The Enchantment (35 page)

Dodging a wide slash of his blade, she stumbled back and her heel caught on an exposed root. She caught her balance but dropped her blade tip, missing her defensive mark. His sword surged in as she twisted to recover—and it sliced into her. She fell with a cry and came to rest, motionless, on the soft blanket of leaves.

Jorund stood quaking in the silence, hardly seeing, barely able to feel his own limbs. His chest was heaving, the battle-roar in his head was deafening . . . but the sense that she was gone penetrated his pain-filled consciousness. Aaren . . . gone. All through the fight he had felt her vital presence with him; now she was gone. Slowly his perceptions began to right and broaden. And as the blood pounding in his head drained and he looked for her, his eyes fell on her crumpled form. He froze.

The seeping red on her tunic burst like a lightning bolt through his mind. Blood—she was wounded! Merciful Christ—he had wounded her—or killed her!
“Nej!”
Anguish boiled up from deep in his soul and escaped on a chilling, feral cry—a wounded sound that echoed through the forest.

“Curse you, Odin!” he shouted hoarsely, his face twisted in agony. “It's you that killed her—you and all the bloody gods of Asgard!” And he lifted the sword in his hand and whirled in a spiral of fury, flinging it with all his might into the trees, where it bit deep into a sapling.

He stumbled to Aaren and fell on his knees beside her, trembling, touching her face, her arm . . . peeling her stiff fingers from the grip of her sword. With the last of his strength, he gathered her up into his arms and lifted her, pressing his cheek against hers. He staggered back toward the lodge, seeing nothing but her drained face, feeling burned and hollow.

By the time he reached the meadow, he had reclaimed enough of his reason to examine her and realize that she was still breathing and appeared to be wounded in the shoulder or chest. As he crossed the clearing he began to run with her, thinking frantically ahead, recalling what he had to do.

Banging through the door with his shoulder, he carried her straight to his furs. He tore the tunic away from her chest and relief poured over him as he dabbed the blood away. She bore a cut along the top of her shoulder, from her throat to the top of her arm. It was not deep, he discovered, but, like his wolf-wounds, it was alarmingly bloody.

His fingers were cramped and swollen, clumsy as he worked the laces of her breastplate. Still, he managed to remove her armor gently and lifted her sodden tunic from her. He bathed the wound carefully and bound it, sickened at the sight of the fierce red gash in her fair skin . . . by the realization that he'd caused it. A fraction more, a slight stumble or a twist on her part, and his blade would have sliced straight into her heart. He lowered himself onto the shelf beside her, cradling her protectively against his chest, recalling the way she spoke of Love shielding their hearts. And with his last bit of strength, he whispered to his new master.

“My heart aches to thank you, White Christ, for shielding and sparing her life. I owe you more than one unworthy soul. So I swear to you, on my beloved's heart, that I will never raise a blade against another man . . . not as long as I draw breath.”

And in the quiet of the little summer lodge, he laid his cheek against her head and slept.

Sometime later, Aaren roused to find herself in Jorund's
shieling,
in Jorund's furs, and in Jorund's arms. She turned her head toward the throbbing pain in her shoulder and glimpsed the makeshift binding and the traces of red on the ragged strips of linen. Lifting her hand, she traced the thick muscles of the arm that lay across her, following them upward to a linen binding. They were both alive, she thought wonderingly, and they would mend. An exhausted smile flickered over her features as her eyes closed and she joined him in rest.

SIXTEEN

I
T WAS
past nightfall of the next day when Aaren awoke fully, to firelight, a dull-throbbing shoulder, and a howling stomach. She lay quietly in the furs, reclaiming her senses and assessing her condition. Just what did it feel like . . . this “defeat”? Moving her feet, hands, and knees, she determined that her body seemed whole and still moved properly—albeit with some soreness. Her inner condition was a bit more difficult to assess. She could detect no great difference in herself. . . .

The smell of food that filled the lodge registered in her senses. She abandoned her musings to push back the furs, lever herself up on her good arm, and look around. Jorund was sitting by the hearth, staring into the dancing flames. Her movement caused him to look up and she smiled at him as she rolled stiffly from the sleeping shelf.

“Are you well enough?” he demanded, bolting up and hurrying to steady her.

“I am fine,” she said, wincing as she straightened and ran a hand down her neck with a grimace. “Except for my shoulder.” She stretched gently and felt a twinge of discomfort in her wound and an ache rolling down her spine. “And my back . . . and my arms . . . and my head . . . and my legs. Even my buttocks ache. By the gods, I feel awful.” The look she raised to him was so absurdly pitiful that it positively begged a smile. She got a small one.

“Then you must go straight back to the furs.” He gave her an authoritative nudge.

