Assembly
When Euphemia opens her eyes again, it is to the early morning sunlight spilling through the windows, catching on the tufts of dust drifting through the stale air.
The weight of Dagfinn’s arm is draped over her side.
His hand cups her exposed thigh.
His breaths warm the back of her neck.
Heat pools in her core again.
For one blissful moment, there is no assembly waiting for them. No Percival. No deed. No threat to the manor or the people who call it home.
Euphemia never wants to leave this bed.
As if Dagfinn can sense her waking—or perhaps scent her growing arousal like a hound on the hunt—he gives her a firm tug, tucking her tighter against the curve of his body.
“I could get used to this,” he whispers against her ear.
“Used to what?” she asks, blushing because she already knows his answer. She can feel it in the way the warm length of him is already extending against her rear. Reaching for that sensitive spot between her legs.
She arches into him, desperate for his velvety touch.
A low growl rumbles in his chest, making her ache.
Dagfinn licks the curve of Euphemia’s ear. “Used to waking up next to such a delicious temptress.”
Dagfinn’s hand slides up and around her thigh, finding the wetness already seeping between her thighs. His strokes are languid and Euphemia slowly melts into the pillowy softness of the mattress.
“Gods,” he mutters, fingers circling the tender apex. The leisurely motions become more ravenous with each rotation. More primal. More demanding. “Tell me what you need.”
He is already giving it to her though
This pressure.
This closeness.
His touch.
Bliss crests over her like a wave, steadily rising.
She opens her legs to make room for the increasingly frenzied but expert strokes.
Pleasure floods her senses. Euphemia leans her head back and Dagfinn peppers her neck with kisses, grinding his hips behind her in delicious, slow pumps that she wishes were inside of her.
She wants to feel the girth of him filling her, reaching the deep center of her core that will leave her unraveled.
That’s what she needs—more of him. For their bodies to be one, riding the wave together.
Euphemia’s hips arch backward, temporarily relieving Dagfinn’s hand from its work.
She reaches down, finding him with her hand.
The moment she grasps him, a shudder courses through his body. And then she’s guiding him inside her, whimpering at the pure pleasure of simply feeling the heat of him as he makes his entrance.
Euphemia reaches for the back of his neck. She holds him close. Their hips moving, dancing to a rhythm only they can create.
Something coils deep in her center as Dagfinn’s hand resumes caressing the ache between her thighs. He plunges deeper. Faster. The pleasure in her tightens until she can no longer stand it.
And then she is surging, edges fraying as Dagfinn buries himself deep.
He pushes her into oblivion.
Every muscle tightens around him.
Then she is tumbling over the edge, the two of them writhing in sweet pleasure together.
They relax against each other, chests heaving. Bodies slick. Stars alight in their eyes.
Dagfinn pulls himself free, but he doesn’t leave her side. He nuzzles closer, his hand tracing delicate circles upon the curve of her hip.
He kisses her neck once more, softer now. Less urgent.
A little breathless, Euphemia says, “I could get used to waking up like this too.”
Dagfinn chuckles against her back.
A knock at the door all but douses the bliss from the room.
Kelda’s voice sounds from the other side. “My apologies to disturb you both. Are you awake?”
Dagfinn pops onto an elbow, one hand remaining on Euphemia’s side. “Aye. We’re awake. What is it? Is everything alright?”
The weary sigh on the other side of the door is one of profound relief, and Euphemia suddenly wonders if Kelda has spent the entire night racked with fear, waiting to see if Dagfinn would survive the night unharmed. Unchanged.
“Everything is as fine as it can be,” Kelda replies. “Asvald is readying the carriage to take us to town. Will you be ready soon?”
Dagfinn and Euphemia share a look of mourning. Safe here in this bed chamber, wrapped in her own haven of bliss, Euphemia had nearly forgotten about Percival, let alone their plans of confronting him at the town assembly today.
Dagfinn turns his attention upon her, and Euphemia nods. Even though there is nothing she wants more than to stay in this bed with him, they know their time has come. At least there will be more days like these to come.
“We’ll be down soon,” Dagfinn says to his mother.
“I’ll have some biscuits ready for you and meet you by the carriage.”
Dagfinn rises first, and though Euphemia has now enjoyed his body twice, she still cannot help but shyly avert her gaze as his naked bottom half walks across the bedchamber.
Opening the armoire, he retrieves a fresh set of garments for her, some of the finest she’s seen in her wardrobe yet.
