Chapter 2
Steinar woke up alone in the gray predawn light.
For the first time since Astrid’s death, Rothgar had not come to find him in bed.
Dare he see this as an improvement? Did it mean the little boy had slept through the night, or that he had not wanted to be seen as weak and needy and chosen to battle his grief alone?
Had he suffered on his own? The thought twisted at his guts.
Steinar sat up, intent on finding out, and stilled when he saw that the small pallet in the corner was empty.
Alarm instantly spiked through him. Where had his son gone at this hour?
Before he could rush out of the door, moved by instinct, he glanced over to the place where, the evening before, he had prepared a bed for their unexpected guest.
Of course. His son was lying next to Cwenthryth, as he should have predicted.
His face buried in her tangled hair, he was holding her from behind, like he did with him, his arm wrapping around her slim waist more easily than it did around his much bigger body.
She was asleep, and Steinar wondered if she was even aware of the little boy’s embrace.
Just when he stood up, she sighed and placed her hand over the little fingers, enfolding them in a gentle hold.
Then she brought the hand to her mouth and kissed it.
So she was awake, fully aware of who was pressed against her, and she didn’t mind.
Unsure of what to make of that notion, he shifted onto his feet—and she opened her eyes.
Their gazes met.
Her cheeks instantly flushed a deep pink, as if she’d been caught doing something forbidden.
She had not, not precisely, but still, Steinar couldn’t shake the feeling that this was wrong.
Wrong that his son should cling to a woman he hardly knew as if she would become part of his life, because he would only end up being disappointed.
It was even more wrong that he, who had only the day before been outraged at her sudden appearance and ready to send her away, should feel a stirring in his groin at the sight of her disheveled hair, or that he should notice how pale her skin was, how delicate her wrist, or how dark and soulful her eyes were. Or anything else.
He stormed out of the hut barefoot, angry at himself.
What a fool he was. There were things to be done today, he could not remain rooted to the spot, admiring a woman lying in his bed in a state of disarray.
Not that she he had been in his bed, of course, or that he had admired her, exactly.
She had not been in a state of disarray either, just deliciously mussed from sleeping on the furs he had—
Steinar yanked at the handle of the well with such force that it almost broke.
“Easy there, or you’ll break it!” a voice called out from behind. Magnus, the blacksmith, was walking toward him, a mock scowl on his face. “And then, I’ll have to make another one. I haven’t the time, to be honest.”
“Magnus. Good morning.” Damn, it was just his luck that someone happened to walk past to witness his moment of anger. But the blacksmith was always first up in the village, so perhaps he should not be surprised to have been seen.
“Everything all right, Steinar?” the man asked once he had come to a stop in front of him.
“Of course. I’m only getting water,” he growled, “like I do every morning.”
“Mm.” Magnus didn’t appear convinced. “How is Rothgar?”
“He’ll be fine.”
Right now he was more than fine, snuggled up in bed close to a sweet-smelling Saxon woman who kissed his hands.
Steinar started when he realized he sounded like a jealous suitor.
He was nothing of the sort, and he cared not about having his hands kissed.
And how did he know Cwenthryth smelled sweet anyway?
For all he knew she smelled like boiled cabbage.
Except… Except he knew that she did not; she smelled like liquorice root.
Yes, that was what it was. He’d smelled the unusual, sensual scent when he had carried her to his pallet the day before and had tried to place it ever since.
Damn Magnus for reminding him of it! Now it would be all he thought about when he saw her.
How she smelled like some sweet delicacy.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have water to bring inside,” he told the blacksmith, before storming back to his hut.
Magnus looked at him oddly, but Steinar didn’t let it worry him.
His rudeness had become something people were used to.
It was only when he reached the door that he noticed he was not carrying any bucket.
That was why the blacksmith had appeared nonplussed.
Oh well, he could think what he wanted. No doubt he would put the mistake down to lack of sleep, or grief, or worry over his children.
