Page 37 of To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse #2)

King Olof had saved Gunnar’s life from Hrolf three summers past. It was the same summer her father promised Hrolf she’d wed his son, Steinar.

Rebellion had flared hotly in her. She refused to do her father’s bidding.

Steinar had lusted for her, but no more than he did for other fair maids.

It’d be a marriage for wealth and power, benefitting the people of Uppakra and Aland.

Once Hrolf caught wind of the young lovers, he’d nearly killed Gunnar, and Steinar had been the one to alert him.

“I had debts to fulfill.” Gunnar brushed back blonde wisps falling around her face. “It was the only way. Now I’m free to be with you.”

Could life be that simple? A single vow bonding a man and woman, the tie mightier than swords or silver?

Her lashes fluttered low. Three summers past, she let the black-eyed youth secret her away to the forest armed with a blanket and an ampoule of Rhenish wine.

There amongst ferns and butterflies, Gunnar had lifted her skirts and lowered her bodice.

He’d planted a hundred kisses on her shoulders and neck before his lips grazed her nipples.

She’d melted under his tender torture, the same as she weakened for him now.

Musical notes from the great hall pitched higher, faster. Sitting on her awkward bed of apples and turnips, her breasts ached for his touch.

Gunnar’s hand slipped under her skirt. “Come away with me.”

Her breath hitched when his fingers grazed her inner thigh.

Softly he teased her skin. How well his hand fit on the private curve.

When she opened her eyes, a bold, claiming light glinted under Gunnar’s black lashes.

Strong male fingers inched higher to the plump flesh at the top of her thigh. Her skin flushed with anticipation.

Expectation was a weapon Gunnar brandished well.

He was a natural in the sensual arts. Brown eyes lit darkly as if to say you were formed for me and me alone.

With his ink black hair and talented hands, he’d lured her three summers past in Uppsala the way a skilled piper enthralls the listening ear.

He was a Viking warrior with an artist’s soul.

His father’s foreign blood colored Gunnar differently, tainting him.

He was appealing to women. Tender at times. Or darkly seductive.

Wetness trickled down the seam between her legs. Male fingertips teased her inner thigh. Music pitched higher beyond the leather curtain. Pale beams filtered through the weave on the wall above his head. The crowd. The aroma of crushed apples. Her heart beat faster. Anyone could catch them.

Breath skipped in her chest. “Gunnar. I—”

“Gunnar.” Light flooded the barrels. “You’re finally here. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”

Ginna let the curtain fall behind her. She lumbered into the storage area and stopped short at the mess.

“Another woman who doubts me,” he jested.

Eira jumped to her feet. “You knew he was coming?”

“I sent for him,” Ginna said, going down on both knees. She turned Eira’s bucket upright and began tossing apples into it. “The two of you, stop gawking and help me.”

Gunnar set the second bucket right and laughing softly, began collecting turnips. “You didn’t give me enough time to woo your sister.”

Eira’s mouth fell open. Her mind spun, trying to weave sense from what they said.

Beyond the leather curtain, a saucy serving woman poured Steinar’s mead, rubbing her breast on his arm.

Borgunna. The woman was Ginna’s childhood friend and a quick flirt.

A drummer joined the goat bone flutes behind her father’s great chair. The crowd thickened with newcomers.

“You could help, Eira.” Ginna sat back on her heels, rubbing the small of her back. “Borgunna can’t stall Steinar forever.”

“I don’t understand.” She dropped to the ground, her clumsy hands gathering the fruit. “You knew Gunnar was coming. On the eve of my wedding. Why?”

“I was supposed to arrive days ago,” Gunnar said. “But fighting began in Uppsala. There was a thrall…a woman named Sestra—” he shrugged apologetically “—she did a brave thing. I vowed to help her.”

Her hands fisted at her sides. “A woman?”

“Eira,” he chided. “She means nothing to me.”

“Yet you stayed for her? And left me for three years.” Her voice pitched high. “You and your vows of honor.” Her chest hurt. She wanted to lash out and make him suffer. “Perhaps it’s a good thing Steinar told Hrolf about us.”

“Steinar didn’t say a word to Hrolf.”

Ginna stood up and wiped dirt smudges off her yellow skirt. “I did.”

