The Enchantment (22 page)

Fight. All you have to do is fight.

He raked a look toward the fire, where she was settling on a log next to Garth and Erik, feeling deeply disturbed by those old, resurgent impulses . . . and by new impulses he had never associated with a woman before. She somehow brought out the aggressive-male side of him, conjured in him the desire to best and subdue and possess her. Worse yet, he seemed to enjoy those feelings and the edge they lent to his carnal desires: the possibility of total abandon in sensuality, instead of his long-practiced self-control . . .

As he sat watching Aaren, a familiar four-legged form lumbered out of the trees nearby. Rika sniffed, then lowered her head and started toward him. But as she passed Aaren's sleeping place, she halted in her tracks and trotted over to nose around Aaren's rolled fleece. Jorund called softly to her and she broke off her investigation to trot toward him. Again she stopped halfway and swung her head toward Aaren. Despite Jorund's gentle coaxing and repeated calls, the wolf lowered her head and followed her nose to where Aaren was seated on a log near the fire.

Jorund growled and unrolled his sleeping fleece with a furious jerk. It wasn't enough that Aaren stole his peace of mind and his love of pleasure . . . now she was taking his wolf, as well!

T
HE KNOWLEDGE THAT
she preferred kissing to fighting weighted Aaren's spirits as she sat by the fire, staring into the flames. What kind of attitude was that for a warrior to have? And adding to her burden was the unholy panic she had felt earlier when she thought Jorund was being hurt. There was no use denying it further; the truth was so painfully obvious. She wanted Jorund Borgerson . . . wanted the magic in his hands and his mouth . . . wanted his touches, his kisses, his silky, enthralling word-webs. She wanted to experience with him the pleasures of her woman's body, wanted to learn what it was to wrap her legs around him . . . to have him wedge himself between her thighs . . .

But for her to experience such things, she realized, she would have to get him to fight her. The full reality of what she was seeking began to seep through to her. To have the victory she had vowed to claim from him, she would have to swing her lethally honed blade at him; at his handsome head, strong shoulders, and pleasurable hands. She would have to fill his lightning-blue eyes with rage and anger, directed at her, and she would have to try with all her might to deal him a wound.

Her heart stopped.
Wounding Jorund.

For the first time in her life, her enchantment felt like a curse.

She had always borne a fierce pride in her special status . . . Valkyr's daughter and enchanted warrior. She had felt favored, gifted with things not granted to ordinary women. But now she began to see her enchantment as the divine vengeance it was meant to be. How cruel of the gods to make Aaren and her sisters pay for their father's offense. There seemed no justice in that. But then, she thought bitterly, one didn't look to the gods of Asgard for justice. They only involved themselves in the affairs of mortals when they wanted something: to relieve boredom, to play a trick on one of their fellow gods, or to slake their lusts.

She thought of little round Godfrey, who spoke of his strange, colorless god with affection, and talked openly of things like sharing and peace and kindness. And she began to wonder . . . about the grinding lot of the warrior, with its constant wear of competition and fighting . . . about the softer parts of her nature that she had locked away . . . and about the quiet joys she had forfeited when she was forced to join the world of men. Suddenly, a god who valued kindness and loving and wanted peace among mortals seemed much more reasonable than the volatile, capricious gods who gloried in conflict and valued fighting and ferocity and hard vengeance.

Moments later her thoughts were in turmoil again. These dangerous musings . . . was this how Jorund had become a cheek-turner? She rubbed her temples and scowled as she stared into the yellow-gold flames.

A booming voice from across the campfire penetrated her thoughts and she looked up.

“Look what's come into camp,” Hakon Freeholder declared, slinging a sneer across the fire toward Aaren. Her muscles contracted defensively, but before she could respond, a great shaggy form jumped across the log beside her and stood panting, gazing at her. “It's that toothless old she-wolf of Jorund's,” he declared, heaving a pork bone at Rika, who dodged.

“Worthless piece of worm-fodder,” another growled, picking up a small rock and hitting her on the haunch. She skittered back, lowered her head, and growled. “Go on, you flea-bait! You got no fangs left to bite anybody. Jorund pulled 'em all out.”

Aaren shoved to her feet and stepped in front of the wolf. “Leave the animal alone, Freeholder. She's done nothing to you.”

She gave the wolf's fur a determined ruffling that was as much for the Freeholder's benefit as Rika's, then turned away toward her pallet. As she collapsed onto her bed of pine boughs, scowling, she heard the words over and over in her head:
“. . . got no fangs left . . .”