A dark crimson, velvet gown layered over a golden-hued chemise.
He comes around to her side of the bed and helps her dress. The gown is finer than anything Euphemia has ever owned, its velvet too soft beneath her fingers and its color, rich.
The lingering caresses of Dagfinn’s fingers upon her bare skin as he guides her in and out of her garments tells her he wishes they didn’t have to go yet either.
Dagfinn readies himself next. Donned in a high-collared linen shirt and a dark wool surcoat that bears the Varinsson family crest, he looks like a different man. Not the wild creature of her dreams, wrapped in fur and leather. Not the beautiful, vulnerable man trapped in his tower.
A lord.
A very handsome lord.
“Something wrong, my lady?” he asks with a crooked grin when he catches her staring.
Her cheeks burn. “No. Nothing at all.”
His mouth quirks and he takes her hand and guides her downstairs where they join Asvald and Kelda at the carriage.
The ride into town is quiet.
Beyond the windows, the countryside slides beneath a pewter sky, bare branches clawing at the horizon, clouds gathering. Inside, no one speaks. Even the creak of the wheels and the occasional jolt of the carriage seem unnaturally loud.
The magnitude of what the day may bring hangs over them like a storm waiting to break.
They will either lose everything or save it all.
As the carriage pulls up to the assembly hall, Dagfinn finally breaks the silence. “Remember, after today, Percival will be a problem no longer.”
Asvald opens the carriage doors. He helps Kelda and Euphemia out first, Dagfinn waiting behind for his grand entrance later.
Kelda and Euphemia enter the assembly hall first.
The room is already packed. Villagers crowd the benches that have been dragged together. Theys stand shoulder to should along the walls—townsfolk, tradesmen, farmers, elders, children—their cloaks still damp from the morning mist. All of them talking over each other.
Until they see Kelda.
Conversations suffocate as Kelda and Euphemia push through the room. They pick back up again as they walk by, hushed whispers that sound like Euphemia’s name.
Uncertainty hangs over the room. The tension so thick it could be cut with a knife.
Euphemia keeps her chin high as they make their way forward. She can feel eyes following her from every corner of the room. Some curious. Others suspicious. A few seem almost eager to find fault with the woman who has suddenly appeared at Lord Varinsson’s side.
She refuses to shrink beneath their gazes.
This is part of the plan. She has a role to play, and she will play it.
At least, that is what she tells herself.
Percival’s smug gaze watches them with premature victory.
Until the doors burst open again.
Dagfinn enters the assembly hall.
The murmurs roll like thunder.
And, oh, is it deliciously sweet to watch Percival’s arrogant grin drop.
A few startled voices rise from the benches.
Someone near the back whispers a prayer.
Another person actually laughs. For almost twelve months, Dagfinn has been absent from this town, and his sudden appearance seems to hit the townsfolk like a figment of their imagination. A specter. Something unholy.
But Euphemia sees something else in their faces, too.
Relief.
They are looking at their lord as though he has returned from the dead.
A path clears before him and Dagfinn strides to the front of the room.
From the front of the hall, Percival’s grip tightens around the papers he’s holding.
“My Lord,” Percival says through gritted teeth. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“Why wouldn’t you be expecting me?” Dagfinn’s voice carries across the hall, cutting through the restless whispers. He gestures toward Kelda and Euphemia in the front. “I’m told it is my family home that is being called into question. Should I not be here to answer for it?”
Stiffly, Percival bows his head, as if an invisible hand is forcing him to do so. “Of course, My Lord. Forgive me. I only meant that we believed you to be quite ill and feared that you had met the same fate as the late Lord Otho.”
A murmur ripples through the benches at the mention of Otho. Euphemia feels it move through the room like a draft beneath the door.
Dagfinn does not so much as blink. “I assure you, I am very much alive. I have been well tended by my family.”
Heads spin toward Kelda and Euphemia, though it’s mostly Euphemia whom their gazes consume. Not everyone has met the new countess, but everyone seems eager to lay eyes on her. To size her up. To decide whether the strange woman from Nottinghamshire is worthy of Thorfell Manor.
Euphemia feels every stare like a flame pressed to her skin.
Their judgment scrapes against a wound she refuses to let them see.
She reminds herself why she is here. Why their plan must work.
Let them look. Let them wonder. Let them believe she is exactly what they expected a countess to be.