“
Nej,
I'll never get rid of the aches if I don't move about.” She wobbled around him and moved stiffly to the hearth to discover what was releasing such tantalizing smells. “And I'm half starved. What is all this?” She peered into the stone crock and breathed deeply of the rising vapors, closing her eyes to savor the aroma. “Apples. I think I was just dreaming of apples! Where did you get them?”

“Helga knows I like them. She packed a few at the bottom of the grain.”

She sniffed again. “And pork . . . wonderful, salty pork . . .” She turned on him with a bone-melting smile. “Feed me, Borgerson. It is the least one warrior can do for another who is wounded.”

He managed a stiff smile at her jest, then did just that . . . fed her. She attacked the bowl of salt-cured pork and cooked apples he handed her, and groaned appreciatively, complimenting his hearth-skill. When she finished, she sat back with a sigh and let the heat seep into her bones while she licked her fingers with sated leisure and sipped a horn of ale.

Quiet descended and after a few moments she glanced up and found him staring at her across the fire with an odd look. She was puzzled at first, then followed his gaze to her own ripped tunic, which hung entirely open from her wounded shoulder, revealing much of one bare breast. As quickly as the impulse to cover herself bloomed, it was countered by a shocking new thought: He had earned the right to look . . . and to touch, if he wanted.
And so,
she realized,
had she.

She had been defeated—her enchantment was satisfied! There was nothing to stop their mating now. She sat in stunned silence, letting the idea wind through her thoughts, where it stirred the coals of old curiosities and ignited new ones. What would it be like to make love, as Jorund called it . . . freely and openly? The very thought sent a tingling through her skin and drew the tips of her breasts taut. Her eyes widened and her gaze slid straight to his.

He had hungrily watched her every movement, his fears for her recovery subsiding more with each small evidence of her resilience. As he absorbed the darting of her tongue and the way she sucked the tip of each finger, he felt a familiar drawing in his loins. And when she slid her gaze from her breast straight into his eyes, he felt a spontaneous wave of heat rushing through his blood.

That instinctively lusty reaction appalled him and he buried his nose in his dwindling bowl of food. After a few moments, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye and found that she was still staring at him.

“You defeated me, Jorund,” she said quietly. There was a deep undercurrent of feeling in her voice.

“I wounded you, Aaren,” he corrected, with a darkening scowl. He set his bowl aside and picked up a piece of wood to nudge the stone crock away from the coals.

“So you did,” she said, discerning the reason for his pensive mood. He felt a burden of guilt for having injured her. She tried to lighten it. “But not before I wounded you.” He reacted as if her blade had just bitten him again.

“Dammit, Aaren—no more of this warrior nonsense!” He pushed up from the hearth, shifted his weight irritably, and ran his hands through his hair. “I could have broken your shoulder or hacked your arm off—or worse.”

“But you didn't break my bones, Jorund.” She flashed a beaming smile and spoke those all-important words: “You broke my enchantment instead.”

“Enchantment?” He stiffened, reacting to that one word, not to the suggestion embedded in it. “I don't want to hear another word about that wretched curse. It's caused nothing but—” He bit off the rest of what he was about to say and turned away, struggling to contain himself. A moment later he announced, “I'm going to bathe,” and seized a glowing brand from the fire, started for the door. He turned back briefly before striding out into the frozen night. “And you . . . Get yourself into those furs and rest.”

The cold draft from the slamming door and the impact of his abrupt withdrawal struck her in the same moment. She sat, stunned. What was the matter with him? Surely he understood what ending her enchantment meant. They could be together . . . they could . . .

She shivered and wrapped her arms around her waist, wriggling closer to the coals. His reaction to their fight went deeper than she realized. His dread fear of raging out of control and hurting her had made fighting her an ordeal for him. And to have wounded her, then tended her and worried over her, had deepened his remorse.

It was too late to do anything about what had already happened, but she could certainly comfort him now. She cast a speculative look toward the door and her face lit as she remembered his parting order.
Get yourself into those furs.
She eyed the warm, soft pallet, recalling his earlier promise . . . something about her bare buttocks and his warm, silky furs.

And for once, she obeyed.

By the time Jorund returned to the lodge, the coals were dying and Aaren was half asleep. She roused at the sight of him, sliding to the far side of the furs to make room for him beside her. Her heart was pounding, and she felt jittery and shivery inside. She held her breath in anticipation, admiring his handsome frame and his easy, graceful movements in the dim light. He stirred the coals and put more wood on the fire . . . then sat down on the stone ledge, leaned back against the wall, and folded his arms over his chest. She frowned. After a pride-battle with herself, she finally pushed up on one arm and spoke.

“Aren't you coming to sleep?” Her voice startled him and he jerked straight, locating her in the furs.

“
Nej,
I have slept enough.” His voice was ragged. “Go to sleep.”

He sat back, refolded his arms, and stared at the fire. His troubled mood sent an intense heart-longing through her.

