smiled at that. ‘‘Prepared this time, huh?’’
He gave no answer. She gazed up at him. He was so tall and lean, every muscle sharply defined, long rather than bulging. Graceful, in a thoroughly masculine way. A dusting of chestnut hair tracked the center of his chest, continued over his lean belly, and widened to a nest between his strong thighs. His manhood stood out, proof of his intent. She looked at the strong, upthrusting shaft, and then she looked back into his eyes. Her smile trembled. Her whole body felt as if it shimmered in sheer eagerness.
He tossed the last of his clothing aside and joined her on the bed, settling himself between her open thighs, lifting up enough to slide the protection into place. She lowered a hand and took him, guiding him home.
He lunged deep, filling her. She gasped in shocked delight, grasping his hard shoulders, holding on tight.
He moved—a slow, rocking motion, settling in. Then he rested on his forearms above her and sought her eyes.
It was Midsummer’s Eve again. They were joined, they didn’t move. He looked into her, into the heart of her. And she looked back at him.
‘‘Sweet,’’ he whispered. ‘‘So very sweet.’’
She sighed and managed a nod. ‘‘Oh, yes.’’
Time spun out, a web of stillness and sensation. She couldn’t have named the exact moment when they began to move. It happened so slowly, her body responding to his, so they rippled together, a seamless swaying, like waves lapping on a gentle sea.
His eyes changed. They made demands of her. She gave herself up to them—gave herself up to him, as the rhythm below became faster, deeper, frantic….
Needful.
She wrapped her arms and legs around him, anchoring on him, and drew him down. He buried his silky head in her shoulder.
The rhythm slowed, each stroke so long and hot and deep. And then, with a groan, he was moving faster again, she with him.
She saw the heavens, exploding on the inside of her eyelids, stars going supernova, everything shimmering, a blanket of light thrown out to swallow the universe.
A sense of falling.
Of opening.
Lilies, roses, water…
Heat.
Liv heard a shout of pure erotic joy. Several endless moments went by before she recognized it as her own.
Chapter Eleven
‘‘Come home with me tomorrow,’’ he whispered. ‘‘We’ll be married in the Viking way.’’
‘‘Oh, Finn. I am home.’’
He looked at her for a long time. She wasn’t sure she liked what she saw in his eyes. Finally he covered her mouth with his own in a savage, demanding kiss.
She didn’t fight him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him right back, as hard as he was kissing her. Slowly, the kiss gentled.
And then it turned to heat and hunger.
They spoke no more of marriage that night.
They got up much later, showered together and went out for a late meal. He stayed with her until morning.
It was after nine when Finn returned to Ingrid’s house. Hilda came out on the back steps as he was emerging from his rental car. The housekeeper watched him, her long face set in a scowl as he came across the lawn.
‘‘Well,’’ he said cheerfully, ‘‘good morning to you, too.’’
Hilda grunted. She opened the screen door and held it for him to go through.
‘‘Thank you, Hilda.’’
‘‘Humph,’’ said the housekeeper.
‘‘Is Ingrid already gone for the day?’’
Another grumbling sound. He assumed it must mean yes.
Finn turned and faced her once she’d joined him on the big service porch. ‘‘Something you’d like to say to me, Hilda?’’
One side of her thin lip lifted in an expression very close to a sneer. ‘‘His Majesty called for you ten minutes ago. He asked if you’d returned yet. I said you were…still out. He said to tell you to call him back as soon as you got in.’’
‘‘All right. And you’re angry because His Majesty called?’’
‘‘I am only a servant,’’ the housekeeper said, aggressively humble.
Finn knew that when good servants got surly, it was usually wisest to keep after them until they admitted what was bothering them, and then to immediately take pains to solve the problem. Otherwise, they tended to exercise their pent-up frustrations in inconvenient and unpleasant ways—they’d run off with the silver, or take to spitting in the soup.
‘‘Come on, hit me with your best shot.’’ He smiled to himself. He liked that expression. It came from an old song by an American rock star, Pat Benatar, a song that sounded especially satisfying when played very loud.
‘‘Too much scheming around here of late,’’ the housekeeper muttered. ‘‘The king knows where you’ve been. So does the queen. So do I.’’
‘‘And?’’
The housekeeper shook her iron-gray head. ‘‘I don’t like it, that’s all. I’m not so blind as some. I have no stars in my eyes at the idea of a grandchild. I know what Liv wants from life. And I can see it’s not at all what you have planned for her. I know the ways of Gullandria. I know you will see to it, in the end, that she marries you—whatever you have to do to make it happen.’’
‘‘You know then why I’m here?’’
Hilda knew. The servants always did. ‘‘Liv has shown the Freyasdahl signs. She carries your child.’’
‘‘And you are Gullandrian by birth?’’ He knew she was.
She admitted it. ‘‘I am.’’
‘‘Then you should understand why a marriage has become imperative.’’
‘‘I understand more than you think. Liv is not like Elli. She’s not a woman to follow her man wherever he must go. You think to tame her to your will. Think again.’’
Finn stared into Hilda’s piercing dark eyes. He wondered if perhaps she’d been raised among the Mystics.
A chill crept up his spine.
And why in the name of all the frozen towers of Hel was he standing here explaining himself to the housekeeper? He’d do better to leave her to spit in the soup.
‘‘Thank you for the advice, Hilda.’’