Rika suddenly loomed above her in the dimness, tawny eyes glowing, tongue lolling. She had followed her new source of affection and now nosed Aaren's leg, then licked her arm, insisting on more attention. Aaren swallowed her trepidation and pushed up onto one elbow, giving the she-wolf's ears a good scratching. Face-to-face with Rika, staring into her gaping jaws, Aaren saw that she did indeed have fangs . . . very large, very wicked-looking fangs. It was a moment before she understood what Borger's men had meant: to them, a wolf that wouldn't use its fangs was the same as toothless. Rika had been tamed . . . and they had nothing but contempt for that which had lost the will to fight. Aaren shivered. It was a hard standard. But then, they were hard men.

She wrapped up in her blanket and turned on her side, away from the sight of Jorund rising from his pallet and moving toward the fire, his movements short and irritable and his handsome face as dark as the night-forest around them. When Rika nudged and wriggled and trampled a place onto the pine boughs beside her, claiming a share of the pallet, Aaren was grateful for the warmth and company.

The next morning Aaren found the contents of her leather hunting bag strewn over the ground near her pallet, and Rika lying nearby still chewing on the tasty leather of the bag's strap.

“Get out of here, you worthless piece of flea-bait!”

The other warriors looked over to find the wolf cowering with her ears back and Aaren looming over her, red-faced and glowering. They laughed as Aaren made a lunge for her and she went scrambling for the trees.

“Still eager to defend that bag of bones, Serricksdotter?” the Freeholder called out.

Rika followed her everywhere she went that day, sidling closer and closer, looking as dejected as it was possible for a wolf to look. Bit by bit, the sight of her flattened ears and the white moons around her drooping eyes worked on Aaren's anger. By evening, when Rika crawled toward her pallet, Aaren sighed and grudgingly gave her a pat.

“I suppose we she-wolves ought to stick together.”

ELEVEN

T
HE HUNTING
party arrived back in Borger's village the next day, and their good hunt-luck became an excuse for celebration . . . among the men. The women watched the ale being trundled out in the hall yet again and called an immediate halt to their own labors for the rest of the day. But instead of sitting in a dank, gloomy hall, drinking themselves into oblivion, they chose to pack up their food and their children and trek out to the nearby nut grove, to enjoy what might prove to be the last of the Autumn Month sun.

Aaren watched the men swaggering off to the hall, relieved to be rid of their rough company for a while, and scowled at that unsettling thought. When Miri and Marta insisted she come with them, she agreed and soon found herself trailing a noisy throng, carrying a woven birch basket filled with sour apples, curds, and a sample of the bee-woman's finest mead.

After eating, they lay propped on their elbows on a cloth spread on the dried grasses between the mostly bare hazel trees. Miri glanced at Marta over Aaren's head, scowled, and bobbed her head insistently, prodding her sister to speak.

“Aaren, when do you think . . . you will fight Jorund?” Marta asked in a timid voice.

“Only the gods know.” She sighed, staring up at the clouds overhead. “And they're not saying.”

“Well . . .” Miri halted and Aaren looked at her. Miri was biting her upper lip the way she always did when she was unsure of herself. “What do you think would happen if one of us . . . if we happened to . . .”

“If one of us . . . tried to go to the furs with a man before you were defeated?” Marta finished for her in a rush. Aaren sat bolt upright, her eyes widening on Miri's and Marta's reddening faces.

“It would be a disaster!” she declared, horrified. “How could you even think of such a thing—defying the gods, shaming Father Serrick, dishonoring yourselves and our enchantment in the eyes of Old Red Beard's entire clan? Look what Odin did to our father just for claiming something that was rightfully his. Imagine what he would do to someone who defied his enchantment!”

“Oh, we would never do such a thing,” Marta insisted frantically, scowling at Miri, who nodded. “We just . . . wondered.” After a moment's uneasy silence, Miri spoke.

“And we wondered . . .” She swallowed hard and made herself say it. “What it would be like to . . . Aaren, you were with Jorund Borgerson once . . . naked, with his mouth on yours. What did it feel like? Was it as nice as the women say?”

