjorn leaned over, offering her a mischievous smile. He raised his mead in mock salute, emptying the drink in one gulp before wiping away the remnants from his beard with the back of his hand.
“Hello, She Who Won’t Share Her Name.”
“And hello to you, Bjorn, Son of Amund.”
Elara smirked, taking a sip of her wine. The tart berries tingled on her tongue, loosening her limbs.
During one particularly rowdy harvest festival, her mother had drunk too much wine, giggling the entire night as her father carried her home. A soft smile touched her lips, the memory warming her almost as much as the wine.
As the musicians began another song, the beat faded into the background. Cold seeped into her fingers, the sharp chill stabbing into the base of her skull. She hissed. Low voices whispered, the sound brushing over her skin, leaving a film behind, tainting her with it.
“Come, little Seiekona. Happiness is not what he offers. You can find it with us.”
She closed her eyes, her jaw aching from how tightly she clenched it. A flash of dark shadows and glowing white fur played in the recesses of her mind. She fumbled for the cord around her neck, thumbing the smooth surface of Njáll’s rune hanging there.
After seeing how she always carried it with her, he crafted a leather cord into a makeshift necklace so she could always keep it nearby.
A low, rumbling purr resonated in her chest.
Elara blinked, sighing when silken fur brushed her legs under the table. Leaning down, she peeked under the table, eyeing the swath of midnight curled there.
Liquid gold eyes found hers, and the tension in Elara’s body melted away.
The sound of a deep voice called to her from far away, sounding as though she were under the surface of a rolling stream. Bjorn stared at her, the usual mirth in his features missing.
“Sorry. Can you repeat that?” she asked, realizing Bjorn was waiting for a response to a question she hadn’t heard.
“Daydreamer,” he said, grinning and extending his hand. “Let us dance, No Name. You are dressed too prettily to sit there.”
Even with Alruna present, the draugar broke through, their dark voices insistent and cruel.
“You will fail them. All of them.”
“Leave me,” she hissed. “You have no power here!”
“What?” Bjorn asked, his palm waiting in the air between them.
“Nothing. Mumbling to myself. That sounds fun,” she said, sliding her hand into his, refusing to let the draugars’ taunts ruin her evening.
It had been too long since she had danced, laughed, and drunk enough to make her dizzy. Njáll’s kin was good company. Kind and welcoming. Bjorn’s palm was warm in hers as he led her closer to the trio of musicians.
A group of men pushed the tables aside, making room as more people joined the dancers in the center of the hall. The feast roared on, drunken men spilling their ale as they listened, enthralled by the stories being woven.
“Skalds,” Bjorn said, leaning close to be heard above the din. “Tellers of fantastical tales and sagas of old. It’s supposed to be for children. But drunken warriors take more joy in it than the little ones.”
Elara’s nose twitched. The noise of the hall washed away, her belly rolling with the bright laughter pinching her cheeks. Bjorn matched her joy, smiling as he planted a large hand on her waist, spinning her.
Her long curls billowed behind her, the jewels in her braids clinking as they tapped each other with the movement. Sweat clung to her nape as she followed Bjorn’s surprisingly confident steps.
Not long after the drummers started a different rhythm, the temperature in the room changed.
Except it wasn’t the flames of the fire or her exertions from dancing.
Instead, a pair of eyes glared at them from the high table.
Elara gazed over Bjorn’s shoulder, drawn there by an intoxicating force. Njáll sat stone-still, his face tight and his chin high. A fierce, possessive intensity flared in his eyes, sending a thrill through her body.
In his silent glare, she felt it. His claim. His fury. Elara stumbled slightly, grasping Bjorn’s forearms for support. Arching a brow, Bjorn followed her stare, his smile nearly glittering in the firelight.
“Perfect. He lasted longer than I thought he would.”
She wondered whether he was mad. Njáll’s kin clearly had a death wish if he took any joy in that violent rage being leveled at him.
“Do you aim to anger Njáll?”
“Life is boring if I do not send our Jarl into a fury. Besides, he will thank me for this.” He winked, his smile broadening as he met Njáll’s narrowed gaze. “Tell them I fought valiantly,” Bjorn said.
“What do you mean?”
Sucking in a breath as if he were steeling himself for battle, Bjorn’s hand fell to her hip. He crushed her flush against his torso, his mouth resting on the top of her head.
Njáll jumped to his feet, slamming his fists onto the table hard enough to send full tankards of ale crashing to the ground.