Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

The eighth day of the men's sojourn on the island

From where he sat, propped up against pillows on his pallet, Gunnar watched Frida bustle from one side of the hut to the other. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, which could scarcely be otherwise, they'd settled into a routine of sorts.

He could hardly fault her care of him—from her serving more food than he could comfortably eat to helping him with the piss pot. She'd mentioned no more of that ‘putting a baby inside her' nonsense, thanks be to the gods, but he could tell it must still be upon her mind.

The way she looked at him spoke more loudly than words.

The way she touched him, too, in that lingering way.

Not that he was complaining. The daily bathing was surely excessive, but what man wouldn't enjoy lying back while a beauty caressed him with a steaming cloth? Each day, she'd ventured a little lower until she'd finally taken the courage to ask if she might help in removing his braies .

Naturally, he'd made no objection to that particular request—though she'd come over as modest as an unkissed maid when presented with what he kept in them. It made him wonder if that's what she really was, though it seemed unlikely. No woman that fine-looking could be entirely untouched.

Yet it was how she behaved around him—like a smitten girling—moving that cloth over every part except the one place he was now desperate for her to grasp.

"Time to inspect your ankle." Coming to kneel beside him, she set about unwrapping the linens.

He winced as they came away.

Elin, the healer woman, had inspected it the previous morn and proclaimed him to be healing well. The place where she'd stitched looked less red and raw, and there was no oozing nor else to cause worry. The bone, however, was another matter. Taking it between her hands, she'd rotated the joint, and he'd near leapt into the rafters as the pain shot through.

Still, she'd insisted it wasn't truly broken. A crack in the bone was her verdict, and he'd need to keep his weight off the damn thing as much as possible, for at least a cycle of the moon. ‘Twas disheartening, but he'd reminded himself to be grateful it wasn't worse.

He was alive, wasn't he? Not like most of those poor bastards who'd set off from Skálavík with him. For some reason only Odin knew, he'd survived the wreck, and here he was. Whatever was in store for him would be revealed soon enough, and the best he could hope for was to be fit and well when that time came.

"‘Tis better each day," Frida smiled brightly as she pressed a small parcel of herbs to his wound, winding a fresh strip of linen to hold it in place. "Elin said these would work in drawing out anything untoward, and she was right. Another week and the skin will be like new."

"Aye, another week…" He couldn't help the note of glumness. As novel as it was to be waited upon, he'd had enough of lying prone. Frida had taken to leaving the door open throughout the day so there was sunlight and air, and he could spy the comings and goings beyond, but it was galling not to be able to stand on his own two feet.

He could smell the sea and hear the caw of the gulls. The sounds spoke of the home he missed.

"‘Twould be something to get down to the beach and watch the waves." He attempted to meet her eye, but she seemed purposefully to be avoiding his. "Mightn't we make a crutch of sorts from an old spade handle or somesuch? I might limp about on it just a little; visit my jarl, perhaps, under your supervision."

"I don't think that's a good idea." She knotted the ends of the linen. "Too soon, Elin said. Besides which, you're still new here. All of you are. The others aren't sure of you yet, so it's best you stay inside."

Gunnar blew out a long breath. "What's to be sure of? Six men struck with grieving for their lost crewmates, in various states of injury. We're hardly likely to go on a rampage."

Frida glanced up, her eyes soft with compassion. "I understand it must be hard. Time is the healer for all your wounds, I hope, and for those of our women…"

"What of that?" He jumped in. "You give no real answers. Your men are journeyed off somewhere, and you don't know when they'll return? How can I believe it?"

She looked away again. "It's all there is to say. Please, don't keep asking."

Irritation niggled at him, more from his predicament than from her reticence. No doubt, she had her reasons, and he could tell it distressed her to speak of… whatever was going on. Gunnar gave another sigh.

Patience. She's like a youngling foal, fearful of what she doesn't understand—about me and about herself.

