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He rolled over her, putting his hand down on her chest, low enough to avoid choking. He could feel the pleasant softness, but he wasn't in a position to enjoy the feeling. He glowered at her. "Don't run, Witch."
"Let me go! Let me go back to my cottage," she shouted. Gunnar considered the request for a moment, but didn't move his weight from her.
"I can not. You know this."
"What if your so-called 'curse' can't be lifted? Have you thought of that?"
"You want to go," he said, pausing to hear her answer. Both of them knew it was a question, even if he hadn't spoken it as such.
"Yes, I want to go, you brute!"
"Cure me. When I take a wound that does not heal itself as I stand, you'll have your freedom."
She looked at him with those eyes, the anger inside built up to a fever pitch. Yet, he could see that she knew there was nothing she could do. With a three-hundred pace advantage on him he'd caught her easily, and even if she stabbed him with her stolen knife she would do nothing.
Both of them knew it.
So he lifted off, silently thankful that he no longer had to deal with the subtle temptation of her soft, womanly flesh. She wouldn't invite him, couldn't invite him, but it certainly did not mean that he was unaware of her. That much, he was sure of.
He tried to gulp down breath.
"I swear it, on anything you choose to name. When I stay injured, you are free to go to wherever you like." He held a hand out to her. "Have we an agreement?"
"And what about your men? How do I know that they'll keep your word?"
"They are my men. They will do as I say. You will be left alone, with enough food to keep you for a three-day journey. That should get you to the nearest town."
"I will need herbs. I can't do anything without medicines and herbs to do my magic."
"Can you get them here?"
"In the forest?" She seemed to think about it, then nodded and then took his hand and let him pull her up.
"Agreed."
"I am Gunnar," he said finally, following her as she started to walk through the forest.
"Deirdre," she called back.
Gunnar watched her bend down to examine a flower, trying not to smile. Trying not to think about the image of her on her back. Trying not to think of what it would look like if perhaps her clothes had been just a little more torn, and what she looked like underneath them.
But whether he liked it or not, the thoughts managed to niggle their way into his mind, a constant thorn in his side as he remembered that as soon as she had his solution she would be gone.
There was nothing to be done, he reminded himself. As soon as she had fulfilled her end of the bargain, she would go. There was no time for romance, as he had tried to remind himself more than once over the past days. No time at all.
The words sounded hollow in his mind. There was no time, that much was true. But that didn't change how a man felt, on the inside. It was going to be a long night.
Six
Deirdre hid the bundle of herbs as soon as she heard someone coming. She hoped that they wouldn't be taken from her; after all, they were only herbs. But that was no guarantee of anything, not even Gunnar's word was enough to make certain that she would be unmolested.
She didn't recognize the man who pulled back the wagon cover and looked inside, but he recognized her. When he spoke she remembered, with a flash, that he had been the one staring at her, getting close to her. That he'd been beaten soundly by Gunnar.
"Witch, come with me," he said softly. He seemed to have a surprising hold on English, for a Northlander. Perhaps they spoke more of it than she realized.
When she didn't move, he reached in and grabbed her, pulling her bodily out of the wagon. If she screamed, Gunnar would come running. She knew that, somehow, instinctively. Even as she couldn't explain why she believed it, every bone in her body did. She kept silent, waiting to hear what he had to say.
He pulled her a little way away before speaking, his voice hushed to avoid anyone hearing. "I want to make you a trade."
