Bold Bounty, page 14
Bjorn caught her hand as she offered him another breadcrumb and held her. “Who knew the same hand that knocked out Lars’ teeth and bloodied Kirsten’s lip can be so tender?”
“You’re getting a little bit of color back.” Morwen blushed but ignored the comment. She did not, however, immediately pull her hand away. “You were so pale for a long time. At least, what I could see around that beard.”
Bjorn grinned at her as he stroked his beard. “You still don’t like it, do you?”
“No. You look like an animal,” she teased. “Like a shaggy bear that’s wandered out of the forest and crawled into a man’s bed.”
“Humph.” Reluctantly, he took the piece of bread from her hand and dipped it in the broth. At least it isn’t fish broth. “Who killed the deer?”
“Lars. He shot it about a week ago and brought us a lot of the meat. Yvette showed me how to dry it and store it.”
“You’re learning a lot, Little Raven,” Bjorn said. “Lars was here while you were out. He didn’t mention the deer.” Morwen shrugged. “He did tell me how I got out of the fjord, though.”
“He did?”
“I owe you my life,” Bjorn said. “But, why did you do it? You were mad at me, as I recall.” He watched her face as she worked on a reply.
“Oh, I would have tried to save any dog.” Her eyes lit up with mischief, and she added, “And besides if you had died, some other Viking might have tried to claim me. We have a bargain, you remember? I won’t let you get out of it by dying.”
“I remember. But is that the only reason? It was quite a risk you took jumping into that water. You would have done that for a dog?”
“Of course,” she said, but she didn’t look at him. “Our bargain was the only reason.”
Bjorn smiled and ate the last of his bread. “You won’t bring me some of that deer meat now, will you?”
“No.”
“Walk with me to the bathhouse?”
“No.” Her eyes flashed as she looked back at him. “You are not getting out of that bed, and especially not walking over there to bathe.”
“Where have you been sleeping, Morwen?” Bjorn looked toward the divan where he had slept during Morwen’s first nights in his home. It somehow didn’t look like it had been used for a bed recently. He glanced back at Morwen and was surprised to see the redness of her face. “You’ve been sleeping in this bed, haven’t you?” He laughed, but the laugh turned into a cough, and he was soon laying back again, his face sweating and his breath coming harsh.
“Serves you right,” Morwen said when the coughing had passed. She held a cool, damp cloth to his forehead. “Always making your jokes and grinning that devil’s grin.”
“Umm.” Bjorn worked to get enough breath to speak. “But you did not answer my question.”
“Well, you were unconscious,” Morwen said at last, dabbing at his cheeks with the wet cloth. “I thought I could trust you. And that divan is not very comfortable for sleeping. I don’t know how somebody your size did it.”
“Where will you sleep now that I’m awake and can’t be trusted again?”
“On the divan.”
“But it’s so uncomf—”
“I’ll manage.”
“What else have you been doing?” he asked.
“Everything that can be done here,” Morwen said. “Yvette and Wynne have been here a lot. Rhonda’s been here, too, but she’s with Lars most of the time. Yvette has taught Wynne and me to cook fish a hundred different ways. I’ve been reading some of your books, too. I’ve had to go to Sven several times to ask for an explanation of something from your books.”
“You showed him my books?”
“No. I thought you wouldn’t want that.”
“Thank you. Sven believes our tales should not be written, that they should forever be passed orally from one generation to another.”
“He would not have a place in the village if everybody could simply read the tales from your books,” Morwen said.
Bjorn laughed. “I had not thought of the practicality of his resistance, Little Raven. You make a good point. What else have you been doing these past two weeks?”
“Yvette has been teaching me more of your language.”
“You have been busy,” Bjorn said.
“I got tired of watching you sleep.”
“Sorry. If I had known I had company in my bed, I wouldn’t have been sleeping.”
“I think I liked you better when you were unconscious.” Morwen slapped playfully at his shoulder. He caught the hand and held it again. He wanted to pull her to him but knew she would protest, and he didn’t want her to be mad at him. And I likely haven’t the strength for it, anyway. He grinned again and was ready to release her hand.
Suddenly, Morwen was leaning over him, and then her lips touched his, just for a moment, before she moved her face back, but only a few inches. “You should sleep again,” she said.
Bjorn held her hand tighter, willing her to stay with him.
“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she said then pulled away and slipped out the door again, the white polar bear cloak billowing about her ankles.
Bjorn smiled as he drifted toward sleep again.
He passed another week in bed, but the time was spent pleasantly. He and Morwen read to each other and told tales of their past deeds. She generally sat on the bed beside him, though she was true to her word and slept on the divan at night. She cooked, and Bjorn complimented her on the dishes she served. Some of the other women came to visit her, always asking permission from Bjorn before making themselves comfortable. He learned that, besides Rhonda, there were three others of the captive women who had agreed to marry Viking men. Bjorn granted his permission for all of them to marry, and his father married two of the couples right away.
