Page 6 of Lord of Fire and Ice

“You want me.”

“Go to sleep, son of Ulf.” Katla threw the pelt and blanket at him.

“Willingly.” He’d spread the wolf skin and was already lying prone across the threshold before she climbed into her bed. “I live to serve, O Northern Moon of Beauty.”

“Moon of Beauty?” She wouldn’t have thought him much of a poet, but his words pleased her more than she wanted to admit. Her husband’s tongue hadn’t exactly dripped silver. “Why do you call me that?”

His eyes drifted closed. “In the South, servants habitually praise their masters with exalted titles. Of course, usually it’s a backhanded swipe. A weakling will be named a ‘Tower of Strength.’ A portly matron will hear herself called ‘Delicate Flower of Delights,’ like as not. They don’t seem to be clever enough to realize their servants are insulting them with ill-fitting praise names.”

“So when you name me a moon of beauty, you’re really saying—”

“Good night, Katla.”

The infuriating man was asleep between one breath and the next. Her lamp guttered and went dark, as though an unseen hand had snuffed it out.

***

The cock crowed from the peak of the longhouse directly over her bed. His raucous screech cut through the overhead thatch and jerked Katla awake. Pearly light filtered through the open smoke hole, dust motes swirling in the unseen currents.

And unseen beneath her bedclothes, her night shift was rucked up to her waist. She still throbbed with unrelieved passion and more than a little embarrassment. If she slipped a hand between her legs, she knew she’d find herself damp.

Katla had been dreaming of the son of Ulf and what might happen if she gave him a chance to prove his boast about his bed skills. Though her dream was rousing, it was far from satisfying. Given a little more time, her body might have reached a peak in her sleep, but she was frustrated that the act in her dream was so one-sided. It was as if Brandr were performing a menial task, not making love with her.

All her life, Katla had wished for inn matki munr, the mighty passion. More intense than any other emotion, deeper than the North Sea, stronger even than death, it was said that those who find it were bound so tightly, they even share the same thoughts.

Early in her marriage to Osvald, he’d shown her bed sport that made her skin riot in pleasure. But after the month of their honeymoon, Osvald hadn’t spent much time on love play. His main goal was an heir. In truth, there were times when Katla felt more like a sexual receptacle than his wife.

Perhaps if Osvald had lived longer, or if she’d been able to conceive, they’d have discovered inn matki munr, but now she had little hope she’d experience the bonding that knit two souls together.

Clearly, taking a bed slave was not the path to the mighty passion. It wasn’t even as good a choice as taking a lover, if her disappointing dream held any truth.

Katla gave herself a mental shake. Plenty of people lived full, productive lives without knowing that deep blending of spirits. She had too much to do and too many depending upon her to waste time mourning over what she didn’t have.

And probably would never have.

She decided to ignore the hollow ache in her chest. It was a selfish wish anyway. Wanting to be loved would not feed her people. It wouldn’t see them warm come winter.

Or fill the empty cradle in the corner.

She swiped away the weak tears that trembled on her lids, sat up, and peered over the end of her bed. Brandr Ulfson was still asleep on his pallet. If she was quick and quiet, she could dress for her busy day before he woke. She stole out of bed and opened her cedar-lined trunk.

***

Brandr had always been a light sleeper. During his service in Byzantium, he further honed his ability to be instantly awake at the first audible change in his surroundings. It was a matter of survival. The skill was the difference between avoiding an assassin’s blade or waking up in Hel.

So when the trunk lid creaked, he was aware Katla was up, but he didn’t betray himself by opening his eyes. Instead he peered from under his lashes to take stock of his situation.

She was laying out her dress and tunic for the day. She bent over and, in one smooth motion, pulled her night shift over her head, baring her body completely.

The women of the South had come in a myriad of hues—dusky olive, warm cinnamon, black as jet, and milky white. The wellborn ones even used a concoction of alum to further lighten their skin and make it shine brightly. Regardless of color, they were all exotically lovely.

But none could match the glowing alabaster of Katla’s skin for pure radiance. And without a single dollop of cosmetic enhancement.

Last night, he’d caught a glimpse of her delectable curves when he held her upside down. That had been a fair treat. But right side up, she was magnificent. Her breasts were high and full. Her waist was pleasingly narrow compared to her hips. And her heart-shaped bottom was perfection.

Since Katla’s hair was so dark, he guessed her mother must have been a Gaul. Northmen had been bringing dark-haired women back from the coasts of Europe for several generations. Brandr’s father always said the women should be glad to come, since the men in their lands obviously weren’t strong enough to protect them.

What a man has, he must hold. He must defend what’s his; else he deserves to lose it.