Chapter 2
Brandr extended a hand to help her off the floor, but she pushed herself up and scrambled to her feet, keeping well out of his long reach. She gave him a scathing look. “That was not what I meant, and you know it.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Perhaps you’ll be more specific in your instructions next time, princess.”
Irritation fizzed up her spine. “Stop calling me that.”
“You don’t like ‘princess’? Not high enough rank, I suppose. Perhaps you’d rather I call you ‘empress.’” He gave her a mocking bow. “Thor be my witness, you don’t lack the self-importance of one.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I can have you whipped, you know.”
He matched her glare for glare. “I’d like to see you try. If you wanted to do me harm, you should have done it when I was bound and helpless.”
Katla snatched up the leather straps that had restrained him. “Then stand still while I tie your hands again.”
“No.”
“I gave you an order,” she hissed. “And you swore to obey. Are you an oath breaker?”
Brandr shook his head. “I am not. I swore to obey so long as your commands don’t conflict with my honor. I wouldn’t suffer you to whip a dog. I won’t allow you, or your gaggle of brothers, to beat me without a fight.”
“So you’re my thrall, but only when it suits you?” Katla wished for the thousandth time she’d been born a man. If she had a man’s strength to match her will, she’d knock this Brandr Ulfson into his place so fast his teeth would rattle.
He yawned hugely. “If it’s all the same to you, princess, could we continue this argument tomorrow? I need to sleep.”
He started toward her bed.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “You will not sleep in my bed.”
Brandr turned to her wearily. “Then where do you want me, O Great One?”
“Not there.” She opened another trunk and pulled out a wolf skin and woolen blanket for him. “I want you on a pallet by the door.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “I knew you’d admit it sooner or later.”
“Admit what?”
“You want me.”
“Go to sleep, son of Ulf.” Katla threw the pelt and blanket at him.
“Willingly.” He’d spread the wolf skin and was already lying prone across the threshold before she climbed into her bed. “I live to serve, O Northern Moon of Beauty.”
“Moon of Beauty?” She wouldn’t have thought him much of a poet, but his words pleased her more than she wanted to admit. Her husband’s tongue hadn’t exactly dripped silver. “Why do you call me that?”
His eyes drifted closed. “In the South, servants habitually praise their masters with exalted titles. Of course, usually it’s a backhanded swipe.
A weakling will be named a ‘Tower of Strength.’ A portly matron will hear herself called ‘Delicate Flower of Delights,’ like as not.
They don’t seem to be clever enough to realize their servants are insulting them with ill-fitting praise names. ”
“So when you name me a moon of beauty, you’re really saying—”
“Good night, Katla.”
The infuriating man was asleep between one breath and the next. Her lamp guttered and went dark, as though an unseen hand had snuffed it out.
***
The cock crowed from the peak of the longhouse directly over her bed. His raucous screech cut through the overhead thatch and jerked Katla awake. Pearly light filtered through the open smoke hole, dust motes swirling in the unseen currents.
And unseen beneath her bedclothes, her night shift was rucked up to her waist. She still throbbed with unrelieved passion and more than a little embarrassment. If she slipped a hand between her legs, she knew she’d find herself damp.
Katla had been dreaming of the son of Ulf and what might happen if she gave him a chance to prove his boast about his bed skills.
Though her dream was rousing, it was far from satisfying.
Given a little more time, her body might have reached a peak in her sleep, but she was frustrated that the act in her dream was so one-sided.
It was as if Brandr were performing a menial task, not making love with her.
All her life, Katla had wished for inn matki munr, the mighty passion. More intense than any other emotion, deeper than the North Sea, stronger even than death, it was said that those who find it were bound so tightly, they even share the same thoughts.
Early in her marriage to Osvald, he’d shown her bed sport that made her skin riot in pleasure. But after the month of their honeymoon, Osvald hadn’t spent much time on love play. His main goal was an heir. In truth, there were times when Katla felt more like a sexual receptacle than his wife.
Perhaps if Osvald had lived longer, or if she’d been able to conceive, they’d have discovered inn matki munr, but now she had little hope she’d experience the bonding that knit two souls together.
Clearly, taking a bed slave was not the path to the mighty passion. It wasn’t even as good a choice as taking a lover, if her disappointing dream held any truth.
Katla gave herself a mental shake. Plenty of people lived full, productive lives without knowing that deep blending of spirits. She had too much to do and too many depending upon her to waste time mourning over what she didn’t have.
And probably would never have.
She decided to ignore the hollow ache in her chest. It was a selfish wish anyway. Wanting to be loved would not feed her people. It wouldn’t see them warm come winter.
Or fill the empty cradle in the corner.
She swiped away the weak tears that trembled on her lids, sat up, and peered over the end of her bed. Brandr Ulfson was still asleep on his pallet. If she was quick and quiet, she could dress for her busy day before he woke. She stole out of bed and opened her cedar-lined trunk.
***
Brandr had always been a light sleeper. During his service in Byzantium, he further honed his ability to be instantly awake at the first audible change in his surroundings. It was a matter of survival. The skill was the difference between avoiding an assassin’s blade or waking up in Hel.
So when the trunk lid creaked, he was aware Katla was up, but he didn’t betray himself by opening his eyes. Instead he peered from under his lashes to take stock of his situation.
She was laying out her dress and tunic for the day. She bent over and, in one smooth motion, pulled her night shift over her head, baring her body completely.