Coldness hit Eira. Both hands covered her stomach as if she’d been punched. Shadows bathed her sister’s face in half-light, yet the dim room couldn’t hide her keen eyes. Ginna’s wheat blonde hair looped in perfect, smooth coils at her nape. No comb was out of place. No pleat mussed.

“You were so rebellious.” Ginna’s blue gaze darted at Gunnar. “So determined to marry him.”

“Why do you care who I marry?”

“Look at them.” Ginna waved an emphatic arm at the gathering. “Every man, woman, and child here celebrates the war in Uppsala. They can’t wait to die with a sword in hand.”

Eira’s attention ricocheted from her sister to the festive throngs before landing on the gold arm ring Gunnar wore.

Ginna eyed the gold arm too. She grasped Gunnar’s wrist and held it to the light. “This is why they fight.”

A sprouting plant and cross punched the gold, the mark of Vikings who followed the White Christ. King Olof had tried to do away with the Norse ways, but the people of Uppsala defied him.

“What’s happening in Uppsala could happen here, if you marry a Christian.” Ginna’s voice trembled. “Is that what you want for us? More bloodshed?”

Gunnar jerked his hand free and stepping closer, he cupped Eira’s cheek. “Listen to me. I came for you because I said I would.” His voice dropped lower. “Because I love you more than I did three years ago. It’s always been you, Eira. Always .”

Time and battles had whittled change in his features, but he was still the same good man. And he’d come for her. She clutched her bodice. Her chest ached. Her eyes stung with tears that wanted shedding.

“All this time I’ve blamed Steinar for what happened,” she whispered.

Gunnar had been badly beaten by Hrolf before King Olof intervened. Her mother had spirited her away and poured a calming tincture down her throat that made her eyes heavy and her limbs sluggish. In the dead of night, a bruised and bloodied Gunnar had roused her. He bid her to wait for him.

The next day she awoke and Gunnar was gone.

The people of Uppsala gossiped about King Olof sending him and a handful of men to Byzantium to fetch a holy man.

Numb in mind and body, the kindly king had beckoned her to his barn.

He told her the journey would be long. Two summers would pass, and he repeated Gunnar’s plea that she wait for him.

Lips twisting bitterly, she glared at Ginna. “I trusted you! I told you about our trysts…our plans…”

“You broke our mother’s heart when you chose a Christian born of a slave father.” Ginna’s jet beads dangled long against her pale neck. “You’re foolish to think the people of Aland would accept him beside you.”

“This isn’t about our mother,” she nearly shouted. “This is about you wanting the jarl’s chair.”

“Shhh, Eira.” Gunnar gripped her shoulders. “We cannot change the past, but we are here, now. You must decide.”

“How can you say that so calmly? You were badly beaten because of her meddling.”

Black brows drew together. “I would bear it again if it meant we’re together,” he ground out. “We all pay a price for love. I’ve paid mine.”

Dark eyes pinned her with an unspoken question. Are you ready to pay the price for love?

His clothes smelled of sea brine and seal oil. Warriors slathered their hands with the oil for hard days of rowing. The soot on his skin and clothes had to be from Uppsala burning…the fighting…the livid wound on his cheek. He must’ve pushed hard from Uppsala to be here tonight.

To come for her.

She touched his whiskered jaw. “You don’t want vengeance?”

“No. I want to leave with you.”

Her breath hitched. Gunnar’s childhood had been different, a half world of slave and highborn parentage, of violence and art.

King Olof had spoken to him of the White Christ and his strange teachings against vengeance.

She’d been taught from her first steps to end trouble with the sword.

His blood ran hot for sensual pursuits, hers for war.

Yet, the man before her obviously wasn’t afraid to take up arms. And he still wanted her. Badly.

“That means you leave tonight, Eira, forsaking all here,” Ginna added.

“Because of course our mother would’ve wanted that.” She glared at her sister, the stare fleeting. Gunnar, his smell, his presence, the warmth of his hands on her shoulders, drew her back to him.

Bold brown eyes locked with hers. Full of depth.

Mesmerizing. Making her weak. Gunnar stood no more than half a head taller than her, but his shoulders had broadened since she last saw him.

Could he carry the burden of a wife? A man with no land?

No coin? It was incredible that he wanted her to leave with him this instant.

Ginna peered through the curtain weave. “Steinar rises from his seat.” She let go, coldly facing Eira. “What’s it to be dear sister? Stay and wed Steinar? Or go with Gunnar?”