Deeply aware that all eyes were on us, I handed over the little pot, wincing as he extracted a large glob, the frugalness in me protesting the excess.
“Clearly you aren’t aware of the chests of silver my father has buried in various locations about his territory,” he said. “Trust me, he cares more about you being able to use your hand than paying for pots of salve.”
Frugality was ingrained in my character, but in this, he had a point. Extending my arm, I waited for him to deposit the glob of salve on my palm. Instead, Bjorn took hold of my hand and smeared the salve over the twisted tattoo on my right palm. I tensed, self-conscious about him touching the scars despite his claims that they were marks of honor. Yet if the texture of my skin bothered him, Bjorn didn’t show it, his brow furrowed in concentration as his strong fingers dug into the stiff tendons, the heat of his flesh doing more to warm my skin than the fire.
Not that I relaxed.
Relaxing was impossible, for the intimacy of this act was not lost on me. I was another man’s wife. Not just any man’s, but his father’s.
Yet I didn’t pull away.
The shadows from the firelight danced over Bjorn’s hands, tendons standing out against suntanned skin marked with tiny white scars, many of which looked as though they’d been burns. My eyes traveled up his muscled forearms, examining all the tattoos, the black faded enough that he must have had them for many years. I wondered if they had meaning to him or if they were nothing more than decorations that struck his fancy, but I refrained from asking the question.
I didn’t want to disrupt the moment. Didn’t want to do anything that would cause him to remove his hands from mine. Not because the pain was easing beneath his care, but because the diminishing stiffness in my fingers was being replaced with a growing tension in my core.
You are a cursed fool, Freya. An idiot who deserves to be slapped upside the head for lusting over that which you cannot have.
Not only did my body ignore my admonitions, but the ache also deepened, and with it, my imagination flared to life. Flickers of images danced across my thoughts of Bjorn without the shirt he currently wore. Without the trousers. Without any garments between us, his hands on my body and his lips on mine.
Stop it, I pleaded to my imagination, but the Freya who owned those thoughts only smirked and gave me more.
My imagination was a curse.
It had always been a curse, giving me the false belief that what it conjured might become reality, which always led to disappointment. As displeased as I’d been about my father’s choice to wed me to Vragi, I’d still dreamed of the pleasures I’d experience on my wedding night, my imagination fueled by the stories told to me by other women. The reality had proven a bitter tonic, for Vragi had only demanded I disrobe, then bent me over the bed and serviced me like a horse, finishing in moments and leaving nothing but a cold and hollow void in his wake.
“Deep thoughts for the late hour,” Bjorn said softly, and I jerked my eyes up to meet his gaze, feeling caught out despite my memories of Vragi having vanquished the lust burning in my body.
Though now I burned with embarrassment.
“I wasn’t thinking of anything.” I pulled my hand from his grip and hid it in the fold of my cloak. “Thank you for your assistance. The pain is much reduced.”
Bjorn shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
If only that were the case.
“Apologies,” he added after a moment. “For before. You were trying to make sense of the role my father sees for you, and I turned the conversation to my own grievances, which robbed you of the opportunity.”
I lifted one shoulder, for some reason unable to meet his gaze. “He had no intention of telling me anything.”
“I think it’s because he doesn’t know.” Picking up the stick, Bjorn poked at the fire, voice low as he added, “He knows of warring and raiding and twisting stories of the gods to serve his purposes. But as to how you might inspire Skaland to swear oaths to him as king? I think he’s as in the dark as you or me.”
I bit my bottom lip, the night air somehow colder than it had been a moment ago.
“You should get some rest,” he said, rising to his feet. “We’ll break camp before dawn and ride hard tomorrow.”
Spreading out my furs, I lay down and pulled a thick pelt on top of me, my eyes on the glowing embers. In the absence of our conversation, the camp was quiet, the only sounds the crackle and pop of smoldering wood, the wind in the pine boughs above, and the faint snoring of one of the warriors.
Which meant it was impossible to miss the meaty crunch that filled the air.
Sitting upright, I gaped in horror as one of the warriors on guard toppled into the circle of firelight, an axe embedded in his skull. Before I could scream a warning, warriors appeared among the trees, faces marked with warpaint and weapons glinting in the light, their battle cries filling my chest with the purest form of terror.
“Kill the shield maiden!” one of them shrieked. “Kill all the women!”
One of the thralls darted ahead of them, screaming as she tried to get away. Before she made it two steps, a man sliced at her back. She fell, dead before she hit the ground, and the warrior’s eyes fixed on me.
My instincts took over.
Leaping to my feet, I drew my sword before bending to pick up a shield, emotion making my arm strong. It was me they wanted dead. So it would be me they had to kill. “Hlin,” I screamed, “give me your strength!”
Magic filled me, then spilled out of my hand to encase the shield, illuminating the night with brilliant silver light. All eyes turned on me, and then with a roar, the attackers surged. Not just a few men and women, but dozens spilling out from the trees, their eyes full of murder.
And I stood alone.
Or so I thought.
A shield appeared next to mine, and I turned to find Bjorn next to me, his axe burning bright. His face was splattered with blood, but he grinned. “Arm up, Born-in-Fire.” Then, louder, he shouted, “Shield wall!”
Other warriors hurried into position, Snorri among them. Shields locked into place, forming a circle within which Ylva, Steinunn, and the thralls crouched. Though I could smell their terror, mine was gone. In its place, a wild, furious defiance fueled my strength. And my magic.
The glow spilled outward, covering Bjorn’s shield first and then the others, spreading like a tide until the shield wall glowed with starlight.
Yet the enemy didn’t hesitate.
Whether it was because they didn’t know what Hlin’s power could do or that they were too caught up in battle rage to care, the enemy raced toward us as a wall of shield, axe, and blade. The collision was deafening, my magic hurling them back with such force that they collided with their fellows, knocking them from their feet. Screams and the snap of breaking bones filled the night, then Snorri shouted, “Attack!”
For a heartbeat, I wavered, then a voice whispered in my head, They attacked you. Attacked your people. They deserve this fate. I allowed the rage behind that voice to take control.
Hacking and stabbing at the enemy as my pulse roared, I killed and maimed those who’d come to do the same to me. Blood splattered my face and I tasted copper on my tongue, but I didn’t care. They’d brought this fight to me, but I’d be the one who finished it.
And then it was over.
Gasping for breath, I turned in a circle, searching for someone to fight. Someone to kill. But all the enemy was on the ground, either dead or soon to be so, the light from my shield illuminating the gore-soaked scene.
Men and women reduced to carcasses. To parts. The rage that had fueled me fled, replaced with sick horror over the scene before me. A scene that I’d helped create. My fingers turned to ice, bile burning in my throat because each breath I sucked in smelled of blood and opened bowel. They deserved it! I desperately reminded myself. They’d have done the same to you, given the chance!
“Are you hurt?”
I lifted my head to find Bjorn before me, eyes narrowed with concern.