Chapter 2
Would the nails be ready? Magnus had told him he needed a couple of days to finish them, and it had been three days.
Perhaps it was worth asking. The blacksmith was a man of his word, and Torsten wanted to fix the fence around the sheep enclosure as soon as possible.
The animals had not escaped yet, but it was only a matter of time before one found a way out of the faulty construction and the whole herd scattered in the fields beyond.
Maybe all hundred nails would not be ready yet but he could at least start with the ones that were.
He made his way to the smithy as soon as he had broken his fast.
A woman was at the back of the forge, talking to someone he couldn’t see.
She had her back turned to him and her hair was covered by a hood, but he recognized her voice and her petite frame.
It was Aife, his friend Moon’s sister. He would have waved to her, but she was too absorbed in her conversation to notice him.
It didn’t matter, he could say hello later.
Besides, judging from the lack of noise coming from the forge, it was a good moment to see Magnus, who would not be hammering away while they talked.
He extended his hand to the door, ready to push it open.
Just then, Aife laughed.
The pearly, husky, provocative sound shot straight to Torsten’s cock. That laugh… He would have recognized it anywhere. It was the one he’d heard the other morning, when he’d stroked himself to the best release of his life, the laugh he had obsessed about for days.
How had he not recognized it at the time?
Because he’d never imagined that Aife could ever set his loins on fire, that was why.
She was his best friend’s little sister, someone he’d known from birth, not some sultry temptress.
He should know, he’d spent enough time with her without ever once becoming aroused.
She was sweet, not seductive, a friend, not a potential conquest. Except that now he knew she hid a wicked side to her.
No woman could laugh thus and be only sweet innocence.
She might not know it herself, but Aife had the means of setting men’s loins on fire.
If he’d been capable of blushing, he would have blushed. How was he to face her? Twice now, he had stroked himself to an explosive release thanks to her. The first time when he’d heard her laugh, then the following morning when he had relived the exquisite moment in all its glory.
Torsten had promised himself he would find the woman who had inflamed his imagination, but now that he had, he wasn’t sure what to make of the revelation.
Because it was useless. Aife was not someone he could be with in that way.
They were friends, nothing more. She would most likely be horrified if she knew what he’d done, and rightly so.
Still, an irresistible force drew him to her. He had to find out more.
Ignoring the forge door, he walked over to her—which was when he saw who had caused her to laugh in that provocative way.
Sven. His bloody brother.
Everything crumpled inside Torsten. Of course, it had to be him.
The man had the ability to send women mad with lust without even trying.
But Aife couldn’t have fallen into that trap, surely?
Having known him from birth, she should be not only impervious to his charm, but also well aware of his wayward reputation and his unwillingness to settle.
Wasn’t he the last man she should allow near her?
Not that Sven would hurt her, of course, but their relationship could lead nowhere.
Well, he reflected bitterly, perhaps she didn’t want it to lead anywhere.
If she were only interested in a few nights of pleasure, then she had definitely gone to the right man.
Personable and carefree, his younger brother had always been the charmer of the family.
Steinar, the eldest, was the exact opposite, serious, reliable, married at a young age, and then too busy building a family to worry about other women. As to himself…
Torsten was like neither of them in temperament, nor did he look like a Norse deity.
Alone out of Wolf’s four children, he had inherited their Saxon mother’s looks.
His hair had a definite auburn tint to it, his eyes were not blue, but brown.
Not quite as dark as Merewen’s, but still unusual for a Norseman.
He was also the shortest of the three brothers, though not by much, and his physique was more lithe than powerful.
If Sven and Steinar were sturdy oaks, he was a silver birch sapling.
How could he compete? The answer was simple: he couldn’t. Women did not flock to him in search of nights of passion or think him manly enough to be a protective husband.
Ever since the three of them had grown into men, he’d felt transparent, stuck between two striking men, and never had he felt more inadequate than in this moment, when he was forced to watch the first ever woman who’d roused his desire try to lure his little brother into bed.
