Chapter Twenty-one
Locked inside the hall, Aoife jumped at every clang of weapon upon weapon, every thud of weapon upon wood.
She cringed at every scream. She kept her eyes firmly on the door, her knuckles white around the handle of the axe she held.
She was aware, however, of Ylva, sensed the other woman watching her, sensed her suspicion, but she ignored her.
Her loyalty lay with Tormod, and she would prove it.
The sounds of the battle outside ceased after a while. Aoife had no idea how much time had passed, and they all jumped when someone banged on the door.
“Who’s there?” called Ragna.
“Bjorn.”
Ragna and Ylva hurried forward and unfastened the bar.
Bjorn strode in, his clothes soaked in blood, and with a wild look in his eye.
He was smiling. Aoife couldn’t move. What if the Norsemen had won, but at the expense of Tormod’s life?
What would happen to her then? She watched as warrior after warrior entered the hall, resisting the desire to rush forward to see where he was.
When he walked through the door grinning from ear to ear, she didn’t know whether to hug him or slap him.
“We have a prisoner,” Tormod said. “But the others are dead.” He was filthy, sweat soaked, and with sand clinging to him. His clothes were splashed with blood from head to toe and there were large areas where it had soaked in.
Aoife gulped at the sight, but she was happy to see him alive and ran towards him.
His eyes glowed with excitement, that same lust she’d seen in them earlier, magnified now from the frenzy of battle and the joy of victory.
She pushed the thought from her mind that they had been her own people that had been killed, their conversation in the boat almost enough to convince her that she owed none of them any loyalty.
Apart, perhaps, from the one who had hesitated about killing her — but she would have never wished any man dead.
Tormod grabbed her as she reached him and pulled her against him.
He kissed her long and deep, then lifted his head and began shouting orders at the assembled group.
She understood only a small amount of them, but there were to be more watchmen on the shore and a patrol out on the water.
No one was to go anywhere unarmed or alone.
She noticed Ylva tending to Bjorn in a quieter corner of the hall, turned away when he pulled her down beside him and kissed her. There was little worry that the blood he had been covered in was his own, although he did have a nasty gash on one arm.
When she looked back at her husband, she realised he had noticed her watching the pair. She blushed as he laughed.
Tormod grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the back of the hall, then through the door leading to their room.
As soon as they were through it, he closed it and pushed her up against it.
He kissed her urgently as one hand pulled up her skirts while the other fumbled with the fastenings of his breeks.
She gasped when he lifted her and held her in place against the door.
His fingers probed, testing her readiness, then he guided himself inside her and thrust deep, kissing her roughly, filling all of her senses.
She could smell the sweat and the blood, sense his passion, his desperate need to bury himself in her and celebrate the fact he was alive.
Briefly she wondered if any woman would have done, then she pushed the thought from her head and accepted that here, tonight, he had chosen her, and as his wife she could only hope he always would.
He cried out as he came, and her own release followed swiftly. He seemed in no hurry to withdraw, just held her there, panting, trying to catch his breath. Finally, he lifted his head. For a long moment, he stared at her.
An emotion stirred deep inside her, an emotion she didn’t want to put a name to.
“I didn’t mean to do that…” he said.
Her heart sank.
As soon as he had lowered her feet to the floor, he pulled away and hurried from the room. She blinked, wondering what had caused such a sudden change. Even if she asked him, he might not know himself.
She shook her head. Would it have been so hard to understand a husband from among the Britons? She drew in a breath. She couldn’t imagine finding a husband among the Britons. Her father and Ula had probably tried before sending her to the abbey.
Tonight, however, Tormod had wanted her, truly wanted her.
But had it been mere lust, the kind slaked with any woman or had it been about her?
Perhaps her response was unworthy of a wife?
And yet it had made her feel wanted. That when he had been fighting, it had somehow been for her, because of her.
To keep her safe. After the battle, he had come to her, been so desperate for her that he hadn’t even waited to bathe and…
Her hands flew to her mouth. She knew what he had done differently, knew what was bothering him. He had no withdrawn from her. She ran a hand over her stomach.
He had wanted to wait for a child, and now he may not get his wish.
She looked towards the door, wondering whether she should follow him and speak to him, or wait for him to return.
Then, remembering the sounds of the violent fight from outside, and with no real idea of where exactly Tormod had gone, she decided to stay where she was.
She removed her clothes, washed quickly in a basin of cold water, left from earlier then slipped into a clean sark. When curled up on the bed, she intended to stay awake until Tormod returned, but sleep soon claimed her.