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‘Truly, I’m not domesticated. Ask anyone. Ask my stepmother. My sister…’
He took the now-empty horn from her nerveless fingers. ‘Do we have a bargain?’
‘Yes.’ Sayrid took a step backwards, knocking over the tafl pieces. She bent down and started to gather them up. He might think she was the correct bride, but how could she be? Her father’s words of scorn filled her ears. She screwed up her eyes and tried to block out the words pounding through her brain.
He wanted her for reasons that had nothing to do with her person or her mind and everything to do with her land. She knew the way the world worked and it was no good her heart whispering that he might be interested in her. Thinking that way was an excellent means of getting hurt.
He covered her hand. ‘Leave it. Leave everything. You need to be in bed.’
‘But…but…’ She withdrew her hand. Blunt nails and calloused palms from years of practising with a sword and piloting her ship. A great lady’s hand should be delicate with no discernible blemish, her stepmother used to declare, stretching out her fine-boned fingers. How could he be attracted to one such as her? She’d no wish to become an object of pity, lusting after her husband. Too many women like that littered the markets where she visited. She’d heard the laughter and obscene jokes about them at the docks and on the ships. ‘I like to clear up the messes I make.’
He didn’t move away from her as she expected, but continued to look at her with a hooded glance which sent her heart racing and made her knees weak.
‘Truly I do.’ She hated how her breath caught and made her voice sound as if she’d just negotiated a particularly difficult section of the blockade. ‘Allow me to show you that I can do something besides fight.’
Capturing her wrists, he lightly held her arms above her head. He searched her face before rubbing his other thumb along her lips. Heat radiated outwards from her mouth.
‘Go to bed,’ he commanded. ‘They will not disappear in the night.’
Her glance shot towards the mountain of furs, the thing she had been avoiding looking at. She had to hope that it would be over quickly and wouldn’t hurt too much. Her stepmother had taken great delight in detailing how much men could hurt a woman and how she must lie back and take it. And how disgusted he would be at the scars on her back. It had been one of the reasons she fought so hard in the early days. ‘Bed? With you? Is that an order?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll sleep on the floor.’
‘On the floor?’ Her heart leapt and then plummeted. Both Auda and Blodvin were certain to ask about the wedding night. They would want the intimate details. She’d have to confess that her groom preferred the hard floor to sharing a bed with her. She regarded the mound of furs, rather than look in his pitying eyes. Silently she cursed her wayward mind. ‘Why?’
‘My muscles ache from our fight, Shield Maiden. Yours must as well.’ He gave a husky laugh. ‘I want to ensure you are properly welcomed into this marriage of ours. And while my mind might be willing, my flesh most decidedly isn’t. It is that simple. The ground feels softer than a feather bed when you are exhausted.’
Sayrid tucked her chin into her neck and pretended to examine the tafl pieces. Of course his body ached. He had fought just as hard as she had.
‘I’ll take the floor. You won the bout. You should have the pleasant sleep. I’ve slept on rough ground before,’ she said decisively. ‘I’m used to it. As you said—I’m so tired I won’t notice the difference.’
A muscle jumped in his cheek. ‘My bride’s comfort comes before mine. What sort of arrogant men did your family produce?’
‘What does that have to do with anything? You take the bed if your muscles are in agony.’ She attempted a back stretch. Her muscles screamed. A small groan escaped her lips.
‘You are in pain as well.’
Her lips parted to deny it, but he grabbed her elbow.
‘You will find me a tolerant husband, Sayrid, but never lie to me, not about something as important as your health.’
She wrenched her arm away. ‘You are guessing.’
‘You move like a warrior who has fought too many battles. Do I have to strip the remains of that dress from you to discover where you are hurt?’
Sayrid blinked twice, trying to rid her mind of the image of him running his hands down her body. All would be well until he discovered her scars. She had to keep her undershift on. ‘You noticed? Nobody ever notices. The skalds have it that I’m impervious to pain.’
‘Sagas seldom tell the truth.’