Except there were other aspects of Frida that did not fit his analogy at all. Sometimes, when she looked at him, he saw a soul older than any he'd encountered before, holding him with the depth of feeling in her eyes.

She was an enigmatic creature.

"How is it paining you? Shall I make more of the herbal tea?" With a tilt of her head, she changed the subject.

"Nay, I thank you. ‘Tis bearable." In truth, his ankle did throb, which he hoped was a sign of the bone mending within. However, he preferred to remain awake. The remedy tended to send him into a stupor.

"Some soup, then?" she asked cheerfully. "Or do you prefer an egg? My grandmother's hens are laying well."

"Nay. Two bowls full is enough. As for the eggs, I had three with yester's nattmal and two the day before. Any more and I shall be pained with a cork up my arse." He laughed at his joke, but a crease fell upon Frida's brow.

Ah! The wench is too serious by half.

"I meant nothing by it," he added. "A full day in the stable and I'd take the whole cauldron of broth. A working man has a greater appetite, and your stew is among the tastiest I've sampled."

"I'm glad it's to your liking." She looked somewhat placated. "I want only to make sure you have all you need."

"Aye, you're an attentive lass, gentle of hand and spirit. ‘Tis a wonder to me that no man has swept you up as his wife." He'd meant it as a compliment, but she looked downcast again.

There was a pause between them in which she said nothing, and he did not rush to fill the silence.

It takes time to gain the trust of one so skittish.

"There was no man who wanted me," she said eventually, though she did not meet his eye.

"I find that hard to believe. More likely, there was none properly suited to you. Tell me, if you had your choice, what sort of man would you wish for?" He hoped his former clumsiness would be forgiven and that she'd allow him to know her better.

She looked down at the cast-off strip of linen, pleating it with her fingers, but her voice was steady as she gave her reply.

"A gentle man and a good listener. One who is confident of his own worth without needing to proclaim it. One who's content to sit by his own hearth rather than seeking amusement elsewhere. A man who will place my happiness above his own and who will risk all that he values to claim my love."

Gunnar gave a low whistle. "‘Tis little wonder you remain unmarried if you ask so much." Seeing her flinch, he instantly regretted his words. It seemed he could not open his mouth without placing both feet inside it. ‘Twas his last intention to upset her, but it appeared he had, and he was sorry for it.

He'd the strongest urge to reach out and touch her—to let her know that he saw and valued her—but that would be presumptuous. For all her many kindnesses, they were still strangers. She knew next to nothing of his life, and he even less of hers.

"A wash, yes?" She was diverting him again. "Just quickly. The hour is late. You must take your rest when the night falls, for the dawn comes again before we know it." She chattered away about the length of the summer days as she gathered the basin of water, a washing cloth, and the small bar of fragranced soap. Soon, she was kneeling again, soaking the scrap of linen and dabbing it across his brow.

"I might do this myself. ‘Tis only my ankle that pains me." His protest was half-hearted, for ‘twas a part of the day he looked forward to, in truth—when he might close his eyes and revel in her gentle touch.

"I know that," she answered softly. "But I like to do it. And ‘tis not as easy as you might think. When you do this for yourself, do you remember this part and here?" She took the cloth about the circumference of his ear, then swept it back to the nape of his neck.

"Indeed, you do this better than I would myself." He let his head fall back as she brought her task to his throat and around to the other side.

She leaned close, so he was aware of the light brush of her skirts against his arm and her woman's scent—a mixture of the soap, which had a honeyed fragrance, and her own musk. The bodice of her gown was low; momentarily, the upper curve of her breast pressed to his shoulder.

Gunnar gulped.

When she was close like this, it took all his concentration to avoid moaning with the lust that grew. He was but a man, and this woman excited him. He couldn't help but picture her as she'd been, standing naked from her bath, knowing the perfection of her body beneath the gown.

If he were to bring his arm about her waist, what would she do?

