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“Look,” he said softly, forcing her to lean closer to hear him. She followed the movement of his finger as he swept it across a swirl of tendrils and vines, and rested it lightly, almost affectionately, on one of the cleverly wrought little creatures.
“’Tis a face,” Rose said matter-of-factly, trying to break the sense of intimacy he had created.
“That is the hero Sigurd. He learned to speak to the birds. See, they are all about him.” He smiled at her surprise.
“I see them.” Had she noticed the myriad of winged creatures hiding among the foliage before? Probably, but she had not known their significance until now, until Gunnar Olafson explained it to her.
He pointed again, his finger steady, his touch on the wood gentle despite the many scars upon his hand. How could a man who lived such a brutal life be so gentle? And was he scarred all over? The picture rose in her mind, taking what little composure she had managed to gain. Gunnar, his body bronzed and gleaming, wearing only a smile. She had only ever seen Edric naked, but then she had not allowed her eyes to linger, had no wish to. She had seen enough of Gunnar that day in the bailey to know he would be different, young and handsome. A man like no other.
Rose held herself stiff and still; she prayed for the strength to be indifferent.
“And there is Idun, with her apple tree,” he said, his voice warm with humor, evidently oblivious to Rose’s difficulties. “If you eat the apples, so say my Viking ancestors, you can never grow old.”
Idun had long tresses of hair, they twisted about the trunk of the apple tree and through the branches as if she were a part of it. There was something wanton in her smile, as she held out her apple and offered eternal life.
Touch him. Go on. Take his hand and lead him up the stairs to your solar. To your bed. Make him yours before someone else does. Before you are forced to leave Somerford and wed another. You may never have another chance. Is that what you want? To forever dream of what might have been? Is Gunnar Olafson to become another of your ghostly warriors, no more than a wisp of smoke in your arms? This man here is warm and real—a real warrior. Take the chance!
The voice had filled her head so loudly, Rose was certain Gunnar must have heard it. But no, he was pointing to the back of the chair now, saying, “And look, this is Yggdrasil, the largest of all trees. Its branches reach the heavens, and they are heavy with the dead.”
The dead? Blinking in shocked surprise, Rose moved even nearer to him, looking where he indicated. ’Twas true. The leaves and branches had been carved beautifully, and yet among them were the unmistakable shapes of hanged men.
She shivered. “Why have I never noticed this before? I do not understand. This chair is from Wales! Are the Welsh legends not different from the Vikings?”
“This is no Welsh chair, lady. These are Norse gods. I know them well.” His eyes were warm and intimate, as if they were much more than lady and mercenary. He was so close, his breath touched her, she felt the heat of his body. Shakily, Rose reached out a hand to grasp the back of the chair, her legs on the verge of crumpling.
“Oh,” was all she managed in reply.
He moved closer again, and now his shoulder brushed against her. The tingle ran down her arm into her fingers. Was that intentional? Was he seducing her? And yet he didn’t appear to notice.
“See here? This is Freyja, the goddess of love. Of lust. Of desire.” He was looking directly at her now—she could feel his gaze on her cheek as if he were touching her skin. Rose dared not turn her head, afraid he would see what she knew was in her eyes. “Do you see there? She is with one of her lovers.” His voice was a warm murmur, the sound rippling through her like a warm ocean, and just the timbre of it made her breasts ache.
God help her, she wanted his mouth on them. She wanted his hands holding her, stroking her, setting her free like one of Sigurd’s birds, high above Yggdrasil and the clouds. Far away from all that kept her weighed down here, at Somerford Manor.
She didn’t want to look where his finger was touching, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Rose turned and stared at the little carving. Legs and arms intertwined, the rounded curve of a plump breast, a smooth thigh, long snakelike hair whipping about bare torsos. It was simply done, and yet incredibly erotic.
Rose took a small sharp breath and wondered if her face was as heated as it felt. She folded her hands tightly together in case she was tempted to reach out and touch Freyja and her fortunate mate.
“And there, lady,” that wicked voice continued, “is the goddess Freyja’s mortal lover, Ottar, before she turned him into a bull.”
This time Rose stared without blinking, shocked into silence. It was as if she were seeing the carvings for the first time, and in a way she was. She had always thought them strange and wondrous, but now she realized they were also extremely sensual. Pagan. No wonder the old Somerford priest had looked at them askance.
Her eyes focused on Ottar, where Gunnar pointed now, and she understood clearly why it was Freyja had favored him. He was carved in profile, tall and strong, his hair long at his back, and between his legs…Rose doubted that was a spear he was holding in his hand.
“Jesu!” she gasped, and squeezed her eyes tight shut.
Gunnar laughed, as if he were genuinely amused and delighted with her. He rose to his feet and stood half behind her, blocking any chance of escape. Rose felt flushed and crowded—she desperately needed to move away from him, and yet she was unable to move without touching him. And she was afraid that if she accidentally brushed against him she would fling herself into his arms and beg him to…
Take this chance, it may be your last!
Her heart was thundering in her breast. Last night he had held her in his arms and she had reveled in what he did to her. Rose could not deny those brief moments were filled with an intensity she had never experienced before. But it had not been enough—she could admit it now. She wanted him to take her as a man took a woman, to lie with her as Freyja was lying with her Ottar. And the voice was right. This might be her last opportunity to be with a man she found attractive.
Who knew what corner of hell the future might find her in?
Gunnar had moved in, bending over her, and now his breath stirred against her throat, the sensitive flesh reacting, prickling, making her shudder. Rose had to grip the chair back with both hands.
“You seem likely to fly to pieces, lady.” His voice was as soft as a caress. “Do I frighten you so much? Or is it yourself you are afraid of?”
She was no weakling. It would never do for Gunnar Olafson to believe the way to power lay through sharing her bed. Until Radulf removed her, she was lady there, and any order she gave he must obey. Somehow Rose forced her chin up, turning stiffly to face him despite his proximity. “You are mistaken,” she managed, although her voice shook. “I am not afraid of you.”
