Читать книгу Dark, Devastating & Delicious!: The Marriage Medallion / Between Duty and Desire / Driven to Distraction - Christine Rimmer - Страница 13

Chapter Eight

“What are you, nuts?” Brit demanded. “I really think they might have killed you.” They were alone in the tent Grid and Rinda had given them for their supposed night of sexual delights.

Eric stood over the low central fire, warming his hands. Firelight glinted off his clubbed-back hair, bringing out bronze gleams in the ash-brown strands. “No harm is done, for you have saved me.”

Was he smiling? Brit swore, a very bad swear word. “You have blood on your neck.”

“And you have a new bruise on your cheek.”

Lightly she touched the swollen spot where Grid’s knuckles had struck. “I spoke when not spoken to.”

“A good thing you don’t receive a blow every time you do that.”

“Chuckle, chuckle.”

He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his shearling coat and wiped until only a faint smear remained. “Better?” He stuck the cloth back in his pocket.

“Not particularly. How can you stand there and grin? That was stupid, what you did. Those women out there take their beliefs seriously.”

“I had complete faith in you.”

“What if I wasn’t here, what if I hadn’t come back to the camp, for some reason? What if I had refused to claim you?”

“But you were here. You did come back… and you have claimed me.” That haunting deep-set gaze was on her.

She felt her skin grow warmer, felt the hungry shiver sliding through her. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“You know what. That… look. You give me that look and I get all…” She let the sentence die unfinished, since she was getting herself deeper in trouble with every word.

He showed no mercy. “You get ‘all’ what?”

“Just… don’t, okay?”

“Don’t…?”

She flung out both hands. “Don’t give me the bedroom eyes. Don’t get… ideas.”

“Bedroom eyes? You Americans. Such amusing figures of speech.” He took something from another pocket, then shrugged out of the coat and tossed it on the pallet that lay against the side of the tent, to his left. His leather shirt was the same one he’d been wearing that morning. It had lacings at the neck. She could see a slice of firm, smooth chest.

And a few links of silver chain, shining. “I see you found your medallion.”

“Would you like it back now?”

“Uh. No, I would not.”

He circled the fire and came toward her. She debated: shrink back or stand proud?

As usual, before she made a choice, there he was. Right in front of her, mesmerizing eyes and broad shoulders filling the world. “Give me your hand.”

“I said I don’t want the medallion.”

“I have something else of yours.”

She should probably take issue with the word else. Then again, better not to belabor a point made far too many times already. She settled for a sneering curl to her lip and a surly, “What?”

He simply waited.

“Oh, all right.” Grudgingly she held out her hand.

He cradled her palm, his hand warm and firm around the back of hers.

The problem was, she did like it. When he touched her. She gloried in the shivery feelings he aroused, though she kept trying to tell herself she shouldn’t, that her obvious response to him only egged him on when it was absolutely paramount that she keep him at a distance.

Carefully, so as not to spill them, he laid a pile of peanut M&Ms in her cupped hand.

She looked down at them and back up at him. He was smiling again. And so was she—now. It was just too rich. “Pretty good, huh?”

“You are a woman of greatest resourcefulness.”

“That I am.”

“Not that I wouldn’t have found you without the bright-colored trail you left for me. I would find you anywhere.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.”

The fire behind him crackled cheerily. Thin gray curls of smoke drifted up through the tent hole above. Outside, faintly, she could hear the sounds of the women of the camp as they prepared to settle in for the night. A woman called for a child and a thin voice answered, “Coming, Mama!” Brit stared at Eric and he stared back at her and they smiled at each other like a couple of fools.

“I was curious,” he said. “I ate one.”

“Did you like it?”

“It was excellent. That smooth outer shell, the silky, melting ball of chocolate, the crunch of the nut within…”

He had it exactly. She confessed, though it was the last thing she ought to be telling him, “I like to suck them. Slowly.”

He whispered, his voice rubbing, velvet soft, along her every nerve, “Show me.”

She made herself frown. “Oh, puh-lease. They’ve been on the ground.”

“So fastidious…”

“That’s me.” She was thinking of that big plate of night crawlers in blood balls she’d lapped up that time on Fear Factor. Fastidious. Oh, yeah. Fershure. At least when she could afford to be.

She noticed that he was bending his head.

And yes, it was true. She was lifting hers.

Their lips met.

Well, what do you know?

She was doing it. Kissing Eric, though she knew she shouldn’t.

