towards the door.
“Halt! Who are you?” the duke cried as they crossed the dining room and passed by him. He made a grab for Branwyn’s arm, lost his balance, and stumbled to regain his balance.
“I am Jarl of New Dorset,” her companion replied calmly. There was humor in his voice.
“A jarl! But that would make you—”
“A friend of the king. Same as you.”
“Nay. Not the same. There is a world of difference between a duke and a jarl.” Fear and distrust chased their way across the young bishop’s face. “How do I know you speak the truth?”
The Viking shrugged, but his voice held a challenge. “Perhaps you might detain me for questioning.” A few steps more and he and Branwyn would be out the door.
“Indeed I will, and you may unhand my sister whilst I do, you shaggy-haired half-troll.”
“Pray pardon, but I cannot. See?” The tall seafarer held up her sack. “Just before you arrived, she hired me with this. Now I am honor bound to hold up my end of the bargain. That is, unless the lady has changed her mind. Madame?” He arched a questioning brow at Branwyn.
His face swam dizzily before her. At the moment, the only thing she was sure about was that she did not wish for him to leave her. Ever. “Nay!” she exclaimed breathlessly, struggling to regain control of her wits. No one had ever shaken her composure so thoroughly. “I am a woman of my word. I’ll be honoring my end of the contract.”
A hand signal from the bishop sent another two knights flying in their direction. One stepped on a loose floorboard which popped up and planted itself into his face, knocking him senseless. Another somersaulted over a chair, slammed his helmet into the floor, and twitched pitifully where he landed.
“Hired you for what?” the duke shrieked after them as Branwyn and her would-be escort made their exit. There was no point in explaining she had hired the man to help her escape her brothers clutches. As soon as they were clear of the door, the Viking swept her up in his arms and began to run with her down the coastline. The wharves lay ghostly and gray in the light of a full moon, with ships of various sizes moored there and rocking gently in the waves created by the night breezes. Few creatures stirred other than a skeleton crew of sailors standing guard over their vessels and an occasional drunkard slumped over a pier, mumbling in his sleep.
Footsteps pounded the ground as Byron, the Duke of Smythen, his remaining two knights, and the constable took up the chase. The four men should have gained on them more quickly. Branwyn puzzled the oddity as she peered over the Viking’s shoulder, for their pursuers were not likewise weighed down with the carrying of a full-grown woman of nineteen years.
Branwyn entwined her arms around the neck of her unlikely rescuer and resisted the urge to brush her lips against the edge of his jaw. What is wrong with me? She should have been frightened. At the very least, she should have been more focused on the crisis at hand. Instead, her senses were assailed with the power and speed of the creature moving with her in his arms. Thick muscles corded his chest and arms, which flexed and tightened as he ran. How she wanted to run her hands up and down those arms and that glorious chest!
Instead, she moaned, “Who are you?” and dropped her fevered forehead to his shoulder. ‘Twas a fine time to be falling ill.
“Eirik,” he responded harshly.
“Eirik,” she whispered. ‘Twas a simple name, unencumbered by titles, and it suited him. Lord help her, but everything about him suited her just fine. Never before had she desired anyone or anything so badly. The need to press her mouth to his shook her. She wanted to slick her tongue against the hard seam of his lips, which were pressed together in concentration. Sweet mercy, where had that thought unseemly come from? She longed to break his concentration, longed to center all of that blue-eyed intensity upon
“Halt! Who are you?” the duke cried as they crossed the dining room and passed by him. He made a grab for Branwyn’s arm, lost his balance, and stumbled to regain his balance.
“I am Jarl of New Dorset,” her companion replied calmly. There was humor in his voice.
“A jarl! But that would make you—”
“A friend of the king. Same as you.”
“Nay. Not the same. There is a world of difference between a duke and a jarl.” Fear and distrust chased their way across the young bishop’s face. “How do I know you speak the truth?”
The Viking shrugged, but his voice held a challenge. “Perhaps you might detain me for questioning.” A few steps more and he and Branwyn would be out the door.
“Indeed I will, and you may unhand my sister whilst I do, you shaggy-haired half-troll.”
“Pray pardon, but I cannot. See?” The tall seafarer held up her sack. “Just before you arrived, she hired me with this. Now I am honor bound to hold up my end of the bargain. That is, unless the lady has changed her mind. Madame?” He arched a questioning brow at Branwyn.
His face swam dizzily before her. At the moment, the only thing she was sure about was that she did not wish for him to leave her. Ever. “Nay!” she exclaimed breathlessly, struggling to regain control of her wits. No one had ever shaken her composure so thoroughly. “I am a woman of my word. I’ll be honoring my end of the contract.”
A hand signal from the bishop sent another two knights flying in their direction. One stepped on a loose floorboard which popped up and planted itself into his face, knocking him senseless. Another somersaulted over a chair, slammed his helmet into the floor, and twitched pitifully where he landed.
“Hired you for what?” the duke shrieked after them as Branwyn and her would-be escort made their exit. There was no point in explaining she had hired the man to help her escape her brothers clutches. As soon as they were clear of the door, the Viking swept her up in his arms and began to run with her down the coastline. The wharves lay ghostly and gray in the light of a full moon, with ships of various sizes moored there and rocking gently in the waves created by the night breezes. Few creatures stirred other than a skeleton crew of sailors standing guard over their vessels and an occasional drunkard slumped over a pier, mumbling in his sleep.
Footsteps pounded the ground as Byron, the Duke of Smythen, his remaining two knights, and the constable took up the chase. The four men should have gained on them more quickly. Branwyn puzzled the oddity as she peered over the Viking’s shoulder, for their pursuers were not likewise weighed down with the carrying of a full-grown woman of nineteen years.
Branwyn entwined her arms around the neck of her unlikely rescuer and resisted the urge to brush her lips against the edge of his jaw. What is wrong with me? She should have been frightened. At the very least, she should have been more focused on the crisis at hand. Instead, her senses were assailed with the power and speed of the creature moving with her in his arms. Thick muscles corded his chest and arms, which flexed and tightened as he ran. How she wanted to run her hands up and down those arms and that glorious chest!
Instead, she moaned, “Who are you?” and dropped her fevered forehead to his shoulder. ‘Twas a fine time to be falling ill.
“Eirik,” he responded harshly.
“Eirik,” she whispered. ‘Twas a simple name, unencumbered by titles, and it suited him. Lord help her, but everything about him suited her just fine. Never before had she desired anyone or anything so badly. The need to press her mouth to his shook her. She wanted to slick her tongue against the hard seam of his lips, which were pressed together in concentration. Sweet mercy, where had that thought unseemly come from? She longed to break his concentration, longed to center all of that blue-eyed intensity upon
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