Morwen was making great progress in learning the Viking language, and the two of them often had long conversations in Bjorn’s native tongue. She was still slow and stumbled over some of the words, but she was a dedicated learner. Bjorn enjoyed teaching her, watching her face light up when she got a word just right, or screw up in frustration when she failed on the tenth try.
That afternoon Morwen left longhouse for a while, so he threw back the covers and eased his feet to the floor. It took quite an effort to push himself from the bed, and then he nearly fell over as the room swam in his vision. Bjorn steadied himself, thinking of the first time he got drunk on strong mead. Soon he could stand straight without wanting to topple to the floor. He took a few steps and considered searching the house for food but didn’t think he could make it to the cabinet where the supplies were stored. Instead, he walked around the bed and got back under the covers.
The third day after his first foray out of the bed, Bjorn made himself rise from bed. His vision did not blur when he stood. Morwen had finally allowed him some solid food, and he believed that was responsible for his improvement. He walked around the bed and then back and still did not feel the need to lie down. He decided to dress and was trudging toward a chest of clothes when the door opened and Morwen returned to the house. Bjorn stood still and faced her as if he was an errant boy.
Her face flushed, and she turned away from him, but her voice was stern nonetheless. “I knew you were getting out of bed when I left,” she said. “I guessed I could catch you at it, but I had forgotten you were naked.”
“I was going for my clothes,” he said sheepishly.
“Well? Get them,” she said. “Did you think you could hide the fact you were getting out of bed? This is a dirt floor, and I could see where you dragged your feet. At least you had the sense to stay by the bed those two days.”
Bjorn continued toward the chest and then stopped. He remembered something. He thought hard for a moment, and a memory did return. “You peeked,” he said.
“What?” She almost turned around to face him, but she stopped herself. “I did not.”
“You did.” He was sure it had not been a dream. “While I was sick, you peeked under the covers.”
“I—I did not.”
“I think you did it more than once.”
“I did not.”
“Did you look once a day while I was sleeping?”
“I only looked once.” Morwen turned to face him, refusing to look anywhere but directly into his face. “And that was only because Rhonda and Yvette lied to me and said they had looked.”
“What? They were looking, too?”
“They said that to see if I would get jealous,” she said. “As if I would care they had seen you naked.”
“It was enough to make you curious,” he said, smiling. “You didn’t want them to see something you hadn’t.”
“Get dressed,” she said and then walked toward the fire pit, but added over her shoulder, “Before that thing gets any colder.”
Bjorn laughed but forced himself to stop as a cough rose behind the mirth. He went to the chest, took out some clothes, and dressed as Morwen put pieces of meat into a pot.
“Deer stew tonight?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“That sounds good.”
The meal was good. Bjorn ate two helpings and was thankful Morwen no longer told him he was eating too much or too fast. She even allowed him to have one glass of mead rather than just water. Soon after the meal, he grew weary and made his way to the back of the longhouse. He undressed down to his breeches while Morwen picked a book from the shelves. He watched closely but saw no indication she was watching him remove his clothes. Morwen brought the book and came to sit beside him on the bed. They passed the volume back and forth as they read.
The next morning Morwen announced she would be with Yvette for several hours, as they were going to spin wool. She told Bjorn where he could find prepared food and ordered him to rest.
“I thought I might go to my father’s hall today,” he said.
“No, you are not,” she answered, and then she left him lying in bed, trying not to laugh too hard.
Bjorn left the bed soon after she was gone. He dressed and left the longhouse. He looked all around but saw no sign of Morwen as he hurried through the village as fast as he dared. Many of his folk hailed him, and he waved but returned their conversation as briefly as possible. He finally made it to the bathhouse and was relieved to find it empty. Bjorn poured heated water onto the stones and breathed deeply of the steam as he pulled the clothes from his body then proceeded to wash himself vigorously.
When he was finished bathing, he dressed and made his way back through the village to his home, feeling much better for the bath, though he was still not so sure about his next task. Does the woman mean so much to me?
Once in his longhouse, Bjorn dug through a trunk until he found a small leather pouch. He opened it and studied the gleaming steel instruments, taking each in turn and testing the edges. Sighing, he picked up a mirror and moved to the wash basin near the bed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Morwen struggled to open the door of Bjorn’s longhouse with her one free hand while she carried a thick piece of deer meat, provided by Lars, in the other. The roast was cured and tough, but Yvette had taught her how to cook the meat and baste it in the juice it would create to make it tender again. She also carried vegetables and a loaf of coarse bread taken from the oven only an hour ago. She placed all these items on the table near the hearth then removed her cloak and smoothed the pleats of her woolen dress.
Morwen glanced toward the rear of the house. From her position, she could just see the lump that was Bjorn’s legs under the covers. Will he try to deny he disobeyed me again and went outside? Morwen took a deep breath and marched toward the bed, ready to scold the man for sneaking out of the house after she had told him to stay in bed.
Her breath caught in her throat and a hand flew to her mouth as she came around the partition. She did not recognize the man in the bed for several heartbeats; he lay with the covers folded below his chest, and his long blond hair was not braided, but combed straight and shining in the soft light of a candle as it covered his broad shoulders. His face was peaceful and rugged, with small lines around the eyes. There was no trace of facial hair.
