It doesn't feel very fair of me to take the bed again," Árdís protested, as Haakon rolled out the bedroll that night.

"Are you offering to take the watch and doze in my cloak?" he muttered.

His wife looked at the fire, and the cloak he'd been wearing. Dark shadows dwelled under her eyes. She took a crippled step toward the cloak, and then slowly dragged it over her shoulders. "I can sleep here tonight," she said, moving with slow, careful steps as she aimed for the boulder he'd been planning to rest his back against.

His eyes narrowed. Every time they'd dismounted today, she'd hobbled. He knew she wasn't used to the saddle, especially perched so precariously behind him, but she hadn't breathed a word of protest. Instead, she'd merely rested her forehead against his back, and held onto his waist, growing quieter with every mile.

Quiet was not a natural state of Árdís's.

Her silence infected him too, leaving him lost in the thought that she'd never taken another man to bed. Dreki males had thrown themselves at her feet, but she'd never been tempted.

"You've ruined me for all other men."

It had been said laughingly, but there'd been a hint of truth there too.

He didn't know what to think. Rage had been smoldering within him ever since Rurik told him the truth. All he'd wanted to do for the past month or two was smash things, and demand answers.

What he hadn't expected was for those answers to raise more questions.

Árdís might have revealed a hint of her reasoning, but he was fairly certain she hadn't told him everything. He could practically see the iceberg floating in front of him, barely the tip revealed. There was a depth of secrets between them that he didn't like.

And yet the anger was softened, the edges of it dulled by the knowledge he wasn't the only one hurting here.

He'd always been a careful man. A hunter who followed the near-invisible tracks of his quarry. And anger had blinded him, for there were signs here that something wasn't quite as it seemed.

"Take the bed," he said, tugging the blankets open for her. "I'm used to hard travel. You're not."

"No." She tried to drag his heavy cloak around her shoulders, and he fought the urge to help her. "I'm not even that tired."

"Árdís, stop being bloody stubborn."

"I will as soon as you do," she snapped back. "I'm not weak. I can handle this body. And you barely slept last night."

Starting toward her, he stopped when she tried to hobble around the fire to avoid him.

"Lie down," he said. "You need the rest more than I do. You have several more days in the saddle ahead of you."

The look on her face said it all.

"I'm fine," she insisted, but it lacked her earlier adamancy. "You've been taking all of the watches, and doing most of the work. It's your turn to sleep. I'm not just some pampered princess."

It wasn't as though he'd forgotten how stubborn she was, but the years apart had dulled the frustration. Árdís could give a mule lessons in obstinacy. Years ago he'd argued against her, their wills clashing in a storm of passion, but he was a different man now. Not a young man who'd never left his village, his days sorted into a routine of monotony, but a man who'd challenged the seas, and the storms, and the beasts themselves. A man who no longer simply met each challenge headlong, but one who sidestepped it, outthought it.

He stared at her.

She stared back.

Haakon's eyes narrowed with slow determination. "Fine."

The second she relaxed he made a sudden grab for her, and swung her up over his shoulder. One hand clamped firmly on her backside, he turned and strode toward the bedroll.

She was tired. She was sore. She was stubborn.

There was more than one way to deal with this.

Árdís yelped, kicking him in the gut. "Put me down, you big oaf!"

He stroked his hand over her bottom, and she sucked in a startled breath. Haakon smiled to himself. Revenge against her earlier entreaties on the horse. "You're not going to win this argument, so you might as well simply concede."

"Concede?"

"Yes, concede." He dumped her down onto the bedroll, one of his knees trapping her skirts to the ground, as he followed her. "You have heard of the word, have you not?"

Árdís lay flat on her back, staring up at him with her mouth agape. Haakon pinned her there, hands on her wrists, and just like that they were seven years into the past. This could have been any night during their marriage. Argument ringing in his ears, even as blood raged through his erection. He wanted inside her. Now.

Old habits died hard. If this was seven years ago, then he would have simply fused his mouth to hers and kissed her. Dragged her skirts up, as he settled between her hips.

He did not.

Amber eyes narrowed in glorious fury. "While I have heard of the word, I have simply chosen to strike it from my vocabulary."

"You would."

"Dreki do not concede. We fight until the bitter end."

Haakon lowered himself, until their faces were barely an inch apart. Some part of him was enjoying this. "You're not going to win this fight."

"You sound so certain." Her voice roughened.

His thumbs stroked against the inside of her wrists. "Should I not be?"

Uncertainty sat like a foreign object on her expression. For all her bravado, she seemed to hesitate, and that gave him pause. Árdís had been a virgin before their marriage, but her manner had always been unabashedly sexual. She'd pursued him with such fervor it had been all he could do to deny his base instincts as he courted her.

But here, now, he saw a hint of vulnerability in her eyes he'd never seen before.

She cleared her throat, and the faint flickering smile that stole over her lips was nothing more than an act, he was certain of it. "Do you mean to share the bedroll then?"

