‘Are you looking for a new home, Norseman?’
He blinked as she turned to look fully at him, her golden hair blowing around her shoulders and glowing copper-red in the fading sunlight. He’d often thought of it as a cloak and now it looked more like one than ever... He held his breath, trying to fix the image in his mind. At that moment he could almost believe that the rest of the world didn’t exist, that there was only the two of them, that Hilda and Joarr held no importance for him, that he had no oath to fulfil, that he was a free man...
Was he looking for a home? The question seemed to echo around his head. He was a man who’d spent most of his life living for the moment, never considering the future, never looking for anything resembling commitment. Then after the massacre he’d never allowed himself to think beyond fulfilling his oath, but what would he do if and when he finally redeemed himself in his brothers’ eyes? Where would he go? To Rurik in Glannoventa? Alarr in Eireann? Sandulf in Strathclyde? None of those ideas sounded very appealing any more. Not compared to a rain-soaked, mist-covered island and the wild-haired woman who lived there.
But she wanted to be on her own, away from people, away from warriors especially. Unless he could persuade her otherwise...and then prove himself worthy.
‘Not yet.’ He felt a new sense of determination. ‘Just a place to camp. It’ll be dark soon.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘What are you doing?’ Sissa sat down beside the fire, looking quizzically at the knife and block of wood in Danr’s hands.
‘Carving tafl pieces.’ He leaned back against his pack with a grin. ‘I thought I could make us a set so we could play. The board isn’t a problem, but these are tricky. Rurik was always better at carving things. He has more patience than me, but I’m going to try.’
‘They look good to me.’ She started to smile back and then froze, struck by a strange tingling sensation, like fingers stroking the back of her neck. They’d set up camp in a cove adjacent to her old village, him building a fire, her catching some fish, then him cooking them while she’d sat with her arm around Tove, watching. She’d just been to collect some fresh water and now she was almost ready for bed. Despite the turmoil and tumult of the day it all felt so...comfortable. Too comfortable. Not only was he spoiling her for anyone else’s cooking, including her own, but she was starting to grow accustomed to companionship again, as if he were truly her mate. It was disorientating. Coming back to the site of her old village had been painful in one way, reminding her of how it felt to lose the people she loved, but it had been bittersweet in another, calling up memories of how it felt to love and be loved. It made her wonder what it would be like to open her heart again. Was it even possible after so long? Did she want it to be?
Her body went rigid at the thought. Danr wasn’t her mate and he never could be. She’d let him further into her life than she’d ever intended, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let herself fall in love with him. She lived on her own. That was the way her life was and the way it had to be. And even if she could let herself fall in love with him, he was only staying with her for a short while, until his arm recovered, no longer. After that, he had to do what he’d come to Skíð to do: confront his stepmother and possibly get himself killed in the attempt. Even if he survived, he’d still be leaving. She had to keep on telling herself that, no matter how much she enjoyed his company and he seemed to like hers, or how curious he made her, or that he’d saved her life that day, or that she trusted him enough to show him her village...
No, there was no future for them, she told herself as she reached into her pack and drew out a comb. She wouldn’t let herself be tempted.
‘Here. Let me do that.’
Before she knew what happening, Danr had put down his knife and was crouching beside her, taking the comb from her hand and pulling it gently through her hair.
‘Wh-what are you doing?’ She twisted around, startled.
‘Combing your hair.’ He put his other hand on the top of her head, turning her to face the front again. ‘Trust me, I’m good at it.’
‘But...’ She started to protest, then closed her eyes as his hand followed the comb downwards, stroking her head the same way he stroked Halvar. It felt surprisingly—wonderfully—soothing. Blissful, in fact, making her feel relaxed all over.
‘That’s not so bad, is it?’ There was a smile in his voice.
‘No.’ She gave a contented sigh. ‘What about your carving?’
‘I’ve another twenty-three pieces to go anyway.’
‘Oh.’ She fought to repress a smile. ‘You know, I’m not sure I remember the rules of tafl.’
‘I’ll remind you.’ The comb caught on a knot, but he untangled it deftly.
‘You still might not have time to carve all the pieces. You’ll be able to wield a sword soon enough, then you’ll get the answers you want and leave. You don’t want to be stuck on Skíð over the winter.’
‘Don’t I? It’s not so bad here.’
‘You won’t think so when the snows come.’
‘You manage.’
/>
‘I’m used to it, but you’ll still need to leave before then. You said your brothers were expecting you in Eireann.’
‘Ye-es, but the truth is, I like it here. I still have an oath to fulfil, but after I’ve done that, perhaps I could come back?’
‘Come back?’ Her voice sounded alarmingly high-pitched. The idea made her feel tempted and panic-stricken at the same time. ‘Won’t that depend on how things go with your stepmother? She might not want you here.’
‘No, but I don’t suppose she wanders around the forest very often. I could come back and build myself a tree house.’