Chapter Six
The last thing Ella wanted to do was stroll in the forest with Ivar, searching for mistletoe, of all things. Ostensibly, the party was looking for enough dried twigs, boughs, and vines that could be used to produce the sun wheel that Bronwolf had originally proposed and would not have included her in the outing. However, once the Saxon soldier had mentioned gathering mistletoe, every maid working in the Great Hall had suddenly decided the men needed their help. As if the green clumps hanging from the bare branches of oaks weren’t easy enough to spot.
…with the understanding that you will remain by my side for all the festivities Evidently, Ivar considered this a festivity. Ella sighed as her boots crunched the dry grass beneath her feet.
Ivar gave her a sharp glance. “Your kinswomen seem to be enjoying looking for mistletoe much more than you are.”
She schooled her expression. It would do her no good if Ivar thought she detested him. Which she did. Her skin practically crawled anytime she got within reaching distance of him. Quite the opposite of her reaction to Bronwolf…her skin tingled and heated at his nearness. She felt herself blush as she remembered—vividly—how his hands had felt around her waist weeks ago. Keeping her eyes averted, she hoped Ivar would take her high color for maidenly modesty. He would only see her resistance as a challenge otherwise.
“I find the weather damp and chill this morning.” She drew her cloak closer to reinforce the words and hoped she sounded demure. “Traipsing about in the woods should be left to men.”
“It would hardly be fitting if a princess didn’t accompany her maids on such an excursion as this, would it?”
She was fairly certain he was being sarcastic, but she chose to ignore the tone, once again, keeping her tone amenable, even though it nearly choked her. “You are right, of course.”
Unfortunately, he was right in a way. Left completely un-chaperoned, the younger maids could easily get carried away with stolen-kiss mistletoe rituals and lose their virtue behind some shrubbery. Some of the older maids were probably willing to lift their skirts for the Viking men to gain future favors. Such display of debauchery she didn’t need.
“I am glad to see you are becoming biddable,” he answered.
Biddable. The word itself galled her. What she was doing was biding her time. Unfortunately, young Tamar had not been included in today’s venture. It might have given him an earlier opportunity to slip away to Aelle’s camp and not have to wait for the boar hunt. Still. If appearing biddable would lead to Ivar letting his guard down, then biddable she would be.
“You have made yourself quite clear on how I should behave.” He gave her an appraising look and Ella plastered a smile on her face. It wouldn’t do for him to think she was being derisive.
“See that you remember it.”
Her temper rose. Being reticent was not her strong suit. Biting her tongue to keep from retorting, she was distracted by shrill giggles. Ella looked in the direction of the sound and to the copse of oak trees nearby. She had a distinct urge to both laugh and cry at the sight. “It seems they’ve found the mistletoe.”
“So they have. We will join them in cutting—”
“Boar!”
The shout drew Ivar’s attention as several of his men dashed off in pursuit of the animal. Without another word, he drew his sword and raced after them.
Ella shook her head as she watched him go. None of the men were equipped with spears or bows for this outing. How they thought they might catch a wily creature like a boar with swords, she didn’t know. She sincerely hoped the animal would get away since she didn’t want the hunt in two days’ time to be canceled, but perhaps it would lead them on a merry chase until the remaining men could get the mistletoe down and they could return to the fort.
She turned back to the copse. Bronwolf stood near the trees, a striking figure in the leather hauberk clinging to his massive chest and tight-fitting braies defining well-muscled thighs. His bronze hair curled in the damp air against his broad shoulders and his eyes glinted silver under the grey sky. He made no effort to follow the party thrashing through the brush in pursuit of the boar. No doubt, he realized the futility of the endeavor. As if sensing her gaze, he turned slowly to look at her. For the first time since she’d awakened this morning, her smile was genuine as she walked toward him.
• ♥ •
Bronwolf watched the princess approach. He had spent the morning trailing behind her—for her protection, he told himself—and within earshot so he could hear the conversation…in order to interrupt if Ivar made some untoward suggestion and not to hear the melodious sound of Aethelthryth’s voice. The image of a forlorn puppy following its mistress drifted through his mind, and pushed it away.