Open her lips to meet his in the kiss he'd imagined a hundred times since he'd woken in her presence? A kiss that would become an embrace as she lay down beside him and let him glide his hand upward under her skirts.

Beneath the covering upon his lap, his arousal hardened at the thought of where it wished to be.

Ankle be damned!

He wanted to wrap her about him, the better to cradle against her heat, and it would take but a single thrust to enter that warmth and rock them both to pleasure.

He swallowed hard.

She was soaking the cloth again, laying it upon one shoulder, before taking it the length of his arm.

She'd expressed her willingness from the first, but for all he wished to bed her, instinct told him it would be unwise to rush matters. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, and if he let his baser passions rule, that would be more than likely. As he was starting to wholly suspect, she was an untried maid, and it would take preparation to ensure her enjoyment. His manhood was nothing above the common length, but he was girthy, so even well-bedded widows required his tongue before the thrust of his cock.

Talk to her! About anything! But take your mind off this path!

"What of yourself? Do you not desire children? However much you love your horses, they cannot give you sons or daughters." The directness of her questioning took him aback.

"True enough, but I've five sisters with lads aplenty. It matters not if I fail to contribute to the brood." Thinking about that rowdy crowd did something to dampen his ardor. "All older, they helped raise me, alongside my mother, so I might say I've had enough of women telling me how to conduct myself. The horses are just as temperamental, but it takes less to appease them."

She laughed at that, her transformation entrancing him. She was beautiful, whatever her expression, but the merriment gave her a radiance such as he'd not witnessed before.

"So, you intend never to be persuaded?" Her laughter ceased as swiftly as it had come, and wistfulness took its place.

Her hand was upon his chest, each fingertip imprinting there, though the cloth separated her skin from his. Gunnar forgot all else but that she was here and that he did not want anything beyond this moment.

"If I ever were to marry, it would be because I could not bear to live without that person by my side." Gunnar hadn't meant to say such a thing, for no such person existed that he'd ever found. He'd long accepted that. His work was enough, as well as the horses he loved, the men who were glad to welcome him among them, and the tumultuous progeny of his siblings.

He made light of it now. "‘Tis unlikely to ever happen, for women don't like me spending so much time with the horses. I'm wedded to them, you might say. Besides which, apparently, there is an aroma."

She shrugged. "It's different from the smell of the goats or chickens. Richer, somehow. I like it, although ‘tis not as strong as it was."

"It's being away from my horses, I suppose." Gunnar noted she'd removed her hand from his chest and was dousing the cloth again. "Not to mention all this washing! I shall soon smell only of soap, and no animals in the stable will recognize me when I return."

When I return.

He was not fool enough to have conviction in that.

"You miss your horses." Frida looked thoughtful. "I wish I might see one to know what power they hold over you. I really know only of the story of Sleipnir, whom Odin rides, except that he has eight legs to run all the faster, which seems rather a lot."

Gunnar couldn't help smiling. "A great many indeed. Four is quite enough, for a horse can outpace any beast I know, though they must rest eventually." He indicated the various images sited upon his chest and upon his arms. "You ought to be familiar with them, for they've been your study these days past, if I'm not mistaken."

Frida touched the cloth to his chest once more, tracing the outline of the stallion's head. She was right that they had power over him, although he hadn't thought of it that way before.

"I've worked with them since boyhood, as my father was our late jarl's stableman. Upon his passing, it was natural for me to take his place. I've spent my lifetime mastering the breed, training and tending them. There is nothing I love nor understand so well."

"They're your fylgja , I think… your spirit beast." She drew the cloth across to the other side. "As if you have their blood in your veins, and you see the world through their eyes."

He caught her hand with his own, holding it above his heart. "Yes, it feels that way sometimes. And you? Is there some animal for which you feel an affinity?"

"An owl, perhaps. They hunt alone in the dark, set apart from other animals." She did nothing to remove her hand, letting him press her palm close, and her eyes were fully upon his.

