A Heart of Fire (22 page)

She
cried out again, squirming under his hold and bent over his hand to grasp madly
at the pieces of her leggings, but he had shredded them down the middle as
though they were nothing but thin gauze.

He
pulled a bit more, his stare fixed to her feet. When he was satisfied and the
tatters lay around her ankles, Finna clawed to pull her dress down, but he
would not allow her to cover herself.

Slowly,
his gaze roved up her bare legs, and he raked his fingertips up her soft thighs
at the same leisurely pace.

"Shall
I tell you why I do not want my wife to wear leggings?" he asked.

Finna
swallowed her panic and searched the rafters, casting her gaze anywhere but at
him. She could feel his stare upon her as he used his free hand, and the elbow
belonging to the arm he pinned her to the wall with, to press her legs apart.

She
panted and shook her head.

He
made a deeply aroused guttural sound.

"Because—"
he pressed his lips to her inner thigh, eliciting a sharp sound from her.
"When I wish to do this to you, I do not want the hindrance of leggings
between us."

 
Finna was unable and unwilling to move. The
roughness of his skin abraded her and thrilled her at the same time.

"I
am near starved, woman," he rasped.

Finna
jerked her stare down on him, and she knew without a doubt that he was not
speaking of sustenance as he looked at the apex of her legs where downy curls
covered her sex.

Gods help me!
she thought.

He
brought the pad of his thumb up to press her folds apart and bent his head to
her. When his mouth seared her delicate flesh in a gentle kiss, she cried out,
her head falling back to the wall. She whimpered in torment at the heat rushing
through her, when he leaned back and did not touch her again.

He
had kissed her
there
. By the gods,
she was afire from his touch, and her legs shook so she feared she might topple
over.

His
head came back to her thighs, and he trailed a searing path with this tongue up
the inside of her leg to her center. Finna's head lolled against the wall as
his lips touched her, his hot tongue gliding against her flesh in soft,
demanding, wet flicks.

Valdrik
stood in a rush, the hem of her dress in hand, still balled in his fist. He
used it to wrench her around until her back was to him. With a hand between her
shoulders, he pressed her front flat onto the tabletop so that she bent over
it, her dress bunched up her back. He softly nudged her feet apart with his
boot.

Alarm
rang through her then. "Nay," she cried. "Not like this."

"
Ssh
," he whispered harshly.

He
did something behind her. What, she could not tell. In the lapse of a moment,
though it seemed like eternity, he covered her with his body. Finna sucked in a
breath when she felt his hot, turgid member press between her legs, gliding
like marbled silk against her skin, but not into her.

Valdrik
growled in her ear, the sound riddled with torment and pleasure all the same.
"You are dripping with your desire for me, wife. It makes me wonder how
you still claim to not want me."

Finna
was aghast at herself as she felt their skin glide together. The arch of his
shaft slid against her slick petals, hot and slow. She was very aware of every
inch of him and ashamed her body would react to his in such a way.

Under
her, Valdrik slipped his fingers into her folds, and she cried out at the
intensity of his touch, bucking her hips back into him.

He
circled her sex with his thumb as he pulled his fingers in and out, causing
Finna to squirm against his weight pressing her into the table.

"Valdrik,"
she whimpered.

His
tempo increased, the intensity as well. Finna spiraled into the unknown, into a
sea of rippling waves until she crashed. Hard.

She
threw her head back and cried out as those waves broke over her, her body
spasming out of control. He, too, made a sound of pleasure, his cry strangled
and broken.

Though
she was still lost in the violent sea, Valdrik lifted himself from her and
dropped her dress. Finna tossed her head as he pulled her from the tabletop and
kissed her with a force that stole her breath.

Reluctantly,
he at last released her. When the world stopped spinning, Finna let go of her
husband and reached behind to brace herself against the table. Her breathing
rough and labored, she looked down his body as he struggled to force his member
into his leggings. He looked so undone. So savage. The cords of his neck
strained as though he were struggling to maintain himself, as though he were
pained.

"You
would waste
that
?" Finna asked.
Looking on the hard rise. She ached for him. She wanted more than he had given
her.

Valdrik's
gaze shot to hers, and he reached out to cup her cheek. He looked tormented.
"I shall wait," he said. His gaze fell to her breast and so did his
hand. He cupped her, squeezed her, and Finna ached anew.

The
wildness he stirred with his touch was as foreign as her new home, but Valdrik
stirred a curiosity. She wanted to share sex with her husband; she wanted to
feel him inside her body.

Valdrik
shut his eyes hard and sighed. "Not yet. Not until you truly want me
to." He came back to her then, kissing her tenderly, though his kiss did
nothing to calm her racing heart, her devouring need for him.

She
was shatteringly aware of his splendid godlike body, of the very force of him.
She was very aware of the searing, virile rise of his manhood beneath his
clothing, too, nestled against her body. The surging arch of him pressed
against her feminine parts caused Finna to grapple to control herself.

"You
are never to wear leggings again, wench," he said. "I want you soft
and yielding and everything a woman should be." He trailed a finger down
the valley of her breasts, following with his eyes and then slipped his hand
down further to the center of her thighs and touched her, his gaze afire.
"And one day soon, I am going to know you as a husband knows his wife. I
am going to fuck you from one end of this room to the other."

Finna
opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it shut.