“You decided not to give chase?” she asked.
He bit back a smile. She probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing that he was thinking of a different kind of chase altogether. One that involved catching her. “I doubt they’ll catch the boar by waving swords at it.”
That caused her smile to widen. “My thoughts exactly. I wonder how long it will take them to realize that.”
He allowed himself his own grin. “Probably not very long, but they’ll all be too full of pride to be the first to admit it was a fool’s chase.”
“Then let’s hope we can get the mistletoe cut and return to the fort before they turn around.”
So she didn’t want to spend time with Ivar once the mistletoe had come down. A strange emotion of elation filled him and thwarting Ivar’s intentions just expanded the feeling. He looked up to where two of the thralls they’d brought along were already up in the bare branches beginning to hack away.
“Perhaps we should circle the copse and look for more clumps, then?”
“That’s a good idea,” Aethelthryth said. “The sooner we get enough of them down, the sooner we can get out of this damp and cold.”
And away from Ivar. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t need to.
“In the Norse land, mistletoe berries are seen as a sign of rebirth,” he said as they began walking.
She looked up at him. “Rebirth? Are they tied to the sun returning to your country?”
“In a way. When Baldr was killed by an arrow poisoned with mistletoe berries, his mother Frigga—Odin’s wife—grieved for him, her tears falling on the red berries and turning them white. When she forced them into her son’s mouth, he came back to life,” Bronwolf said. “Very much like the sun rising again after the darkness.”
The princess nodded as they reached the other side of the copse. “Briton has its legend of mistletoe, as well.”
“Tell me.”
She took a breath and began. “The ancient Druids held a great ceremony on the sixth night after the Solstice’s new moon. The chief, wearing a white robe and using a golden sickle, would climb the sacred oak and cut the sprigs. The others would take care the mistletoe was caught in a white cloth and not touch the ground. Some tales tell of the sacrifice of two white bulls as well, but the berries were crushed to make an elixir that would cure infertility and the effects of poison.” Aethelthryth paused as a cluster broke loose from a branch and floated down. “So the story is not so far-fetched from your version… The berries are a sort of renewal.”
Bronwolf caught the bunch and held it up with a grin. “If there’s a druid lurking in these trees, perhaps he’ll reward me for not letting this hit the ground.”
The princess laughed. “Well, mistletoe is still considered to ward off evil and protect homes.”
“Hmmm.” His smile faded. “And anything else?”
She looked flustered as a blush spread across her cheeks. “I…I’m not sure what you mean.”
He gave her an intent look. “Aren’t you?”
Her eyes widened as she looked up to where he still held the clump. He moved it over her head. “I heard last night that it’s considered good luck to kiss a maiden under this.”
Her blush deepened as her gaze drifted to his face and then lingered on his mouth. The tip of her tongue slowly peeking out of her own was his undoing, and he lowered his lips to hers.
That first moment of touch was as though a lightning bolt had struck him. Pure pleasure coursed through his veins and made his groin tighten. His free arm encircled her waist, drawing her to him, while the hand that held the mistletoe lowered to cradle her nape, allowing him to angle her head better to deepen the kiss.
She made a soft, mewling sound low in her throat. He ran his tongue along the seam of her mouth, another surge of desire pulsing through him as she parted her lips to allow him entry. Her arms went around his neck and she pressed herself closer, the soft, rounded mounds of her breasts teasing his chest. He growled and crushed her to him, feeling the nipples harden into tight, little peaks. He rubbed her torso against him to increase the friction as their tongues battled for supremacy. She moaned into his mouth as her hips began instinctively to rock against him. He grounded himself against her belly, his tongue mimicking the thrusts his engorged manhood wanted to do. Her response was to clinger tighter and gyrate harder.
Maybe she wasn’t a huldra, but a Valkyrie—and this was Valhalla.
