“And you are distracting,” she huffed.
“Only for you.”
His thumb circled the jut of her hip, making sparks zip in her fingertips. And for once, she didn’t resent the feeling of pressure humming under her skin.
Dozens of flickering oil lamps illuminated the walls, while a massive hearth roared in the center. Njáll carefully maneuvered her through the throng, dipping his chin as others raised their ale in salute as they passed.
Tankards clattered on the wooden tables. Drums and music blended with the low, guttural hum of thick Norse murmurings.
Unconsciously, she shifted closer, tucking herself into the protective crook of his body, inhaling his distinct scent.
With so many eyes on her and so many words she didn’t understand, it made her skin prickle.
However, that uneasy feeling couldn’t stop the grin making her eyes crinkle. The joyous shouts, the music, the drunken mumblings—it all reminded her of family. Belonging. Celebrations shared among friends.
The pad of his thumb rubbed a spot at the base of her spine. Heat chased his touch, and her body wriggled at the delicious sensation. His nose traced the hinge of her jaw, making her knees buckle.
A grin grew against her cheek as he held her upright.
“Demon,” she nearly moaned, her tongue pressing against the tips of her teeth.
“Your demon.”
Mine.
She liked that.
A little too much.
“You will be seated with Bjorn and his family,” Njáll said, steering her to a table on the right on the raised dais.
“Bjorn. Son of Amund,” she parroted, one side of her mouth lifting.
“Yes. It is a place of honor, to be seated with Konungr’s sister and former Jarl. Bjorn, not so much.” Elara snorted. “But the Konungr’s sister is kind. You will be most welcome. I will be at the high table.”
Elara found herself seated between a woman with soft eyes and Bjorn. Njáll shot daggers at him, murmuring something in Norse that made the other man smirk.
“I will come to you later,” Njáll said, kissing the top of her head.
Sweat trickled off her brow. His ass flexed in his tight trews, his body toned and taut to perfection. Elara would honor Freyja for an eternity for steering her towards someone like Njáll.
Even if he were a bit stubborn.
Njáll dipped his chin in respect to the Konungr and Dróttning—his parents—as he lowered himself into the seat beside the Konungr. Astra sat next to her mother, with her betrothed on the opposite side of her.
The sight of them all together was a formidable one. Astra had her mother’s curls, but was her father’s daughter. Njáll inherited his father’s sharp features, but his mother’s hair and eyes.
“Hello,” a tinkling voice murmured.
Wide-eyed, Elara turned to face the petite woman draped in furs beside her.
“You speak English?”
“Yes. I am Astrid. Both me and my bóndi. Husband.” Long blonde hair flowed over her slender shoulders as she spun to face the imposing man beside her. Gazing up at him, she pressed a reverent kiss to his greying beard. “Amund. Jarl before Njáll came of age.”
Grunting, Amund tilted his head in greeting.
The loud din in the hall slowly quieted when the Konungr stood. Elara shifted, fingers closing around the berry wine placed in front of her. A deep, booming voice carried across the beams sprawled along the ceiling.