Okay, all right. It was a problem she had. Just ask her mother. There was always what she should be doing: college, finishing one of her novels, stuff like that. And the various dangerous activities that tempted her: to learn to fly, to earn a black belt, to explore what was left of the world’s wildernesses, the kinds of places where if you didn’t know what you were doing, you could end up dead.

Oscar Wilde had said it best: “I can resist everything except temptation…”

You go, Oscar!

His mouth to hers… so lightly. Just brushing. And what a mouth it was. Exactly as she’d imagined it, velvety soft as his voice could be.

He spoke between those brushing kisses. “My dreams. At last. Coming true.”

She pulled back. “Don’t get your hopes up. It was only a—”

He silenced her by taking her mouth again. She let him do it.

Only a kiss, she promised herself. It’s only a bone-melting, sweet, tender kiss….

Oh, and it was… all that.

Really, she had to be honest—at least, with herself.

He was… all that.

His lips settled in, covering the whole of her mouth. She heard an eager, needful sound—a sound that came from her own throat. And her mouth was opening—just a little, she promised herself. Only enough to let in the wonderful moist heat of his breath.

But then, what do you know? His tongue came in, too. And she didn’t close her lips against it.

In fact, she slid her own tongue beneath his.

Oh, my, yes.

Their tongues sparred and slid, up and over each other. His retreated.

Hers followed. Into the wet cave beyond those beautiful, tempting, velvet-soft lips.

Chaka-boom, she was going.

Going, going…

Gone.

With a hungry cry, she grabbed for him, wincing a little as her hurt shoulder complained. She slid her eager hands up over his hard chest, his strong shoulders, until she had him around the neck, until her body was pressed to his, her breasts to his chest, her hips just below his. Against her belly she could feel his desire. Heaven, that hard ridge. At the center of herself, she was warming, softening, hollowing out. Melting like the chocolate beneath the outer shell of an M&M, the sweetness spreading…

She opened her hand. The candies rolled down his back and hit the dirt floor with soft plopping sounds.

He chuckled at that.

She pulled back enough to grant him a mock scowl. “You know we shouldn’t be doing this.”

He laid a finger against her mouth. “No. You have it wrong. We must do this. I must please you. Or you’ll have to kill me.”

She stuck out her tongue and licked that finger of his—it tasted salty and a little bit dusty. Altogether lovely.

Fastidious? Brit Thorson? Not right this minute…

She felt his low groan as it rose from his chest. Delicious. Perfect.

No, she would not marry him, no matter what the fates predicted. But this…

How could she turn away from this?

He brought up his other hand and cradled her face in his warm, cherishing palms. His eyes looked into hers. She was falling. Down and down…

“You have claimed me. You shall have me.”

Oh, well. All right.

But then again…

“I have an idea.” Her voice came out husky, hungry, low.

“Share it.”

“How ’bout we don’t? And just say we did.”

He only shook his head at that, his eyes so deep, his mouth swollen with kissing.

Crazy, she told herself. Way, way insane.

A leather strip held back his hair—another temptation, more of the only thing she couldn’t resist. She took that strip and pulled. It slid away. His hair fell loose around his shoulders. She let the bit of leather drop, down there to the dirt, with the scattered M&Ms. She combed her fingers through the strands—so silky, alive with the warmth of him.

“You don’t need this coat,” he said.

She didn’t argue. She let him push it from her shoulders and toss it to the pallet where his own coat lay.

He gathered her close again, enfolding her in those lean, strong arms. And he kissed her, his tongue pushing in, finding hers waiting. To welcome him.

To play…

He had her sweater by the sides. He raised it, fingers trailing over the bumpy fabric of her thermal shirt, thrilling her with the simple pressure of his touch. The kiss was interrupted as he pulled the sweater over her head. She lifted her arms straight up too fast.

A small cry of pain got away from her.

He tossed the sweater away, his brows drawing together. “Your wound…?”

“No. Nothing. It’s…”

But he was bending close again, pressing his lips to her shirt, right over the bandage that covered the place where the arrow had struck. He blew out a breath. She felt it through the layers of cloth and the bandage. It was lovely. Warm and moist. So tender. So soothing.

So right…

She cradled his head against her shoulder and stroked his hair. “Oh, Eric…”

He pulled back and took her by the arms. And he looked into her eyes, deeply. For an endless span of time.

She shook herself. Really, she had to clarify things a little. “This doesn’t mean—”

“Shh.” His finger sealed her lips again. “Explanations are for strangers. We are not strangers. We never were that.” She put her hands flat against his chest. She had a thousand things to say. But they all kept flying away. His eyes were so deep. They went down and down forever. “I assume nothing. You needn’t fear.”