The sound of giggling maids and booted feet coming around the copse brought him to his senses. He tore his mouth away and stepped back as the first of the party came into sight. He glanced at Aethelthryth’s flushed face and puffy lips and stepped quickly in front of her to give her time to compose herself.
By Thor’s hammer! What had he done? Aethelthryth was a princess. Not only that, she was the daughter of King Aelle. And Bronwolf was no prince whom the Saxon king might forgive for taking such liberty. Nor would Ivar overlook the incident, especially after having warned Bronwolf off just days before. At least, no one had seen them.
But it must never happen again.
Even as he thought the words, Bronwolf knew they weren’t true. One kiss from Aethelthryth would never be enough.
• ♥ •
Lynet and Deira were the last two people Ella wanted to see the next morning as she went down to break her fast, but there they were. Bronwolf’s two lemans.
She had gotten little sleep last night as her mind relived—over and over and over—what had transpired in the woods yesterday. Never in her wildest dreams or fantasies had she ever thought a man could arouse such feelings in her. The first touch of his lips—warm, gentle but firm—was as heady as the strong drink the Scotti brewed. His velvet tongue plunging into her mouth was even more intoxicating. When his large, strong hands had pulled her against him, her breasts had grown heavy, her nipples pebbling to meet the sudden need she felt with delicious friction. Her blood had caught fire quicker than a flame to dry kindling. She feared her body might become a blazing inferno before logical thought left her.
Ella still wasn’t sure whether she should have cursed or thanked the giggling maids for interrupting them.
She eyed Lynet and Deira seated at a table in the small room off the kitchens where the servants normally took their meals. She should have gone to the Great Hall to break her fast, but she had not wanted to run into Ivar.
They had made it home yesterday before the “hunters” returned and she’d taken some bread and cheese to her bedchamber, pleading a headache from the day’s damp and cold to avoid going down to dinner. She was sure elation would have shown on her face.
Since she hadn’t been able to think of anything except the intimate encounter, she still felt the glow of the aftermath. A look in the polished tin confirmed it. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks shone a healthy pink, and her lips still seemed swollen. Ivar’s suspicions would be raised for sure.
To be truthful, she wasn’t sure she wanted to face Bronwolf yet, either. He had been cool and calm on the way home, as though nothing out of the ordinary—nothing out of the world as she knew it—had happened. And mayhap, for him, the experience had not been one of untold ecstasy. She had, after all, wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him first, like any wanton might do.
Wantons. How much more intimate knowledge of Bronwolf did Lynet and Deira have?
“Ella!” Lynet exclaimed and then let out a whoomph of air as Deira’s elbow poked hard into her ribs. “I mean, Aethelthryth!”
“We have not seen you in an age, Princess.” Deira lowered her voice. “How are you?”
The question was, how were they? Did she want to know? “I’m fine.” Then, before she could stop herself, she blurted, “How do you fare?”
“We are well,” Deira answered.
“Truly, there is no need for concern,” Lynet added.
No need for concern? What exactly did she mean by that? Bronwolf was their protector… A red haze swarmed in front of Ella’s eyes for a moment as jealousy reared its ugly head. She knew she shouldn’t ask, but apparently her rational self had fled along with her propriety. “Bronwolf treats you well?”
Lynet and Deira exchanged looks, then broke into large smiles.
“He treats us very well,” Lynet said. “Please do not worry.”
Worry. That was not the word she was thinking of right now. So, the rumors the other maids told must be true. Anytime someone tried to wheedle information out of Lynet or Deira about what kind of a lover Bronwolf was, they’d act coy and giggle and say he’d sworn them to secrecy about what took place behind closed doors.
Worry was definitely not the right word.
Ella had not had a chance to talk to either of them privately, since her guard always appeared out of nowhere whenever the two of them were in sight. She’d thought Bronwolf merely wanted to ensure she didn’t arrange another escape for them. Obviously, there was no need to attempt that now. Lynet and Deira seemed more than happy to remain sequestered in the chamber next to his.
And now, that she’d had even the slight taste of the pleasure he could give, Ella could see why.
She suddenly wasn’t hungry any more.