Her laughter rang out, free and joyous. He stilled, satisfaction filling him at the sweet sound.
“Oh, Magnus, all that? Is that a white hair I see?” She was laughing, tugging at his blond hair, pulling at it, looking closely. “No, not a single white strand. Now, show me your teeth.”
He obligingly opened his mouth and she studied his white teeth, then kissed him. “I won’t let you up to see if you are yet bending. Ah, husband, we must ensure that you do not become this old relic of a man.” She ran her hand over his flat belly. “Ah, no swelling here as yet.”
“Nay, ’tis you who will do the belly-swelling.”
He kissed her, knowing that surely some of their people were close by, not yet asleep, yet he didn’t care. He whispered in her ear, “If I take you, will you scream
when your pleasure comes? Tell me truly, Zarabeth, shall I have to place my hand over your mouth?”
“Aye,” she said, and giggled. “It is your own fault, so cast not the blame on me when it is you who make me howl like a demented wolf.”
He shifted, gently shoving her flat on her back. He was over her now, looking down at her laughing face. “I believe the only way that I am to save myself from baiting and taunting by my men is to proceed thus. Nay, say nothing. I am your husband and I will do things the way I wish to.”
He kissed her until he felt the yielding deep within her, the acceptance of him not only as her husband but also as a man. He ignored the restless twisting of her body beneath him, holding her still beneath him until she punched him in the arm.
“All right,” he said, and kissed her again, only this time he caressed her breast with his hand, kneading her gently. “You’re larger,” he said between kisses. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
He didn’t, and she wanted him. But he refused to allow her to touch him, to go beyond the pace he himself had set.
Finally, when she tried to bite his tongue, he laughed, his voice deep and warm in her mouth, and eased his fingers up beneath her gown to caress her woman’s flesh.
When he began to rhythmically caress her, she had no way to control herself, for the feelings were compelling, too full, quickly becoming uncontrollable. He encouraged her as she keened softly, deep in her throat.
“You are doing well, Zarabeth. It delights me, this pleasure in you.”
And when she stiffened and arched taut as a bow, he deepened the pressure and took her cries into his mouth.
He relished each of the small quivers that followed her release. Gently he eased her onto her side away from him and came into her. He nibbled on her ear and she tried to twist about so she could kiss him some more, but he wouldn’t allow it. “Hold still,” he said. “Let me come deeper . . . aye, that’s it. Let me take you . . .”
Zarabeth pushed back hard against him and he groaned. He gripped her hips in his large hands, controlling the depth of his thrusts until it was too much for him and he buried his face in her hair, and she felt his moans to her very soul. This, she thought, was what was real. This was sharing and knowing and pleasing and being pleased. It was trust and belonging and it was wonderful.
It was Tostig who found it and brought it to Zarabeth. She was sewing, one of the few occupations the women deemed suitable for her. The day was hot and the sounds of building and men’s laughter and cursing filled the air. She looked up at him and smiled. “Aye, Tostig, how go you?”
“I am fine, mistress, ’tis just that . . .” He stopped and stuck out the piece of cloth nearly a foot in length. It was a jagged strip of wool dyed a soft blue, faded now to almost gray from exposure to the elements.
She raised her face. “What is it? Where did you find it?”
“In amongst some leaves at the base of a pine tree, just over there, on the outjutting land. We must have overlooked it when we were first searching for Egill.”
Zarabeth felt her heart thud, loud, slow strokes. Her fingers clutched the wool. She flew to her feet, yelling, “Magnus! Magnus!”
Tostig caught her arm. “It is the little girl’s, isn’t it, mistress?”
She looked at him, her eyes wild and vague. “Aye, it must be . . . Magnus!”
He heard her scream his name and bounded forward. He saw her standing beside Tostig, and she looked white and ill and she was weaving where she stood.
“Zarabeth!”
She whirled about at his voice, picked up her skirt, and ran toward him, shouting, “It is her, Magnus, it is!”
She drew up, weaving, and just as suddenly she turned utterly white and fell. Tostig tried to catch her, but he was off-balance and she bore him to the ground with her.
When she awoke, she was lying in her husband’s lap, and he was sitting in his chair, now set beneath a pine tree. “It is, Magnus, it is hers, I know it! It wasn’t in the water, it was on the land, at the base of a pine tree—”
“Mayhap, but you mustn’t—”