Chapter Eighteen

Watching
the great hall from under her lashes, Finna pushed her trencher away and braced
her elbows on the tabletop. She steepled her fingers and offered a kind smile
to a passing thrall. The woman paused to take the trencher, just long enough
for Finna to test her resolve. Though the woman did not return her smile, Finna
questioned if the thrall, or any one about, found her of much interest right
now.

Mornings
were always a busy time for slaves and warriors alike. Already she had watched
as Stieg and Ragnarr left the hall for training with a handful of other men she
did not yet know.

Valdrik
had left even earlier, before she had risen, to go with her father again. She
snorted at the thought of her husband. Just because he had forbidden her to see
the prisoners did not mean she would not
attempt
to see them. To her estimation, she had about the same chance of beginning to
like women's work as she did beginning to obey Valdrik's decrees.

She
wasn’t sure if she looked suspicious, or if these people were still unsure of
her. The thrall eyed her momentarily before moving on toward the kitchens.
Finna let out a shaky breath. Her belly twisted with nervous anticipation.

Since
her wedding, two days had passed in unremarkable normalcy. The women did women
things, and the men hunted and trained. Her mother and sister were no doubt at
the loom—a place she was loath to visit, unless she wished to be away from her
husband—and her father and Valdrik were off on another hunt already.

I have bided my
time well,
she thought.

And
damn the consequences her husband promised.

After
Grahund and Bailish's appearance, and her outburst, she had detected a cautious
stare from all those around her, even the slaves. Those who were not simpletons
knew she was not
only
a woman Valdrik
had found on Aldar's lands, nor
just
the long lost daughter of their Jarl. They suspected her. Of what, she was not
sure. If they ever discovered the truth, they would never trust her.

Finna
stood from her seat and started from the hall. She glanced over her shoulder
mid-way, her steps seeming to echo throughout the large room. Again, she looked
back when she reached the heavy, carved doors, but found the hall nearly empty
now except for a few children playing at the other end and a servant carrying a
basket up the stairs. No one was there to see her go.

She
slipped from the massive doors as quietly as she could and into the snow. Finna
grabbed at the hood of her cloak from where it rested against her back and
thrust the fur top over her head and then wrapped the sides around her
shoulders.

Purposefully,
she took her time meandering through the village, just in case anyone
was
following. She went around the
longhouse once, stopping at the kitchens where she peeked around the deer hide
covering a small window, the corner flapping in the gentle wind. Bread rested
just within, cooling, steam spiraling off the loaf. It smelled wonderful, and
Finna pushed the skin aside, and seeing the old woman's back turned, she
grabbed up the loaf and stuck it under her cloak, wincing at the stinging hot
of the crust on her fingertips as she hurried away.

She
squirmed against the pilfered bread resting against her side under her cloak,
but after a few minutes, the heat subsided and she worked the bread into a
pocket sewn on the inside of her cloak where it bumped her thigh with every
step.

Bright
sun glinted on snowdrifts pushed up to the sides of the paths, on footprints
left by workers coming and going. A brisk breeze rushed past every few minutes,
but it was such a nice day out. Children played outside as well, racing,
tossing snow at one another. The village appeared a flurry of activity.

Of
course, the day she picked for
this
task everyone would be out of their homes. She
tsk'd
.

Finna
went past the storehouse, and the bath house, and then to a building she highly
suspected housed the prisoners. Of course, this was only because two men
guarded the door, each with a hand on the hilt of their sword as they stood
sentry in the cold. It was sign enough for her.

Finna
paused, surveying the building, and then smiled.

She
rubbed her cold hands together and then pulled the hood of her cloak deeply
over her head to hide her pale hair. Finna started around, going behind the
building. Despite the servants in the longhouse keeping her under watchful eye,
these men who
should
be watching her
above all others, did not seem to notice her at all.

Once
behind the building, Finna glanced about and found a scattering of farming
tools and such like leaning against the back wall. Only a slight amount of snow
had built up on the handles, suggesting that the items had been newly placed
there, as though perhaps they were once housed in the building holding the
prisoners and had been removed to keep the men from using the tools in an
attempt to escape.

Finna
placed her hands on her hips and frowned at the littering of objects and then
reached out and gave one tool at the end a shove that sent the others tumbling
over with a loud crash.

‘Twas too easy,
she thought.
She smiled at the distracting ruckus as the last item teetered and rolled down
the others before it plopped into the snow.

Almost
instantly, rushed footfalls came from the other side of the building, and Finna
jumped to catch the edge of the roof and swung her leg up, caught the thatches
under her ankle and pulled herself up, rolling flat on her back just as the
guards rounded the corners from opposite sides. She blew out a silent breath
and peeked down. The men stood looking at one another in confusion and then
back to the fallen tools.

"Well,
what made that happen?" one said.

The
other lifted his hands and shook his head, but Finna did not hear what he said
for she began rolling the other direction, digging her fingers into the cold
snow atop the thatched roof and pulled herself to her side. The snow blanketed
much of the noise she made.

Quickly
and silently, Finna scurried across the top of the building, fell to her bottom
and slid down the other side. The edge glided under her back, and she dropped
to her feet in front of the door, and then just as furtively, she lifted the
latch and slipped inside.

A
foul stench struck her at once, forcing her to bring a hand to her nose as she
shut the door, pressing it hard to keep it closed and scuffed some of the
rushes back with her foot to block the corner. She fought to calm her stomach
at the intense roiling the smell triggered as she moved into the room.

‘Tis so bad,
could one of them be dead?
she wondered.