My fingers were painfully stiff and would probably be worse come the morning, but for reasons I couldn’t explain, I set aside the jar.
And was rewarded with a noise of exasperation from Bjorn, who rose and circled the fire. “Give me the salve.”
Deeply aware that all eyes were on us, I handed over the little pot, wincing as he extracted a large glob, the frugalness in me protesting the excess.
“Clearly you aren’t aware of the chests of silver my father has buried in various locations about his territory,” he said. “Trust me, he cares more about you being able to use your hand than paying for pots of salve.”
Frugality was ingrained in my character, but in this, he had a point. Extending my arm, I waited for him to deposit the glob of salve on my palm. Instead, Bjorn took hold of my hand and smeared the salve over the twisted tattoo on my right palm. I tensed, self-conscious about him touching the scars despite his claims that they were marks of honor. Yet if the texture of my skin bothered him, Bjorn didn’t show it, his brow furrowed in concentration as his strong fingers dug into the stiff tendons, the heat of his flesh doing more to warm my skin than the fire.
Not that I relaxed.
Relaxing was impossible, for the intimacy of this act was not lost on me. I was another man’s wife. Not just any man’s, but his father’s.
Yet I didn’t pull away.
The shadows from the firelight danced over Bjorn’s hands, tendons standing out against suntanned skin marked with tiny white scars, many of which looked as though they’d been burns. My eyes traveled up his muscled forearms, examining all the tattoos, the black faded enough that he must have had them for many years. I wondered if they had meaning to him or if they were nothing more than decorations that struck his fancy, but I refrained from asking the question.
I didn’t want to disrupt the moment. Didn’t want to do anything that would cause him to remove his hands from mine. Not because the pain was easing beneath his care, but because the diminishing stiffness in my fingers was being replaced with a growing tension in my core.
You are a cursed fool, Freya. An idiot who deserves to be slapped upside the head for lusting over that which you cannot have.
Not only did my body ignore my admonitions, but the ache also deepened, and with it, my imagination flared to life. Flickers of images danced across my thoughts of Bjorn without the shirt he currently wore. Without the trousers. Without any garments between us, his hands on my body and his lips on mine.
Stop it, I pleaded to my imagination, but the Freya who owned those thoughts only smirked and gave me more.
My imagination was a curse.
It had always been a curse, giving me the false belief that what it conjured might become reality, which always led to disappointment. As displeased as I’d been about my father’s choice to wed me to Vragi, I’d still dreamed of the pleasures I’d experience on my wedding night, my imagination fueled by the stories told to me by other women. The reality had proven a bitter tonic, for Vragi had only demanded I disrobe, then bent me over the bed and serviced me like a horse, finishing in moments and leaving nothing but a cold and hollow void in his wake.
“Deep thoughts for the late hour,” Bjorn said softly, and I jerked my eyes up to meet his gaze, feeling caught out despite my memories of Vragi having vanquished the lust burning in my body.
Though now I burned with embarrassment.
“I wasn’t thinking of anything.” I pulled my hand from his grip and hid it in the fold of my cloak. “Thank you for your assistance. The pain is much reduced.”
Bjorn shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
If only that were the case.
“Apologies,” he added after a moment. “For before. You were trying to make sense of the role my father sees for you, and I turned the conversation to my own grievances, which robbed you of the opportunity.”
I lifted one shoulder, for some reason unable to meet his gaze. “He had no intention of telling me anything.”
“I think it’s because he doesn’t know.” Picking up the stick, Bjorn poked at the fire, voice low as he added, “He knows of warring and raiding and twisting stories of the gods to serve his purposes. But as to how you might inspire Skaland to swear oaths to him as king? I think he’s as in the dark as you or me.”
I bit my bottom lip, the night air somehow colder than it had been a moment ago.
“You should get some rest,” he said, rising to his feet. “We’ll break camp before dawn and ride hard tomorrow.”
Spreading out my furs, I lay down and pulled a thick pelt on top of me, my eyes on the glowing embers. In the absence of our conversation, the camp was quiet, the only sounds the crackle and pop of smoldering wood, the wind in the pine boughs above, and the faint snoring of one of the warriors.