What a fool he really was. He’d been aroused by her laugh, and it turned out that she had only used it to tempt another man—his own brother.
She had not known he was only yards away, being coaxed into release by her sultry voice.
Not only that, but the mysterious woman he had sworn to find was one he had known all his life and the furthest thing from sultry he could imagine.
How humiliating.
“Torsten! Come, you’ll want to hear this,” Sven called out.
Should he refuse? Explain he’d come to see Magnus and disappear into to the forge? Yes, probably. And yet somehow his feet started moving of their own accord. A moment later he was coming to a halt in front of his smiling brother.
“Listen to this. Aife was telling me what Emma did the other day.”
Moon and Eyja’s daughter, Emma, was a little bundle of mischief.
At any other time, Torsten would have delighted in hearing what she had done.
Right now, though, he cared not a fig. Nevertheless, staying silent would only alert Sven and Aife to the fact that something was wrong, so he forced himself to ask the question.
“What did she do now?”
“She walked into Aife’s hut while she was making pottage. Our lovely niece decided to help by adding her own special ingredient to the pot.”
A pause. Torsten understood that he was expected to ask what that ingredient might be. But how could he behave naturally when his mind was buzzing with confusion and his lower body was throbbing with need? By the gods, but never had taking part in a conversation cost him more.
“What did she choose?” he managed to say. “A beetle?”
Aife giggled. Torsten’s chest tightened. Not for him, the sensual, throaty laugh she had used for his brother. For him, there was only the familiar, friendly giggle, the one everyone else got.
“No, even worse, as a beetle would easily have been retrieved and discarded. Sand!” Sven guffawed. “The imp threw a handful of sand into the pot of boiling water. Fortunately, Aife had yet to add the vegetables or the whole thing would have been ruined.”
Torsten smiled, wondering why he felt so hollow. He should have shared in the laughter. Instead, his mouth felt as if he’d been forced to eat a spoonful of the sandy pottage.
“Yes, that is fortunate,” he said automatically.
Sven arched a brow “Are you all right, brother?” he asked, laughing no longer.
“Of course.”
He was perfectly all right, if one forgot the hole expanding in his chest, the burning need to make Aife laugh in that sensual way, and the inexplicable, paralyzing urge to draw her into his arms and kiss her.
Kiss her? Torsten blinked. What the bloody hell was that about?
He rarely felt desire for a woman, and he never, most definitely never fantasized about kissing a friend. Of course he didn’t, it simply wasn’t done. What next? Would he start lusting after men?
An awkward silence settled between the three of them, then Sven spoke again, excitement in his voice. “If you will excuse me, I see Freydis over there. I wanted a word with her.”
Aife’s heart fell to the bottom of her stomach when Sven strode away in the direction of the well without waiting for their answer.
A word. Was that what he wanted them to believe, that he meant to talk to Freydis?
She exchanged a quick glance with Torsten, who appeared just as dubious as she was.
Indeed for a moment it appeared as if he would call his brother back, but Sven had already forgotten about them; his attention was wholly on the blonde woman sitting on the bench in the shade of the massive oak.
The woman he wanted to seduce.
This was hopeless. She might well make him laugh with her stories, but he was not interested in making her his, like he was with Freydis.
Why? She couldn’t understand. It was not as if he only liked buxom or tall women, Over the years she had seen him with lovers of all shapes, sizes, and even ages.
Freydis herself was on the slender side, and her bosom was no bigger than hers was.
So why was he not looking at her in the same heated way? What was wrong with her?
“If you’ll excuse me as well, I have nails to retrieve from Magnus,” Torsten mumbled, clearly aware her thoughts had scattered now that Sven was no longer with them.
Guilt sliced through her. She hadn’t meant to make him feel inadequate or boring. Just because she felt transparent and unimportant didn’t mean she should make him feel the same way. He was a good friend, one of the best men she knew and…well, he looked different that morning.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her attention wholly back on him.