Only the slight pallor of a man recovering from an illness told her it was Bjorn Halden who lay in the bed. Until he grinned without opening his eyes. Two tiny dimples puckered in his cheeks. Like the dimples of a baby.
“I hope you like it, woman,” he said, and then he opened his gray eyes. They seemed somehow larger and brighter now that the beard and mustache were gone. The lines around his eyes deepened with the dimples as his smile increased.
“I…” Morwen lowered her hand from her mouth. “I didn’t even recognize you. You look like a man now, instead of a bear.”
He laughed at her and then gave a low growl. Morwen watched his exposed throat move to make the sounds. “Is that the best compliment I get?”
“I… You should be whipped,” Morwen said, remembering what had brought her into the room. “I told you to stay in bed, but I heard about your trip to the bathhouse. Several people saw you staggering along, hanging onto houses or carts or whatever you could find to keep from falling on your face in the snow.”
Bjorn threw back his head and laughed. “No Viking would have dared say that about me. It must have been one of your Welsh friends who saw something worse than what was true. One woman told another, the tale grew less true, and I am only surprised I was not being carried on a litter by the time word got to you, but you should have joined me,” he teased. His eyes twinkled in his brawny face.
“Why did you do it?”
“Bathe?” he asked, mocking her. “Thor’s hammer, woman. Even I could smell the stench of my body.”
“The beard, you ox? Why did you shave it off?” Morwen found herself wishing for the one answer that was unexplainably important to her. Would he do such a thing?
“I thought you would like it,” Bjorn said, all trace of mockery gone from his voice. “Do I now look better in your eyes than when you left me?”
“You look…” Morwen’s heart raced. Her tongue felt thick and clumsy as she tried to force it into action. “Yes. You look…very handsome.” She was fascinated with how his teeth gleamed when he spoke, and there were small lines around the sides of his lips where his cheeks wrinkled when he smiled.
“Then it will be worth it,” he said.
“Worth what?”
“I will be the butt of jokes all winter,” Bjorn answered. “It is not proper for a Viking to shave his beard, especially to please a woman. I’ll likely have to knock a few heads to hush the talk.”
“Oh,” Morwen said, not knowing what else to say, but tingling all over. He is willing to accept such ridicule for my sake? “I brought food. I’ll prepare supper.” She turned and left the room before he could say anything to stop her.
Morwen forced her thoughts to cooking, carefully recalling every instruction Yvette had given her concerning the preparation of the meat and the cooking of the vegetables. She tried hard not to think of the man in the other room, although she could hear him getting out of bed and humming as he moved around behind her.
What is he doing? Putting on a tunic? I wish he wouldn’t do that.
The thought made her feel guilty, but less so than it would have a few weeks earlier, she realized.
“The food is ready,” she called at last, not trusting herself to venture back toward the partition. She put the final dishes on the table then turned toward the approaching footsteps. Morwen held her breath and then let it out in a disappointed sigh as she saw Bjorn had put on a leather shirt to cover his chest.
“What’s wrong?” He stopped and looked at her, a worried expression on his newly shaved face.
“Nothing,” Morwen shot back, terrified he would guess the truth. “Come and eat.”
“Real food,” Bjorn said with gusto and sat opposite Morwen. “And real deer meat, not just the broth. Lars must have truly forgiven you for knocking the teeth from his head.”
“I think he gave us the meat for your sake since you couldn’t go hunting yourself,” Morwen answered.
“Maybe,” Bjorn agreed, but he was so zealously digging into his meal she wasn’t sure he heard her. Morwen stole so many glances at the ravenous man that she ate most of her supper without looking at the plate in front of her.
The food was soon gone, and Bjorn had drunk the one horn of the potent mead the Northmen so loved. The liquor did not seem to affect him, and that astounded her, considering his illness. His eyes were fixed on her, and Morwen squirmed in her chair, trapped by his gaze.
“You have become quite a good cook,” he said. “There is hope yet you will be a good wife.”
“The cooking is Yvette’s doing,” Morwen answered. “She is a good teacher. Especially for one so young.” Morwen was loathe to break the silence that followed for fear of what would come from her mouth. She fought the urge to stroke his smooth face.
“I should go see my father,” Bjorn said at last.
“And let the goading begin tonight?” Morwen asked.
“Why wait?”
“You’re not healthy enough to knock heads, as you put it.”
“Ha! I could whip any man here, and get off my deathbed to do it.”
“And still kill your fifth bear afterward?” Morwen teased.
“Of course,” he agreed, and then they both laughed. “I should go,” he said finally and made to rise from the table.
“No, wait until morning.” Morwen realized her voice sounded like a plea, but she could not bear to think of seeing the masculine face bruised so soon.
“Are you so anxious to keep me here, Little Raven?”
“I… You,” she stammered. “You don’t need to be out in the snow, at night, so soon after being sick. You nearly were on your deathbed.”
“I shaved for you, accepting the mockery of my people, and now I have to stay in the house to please you?” He sighed. “And you don’t even like me.”