Aaren felt her face catch fire. Torn between stalking off and staying to scold them for speaking of such things . . . she hesitated just long enough for both urges to pass. Her sisters were young women now, and they were comely enough to catch the eyes and the interest of men. And as she searched their expectant faces, she realized that they were eager to learn the ways of women with men and anxious to get on with their lives. Her shoulders sagged. They probably
wanted
Jorund Borgerson to defeat her.

She grasped her knees with whitened fingers and her heart began to hammer in her breast as it struck her:
She wanted Jorund Borgerson to defeat her, too!

Defeat.
She had always understood, in a dim way, that sooner or later she would be defeated. Serrick had always spoken to Miri and Marta of husbands and children and home-hearths, and for them to be mated and to bear children, she would have to be overcome in battle. But Serrick had never once spoken to her of when it might occur, or of what life would be like for her when she was defeated. How strange that she understood full well what her defeat would mean for her little sisters . . . but had no idea what it would mean for herself.

After she was defeated, what sort of place would she have in Borger's band and in the village? Would defeat at a woman-heart's hands demean her in the jarl's and his warriors' eyes? Would finding woman-pleasure mean losing some of the warrior-heart in her? What would she be? A warrior still? A woman?

She had no answers. All she had was a growing tangle of desires that were harder to suppress with each tantalizing, infuriating encounter she had with Jorund Borgerson.

“Yes,” she said softly, staring into a vision that only she could see. “It is nice. A mouth-meeting is called a ‘kiss.' And if it's done properly, the feeling reaches down into your body and makes you want to . . .” She halted, shocked by the sound of her own words, and came back to the present to find Miri and Marta staring eagerly at her. “Is there someone who makes your thoughts wander into such pleasure-paths?” she asked, scowling. Miri flushed and lowered her eyes.

“Garth Borgerson . . . speaks to me often and he smiles at me.”

Aaren turned to Marta, who shrugged as if to deny there was anyone special in her thoughts.

“I see.” Aaren got to her feet and let out a disgusted sigh. “Well, you will just have to pray that Jorund Woman-heart becomes Jorund
Warrior-heart
someday soon. And that he's as good with a blade as he is with a—” She had almost said
kiss.
Blushing violently, she turned on her heel and strode off, over a carpet of fallen yellow leaves.

The nut grove meandered along a streambed, and as Aaren followed it she came to a small meadow, rimmed by trees and covered with the dried stubble of harvested clover. Several children were playing a ring game, laughing and repeating a singsong chant as they wove in and out of one anothers' hands. As she stood watching, a dim memory slipped out through a crack in her inner fortress . . . a similar game she had played with her sisters in the days when she was still just a little girl. The past and present began to mingle in her thoughts and for a moment she relaxed her guard and let them wash through her.

The wind ruffling her hair . . . bare toes sliding through cool grass . . . the sound of girlish laughter, hers and her sisters . . . movement in wide-swinging circles and free, galloping loops . . . instead of the intensely focused lines and constricted, explosive points of battle training . . .

Moments later, something startled the children. They broke their circles and squealed and clustered together like frightened ducklings. Aaren's battle-honed senses searched the far side of the meadow. A wolf! Scouring the nearby trees for signs of others and spotting none, she ran out into the clearing to face the lone beast, praying it was the one she'd recently come to know.

“Rika! Rika!” When the wolf halted, sniffed in her direction, then raced toward her, most of the children ran from the meadow screaming. But two girls were caught between her and the wolf, and they turned in blind panic and ran straight into her. She scooped them up in her arms and braced . . . as the animal slowed to a trot and threw itself joyfully against her legs, nearly knocking her down in a forceful bid for affection. She expelled the breath she was holding and shoved her chin above the little arms clamped around her neck.

“Go away, Rika. Shame on you—frightening little children.” She gave the wolf a shove with her foot. “See there, it is only old Rika, Jorund's wolf. Nothing to be afraid of. I have you now . . . you are safe.” They were all but strangling her, and she just managed to get out: “Come now . . . let me see your faces.”

It took some coaxing, but they finally released her neck and sat back in her arms. Their faces were tear-streaked and their noses needed wiping. She gave them a reassuring smile and sank to her knees, lowering them to her lap. When Rika trotted over to investigate, the children squealed and threw themselves on Aaren's neck again and she had to scold poor Rika and send her away once more. The wolf padded off with her tail dragging and flopped down in some tall grass across the way.

