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Where was the Jarl when it came time to put crops in the ground? When it came time to find a wife, and put his roots into the ground? No, he was only useful at the helm of a longship, during the raiding season. No one had any illusions about that, not even Gunnar, but when was it going to be enough?
The sun had started to peek over the horizon, and with it the rest of the party had started to stir. It was time to get to work, then. They couldn't move until the end of the next day, and that gave the English plenty of time to stumble onto their little hideaway.
It didn't take a genius to figure out what would happen then, with half their party wounded and the other half exhausted and mostly-starved. Someone had to make sure that nobody got too close. He was tired, to be sure, but it didn't account for nearly so much of a problem as it must have for some others.
"Valdemar," he called out, already strappin
g the stolen sword-belt back around his waist. "Someone needs to go keep an eye out for English soldiers. I'll take the first round."
Valdemar didn't argue. In fact, he didn't much respond. He turned at the suggestion, and then nodded, turning back to the man before him. One of the ones with a bad cut, one that looked to have crippled his arm. Hopefully for everyone, it wasn't going to be a permanent affliction.
He would need food, he knew. A long day out, in the sun, and he'd have to move quickly and carefully. He would be tired before noontime, and he had no guarantee that he could be back by then. The layout of the countryside was as unfamiliar as it ever had been, but roaming too close to the camp would risk giving away its location.
Water for the day, which he noted no one had. They would need to find a supply of fresh water, and quickly, or those men would have a good deal of trouble healing from their wounds. Regardless, he added to himself, if he found someone who could heal them.
He tried not to think of who that person might be. It would only distract him from the range of possibilities. But he couldn't deny that the idea of finding Deirdre had entered into the equation. If he went out and there were no English patrols ranging out towards their camp, then that would be enough.
If they were, then he would deal with them. He put his hand on the handle of the stolen sword as if to reinforce the point, if only to himself. He started out. North, then looping around toward the city, then back and coming into camp from the south. It would give him plenty of time to see if there were anyone, and time to think.
If he didn't run into her, then it wouldn't be a problem. He was doing this for the group, because it was the right decision to make. If he happened to come across her, then that would be perfectly fine. But he wasn't going to force anything, and he wouldn't divert himself to find her.
There was nothing to see the first mile. He started to arc west, the city looming large on the horizon. It was only a few short miles. He could make it if he ran. Even closer, he could see haystacks dotting the landscape. Clearly there were farms, though how far out they ranged he couldn't say to a certainty. Still, he didn't run. Just kept walking, right hand resting on the round pommel of the blade at his hip.
Another mile, and he turned again. A line of fences, loosely held together to contain pigs. He could hear men, from a great distance, but they were no particular threat. Gunnar stayed out of their way and stayed out of their line of vision. A much closer noise drew his attention. It was faint, but unmistakable. Someone was here, and they were hiding from him.
He drew the sword, holding it down but ready to jump into action at any moment. As soon as danger arose, his hand would move. He stood still, taking in the surroundings. The fences were too small to hide behind, obscured nothing. He was behind a small stone wall, and across the road, beaten smooth by thousands of feet, was a short, squat shack made from wood.
Too small for a house, he reasoned, so it wasn't a resident. Someone was there, and he had to investigate. Particularly if it was someone who was sneaking, same as he was. They were afraid of what might happen if they were caught, and he was the only one who might catch anyone who would hide.
Careful to remain silent, he lifted himself one leg at a time over the wall and then moved quickly across the road. Whoever had been here, they hadn't moved. He had been listening as carefully as he had ever listened, and not one tiny rustle of straw on grass had met his ears. He turned before he went 'round the corner, his blade still out and at the ready.
Gunnar's hands automatically started it moving, preparing to deal the killing blow to whoever he found there. A bright shock of red hair stopped him.
"Deirdre?"
She looked up at him, confused for a moment, until realization dawned on her face who had found her. She looked tired, and looked as panicked as he could imagine that she must have been. Even as he stopped himself, lowering the weapon and turning to make sure no one was watching, he felt himself worrying about what had happened to her.
"Gunnar," she said softly. He turned to see what she wanted to say, and then she dove headlong into him, sending him to the ground and sending the sword clattering uselessly beside them.
Thirty-Five
Deirdre didn't feel them hit the ground. The relief had been so palpable that she'd thrown herself straight into his arms without a second thought, without even considering that he might not have expected it, and when they'd fallen to the ground it didn't matter because she was finally with him again.
Her lips found his, the feeling of their bodies pressed together only driving her on further, her body moving almost on its own.
After a moment he seemed to realize what was happening and started to kiss back, his hands lacing through her hair and pulling her in close, hoping to continue their kissing and lush it further. Her lips spread to allow his invading tongue, and she allowed herself to enjoy his kisses for a moment before coming up for air.
"I missed you," she said softly. It didn't feel as if she was being honest, as if she were leaving something out. She noticed as she sat up that she was straddling him, and noticed the hardness between them. Her hips ground against it lightly on their own, and she enjoyed the look that crossed his face, a mix between pleasure and frustration.
"I was looking for you," he answered, trying to sit up under her, but she pushed him back to the ground. She pressed her lips into his neck, tracing the line of his law, and just under it in the soft tissue of his throat.
His hands reached to cup her bottom, pressing her against him, driving home the feeling of his hardness pressed against her, only a few pieces of fabric separating them. She wanted them off, wanted to feel him moving inside her again. She fought the urge to tell him so, because more than that, she wanted this moment to last forever.
"Gods above," he breathed, his hips rocking into hers, sending shivers of pleasure up her spine even through their clothing. The feeling that he was holding himself back for her drove her crazy.
She wanted him, and she wanted him to take what he wanted from her. It seemed strange for the soldier, the man who had taken so much from so many, to be afraid to take the one thing she wanted to give to him.
She pulled back, sitting back against his thighs, and started to unbutton her dress, letting it slip forward a bit to show enough skin to suggest exactly what she wanted without giving away the entire show. Would that be enough to entice him, she wondered?
