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The beautiful wench was fast, on her long, strong legs, but he was faster. He caught her almost at the bottom of the hill and put her over his shoulder, laying one hand on her gorgeous behind and giving it a couple of soft, satisfying slaps.
“Not getting away from me,” he said.
“Put me down, Andor!” she cried. “This is humiliating. I’m supposed to be a jarl’s wife, and you are behaving as if I’m plunder.”
“You are plunder.” He came to the inlet and put her down. “I raided Northumbria, Mercia and Wessex, and came home with you. Now, off with these clothes.”
“I can do that myself, you know.”
“I know. But you are my plunder and I want to plunder you.”
She smiled and shook her head in mock disapproval, but he could tell she enjoyed it. And anything she enjoyed, he was ready to do ten times over. He undressed her, marveling at her flawless, appetizing curves, his erection already ready and hungry for her. Then he undressed himself.
He lifted her in his arms and walked into the water. The chill stole his breath. Cathy squealed a little. He kissed her when they were in the water up to their shoulders, and his blood boiled in his veins from the sweet strokes of her tongue and the softness of her lips, and the chill disappeared. He could boil the water in the inlet with the heat he produced from touching her.
He had her—gently, sweetly—because he could not do otherwise. Because when their bodies were connected, and her delicious warmth enveloped him, it felt like home.
She was home.
When they were done and clean, they sat on the shore in clean clothes, wrapped in each other’s arms, watching the mountains and the fjord. Water splashed gently against the rocky shore. The feast needed to be prepared, the guests needed to be entertained, and generally, the day promised to be busy, so Andor wanted to enjoy a few more moments of peace with Cathy, alone.
“I have something for you,” Cathy said, excitement ringing in her voice.
Andor cocked his head to look at her profile—she sat in his arms, her back pressed against his torso, his arms around her waist.
“You do? What?”
She stood up and clasped his hands in hers. “I was waiting for a special moment to give these two things to you. Well, Fridstein helped to hide them. Without him, I’d probably have given in as one of them was finally ready.”
Andor stood up, too. “You’ve already given me so much. Odin and Thor, I do not need anything more. You are with me. The village is being rebuilt. What else could I possibly want?”
“You will want this. And today, to celebrate our home, our first harvest festival, our first real bedroom…I think it is the right time.”
Andor’s brows crawled up. “What is it?”
She sank to the ground, reached behind some bushes, and removed her gift. She held it out to him with both hands. The object was long and straight and wrapped in linen.
“I lost Dragon’s Trouble, and I know how important it was to you. Here.”
He took the bundle from her hands, all sparks of humor that had been playing in his body gone. It was heavy. It was likely a sword—the weight felt right and familiar in his hands. With every layer of linen he unwrapped, the realization gripped his body like a closing fist. When the final layer fell away, a sword did, indeed, lay in his hands. From the very edge to the pommel, Andor studied it, not believing his eyes.
Dragon’s Trouble, whole and shining like new, lay in his hands.
His throat clenched as he tried and failed to suppress the giant wave of love as gratitude washed over him. He studied the dragon on the iron pommel and every curve of the ornate patterns of fire on the cross guard. The iron looked polished, as though newly cast. The deer antler handle bound with silver cords still had scratches on it, but unlike metal, it was impossible to do anything about that.
The blade…
The blade was like new. Great steel, sharp, no scratches, no indents, no signs it was ever chipped.
Andor held Dragon’s Trouble with both hands and cut through the air, then hit an invisible target from left, then right.
“Perfection.” Andor looked at Cathy.
She watched him with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face.
Andor felt as if he suddenly did not have enough air to breathe. He remembered his wedding day with Svana, when she had given him the sword as her present. Her straight, proud back, her green eyes shining with pride and joy as he had tried the same movements. “There is no one in this world stronger or more honorable a warrior than you, my husband,” she had said to him then. And his shoulders had straightened, his chin had lifted, knowing that his wife stood behind him.
She did now, too. Her blessing was in this sword. It was in the air. It was in every building that was being rebuilt. It was in his people.