“Here now.” She settled the warm little bodies onto her lap and wiped their tears away. “It is good to be careful of wolves. They are not usually friendly. But you mustn't be afraid, either. A wolf can tell when you're afraid and he'll chase you, even if his belly is full—just to watch you run. So when you are older, you must move slowly and find a tall tree and climb it. But for now . . . you're safest with your mothers and the other children . . . or with me.”

“Safe with you?” one asked, wide-eyed at finding herself in the renowned and feared battle-maiden's arms. Aaren laughed and gave her hair a reassuring stroke.

“Yes, with me. You are always safe with me. I will protect you.”

Their little faces filled with relief and wonder, and she felt an odd pricking at the backs of her eyes. It was a warrior's task to protect and a woman's task to cradle and reassure. And she suddenly found herself overwhelmed by powerful, confusing urges to do both.

Jorund stood in the trees at the edge of the meadow watching Aaren with the children. He had quit the raucous merriment of the hall for the quieter pleasures of the company of the women and children. He needed relief from the constant strain of wanting and the growing resentment he felt toward Aaren. Day by day he grew more hot-blooded and irritable, watching her unholy pride rising between them like a wall, while he ached for the pleasures he knew they both wanted. Rika had loped along before him as he wandered past the cultivated fields to the nut grove, then had left him behind. He arrived just in time to hear children screaming and see them hurtling down the path toward him, crying that a wolf had tried to get them in the bee meadow.

When he rushed to the clearing, he discovered both of his she-wolves . . . one cuddling and reassuring two frightened children and the other sulking in the grass. He smiled, relieved, and leaned a shoulder against a tree trunk at the edge of the clearing, moved by the sight of Aaren's glowing face and the dulcet tones she used with the children. When she laughed, his heart gave an odd lurch and his throat tightened. Her long, tapered hands gently brushed the children's hair . . . her eyes twinkled as she set them on their feet, then got to hers . . . and she led them around and around in a ring game.

When they all fell down laughing, he watched her tumble with the children and absorbed the easy grace, the girlishness of her movements. He had never imagined seeing her like this. Or perhaps in his deepest heart, he had.

Noise from the path caused her to sit up and the children huddled close to her. Several harried women and a number of panting children ran into the meadow and stopped at the sight of her sitting on the ground with their little ones. The mothers hurried to take them from her and she explained awkwardly that it was Jorund's wolf . . . it had only given the children a fright.

The women nodded wary thanks and scooped the little girls up in their arms. Aaren stood shifting from one foot to the other as they hurried away. The longing in her face was difficult for Jorund to watch. In those unguarded moments, as she turned away and dug at the clover stubble with her toe, he glimpsed a yearning he had not expected in her and a warmth, a softness in the heart of Aaren Serricksdotter. Together, they melted the ire he had been fighting for the last several days.

This was the woman he had glimpsed inside that tough warrior's shell. This was the tenderness he craved. It was no longer just pleasure he wanted, or even conquest. He would not be satisfied until he had all of her: her fierce passion, her gentleness, her vulnerability, her strength. He wanted her body, her heart, her presence . . . he wanted her entire life, mingled with his.

One woman,
Godfrey had said. And he had laughed. But now, one woman embodied everything he desired, the puzzle of a lifetime. And he was determined to have her.

He shoved off from the tree trunk and stepped out of the shadows.

Aaren heard the rustle of the grass behind her and whirled, bracing. The sight of him coming toward her with his golden hair shining in the sun, his shoulders swaying, his eyes alight with both promise and desire, took her breath. She wasn't prepared to confront him just now. Her defenses were down . . . she had just allowed too many memories out, had just suffered a heart-tugging breach of her inner wall.

Scrambling to regain control, she backed away. When he stopped several feet from her, she paused and drew a calming breath. “What are you doing here, Borgerson?”

“I came to enjoy the afternoon . . . the sun. And I came to find you.”

“Me?” She swallowed hard. “B-but you don't have your blade with you,” was all she could think to say.

“You are the most constant and predictable female I have ever known,” he said in a tone filled with good-humored reproach. “Most women change their minds at least a dozen times a day. But you always have just one thing—the same thing—on your mind.”

“As do you,” she said, feeling the irresistible pull of his gaze. He laughed with a deep, rolling sound that vibrated her fingertips.

“Fighting,” he charged, bending toward her from the waist.

“Pleasure,” she accused, copying his posture with a half smile. He was teasing her . . . she was teasing him. It seemed the most easy and natural thing in the world, almost as if they were old friends. He strode past her and gestured to the meadow around them.