Chapter 13
Asolid chest was caging her in. A thick arm was draped around her waist. A hot rod was pressed against the small of her back.
Cwenthryth stilled as sensations assailed her body one by one, the conclusion inevitable.
She was lying in a man’s embrace. It was the only explanation.
Was it a dream? No, she could tell it was all too real.
Should she bolt, try to flee while she could?
No, because this was not Godfrid, or anyone else intent on hurting her.
She had recognized who was holding her so tight.
The chest was hard and broad, the arm strong and protective, the rod—
Heat crept to her cheeks as the memory of the last time this man had been cradling her against him flooded her.
“Steinar,” she whispered.
The hold around her waist tightened ever so slightly, confirming her suspicion. “Mm, yes. What is it, lovely?”
Lovely.
Cwenthryth’s heart stilled. Everyone knew that when someone was still in prey to sleep, they could not dissemble.
For Steinar to use such a name when he was not fully awake and in control of his emotions had to mean something.
As to what, she had rather not think. For now, they were in each other’s arms and he had just called her lovely. It was enough.
“Thank you for sleeping with me.” It had made her feel not only safe, but cherished.
The hold tightened further, making her feel even safer, even more cherished. “It was my pleasure. I was the one who asked, remember?”
“I do remember.” It had been one of the most wonderful moments of her life. “And I thank you for coming to my rescue yesterday.”
It only occurred to her now that she had not yet thanked him for coming to her aid, and she would hate for him to think she considered his help a due. She did not. She was deeply grateful, because she suspected he had saved her life as well as what little was left of her dignity.
There was a silence while he seemed to consider his next words. “Ulf was the one who came to your rescue. He was the one who stopped Godfrid, not me.”
Yes, but then he, in turn, had stopped Godfrid from killing the boy. He had still come for her unprompted, at a moment when he couldn’t have known she was being assaulted. It had to mean something, possibly the same thing calling her “lovely” meant.
“I hope Ulf is—”
“Yes. He’ll be fine. I arrived just at the right time.”
She nodded, relieved. Steinar would be even more anxious to ensure his son’s well-being than she was. If he was reassured, then she could relax.
“Thank God.”
“How do you feel now that you’ve slept?”
He removed a strand of hair from her brow, the gesture impossibly tender. Everything within her melted. If she had suspected just how tender and protective that fierce warrior could be on the day she’d met him, she would have ended up in all sorts of trouble.
Perhaps she already had, because now that they had unexpectedly been reunited, she didn’t want to be separated again.
“I’m fine,” she said, her throat tight. “What happened to Godfrid?”
There was a silence. It seemed to her that Steinar was debating whether to tell her the truth or not. Eventually, he spoke, his voice little more than a rasp.
“I used the axe I’d brought with me to strike him.” Axe. Cwenthryth shivered at the word. Did she want to know what he’d done exactly? Did she need to? No.
“So he’s dead?” The notion left her cold. If he was, then he had only himself to blame. No one had asked him to attack her or Ulf.
“I didn’t stay to make sure but I think so. In any case, you won’t have to worry about him ever again.”
Her body sagged. The nightmare was really over. Now all she needed was for Steinar to call her “lovely” again and mean it.
“I—”
“Good morning!”
Without warning, Rothgar burst in through the door. Taking one glance into the hut, he ran to the pallet and threw himself into Cwenthryth’s arms.
“Rothgar! Do you have to?”
While Steinar barked his displeasure to his son, Cwenthryth held the little boy and allowed the harsh sounds of the Norse language to wash over her. Why was it that it pleased her so when Steinar spoke it, even if it was not directed at her, even when he spoke it in anger? She had no idea.
“It’s all right,” she soothed. “I don’t mind.”
No, she didn’t. There were worse things than to be wanted by someone. She closed her arms around the little boy who had burrowed into her softness. With a strong man warming her back and a sweet boy nestling in her embrace, Cwenthryth had never felt better.
A heartbeat later, she felt even better, because she heard exactly what she had hoped to hear.
“Sorry, lovely,” Steinar purred in her ear, “but I fear there will be no getting rid of us three now.”
Oh, if only.
“Where is Cwenthryth?”