Haakon's lashes lowered. "No." There were limits to what he could tolerate.

"Then this is a game?"

It felt like something was lodged in his throat. Flirting with her last night had been a test, one that opened Pandora's Box, for she'd had no compunctions in returning the favor today. Yet, the look in her eyes spoke to him as she searched his gaze, trying to work out his intentions.

It said; please touch me.

And yet, it also said; please don't hurt me.

He'd been so lost in his own anger that he hadn't noticed until now, that perhaps he wasn't the only one hurting. The realization left him slightly breathless, and changed the aim of this encounter.

Haakon pushed to his knees, giving her some space. "Roll over."

An arched eyebrow met this request.

"Just roll over," he said gruffly, grabbing her by the hips and turning her.

"What are you up to?" She pressed her hands flat to the bedroll, and craned her neck so she could see what he was doing.

He paused, resting on his knuckles above her. The pose was incredibly tempting. He'd taken her like this, many a time.

But this was not about sex.

Nor was it about revenge.

This was about discovering what was real.

"Here," he muttered, dragging her skirts up her legs. Mud flecked her stockings.

"What are you doing?"

"If I don't rub out some of the stiffness, you're barely going to be able to walk tomorrow, let alone sit on a horse."

He found the top of her woolen stockings and began to work them down her legs, trying not to think too hard about what his hands were doing. Árdís froze.

"It's not like I haven't seen it all before," he reminded her, hauling his pack closer and tugging open the tin of liniment he kept for the horses. Dabbing his fingers into the strong-scented mix, he warmed it between his palms, before setting them on her calves.

"Yes, but...." She made a choking sound deep in her throat as he skated the flats of his palms up the back of her legs, pausing just above her knees. "Oh."

Soft breathy gasps proved to be torture. She'd sound like that as he fucked his way into her, her head thrown back, and.... No.

He needed to focus.

Árdís groaned, pressing her cheek into the bedroll. "If I'd known this was what you intended, I wouldn't have argued."

"You can't help yourself."

She laughed, and that too was pure torture. He loved the sound of her laughter.

Haakon twitched her skirts higher. The simple fact of the matter was that her calves were not the part of her that was aching. Running his palms over the backs of her knees, he quested higher, each movement a little slower, as if it asked a question.

Árdís's entire body melted beneath his touch.

He pushed into the soft muscle at the back of her thighs with his thumbs. Árdís moaned, her fingers curling into the blankets. If there'd been even a hint of sexual pleasure in the sound, he might have been unable to resist, but the sound was pure surrender. Begging of a different kind.

"Sweet goddess," she breathed, turning pliant and helpless beneath him. "You don't know how good that feels."

Haakon kneaded tender muscles, rolling his knuckles across her bottom as he teased out every ache and pain. Then clasping one thigh in both hands and stroking his thumbs and fingers up her soft skin. Árdís lay undone beneath him, making soft helpless noises.

Fuck.

His thumbs skated up the inside of her thighs and she flinched, as if it hurt there the most. Warm molten skin shivered beneath his palms, and he pictured his thumbs sliding up, up, into the shadowy depths of her inner thighs. She'd be wet there. And her legs would part, just another inch or two, if he dared do it.

But this wasn't the first time he'd denied his own pleasure when it came to getting what he wanted from her.

Haakon slowly dragged his fingertips down her bare thighs, before he bowed his head, and stopped touching her.

Breathing hard, he rested over her on all fours, his knuckles pressing into the blankets on either side of her skirts. Firelight glimmered on the bare skin of her legs. He wanted to grab her by the hips and drag her up onto her hands and knees.

Or bury his face between her thighs, and lick his way up.

The thought wrapped velvet hands around his cock, a flush of heat spreading through his balls. Seven years without the touch of a woman. Seven years without her touch.

He was only a man.

"Why are you stopping?" she whispered.

Because I'm about to lose my mind.

Or all sense of control.

Somehow he reared up onto his knees, and climbed to his feet. "Because we're done here."

Even he heard the gruff tone of his voice.

Árdís rolled over onto her bottom, her skirts rucked around her thighs as she stared up at him. Firelight picked out the golden streaks through her hair, and flickered in her amber eyes. Her lips were flushed and full. Slightly parted. The press of her nipples against her dress drew his eye, but he forced himself to look away, wiping his hands clean on an old rag. Trying to think of something else—anything else—other than the feel of her skin beneath his palms.

"Thank you," Árdís said very softly.

"You're welcome," he muttered, dragging his cloak around him, and discreetly rearranging his cock.

"Where are you going?" Árdís demanded, rolling onto her side.

He'd never wanted to touch anything in his life more than he wanted to touch her in that moment.

"For a walk," he said, and turned into the darkness of the night, staggering blindly as his eyesight adjusted.

And hopefully a cool swim.

There had to be some water fresh off the glacier around here somewhere.

"Get some sleep," he called.

This time she didn't deny him.

It seemed there was more than one way to win an argument.