She was listening.
Gunnar could sense her interest, more than that—he could feel it. Like the wash of a warm ocean, it flowed over him; like the sting of salt, it alerted him. He had never before been so completely aware, to the exclusion of all else, of a woman.
They were a strange gathering. The priest too interested in his meal, the knight so arrogant and sure of himself that he drank too much; the sly-eyed old woman; and the beautiful, treacherous lady. Of them all, it was she who held the most danger for Gunnar.
He had heard the serving girl’s words—I did not know you wanted him for yourself. Gunnar did not know whether that was true, but he knew how he felt. His skin was raw and sensitive, the rod between his legs already half erect. He was still in control, but there was a recklessness burning inside him that had never been there before and his grip was at best tenuous.
He should not have looked up at her window, in the bailey, after he had rescued the child.
He hadn’t wanted to look up; he just hadn’t been able to stop himself. She had been leaning far from her window, the veil gone and her hair hanging forward over her shoulder in a thick, dark braid. He had imagined it loose, his mind instantly accommodating him with curling, ebony waves framing her beautiful face. Gunnar had actually felt his hands sliding through the silky, dark mass, holding her as he plundered her mouth with his, as he lifted himself and prepared to drive deep inside her body, again and again…
No! Gunnar pulled himself up, reminding himself of where he was, who he was, why he was there at Somerford Manor. The land was his if he completed this mission; a future of his own making. And for a mercenary, to own his own land was an unimaginable dream.
Somehow he would conquer this lust and send it fleeing like the enemy to his plans that it was. And now, just to be certain the lady never let him use his formidable charm on
her, let him talk his way into her bed, Gunnar set out to make her really hate him.
“Why did I save the child?” he repeated Sir Arno’s question calmly, unmoved as the drunken knight swayed in his seat. “Because such a death would have been bad luck. If I had let him die, then I would have had to make a sacrifice.”
“Bad luck? Sacrifice?” Arno repeated stupidly, as if he doubted what he was hearing.
“Aye.” Gunnar put his hand slowly and ostentatiously onto the hilt of his sword. “You see this?”
“’Tis a sword.” Arno blinked foolishly.
“Aye, but not just a sword. This is Fenrir. Fenrir, named after the savage Norse wolf. The black wolf. He demands blood, ever more blood, though he has drunk much in his time. If the boy had fallen and died, it would have brought us bad luck. Fenrir would have demanded blood, and I would have had to satisfy him.”
Gunnar felt the shock shimmer about him, but did not lift his eyes from the bemusement in Arno’s, as the knight’s sodden mind sought to understand what Gunnar was saying. For some reason he did not want to see the expression on Lady Rose’s beautiful face. If she had not thought him beyond redemption before, she would now. So be it. He was there at Somerford to fulfill his mission, and if that meant making a beautiful and traitorous Norman lady hate him, that was what he must do.
But once again Gunnar had underestimated her.
“Such pagan practices are frowned upon at Somerford, Captain.” Her voice floated through the silence toward him, full of haughty command. “Brother Mark has set them to flight. You would do well not to mention Fenrir or your other nasty Norse creatures in this place.”
She made his bloody threat sound like a mild infestation of ants!
His mouth twitched but he held it firm. He felt like laughing aloud in delight, and something very much like admiration. “The Norse gods are not so easily ignored, lady,” he said carefully, and slowly raised his eyes to hers. “Odin, Thor, Loki, Freyer…They are old and wily, and they demand that their desires be satisfied.”
As I would like to satisfy mine.
She seemed fascinated by his mouth, as if she could see each word forming there, as if she expected him to say something remarkable. He wondered again what she would taste like. If he leaned forward and opened her lips with his…A jolt of desire made every muscle in his big body tense and go hard.
She was still looking at his mouth, her own lips slightly parted, her cheeks flushed. Her tone might be that of the unreachable lady of the manor, but her eyes said something else. With a shiver, he wondered if the woman Eartha had been right after all. Could the lady want him?
It didn’t really matter.
She was not for him. This was the wrong place and the wrong time, and he dared not allow himself to be distracted.
Gunnar held on to that, steadying himself with an effort. “Lady?” he said sharply, and snapped whatever hot spell was between them.
With a blink her gaze returned to his. For a moment she seemed dazed, and then she woke up, lifting her head and straightening her shoulders. “As long as those desires are satisfied elsewhere, Captain.”
Now he did smile.
Her eyes remained firmly on his, but they had a startled look, a frightened look. And Gunnar realized with a tingle of shock that her fear was not because of what he had said about Fenrir, but because of the attraction simmering between them.
“Well said, lady.”
It was Brother Mark who spoke, his breath unpleasantly hot in her ear. Somehow Rose dragged her gaze away from that of the mercenary, turning her head and giving the priest her full attention.