The Enchantment by Betina Krahn

“They’re frightened of you, Aaren. They’ve never seen a warrior-maid before. And talk of the enchantment and of your fighting is all over the village.”
    â€œAnd now . . .” Miri gave Marta an inquiring look. When she nodded, Miri swallowed hard and continued. “You’re to fight Jorund Borgerson, the jarl’s son. And the women are all quite fond of him.”
    â€œFond?” Marta rolled her eyes and made a clucking sound. “A pale way to put it. Their tongues wag like lambs’ tails whenever his name is mentioned. After you left us this morning, they had much to say about him. They spoke most freely and—daughters of mischief!—the things they said!” She pulled Aaren to a seat on a bench, then leaned close, and her voice dropped to an awed whisper. “His hair is soft as milkweed silk, they say. His chest is hard as a shield boss . . . his back is strong as a stallion’s . . . and he heats furs at night like a slow-burning brazier.”
    Miri squeezed down beside them on the bench, her voice full of hushed excitement. “They say he knows ways to make a woman writhe and moan . . . and that when he comes to a woman’s furs, he strips the clothes from her body and . . .” She crossed her arms and shivered.
    â€œAnd?” Aaren demanded, alarm rising in her as she felt her imagination seizing that bit of tongue-fodder.
    â€œAnd he . . . does things . . . with his mouth,” Marta supplied.
    Heat stormed Aaren as a sudden, intense vision of Jorund’s mouth flared in her mind: broad and sensual . . . bounded by firm, sleek borders . . . lips grandly bowed and expressive as they drew back to reveal straight, even teeth.
    â€œHe
bites
women? Small wonder they writhe and moan,” she snapped, disturbed by the way their words tickled her ears and made them itch for more.
    â€œBut it must not hurt,” Marta said earnestly, “for he’s done it to most of them and they all like it a great deal. He is their favorite among the men.”
    Miri nodded. “And they all have pet names for him. They call him Heart-balm and Gentle-rider, Slow-hand and Honey-hunter, Silk-hair and Flesh-skald . . . but most of all, they call him Breath-stealer . . . because of the way he snatches the breath from their lips.” Her voice dropped to a choked whisper. “And they say his hands can summon lightning inside a woman’s body.”
    Aaren snorted in disbelief. “What sort of creature could do such things . . . make lightning inside a mortal frame and steal another’s breath? It is grist for their jaw-grindings—no more than that.”
    But her face flushed hot, for she sensed there was more to the women’s claims than met the ear. Despite the numerous skills and the knowledge Serrick had imparted to the three of them, she realized that they still had a great deal to learn about living in a society of men and women. She rose too fast and swayed, feeling thrown off balance by her own thoughts. Miri and Marta sprang up beside her.
    â€œIn future, do not listen to such talk. It is the scrape of idle tongues; no more than that.” Aaren tugged at the round neck of her tunic as if it were binding her, then slid her fingers under her leather wristbands to loosen them, too. “The men have another name for this Jorund Borgerson, remember,” she said testily. “
Woman-heart.
He is no warrior if women must defend him. It is a man’s task to defend . . . to protect his people, his possessions, and his honor. All men are warriors, deep in their hearts. If he is no warrior, then he is not truly a man.”
    â€œWill you still fight him, Aaren?” Marta asked, clasping her arm.
    â€œI have to fight him and defeat him. Red Beard has decreed it,” she said irritably. “And the wagging of women’s tongues cannot change that.”
    A drip of melting fat from the meat sent a flame shooting up from