He did assume. She could see it there. Shining in his spruce-green eyes.

But—right then, did she care?

Uh-uh.

He was holding her. He wanted her, and, oh, she did want him, want his hard body against hers, his strong arms around her. For this night, in her cousin’s tent, in the camp of the kvina soldars.

It was not such an easy thing, this quest of hers. Mostly it seemed she was getting nowhere—except in trouble. And in one sense, he was her adversary, keeping from her what she needed to know.

But in another, deeper way she truly did feel bound to him. Beyond being adversaries, they were also comrades. He would fight at her side if it came to that. He would willingly lay down his life for hers.

And as she looked up at him, she knew she would do the same for him.

It was a bond between them. A powerful one. Wherever this all might lead in the end, it would be an honest thing, to be with him tonight.

She felt the smile of acceptance curve her lips.

In response he whispered her name. “Brit…”

She took the sides of his shirt and gathered the soft leather, sliding it upward, fingers skimming the firm, hot flesh along his ribs, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it in the corner with the rest of their things.

His smooth bare chest gleamed in the darkness. And there was the medallion….

The sight of it—of the twining serpent, the four mystic animal faces, the cloverleaf cross at the center—took the shivery, sexual moment and twisted it. Ruined it.

She turned her head away.

He caught her chin, guided her back. “Look. Know. It is there for you when you want it. And only then.”

She pushed at his chest—regretfully. But firmly.

He dropped his hands to his sides.

They stared at each other, inches—and now suddenly, miles—apart. They were both breathing heavily.

“I can’t do it,” she said at last. “It just wouldn’t be right.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And so, when the warrior women learn I have failed to please you, I die.”

Like she could let him get away with that one. “Oh, please. You know that is so not going to happen.”

“But I must—”

“Please me? That’s right. And you have. Thoroughly. End of problem.”

“I’d like to do more.” He looked so sincere. And so devastatingly sexy. Damn him.

She shrugged, the gesture cool—everything she wasn’t inside. “Get over it.”

“So much bravado. Strange how it suits you.”

“Bravado? This is not bravado. This is me. Trying, against all odds, to get through to you.”

“And I have heard you. No more pleasuring. Not tonight.”

“Not tonight, not ever.”

“Ah,” he said, as if he understood. But he didn’t. He was absolutely certain tonight had been only the beginning of the pleasuring they’d share. He didn’t believe for a moment that she meant what she said.

And how could she expect him to? She didn’t believe it herself.

She pointed at the pallet where their things were piled. “You can sleep there. I’ll take the other one.”

“I am yours to command.”

Oh, yeah, right. “Go to bed then.”

“As you wish, so shall it ever be.”

* * *

The hawk dropped from the sky. Its eyes were dragon eyes, burning red. Flames shot from its beak, searing all in its path. She put up her arms to shield her face and a single cry escaped her.

Brit woke sitting up, arms across her eyes. Slowly she lowered them.

The fire was down to a low glow of coals. Her pallet was a mess, the furs and blankets wrinkled and lumped up beneath her.

And Eric was awake, lying on his side, his head propped on a hand… watching her. The medallion hung to the side. His gorgeous chest gleamed at her. His blankets were down to his waist. She’d made a concentrated effort not to look as he got ready for bed. And now, she couldn’t help but wonder…

If those blankets slipped a little lower, would she get a view of what she’d felt against her belly earlier?

She jerked her gaze—and her thoughts—away from where they had no business going.

His eyes were waiting, way too alert, unsettlingly aware. “Bad dream?”

She grunted. It was answer enough. And then she concentrated on straightening her bedding. At first, she tried to do it without getting up. She only made things worse.

“Allow me to help you with that.”

“No, thanks.” At least she’d had the sense—unlike some people—to keep everything but her boots on when she crawled beneath the blankets. She was showing him nothing as she stumbled to her feet and tugged on the heavy pallet until it was reasonably smooth again.

She was just about to slide back in, where it was warm, when he said with infuriating good humor, “Always such an angry sleeper.”

She shot him a look. Always, he’d said. That meant he must have watched her sleep, at Asta’s house….

“Not angry. Restless.” She lifted the covers, got under them and settled them over herself. “Good night.” She shut her eyes.

“Brit?”

Outside somewhere an owl asked “Who, who, who,” as she considered not responding. But in the end, she gave in and muttered, “What?”

