Chapter 1

Just before dawn, on the ninth day of the men's sojourn on the island

By tallow light, Elin drew the dampened cloth over the man's forehead, resting at his temple. She traced beneath his jawline, then reached around to the back of his neck, cooling his heated skin. Even so, fresh perspiration beaded his brow.

He was well-muscled and lean, clearly strong in body and in constitution. Day after day, he lay shivering in the grip of a fever that would not abate, and each night, dreams tormented him.

She'd slept little herself, knowing he tossed upon the pallet, first kicking off the furs, then clutching them to him when she rose to tuck them close again. What he saw in those tortured slumbers, she could not imagine, but his mumbled pleadings tore at her heart.

Yet through all, his pulse remained steady.

She stretched the cloth upon the upper portion of his chest. The rest of his torso, bound tightly, she avoided. A cracked rib or more than one. ‘Twas hard to tell when her patient had barely gained lucidity. If he might but tell her where the pain afflicted him… though from the bruising, she could hazard guesses.

His arm, the right one, had a more obvious break. She'd wrapped it in a similar fashion before covering the limb with mire from one of the pools on the upper hillside and wrapping it a second time. The mud was known to draw out pus if a wound grew festered, but more importantly, dried to a hardness that would keep the bone from moving.

‘Twas fortunate, in truth, that he remained unconscious, for he could do the least injury to himself as he was and, she hoped, he was spared some discomfort.

Nevertheless, looking upon his handsomeness, she wished he might open his eyes, albeit briefly, and speak. Would his voice sound as she believed it might—deep, rich, and alluring?

She'd come to know his visage well—the smooth skin and thickly waved hair, glossed black as a beetle's shell. The hair upon his chest was similarly dark, and his brows and lashes abundant, though his beard he wore neatly trimmed. His skin was browned, as from long hours under the sun—except having seen all parts of his body, there were no paler places.

Setting aside the cloth, she reached for the medicine she'd prepared—feverfew, yarrow, and wild garlic steeped in a broth enriched by chicken bones.

"Drink this now." When she tipped her spoon at his lips, they parted slightly, and he swallowed. Perhaps despite all, he heard her, or his body sensed what it needed.

"A little more," she coaxed as she would a child, being careful to offer only a small amount at a time but persisting. He needed sustenance to heal and quench his thirst, which must be strong. Since his arrival, he'd seldom relieved his bladder.

Eventually, his head fell to the side, and the cadence of his breathing shifted.

‘Tis good he sleeps. Though, what if he never wakes?

‘Twas an idle thought and served no purpose, for his recovery was in the hands of the gods, yet she could not help fearing.

There had been long days and nights, such as this, when her husband had fallen ill, then her sweet boy. She'd done all in her power to restore them, but no number of tears had swayed the balance of their fate. For a long time, she'd wished the ailment had taken her, too, for her loss was greater than she knew how to bear. But she'd remained resolutely healthy and had made herself rise each morning. She was not the only wife to lose a husband nor the only mother to lose a child.

Fathers, brothers, sons.

With all her experience in healing and the stories passed down by the women of her family, she'd never heard of such a thing as that which had taken the men of H?y.

No one had.

Little wonder the men who'd survived the blight had proclaimed the island cursed and the women they'd professed to love bound up in that ill fate since not a female among them had been struck down. The greatest sorrow was how easily those men had abandoned their women, sailing to who knew where.

Grief and anger had consumed those left behind, but they'd been raised to remain stalwart in the face of trouble, and they'd endured.

Since then, so many cycles of the moon have passed, and much has changed.

Much and naught at all.

Elin rested her hands upon her stomach.

Is there a chance?

One thought was uppermost. Could this man provide her with a child? She wanted it to be so.

A child!

The very thought made her heart leap.

They would never replace her round-cheeked Ulrick, nor would she see her husband's soft expression in the babe's eyes.

Nevertheless… a child!