Magnus was not to know his friend’s son was actually getting distracted by the mysterious Saxon who had appeared on this doorstep the day before, since he had no idea she even existed.
Steinar stilled. How had he not thought of this before? Did anyone apart from his sons know Cwenthryth was here? Was anyone aware a woman had slept in his hut last night?
He dearly hoped not, or he would never hear the end of it.
Some well-intentioned people might argue it was actually a sensible idea for him to let her stay a while, and help with the children, since she already knew them and they liked her.
Others would tell him none too subtly that they hoped he would find happiness with the woman who had so pointedly arrived on his doorstep.
A few lecherous men might even wink and congratulate him for not letting his wife’s death get in the way of his pleasure.
None of it would do. She had to leave, and the sooner the better. At this time, he needed peace and a chance to heal, time alone with his children, not upheaval and worry.
He pushed the door open, wondering if he would find everyone awake. He did. All three of them were sitting around the table, sharing what was left of the loaf of rye bread in joyous companionship.
“Good morning,” he called out to no one in particular.
“Good morning,” Ulf replied, smiling as broadly as if he’d just been handed a new puppy.
Inexplicably, the sight irritated Steinar further.
His son wasn’t supposed to look so happy mere days after his mother had died, was he?
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he berated himself for it.
What was wrong with him? He should be glad his son was not crippled by grief, and in truth, he was.
If only his joy had not been caused by the presence of the infuriating Saxon, it would be even better.
He directed his gaze to Cwenthryth, who was toying with her slice of bread as if worried about his reaction.
As soon as he had entered, all mirth had been wiped off her face.
Obviously, she agreed that she should not be laughing with the boys as if she had every right to be here.
Well. At least she had some sense of what was appropriate or not.
“Look, Cwenthryth made me a kitten out of an old piece of rag I found,” Rothgar exclaimed, waving a knotted piece of fabric in the air.
Steinar recognized the shirt he’d torn on a nail the other day while out in the garden, which did not help him remain calm.
He had planned to use the material to make a new shirt for Ulf, not to have it transformed into a cute but useless animal.
“So I see. Very clever,” he said, his gaze still on the woman sitting at his table.
Very clever indeed. She was doing all she could to ingratiate herself toward his sons.
Not that it would require a huge effort on her part.
The two of them seemed already won over.
Apparently an ability to make cakes and create animals out of nothing was all that was needed to coax one’s way into his children’s hearts.
That and giving them the tenderness they needed.
He clenched his jaw. Why had he asked her to sleep here last night?
It would have been cruel to send her away when she could barely stand, but he didn’t have to keep her under his roof.
He should have sent her to one of his brothers for the night.
They were both unattached and free to act on their desire for women.
If, as he suspected, she was after a home in the village, she would have been welcome to try her wiles on them, and see what came of—
No.
The thought was ruthlessly crushed before it fully formed in his mind.
Imagining Cwenthryth in Torsten’s or, even worse, Sven’s arms, moaning, writhing in pleasure, was enough to send his blood boiling.
Why? What did he care what she did? Sending her to a man who wanted her in his bed would be the best way to rid himself of her, would it not?
It should have been the perfect solution, but somehow it raised his hackles and he didn’t understand why.
“A word with you,” he clipped, already walking toward the door. She had better follow without complaint, for he would not be above throwing her over his shoulder if need be. “Boys, you stay here, finish your meal,” he added in Norse, having no intention of seeing them intrude in their conversation.
He waited until he’d seen Cwenthryth exit the door before leading the way to the bench at the back of the hut.
Exasperation washed through him when he gestured to her to sit down and she remained standing.
So she wanted to be difficult? Very well.
He could be difficult too. He would ask his questions, and to hell with any pretense at politeness.
“Now, tell me why you’re really here. And do not even think of lying to me.”
Something in his tone or in his face, or possibly both, must have made it very clear she had better obey, because she at last fell on the bench and said, “I’m trying to escape from someone. A man.”