Steinar turned to see Moon standing in the doorway, his thumbs hooked in the belt at his waist. Once he would have felt irritation at the notion that people came to his house asking about the Saxon, assuming that she would be here, behaving as if she were part of his life.
Today he found himself smiling, as if the mere mention of her had brought peace to him.
And it did feel as if she were a part of his life.
For a dreadful moment, the day before, he’d thought she’d fallen prey to the illness that had taken Astrid.
Shortly after getting up Cwenthryth had started to feel light-headed and complained of stomach cramps.
Panic had seized his own guts. No, not her as well!
Not now, not ever! He would not bear it if he lost her so soon after having accepted that he might indeed need her.
Then, once panic had subsided, he’d remembered that, caught up in their difficult conversation the previous evening, she had eaten none of the food he’d placed by her side.
She was hungry, that had to be the explanation.
Desperate to be reassured, he’d brought all the food supplies he’d found to her, forcing her to eat as much as she could.
Then once she had declared herself sated, he had ordered her to spend the day resting on the pallet.
After the ordeal she’d been through, physically and emotionally, she needed it and he wouldn’t be gainsaid.
If she thought him high-handed, too bad.
She could think what she liked, her well-being was his priority. And it had worked.
By the evening, she had been restored to her usual self, and he’d been able to breathe again. She was not about to die.
“I think she’s at the back, weeding the garden,” he told his brother-in-law. “Why are you asking?”
“Arne came to tell me that Inga is having her baby. And Helga is already seeing to Sigrid, whose pains started at the same time. She could do with some help and she’s heard that Cwenthryth delivered baby Frida.
She asked us to get her.” Moon clenched his jaw.
Like the rest of the family, his brother-in-law had been told about what had happened the day before to her and Ulf, and he’d been outraged.
“Do you think she would agree to go see Inga if she feels well enough?”
“I think she feels just fine.” Her face still bore the traces of the attack, but mercifully, she had slept well and woken up in as good a mood as he’d seen her.
“I’m sure she would not refuse her help to a woman in need, especially considering that this is not Inga’s first babe.
Between the two of them I’m sure they will manage. Let me go get her.”
He found her at the back of the garden, in the part of the vegetable patch where the onions grew.
She was kneeling on the ground, filling a basket with the weeds she was uprooting.
And, to his utter delight, she was singing.
It was a sweet song about a girl picking a rose for her beloved.
Steinar’s chest squeezed, and he took a moment to enjoy her voice, sweet and pure as birdsong.
Despite her ordeal of the previous day, it was clear he’d been right; her spirit was intact.
Only people who felt safe and carefree sang thus.
It was as if she had naturally found her place here at the village, and recovered her peace of mind. He could have watched her for days.
Then he remembered that Helga was waiting and he shook himself out of his contemplation.
At his approach Cwenthryth went silent and flushed a delicious red color, embarrassed to have been caught singing. There was no need. She had not been doing anything wrong.
“Steinar,” she murmured, sitting back on her heels.
“Cwenthryth. Someone needs your help.” He hated interrupting her moment of peace but poor Inga needed her now.
She tilted her head. “Someone from the village?” The fact seemed to surprise her, with reason. She didn’t know many people here.
“Yes.”
It suddenly struck him that he’d stopped too close to her.
He was now towering over her, his groin level with her head.
And she was looking up at him from her kneeling position, with her mouth half parted.
Blood shot to his cock at the evocative image this created in his mind and he took a hasty step backward.
He saw the moment Cwenthryth understood what he’d imagined her doing. She reddened further and lowered her gaze to the ground.
Damnation, what was wrong with him? Only the morning before she had been attacked, and she still bore the injuries to prove it.
She had every reason to fear a man’s lust, and he would be the last man she wanted to pleasure.
Hadn’t he sent her away only a few days ago?
He had no right to bother her or behave so inappropriately.
“Let me help you up,” he said, when she made to get to her feet. The feel of her small hand in his warmed him to the core because it betrayed her complete trust. Despite what had just happened she didn’t fear him, she knew he hadn’t meant anything lewd.
“Thank you. So, who is this person who needs me?” she asked, once she was up.
Me.