would be hindered by the snowfall.
Most everyone was asleep, or leastways abed. He could hear snoring, loud and soft, from all around. Not sleeping were those lucky enough to have someone to share their bed furs. Those sounds, too, he could hear.
He was ashamed of himself and embarrassed that a stranger—a thrall, no less—had pointed out the condition of his sister’s bedchamber. Because Liv hadn’t wanted any men coming into her presence, including him, he hadn’t made the effort to determine how his household was treating her. A mistake, one that would not occur again, considering the tongue-lashing he’d given to the lazy lot of them. Then he’d made them work for hours putting the bedchamber in a state befitting the sister of a high chieftain.
If that was not bad enough, the woman—a thrall, no matter what she claimed—had made more inroads with Liv than anyone since she’d been taken from Bear’s Lair. For that, he had to be thankful, but it was hard being thankful to a person who challenged him at every step, and more than that, gave insult. Igor, indeed!
Joy, she called herself. What a misnomer! More like Pain, her name should be. Pain in the arse. And, yea, one of the maids had reported that as being the selfsame way that the wench had described him to Liv.
Tossing back the remaining wine, he stood and walked across the hall and up the stairs. Sleep did not come easily for him. Too many night images haunted him. Usually he had to drink ’til he nigh fell over, but tonight the ale and wine had failed to numb him.
He passed the solar, the small room occupied by Arnora, his aunt by marriage, the three large sleep closets assigned to Tork, Arnis, and Erland, and started to go into his own bedchamber, then hesitated. Instead, he treaded softly down the rest of the corridor to Liv’s room. Easing the door open—thank the gods it had not been locked again—he peeked inside.
The air smelled fresh in here now. Floral. Ah, must be it was the lavender-scented soap his mother had favored. It was one of the few things the Sigurdssons had missed on their brutal raid.
Liv was sleeping peacefully, more like her old self with clean, plaited hair and a soft white night rail. She was cuddled up against the thrall, who wore similar night attire . . . Liv’s, no doubt. But, unlike Liv’s slim, almost boyish frame, Joy’s breasts and hips were clearly those of a woman grown. Her clean, red hair was no longer a wild, tangled bush, but sleek, flame-colored silk left loose to spread about the pillow. She snored softly through lips that were rose-hued and moist.
An immediate shock of a reaction hit below his belt, which surprised him. Erotic pulls this fierce had been rare in his life for years. Oh, he liked copulating good and well, but for the most part any reasonably attractive female would do, and when under the influence of the alehead and a darkened bedchamber, appearance mattered not a whit to even the most finicky Norseman. This was different. And he did not like it. Not one bit.
Liv made a snuffling sound in her sleep and rolled over and away from Joy, leaving the thrall practically hugging the edge of the mattress with space enough for another body betwixt them. Without thinking, he walked over, picked Joy up, and put a hand over her mouth, quickly moving out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. Pulling her tight against his chest, he inhaled her scent—lavender and sweet woman skin—then whispered against her ear, “Stop struggling. I am not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
She kicked up with her knee and almost clipped him in the chin.
He chuckled. The wench was e’er a combatant. Edging the door of his bedchamber open, then edging it closed, he noted that a candle had been lit, and there was a thin stream of moonlight coming into the chamber from the arrow slit window.
Quickly, he tossed her onto his bed furs, following after and over her, pinning her to the mattress. He put
Most everyone was asleep, or leastways abed. He could hear snoring, loud and soft, from all around. Not sleeping were those lucky enough to have someone to share their bed furs. Those sounds, too, he could hear.
He was ashamed of himself and embarrassed that a stranger—a thrall, no less—had pointed out the condition of his sister’s bedchamber. Because Liv hadn’t wanted any men coming into her presence, including him, he hadn’t made the effort to determine how his household was treating her. A mistake, one that would not occur again, considering the tongue-lashing he’d given to the lazy lot of them. Then he’d made them work for hours putting the bedchamber in a state befitting the sister of a high chieftain.
If that was not bad enough, the woman—a thrall, no matter what she claimed—had made more inroads with Liv than anyone since she’d been taken from Bear’s Lair. For that, he had to be thankful, but it was hard being thankful to a person who challenged him at every step, and more than that, gave insult. Igor, indeed!
Joy, she called herself. What a misnomer! More like Pain, her name should be. Pain in the arse. And, yea, one of the maids had reported that as being the selfsame way that the wench had described him to Liv.
Tossing back the remaining wine, he stood and walked across the hall and up the stairs. Sleep did not come easily for him. Too many night images haunted him. Usually he had to drink ’til he nigh fell over, but tonight the ale and wine had failed to numb him.
He passed the solar, the small room occupied by Arnora, his aunt by marriage, the three large sleep closets assigned to Tork, Arnis, and Erland, and started to go into his own bedchamber, then hesitated. Instead, he treaded softly down the rest of the corridor to Liv’s room. Easing the door open—thank the gods it had not been locked again—he peeked inside.
The air smelled fresh in here now. Floral. Ah, must be it was the lavender-scented soap his mother had favored. It was one of the few things the Sigurdssons had missed on their brutal raid.
Liv was sleeping peacefully, more like her old self with clean, plaited hair and a soft white night rail. She was cuddled up against the thrall, who wore similar night attire . . . Liv’s, no doubt. But, unlike Liv’s slim, almost boyish frame, Joy’s breasts and hips were clearly those of a woman grown. Her clean, red hair was no longer a wild, tangled bush, but sleek, flame-colored silk left loose to spread about the pillow. She snored softly through lips that were rose-hued and moist.
An immediate shock of a reaction hit below his belt, which surprised him. Erotic pulls this fierce had been rare in his life for years. Oh, he liked copulating good and well, but for the most part any reasonably attractive female would do, and when under the influence of the alehead and a darkened bedchamber, appearance mattered not a whit to even the most finicky Norseman. This was different. And he did not like it. Not one bit.
Liv made a snuffling sound in her sleep and rolled over and away from Joy, leaving the thrall practically hugging the edge of the mattress with space enough for another body betwixt them. Without thinking, he walked over, picked Joy up, and put a hand over her mouth, quickly moving out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. Pulling her tight against his chest, he inhaled her scent—lavender and sweet woman skin—then whispered against her ear, “Stop struggling. I am not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
She kicked up with her knee and almost clipped him in the chin.
He chuckled. The wench was e’er a combatant. Edging the door of his bedchamber open, then edging it closed, he noted that a candle had been lit, and there was a thin stream of moonlight coming into the chamber from the arrow slit window.
Quickly, he tossed her onto his bed furs, following after and over her, pinning her to the mattress. He put
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