"But quietly watchful. You see what others do not, I think." Gunnar felt, not for the first time, that she was looking deeply within his own self—that she saw something no one had before. "They are lonely creatures, but they are wise, and they have a quiet strength and courage."

Those violet eyes that so bewitched him softened at his words.

"It is said, is it not, that they guide men to the next realm? It is the same for horses, the most loyal of companions, carrying man not just in life but in death, over the fiery bridge, through light and dark, across rivers and oceans, to what awaits us when we have no more use for our earthly body." He felt the beat of his heart beneath their two palms and wondered if she felt it, too.

"I should like to believe that," Frida murmured.

"Both are noble creatures, helping us see the divine in ourselves," Gunnar went on. "I aspire to be as faithful and courageous as the horses in my care. There is no deceit in them, for they are loyal and true."

He felt her tremble. Her lips parted, as if she would speak further, and a beseeching look entered her gaze. Tenderly, she brought her other hand to his cheek.

The next moment, she was leaning in. The tip of her nose brushed his. With closed eyes, she sought him with her lips. The caress was whisper-light, and her breath was sweet, like berries and sage.

He, too, closed his eyes, letting her explore with butterfly kisses. He returned the pressure of her mouth, but gently, so that Frida led the way. Only when she took his bottom lip between hers and tugged softly did he utter a moan of desire. The temptation came to pull her upon his lap, where his cock had burgeoned. With difficulty, he controlled himself.

However much I want her, ‘tis not the way. She deserves more than the pain of a few quick thrusts just so I might appease myself.

Unconsciously, he drew away.

Looking at him again, the expression in her eyes had changed. Her pupils were dark as night, the violet a rim of fading twilight. Not lust nor the fear he sometimes saw there, but an awakening of sorts. A knowing and a need, blended with something else—curiosity or confusion? It was surely not her first kiss, but it had felt as if it were his.

When she moved away, he felt bereft, but she was again dipping the folded linen into the water.

Frida pushed him slowly back. She took the cloth across his abdomen, and Gunnar tensed. It was too tantalizing, moving ever closer to where he needed her. He sucked in a breath as she lifted the covering at his waist, and his cock sprung up.

She hesitated, looking upon his jutting erection, clearly unsure of what to say or to do. Until now, she'd always left that part of him covered, bathing his legs from his feet upward. Now, she was gazing at the column of flesh with its glistening head, boldly reddened and unashamedly upright.

Lust speared him.

She was sweeping the cloth lower still, into the curls at his groin. Then she was encompassing him, wrapping the scrap of linen about his root, her delicate fingers holding him through the damp warmth.

His heart pounded, but the pulse in his cock was stronger still, tightening the skin. The hunger lay deep, a heavy yearning to be squeezed and stroked. More than that—to be buried inside, where her heat would sheath him.

She had to know what he needed—for her to work his flesh until the crown was slick. Then if she would only dip her head and take him into her mouth…

"Like this, Gunnar?" Tentatively, she dragged the cloth upward, then down again. "Is this how you want me to touch you?"

"Yes. Hold me and move faster. Hold me tight." His voice emerged husky.

Her hesitancy and lack of rhythm told him she'd never done this before. He wondered, even, if she'd ever seen a man's arousal fully engorged. Some instinct served her, for the movement of her hand was already tipping him toward the edge.

"Yes, Frida. Don't stop." He gasped as she took a longer stroke, rubbing against the underside of his glans. Fluid beaded freely over the smooth head. "Harder. It feels good. So good."

The way she was focused, wanting to please him, brought an aching surge to his balls. He was going to come with Frida holding him like this—coming hard for her and spurting over her fisted hand.

He groaned her name as his seed rose, the intense pleasure of release choking his moan. She didn't let go, her hand still clasping his rigid cock, watching as his cream ran over her fingers.