And this man—with his fine chiseled nose and noble forehead, his strong jaw and full lips—would be father to the babe. Long after he was gone—and go he would, one way or another—the gift of his legacy would remain. His darkly sensuous looks would blend with her gentler features, and they would create a daughter or a son who Elin would love with all her being.

She was glad he would be tasked with the deed, for even in his present state, she felt an affinity toward him. The pain etched upon his face spoke to her own suffering, however deeply buried.

When the time came for him to join his body with hers, the union would be more than perfunctory. Perhaps, in that moment, he would understand the import of what he gave.

Still, a small voice whispered—what if he dies before the chance can be taken? What if he never wakes at all?

Elin fought to push away that misgiving, yet it lingered.

She leaned over him, placing her ear close to his mouth. His breath was shallower than it ought to be, and there was a hitch now and then, as if his body might decide to cease its efforts altogether.

Elin offered up a prayer, but she knew Freyja helped women most who took matters into their own tasking.

The man's seed was all she needed, and a man didn't need to be awake to share that with her.

Her husband had oft tupped her in his sleep, curled into the curve of her back. Her vanity did not wish to believe it so, but she knew it to be true.

If she was careful, would it be amiss to take this man in hand and guide him in the act? There was naught ailing in his lower half. From her washing of him in the mornings, she knew his man-part was already half-aroused at this time. It took but the slightest touch of her cloth to enhance the stiffening.

You cannot! ‘Twould be wrong.

She'd spoken the same words to herself yestermorn and the day before. There was no point in lying to herself.

She would keep thinking this thing until it was done.

If she might harden him and push him inside, ‘twould be quick. Moreover, now was the ideal time—equally betwixt the flow of her blood.

Gently, she lifted away the furs, then unknotted the linens she'd placed about his loins. The clothing he'd been wearing upon being washed ashore she'd kept, but it served no purpose at the present time. ‘Twas easier to tend a patient without tunic and braies to contend with.

As she'd anticipated, his staff was half-erect, pointing toward the trail of hair that grew downward from the button of his stomach. She took three deep breaths and, upon the last, brought her hand about the root.

Rhythmically, she squeezed, and within the pressure of her palm, his organ rose and jerked. From his lips came a long, drawn-out sigh.

Fearing that he was stirring, she snatched back her hand. For some moments, she sat entirely still, hardly daring to breathe, but no further sound did he make.

To her dismay, his cock was turning somewhat limp again.

Nay!

She could not let this moment pass.

‘Twas only a small thing she required and would soon be done, but if she cowered from it now, she might not summon the courage again.

Would her mouth be a quicker way to rouse him to full hardness? Only then would she be able to place him within her sheath. Her husband had liked her to suck upon him so, but perhaps it was as much for the act of watching her…

Tentatively, she gripped the stranger's rod again, moving the soft cloak of skin downward to expose the rounded end. Then she bent forward, extending her tongue to wet him there.

It was working.

She closed her eyes, breathing the musk of his body, aware of the salted taste and the smoothness of his bulbous head. The forbidden nature of taking him without his knowledge brought a thrill betwixt her thighs. A slow pulse grew there and a trickle of wetness—all the better to welcome him inside. She took him deeper and held him there before a slow backward stroke, licking toward the now engorged head.

‘Twas a beautiful thing, a man's cock. She'd always believed so—an organ of pleasure as well as procreation—and this man boasted a staff of which any would be proud.

Opening her mouth wider, she descended again, humming against the girth now filling her cheeks. He would feel good when she mounted him. She would tip her hips forward and undulate there rather than riding him too roughly. She would squeeze with her inner muscles, enticing him to the peak that would release his seed.

He would not suffer. Mayhap she would enter his dreams, and he would see her there, making love to his slumbering body. Not love, of course, but something akin to it. The child she hoped to conceive would be very much loved, and she would always hold a certain sort of love for this man for the gift he was giving her.

All shall be well. What I take shall be naught to him but a pleasant dream.

Elin drew back, then encompassed him within her mouth again, moving upon him so deep that he near reached the back of her throat.

‘Twas at that moment, when she expected it least, a firm hand claimed her nape, as strong as a vice.