“The blond warrior woman, the one called Rinda…”

“What about her?”

“She called you ‘cousin.”’

“Because I am.”

He was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, “She looks like you.”

Brit stared through the smoke hole above. The night sky was cloudy, a deep grayness, hiding the stars. “She’s the image of my mother at twenty-five or so.”

Eric made a low noise in his throat. “I have it. Brian the Blackhearted…”

Brit felt a funny little sadness, a heaviness near her heart. “They called my uncle that?”

“They did. And he was.”

“Blackhearted…”

“Yes. And was he Rinda’s father?”

She could see no reason—beyond a petty desire to goad him—to keep what she knew to herself. “Yes. He raped Ragnild.”

“Ah,” he said, as if that explained everything. And really, it probably did. “So Ragnild wished to meet you.”

“That’s right.” She believes that I’ll somebody be queen, she thought. But she didn’t say it. Many, after all, believed that Eric would one day be king. If Brit were to be queen, then that would mean…

No. Better not even go there. And besides. Since Valbrand lived, he would most likely be the next king, once all this confusion got straightened out. No way Valbrand would be marrying his little sister. Even in Gullandria, they weren’t into stuff like that.

So much for Ragnild’s dreams.

And what, Brit wondered, was Valbrand doing right now?

Really, there was so much she wanted—needed—to know. “Eric?”

He made a noise that told her he was listening.

“How old were you when you first met my brother?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. But the silence was a musing one. Then he said, “So young, I don’t even remember a time when I didn’t know him. I was two when he was born. And it seems, in my memory, that he is always there. We played together, from the time he was old enough to crawl. And then, for a while, it was the three of us.”

“Kylan, too?”

“Yes. And then Kylan was gone. It was only us two again, your brother and me. From wooden swords to swords of steel. We shared the same teachers, in the classroom, in the training yard. We were blood-bound when I was twelve and he was ten—do you know what it means, to be bloodbound?”

She repeated what she’d read in one of the books she’d found in the palace library about life in Gullandria. “To be bloodbound is to share with another a blood oath of loyalty and commitment. It’s an oath that binds equals, makes them brothers in the truest sense—as opposed to bloodsworn, which binds one of lesser rank to a ruler or a leader.”

“You have it right.”

“I wonder…”

“Ask.”

“Well, did Valbrand ever speak of us—of his sisters and his mother, in America?”

There was complete silence, suddenly, as if the night itself held its breath.

“Eric?” she prompted at last, when she was sure he would never answer.

He said, “It was bad for Valbrand, when your mother left—you three princesses were only babies. He didn’t know you. So your loss he could bear. But the loss of a mother… It leaves a ragged hole of longing, a scar that never completely heals. And then, so shortly after that, for him to lose your brother, Kylan, as well…” Eric’s voice trailed off, as if no words could express how terrible that had been. “I was fourteen when my mother died. Valbrand got me through it. Because he knew. He understood…” Eric made a low sound. “And I haven’t answered your question, have I?”

Her question seemed unimportant by then. She was thinking how bad it must have been for Valbrand. And for Eric, too. Brit and her mother had issues—but the thought of Ingrid not being there. That would be way hard to get through. “It’s okay. I can understand why he wasn’t thinking much about his baby sisters.”

“The truth is, he did think of you. And he spoke of you. More and more often as we came into manhood. He spoke of the time he knew would come someday, when you and your sisters would venture across the sea to visit the land of your birth. He spoke now and then of going to visit you in America. But he never quite got around to it. I think, perhaps, there were traces of bitterness, still, within him—bitterness at your mother, for leaving him, for never coming back.”

“Bitterness…” Such a sad word. A word full of might have been, of if I had only, a word heavy with hurt and regret.

“Only traces.” Eric’s voice was warm with reassurance. “Nothing that couldn’t be healed, given time and tenderness. He wasn’t a man to hold grudges, not a man to let bitterness own him. He was bigger… better than that.”

Was.

How easily he spoke of her brother in the past tense. Was it shrewdness on his part, to maintain consistency with the original lie?

Or merely the sad truth?

No.

She’d never believe that. She’d seen her brother. Valbrand still lived. All Eric Greyfell’s clever lies wouldn’t steal the truth she knew in her heart.

She rolled to her right side, facing the dying fire—she would have rather faced the shadows, but her sore shoulder wouldn’t let her. She stared at the glowing embers until sleep closed her eyes and carried her off into dreams again.

