His boots thudded against the wooden floor, and the curtain moved on the draft of air as he opened the door and departed.
“I need to sleep.” Bjorn’s tone was cool. “Wake me only if absolutely necessary.”
“I’ve never needed you for anything before, Bjorn.” Ylva’s voice was equally frosty. “And I think that unlikely to change over the next few hours.”
I heard the creak of Bjorn settling onto a cot and the room grew silent. As was typical of men, his breathing deepened with sleep while my mind continued to turn over events, refusing to calm enough for me to drift off.
Every time I closed my eyes, visions of the gods appearing filled my mind’s eye, that strange collective voice like thunder, Freya Born-in-Fire, child of two bloods, we see you. What had they meant? Child of two bloods was clear enough, for I had both mortal and divine blood in my veins, but so did every other child of the gods. What exactly did they see in me that was worth all of them stepping onto the mortal plane at once? What was it about me that was so special? How did they foresee me uniting a nation of clans that raided and warred against one another year in and year out? Clans that did not want to be united.
Because Bjorn was right that I was no warrior of legend whose battle fame would awe and inspire warriors to follow me. Nor was I a gifted orator whose words had the power to convince even the most stubborn naysayers.
Why me? Why not Bjorn or someone like him?
And…and why did the gods care if Skaland was united at all? For as long as memory, we’d been divided, as were all the other nations who worshipped our gods, save Nordeland. What did the gods stand to gain in that changing? Why had they chosen me to do it?
And why, of all men, did they want Snorri to be king?
Someone stirred, and I recognized the soft tread of Ylva’s feet as she moved about the hall. Then the curtain blew inward.
I tensed at the draft, certain that my disloyal thoughts had summoned my husband back, but when the air stilled, no one spoke.
Curious, I reached down and pulled up the edge of the curtain, taking in the darkened hall. Bjorn was stretched out on a cot, but otherwise the space was empty.
Ylva was gone.
She’s just stepped out to take a piss, I told myself. Go to sleep while you can, you idiot.
Rolling onto my back, I closed my eyes, focusing on the sound of Bjorn’s breathing. Except doing so caused me to think about him. Rolling onto my side again, I lifted the curtain, my breath hitching. He’d moved onto his stomach and, ever overheated, had kicked off the sleeping furs, which meant his naked back was revealed.
Go to sleep, Freya. Except tearing my gaze from the hard lines of his thick muscles required a stronger woman than I’d ever be. I followed the designs of his tattoos, remembering how he’d shivered when I’d touched the crimson one on the back of his neck. The tattoos on his shoulders and back were inky black, and I wondered how far down they continued after they disappeared into the waist of his trousers, and what else I’d discover if I followed their path.
An ache formed between my thighs, and I bit my lip, part of me wanting to weep that I was doomed to be an unsatisfied wife and the other part wanting to rage that it was so. If the gods truly favored me, then they ought to have delivered an attractive man who knew how to pleasure a woman. Instead I’d first been given to one who treated me as equal parts servant and broodmare, and then one married to another woman—though in fairness, not having to endure Snorri’s touch was a mercy.
It is hard to keep one’s wits when faced with a woman as beautiful as the sight of shore to a man who has been lost at sea.
Never in my life had anyone said such a thing to me, and I indulged myself by allowing the words to repeat again and again even as I remembered his touch on my hands. The intensity in his gaze as we’d stared into each other’s eyes. The heat and strength of him as he’d held me against the cold.
I wanted to feel all those things again.
It’s just lust, I snarled at myself. Deal with it and then go to sleep.
Dropping the curtain, I rolled onto my back and reached under the furs, drawing up the skirt of my dress. I slipped a hand inside my undergarments, no part of me surprised to find myself already wet. Closing my eyes, I traced a fingertip around the center of my pleasure, imagining what it would feel like to have Bjorn’s fingers between my thighs. His hands were so much bigger than mine, strong and calloused from use, but no less deft. So I imagined it was him, not me, stroking my sex. Slipping his fingers inside of me while his other hand cupped my breast.