His Captive Bride by Shelly Thacker Page B

and her body soft against his and her shamelessly ripe, full lips.
    You are not a barbarian , she had said.
    Hel, he had never felt more like a barbarian. Had he remained in her company all night, he would have done much more than merely caress her cheek. He would have had his lovely bride on her back in his bed, ravishing her until dawn, until they both...
    He cut the image short, thoroughly annoyed. He would not allow himself to develop any sort of feelings for her. Not even desire. He would drown these heated thoughts in sweat. Remind himself of what was most important—his people and his duty.
    When he returned in a few days, he would be able to deal with Avril’s presence in his life coolly and rationally.
    It took half an hour to reach Keldan’s vaningshus . The young groom had spent the better part of the past year building it in a meadow west of town, in anticipation of enjoying a secluded and happy sojourn here with his new bride.
    Hauk pounded on the door, a single blow of his fist. Since Keldan was mostly to blame for his predicament, Keldan could grant him a favor.
    The polished pine door opened quickly—and the young groom in question looked surprisingly glad to see him. “Hauk! Why are you not with your lady? Nei , never mind. Thank the gods you are here!” Kel grabbed his arm and hauled him inside, his expression matching his agitated voice. “You must teach me to speak French. It is accursed difficult to woo a woman when she cannot even understand what you are saying.”
    He gestured to the far side of the chamber, where pretty Josette stood in a corner, her face damp with furious tears, what looked like wreckage strewn about her feet—upturned jewel chests, ripped garments, shredded velvet pillows with their goose-feather stuffing spilled everywhere, and the remains of what had been a gracefully carved chair.
    “The gifts did not work,” Keldan explained, dodging a flagon of perfume she flung at him. It sailed past him to shatter against the wall.
    Hauk realized that Josette must have been hurling bits and pieces of debris at her new husband’s head for some time, for the wall behind Keldan had been newly decorated in disgusting shades of dripping wine and precious oils, with a few goose feathers stuck to the goo here and there.
    “By Tyr’s blade, Kel.” He waved a hand in front of his nose. “It smells like a bawd’s bedchamber in here.”
    “Do you have any helpful comments to make?”
    “I was the one who warned you that language differences could be a problem.”
    “That is not the kind of help I was hoping for.”
    With a shrug, Hauk bowed in the lady’s direction and tried addressing her in French. “Good eventide, milady. How fare you?”
    She only shouted curses and threats in reply. And reached for a piece of the chair.
    Hauk stepped out of the way as it came flying at Keldan, grateful that he was not her target. “I fear I cannot help you, Kel. I would say this wooing may take months. Mayhap years. Thor’s hammer, I did not realize before that your bride had a sailor’s vocabulary.” A silk slipper smacked Keldan right between the eyes. “Or such excellent aim.”
    “I do not understand,” Keldan said miserably, rubbing his forehead and frowning at her. “I have followed all the advice given in the Havamal .”
    “Which shows how useful that ancient text is,” Hauk replied scornfully. Every young man of Asgard studied the Havamal before taking a bride, to learn how to be a good husband, how to please a wife. “The so-called wisdom of past generations is mostly poetic nonsense.”
    “So you have said before.”
    “Mayhap we had better speak outside, where the air is not so full of”—Hauk dodged the silk slipper’s mate—”projectiles.”
    Keldan hastily led the retreat, closing the door firmly behind them once they had escaped to the relative safety of the outdoors. “You are enjoying this,” he accused with a scowl.
    “Not at all,” Hauk lied, feeling one