The women of the South had come in a myriad of hues—dusky olive, warm cinnamon, black as jet, and milky white. The wellborn ones even used a concoction of alum to further lighten their skin and make it shine brightly. Regardless of color, they were all exotically lovely.
But none could match the glowing alabaster of Katla’s skin for pure radiance. And without a single dollop of cosmetic enhancement.
Last night, he’d caught a glimpse of her delectable curves when he held her upside down. That had been a fair treat. But right side up, she was magnificent. Her breasts were high and full. Her waist was pleasingly narrow compared to her hips. And her heart-shaped bottom was perfection.
Since Katla’s hair was so dark, he guessed her mother must have been a Gaul.
Northmen had been bringing dark-haired women back from the coasts of Europe for several generations.
Brandr’s father always said the women should be glad to come, since the men in their lands obviously weren’t strong enough to protect them.
What a man has, he must hold. He must defend what’s his; else he deserves to lose it.
Katla the Black. He wondered if anyone else had named her thus. It suited her. Surly and strong-minded, she was a veritable warrior and deserved a name fitting for one. She had no man to defend her, but the vixen didn’t seem to need one.
Her breasts fell forward as she leaned down to pick up her linen underdress. Brandr ached to hold them, imagining those firm yet soft globes in his palms. He throbbed with need.
She slipped her dress over her head and down to cover herself, ending his torment.
When he saw the ornate silver brooches she used to fasten the tabs of her tunic, he revised his estimate of her status upward.
She obviously controlled the bulk of the wealth in her family, since her brothers didn’t sport so much as a copper arm band between them.
Her dead husband must have been a man of means.
Once she sat at the end of her bed to pull on her stockings, Brandr felt it was safe for him to stir. So long as she didn’t realize he watched, this morning’s entertainment might become a regular occurrence.
“Oh! You’re up.” She eyed the bulge at his groin with suspicion. “How long have you been awake?”
Long enough. He yawned and stretched, then followed her gaze to where his cock tented the coarse tunic. He shrugged. “You’ve been a married woman. Surely you know men often wake in a happy mood.”
“You’re a thrall. You’ve no cause to be happy.”
So you think. He smothered a grin behind his hand.
“You’re a free woman. You’ve no cause to be miserable.”
She slipped the silver chain that bore the keys to all the locks in her household around her neck. “Who says I’m miserable?”
“The frown line between your brows.”
She put a hand to the spot and tried to smooth the furrow out.
“That’ll work only for so long, and then that line will become permanent,” he predicted. “A person is as happy or unhappy as they decide to be.”
“I’ll be happy when you give me a fair day’s work.”
He rose and crossed over to her. “Let me start by giving you a reason to not to scowl so.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said when he closed the distance between them.
“Rest easy, princess. I mean you no harm.” He touched her cheek, moving slowly, as if she were a spooked mare he was trying to gentle. “I want only to see if I can make you smile.”
“This does not…” Her words trailed off as he glided a thumb over her bottom lip. Her eyes flared wide, but she didn’t move away.
When she tipped her chin up, he detected a slight tremor of need in her. It called to him. He’d started this little gambit only to see if she’d allow him to kiss her. Now he ached to.
Before she could protest, he put his arms around her and claimed her mouth. She struggled a bit. He’d have been surprised if she hadn’t, but she was so tiny it was no trouble to hold her still while he slanted his lips over hers. And she’d thank him later with a smile, he was sure.
Women of the South bathed in scent till their fragrance was overpowering. Katla smelled of clean wool and cedar shavings and warm woman. An earthy scent. The scent of home.
He dragged in a sweet lungful of her.
Then, as he’d hoped, he felt her unstiffen in his arms. Her lips parted softly, and his tongue swept in to explore the sweetness of her mouth. She began to kiss him back, nipping and playing with his tongue.
He moved a hand up from her waist to cup her breast.
She moaned softly, and he loosed his grip to allow more space between them. He wanted free rein to explore her body through the layers of her clothing. If he reached under her hem, he’d lay odds she’d be wet and welcoming.
For all her harsh words, Katla was ripe for the taking.
She rested her hands lightly on his shoulders, and then with no warning at all, she brought her knee up hard and sudden to his groin. He’d been a captain in the greatest corps of fighting men on earth, but he hadn’t seen that ambush coming.
“Odin!” He released her and doubled over, fighting nausea while he cupped his throbbing balls. “Why in Hel did you do that?”
“Because it was the best way to get your attention. Fetch me some water, thrall.” With a mocking smile, she dropped an empty bucket in front of him. Not at all the smile he was hoping to see.
“You had my attention.” He forced himself upright to face her. “And you were enjoying that kiss as much as I.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
Her lips might deny it, but her cheeks flamed, and her nipples stood out beneath her clothing. She trembled, either with rage or need. He couldn’t be sure which.
“If you kiss me again without my permission, I’ll reconsider my decision and let my brothers geld you.”
“No, you won’t, princess,” he said as he stooped to pick up the bucket.
She glared at him. “A man’s seed bag makes a fine coin purse, I’m told.”
He laughed. She was bluffing. He hoped she was bluffing.
“I won’t kiss you again without your permission,” he said gruffly. “In fact, if you want me to kiss you, you’ll have to order me to do it.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” she muttered. “I’ll never give that order.”
He grasped her chin and forced her to look up at him. “Ja, you will. You need a man. You’ll order me to your bed before you and I part company, princess. And we both know it.”
Bucket in hand, he turned and strode from the room without a backward glance.