Years ago, in their mountain home, she had held her little sisters in her arms and stroked their hair to comfort them. She recalled that day in the meadow with the other children; it had worked for them, too. But Jorund was a grown man, a warrior, and she wasn't sure if a woman should do that to a man . . . if Jorund would allow her to do it. She sank back into the furs, grateful that the darkness hid her confusion and the mist forming in her eyes. Comforting was women's work. If only she were more of a woman, he had once said to her. Now she said it to herself.

In the quiet darkness, that longing to love and comfort became a wish and the wish became a powerful force moving within her heart. And the walls that had contained and shielded her softer self came crumbling down before it. What good was her strength without her softness? What good were the hard virtues of power and honor . . . without the softer gifts of wisdom and compassion to guide them?

She had struggled valiantly to safeguard her inner softness, the woman-heart of her, against the harshness of the world and the role into which she had been thrust. Now it rose up against that well-meaning restraint, refusing to be suppressed any longer . . . demanding a rightful share of her heart and mind, whatever the consequences . . . demanding she use her vaunted warrior's courage in the service of her heart . . . to risk being tender. Jorund needed her softness. He needed her to be a woman tonight.

“By the Norns . . . I cannot sleep either,” she said thickly, throwing the furs back and sliding to the floor. “Not with you making so much noise.” He looked up in surprise, then frowned.

“I did not make a sound,” he protested, sitting straighter, uncrossing his arms. Then he noticed the moisture in her eyes and froze.

“But you did,” she declared, pinning him with her gaze. “I could hear your heart-groanings all the way across the lodge. You are sitting there feeling miserable for fighting and giving me a nick with your blade. You cannot deny it.” The mist in her eyes became deep, glittering prisms of liquid.

“Aaren . . . I don't want . . . to . . .” He floundered, staring at her glowing face.

“Don't want to what? Think of it? Speak of it? Neither do I.” Her voice softened to match her gaze. “I will bury it, Jorund . . . if you will.”

For a long, tense moment neither spoke. She stepped closer, her movements supple and womanly.

“Will you, Jorund? Will you accept that I hold nothing against you . . . and then hold nothing against yourself?” Her heart ached at the way he, who had forgiven
her
so many times, had so much difficulty forgiving himself.

“I swore to myself—I even promised you—that I would never hurt you,” he said. “Then I fought and the madness came on me . . .”

“It was not much hurt, Jorund,” she said, reaching the edge of the hearth beside him. “No more than I dealt you and less than the pain you have dealt yourself since. A little discomfort is a small price to pay for honor and duty, and for the pleasure yet to come.” She summoned the courage to place her hands on his shoulders and caress them. A shiver went through him. “Do not make your heart pay
wergeld
for a slaying that never happened.”

“Do you honestly not recall what it was like?” His voice and countenance were pained. “I might have killed you. . . . I might have lost you forever. . . .”

“I remember it all. But I especially remember that as we fought I was never afraid. Not even when the battle-fury came upon you. You see, I trusted your heart-weapon, your
love,
to protect me. And it did.” She swallowed hard and slid her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, hoping he would accept the comfort of her embrace. Then she risked all, pouring her melted heart from her eyes into his.

“Now . . . trust the love in my heart to comfort and heal the hurt in you. For I do love you, Jorund. With everything in me.” And she held her breath.

“Aaren—” Jorund's arms flew around her waist and he buried his face against her breast, hugging her with all his might. “Aaren, oh, Aaren . . .”

Then he looked up at her and grinned. “You love me!” Bounding up with her in his arms, he whirled her around before he remembered her injury and stopped instantly, setting her back on her feet. “Are you all right? Did I hurt anything?” She shook her head, then squeezed her eyes shut, dislodging the tears down her face. They stood in the flame-glow, holding each other, letting their love fill the silence as it filled their hearts.

“Say it again,” he demanded in a thick voice against her hair.

“What part?” she said, laughing, guessing what he wanted and feeling suddenly buoyant and victorious.

“Say it,” he commanded, squeezing her waist and lifting his face to her, his eyes shining. “Say it again . . . then kiss me.”

“Are those the terms of my surrender? Heavy tribute, I say.”

“Sweet tribute,” he countered, and she could not argue. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” she said softly.

He closed his eyes, savoring those words, letting them wash through his body and soul. When his eyes reopened, a new light burned in their depths. She wiped the wetness from her face and grinned, too.

“Now kiss me,” he demanded in a rougher, deeper tone. Those stark, male vibrations set the tips of her breasts tingling. A new tension was suddenly rising between them . . . a hot, sweet excitement. His hands slid down the curves of her hips, claiming them and all the treasures enclosed within their bounds.

“I doubt you made such demands of the other warriors you've defeated,” she said, feeling a delicious liquid heat invading her body wherever he touched her.

“None of them had lips like yours, or breasts like yours.” He nuzzled her. “Kiss me.”