One day he’d find a mate, a partner who would make the duty on his shoulders lighter, and when he found her, he must never let her go.
Granted, he’d said nothing of stealing the girl or how she’d hate him for it and spit at his feet. But nothing in life worth having ever came easily.
Njáll growled, running his fingers through his hair. A snarl hissed through his teeth; his eyes closed as his head fell back.
No, he felt nothing for her. Nothing beyond appreciation for her full breasts and lush curves.
This would not break him. Would not break a jarl. Njáll was stronger than whatever magic his little flame wove against him.
His.
The veins in his hands pulsed; his jaw clenched hard enough to bend steel.
Odin, help me, release me from this pretty tormentor.
She rested for much of the last two days, sleeping away the persistent nausea leeching the pink blush from her cheeks. Even with his mother’s draught, the rolling in her stomach failed to cease fully.
It was a mercy—her exhaustion—for it meant fewer opportunities for those verdant eyes to assess him.
His little flame had the heart of a goddess and the will of a mountain.
Damn her.
He grunted again, frustrated by whatever power she charmed him with.
Thoughts drifted to home as he stared out at the horizon, needing to feel the familiar dirt under his feet.
They would make landfall the next day. The worries plaguing him tightened in his belly, bubbling all the way up his throat. When they returned, he’d arrive victorious to the clan and his Konungr.
A warrior he respected, and a title he one day hoped to hold. How did he explain the girl captivated him, and he wished to stay close to her? To the Konungr, she’d be merely a tool to assist in the defense of their clan.
The thought of her being diminished to something so simple made his mouth turn dry. The tendons in his neck throbbed, his jaw clenched.
Njáll might be a jarl, but the title meant little to their Konungr. Njáll served as his blade, and as such, was expected to submit to his Konungr and the will of the gods. What he desired mattered not.
The safety of the clan depended on it.
Despite that, Njáll had never felt the want for anything more than the blood-haired beauty warming his furs.
Coarse hair prickled his fingertips as Njáll scrubbed a hand over his beard.
Dark clouds rolled in over the open water. Njáll imagined the knowing silver stare of the Konungr, its heavy weight already making his shoulders slump. There would be no hiding his affection for the girl once they arrived.
And yet, he’d risk it all for the girl whose hate he wore like a shroud.
Footsteps lumbered nearby as a humid chill settled around the ship, making a foggy mist cloud their path. Men kept their distance from their jarl after he’d struck Bjorn, fearing what he’d do to them after attacking his own kin.
An eerie stillness rippled over the water’s surface. The cool metal clasp securing his fur to his chest slid under his thumb and forefinger as he worried the engraved wolf.
Erik’s booming voice cut through the slicing breeze, growing with each gust of wind. His warriors anchored themselves to the deck with leather belts, hands clenched around their oars. Njáll walked the perimeter of the ship, checking the braces.
His thumb bounced over the pockmarks in the wood, unmoving as the ship rocked against the waves.
Sheets of rain poured from the sky. It lathed over him, washing away the dust from his sun-pinked skin.
Sighing, his head fell back, braids dripping down his back as water soaked his furs. There was something serene in a storm, the strength of it stilling his racing mind.
He whispered a prayer to Freyja to guide his steps.