The next morning the clouds had cleared away. The sky was the startling blue of a newborn baby’s eyes. They went to Ragnild’s tent for an early breakfast of porridge and jerky.

Eric was ordered to wait outside while Ragnild questioned Brit concerning his performance the night before.

“How well did he pleasure you?” Ragnild demanded. Brit had her answer ready. “He is a lover without peer. I am well satisfied.”

Yeah, okay. The well-satisfied part was an outright lie. But from the kisses they’d shared, she felt justified in making the leap to calling him a good lover.

As for the bit about him being without peer? Well, hey. That was one of the great things about Gullandria. You could call a man “without peer” and nobody would think you were being pretentious.

Satisfied with Brit’s answer, the camp leader allowed Eric to join them in the tent. Ragnild even granted him permission to sit with the rest of them and share the meal, as though he was more than a mere man, fit only to provide sexual pleasure and children.

After the meal Ragnild had a fine mare—white, the cutest gray boots on her front hooves—brought from the camp’s remuda.

“For you, my daughter’s cousin,” said the leader proudly, stroking the mare’s silky forehead. “May she carry you without stumbling, onward to meet your destiny.”

A horse was a very big gift—one that Brit accepted gratefully. A good horse would come in handy during her stay in the Vildelund. Also, having her own horse meant she wouldn’t have to share a ride with Eric to get back to the village. They’d travel faster if they each had their own mount—not to mention that she could skip the forced intimacy of having his body pressed against her back for the next six or seven hours, providing a constant reminder of what she’d promised herself she was not going to do with him.

“Thank you, Ragnild. Does this fine horse have a name?”

“Svald.”

“And that means?”

“Why, whatever you would have it mean.”

Brit took the reins.

Rinda handed her three small, hard apples. “Here, cousin. A few apples always smooth the way between a horse and her new owner.”

Brit offered the apples to Svald. The mare lipped them up and chomped them, then nuzzled for more. Brit stroked her fine, sleek neck and blew in her nostrils.

Eric said he’d help her to mount.

“No, thanks. I can manage.” She grabbed a handful of braided mane and hoisted herself to the horse’s strong back. The muscles of her legs and buttocks complained. But the long soak in the hot spring the night before had helped a lot. The stiffness wasn’t as bad as it might have been.

Brit promised to visit again, and she and Eric set out through the trees.

At the top of the first rise, they paused to survey the rugged, tree-covered land before them. Eric said, “You will have trouble finding those women again.”

“I know the way.”

He smiled. That smile warmed her—intentions to the contrary. “They will move camp now. They’re probably packing things up as we speak.”

“But why?”

“They live free. They can’t allow outsiders to know where to find them.”

“They can trust us. We’d never betray them.”

“We? High praise.” He was grinning.

“I never mistrusted you. I know you’re an honest man—well, except for that big lie you keep telling me about Valbrand.” She put up a hand. “Don’t say it. I don’t need to hear it—and are you telling me I’ve found Ragnild and my cousin only to lose them again?”

“You will see them, in the future. On that I would wager my best hunting rifle.”

“But you just said—”

“That you would have trouble finding them again. I didn’t say anything about them finding you. I’m certain they will, when next they feel a need to seek you out.”

They reached the village at a little past three that afternoon. Asta came running out, followed by her daughters-in-law and a chattering knot of children. There were glad cries of greeting and warm hugs all around.

Mist grabbed Brit around the knees and squeezed. “Bwit, I miss you. Miss you, miss you, vewwy much…”

Brit scooped her up and held her close. “Give me a big squeeze. See? I’m right here—and you are so strong!”

The little one was already squirming to get down. Brit let her go with some reluctance, glancing up to see that Eric was watching, looking way too smug.

Oh, right. Back to what a wonderful wife she was going to make. Because she loved kids and would no doubt be yearning to breed a passel of them. Yeah, sure. As in, don’t hold your breath.

Asta took her arm. “Eric, see to the horses. Brit, come inside immediately. I must check your bandage, and then you are to eat a hearty meal. After the meal no doubt you’ll enjoy a trip to the bathhouse. And after that you’ll have a long, healing night’s rest.”

“Sounds terrific,” said Brit. “Good food, a bath and some rest.” She might as well drop the bombshell now. “I’ll need all that to be fresh for the big day tomorrow.”

Asta’s eyes narrowed. Eric looked bleak.

“Oh,” Brit said, with an offhand wave. “Sorry. I’ve been meaning to tell you. Tomorrow I’m heading for Drakveden Fjord. I want to have a look at what’s left of my plane.”