forehead. She peeked.
“Sit up.” He held a clay bowl in one hand. “Broth. Sips at first.”
“I am a healer. I know what to do.” Her voice sounded as if she had been shouting for a sennight. The rawness in her throat spawned a small coughing fit. Her eyes watered.
He twisted her so she sat sideways across his legs. “Hush. Take a sip.” He brought the bowl to her lips. She sipped. The warm liquid tasted like manna, briny with a hint of smoked seaweed and cooked urchin. She closed her eyes and savored the broth’s journey down her throat.
“I am jealous of the paltry soup.”
He was staring at her, and she suddenly realized her position, sitting on his lap, the blanket and the tunic she wore her only shield from his unclothed flesh. “You are touching me and I am not vomiting.”
One eyebrow arched and his lips twisted to one side. “Aye. ’Tis wondrous how the mighty have fallen.”
“You make no sense, Viking. Thrimilici? The curse?” She held her breath awaiting his answer.
“Has come and gone and you still live. The curse is broken.” He tipped the bowl, and she swallowed a large mouthful. The fragrant potage heated her insides and settled her rioting belly.
“I remember a battle. Mús. The sword in his ribs.”
She wriggled in an attempt to stand, but he tightened his hold on her and brushed his lips across her temple. “Worry not. Your cat is well and roaring his impatience.”
“Mús is fully healed?”
“Aye.” He slipped a hand under the tunic and traced the raised welt along her ribs. “Mús explained that when you heal, the injury passes to you. How long afore his scars leave you?”
Shame lit her cheeks and neck, and she turned away from him. “Not all leave. Days. Once—a full season.”
He framed her face and made her look at him. “I owe you my life, Nyssa.”
Only after he had spoken the words did she realize the reverse stood true. “As I owe mine to you.”
Silence crackled between them. The very air seemed to vibrate as she stared at him. For four seasons, she had not dared touch another except to heal. How had she forgotten the simple joy of flesh-to-flesh contact? The comfort and poignant sweetness inherent in being held as if precious? ’Twas seductive temptation beyond bearing; the urge to snuggle against his skin, to sniff the base of his neck, overwhelmed her.
“Drink more.”
She wrenched her gaze away. “My stomach no longer lists.”
“’Tis good. Drink more.”
She tried to pry the bowl from his grasp. “I can well feed myself.”
“And deny me such a wee pleasure?”
His even, white teethed flashed in the dusky light and the charm of his smile washed heat from her brow to the soles of her feet. She misliked handsome men like her uncle, Ánáton. Though Ánáton was to midnight what Konáll was to sunshine, both men were of a beauty too blinding to look upon for long.
He nudged her lips, and she could not deny her belly-cramping hunger. Covering his hand with both of hers, she drank with a babe’s greed, and nigh pleaded to lick the bowl clean.
“I know you still hunger, but you have been too long without sustenance.” He tucked her short locks behind her ear.
She met his fierce scrutiny. “I am a healer. I know the dangers of too much food too soon.”
“What do you remember of the eve afore Thrimilici?” His thigh muscles tensed beneath her bottom and the hard ridge of his arousal thickened.
Until he asked the question, she had not recalled the all of it. Memories jammed her mind, and she blurted the words as the images flashed fast and furious. “Bagan One-Eye finding me. Your rescue. Mús’s injury. We swam. Fought.”
She pummeled his arms and ribs. “You bound me to staves!”
Chapter Four
Konáll captured her fisted hands. “I had no choice, mìlseachd. You have the strength of your jötunn mother and Mús warned me you would fight to the death.”
Nyssa fought to keep her turmoil from showing. She
“Sit up.” He held a clay bowl in one hand. “Broth. Sips at first.”
“I am a healer. I know what to do.” Her voice sounded as if she had been shouting for a sennight. The rawness in her throat spawned a small coughing fit. Her eyes watered.
He twisted her so she sat sideways across his legs. “Hush. Take a sip.” He brought the bowl to her lips. She sipped. The warm liquid tasted like manna, briny with a hint of smoked seaweed and cooked urchin. She closed her eyes and savored the broth’s journey down her throat.
“I am jealous of the paltry soup.”
He was staring at her, and she suddenly realized her position, sitting on his lap, the blanket and the tunic she wore her only shield from his unclothed flesh. “You are touching me and I am not vomiting.”
One eyebrow arched and his lips twisted to one side. “Aye. ’Tis wondrous how the mighty have fallen.”
“You make no sense, Viking. Thrimilici? The curse?” She held her breath awaiting his answer.
“Has come and gone and you still live. The curse is broken.” He tipped the bowl, and she swallowed a large mouthful. The fragrant potage heated her insides and settled her rioting belly.
“I remember a battle. Mús. The sword in his ribs.”
She wriggled in an attempt to stand, but he tightened his hold on her and brushed his lips across her temple. “Worry not. Your cat is well and roaring his impatience.”
“Mús is fully healed?”
“Aye.” He slipped a hand under the tunic and traced the raised welt along her ribs. “Mús explained that when you heal, the injury passes to you. How long afore his scars leave you?”
Shame lit her cheeks and neck, and she turned away from him. “Not all leave. Days. Once—a full season.”
He framed her face and made her look at him. “I owe you my life, Nyssa.”
Only after he had spoken the words did she realize the reverse stood true. “As I owe mine to you.”
Silence crackled between them. The very air seemed to vibrate as she stared at him. For four seasons, she had not dared touch another except to heal. How had she forgotten the simple joy of flesh-to-flesh contact? The comfort and poignant sweetness inherent in being held as if precious? ’Twas seductive temptation beyond bearing; the urge to snuggle against his skin, to sniff the base of his neck, overwhelmed her.
“Drink more.”
She wrenched her gaze away. “My stomach no longer lists.”
“’Tis good. Drink more.”
She tried to pry the bowl from his grasp. “I can well feed myself.”
“And deny me such a wee pleasure?”
His even, white teethed flashed in the dusky light and the charm of his smile washed heat from her brow to the soles of her feet. She misliked handsome men like her uncle, Ánáton. Though Ánáton was to midnight what Konáll was to sunshine, both men were of a beauty too blinding to look upon for long.
He nudged her lips, and she could not deny her belly-cramping hunger. Covering his hand with both of hers, she drank with a babe’s greed, and nigh pleaded to lick the bowl clean.
“I know you still hunger, but you have been too long without sustenance.” He tucked her short locks behind her ear.
She met his fierce scrutiny. “I am a healer. I know the dangers of too much food too soon.”
“What do you remember of the eve afore Thrimilici?” His thigh muscles tensed beneath her bottom and the hard ridge of his arousal thickened.
Until he asked the question, she had not recalled the all of it. Memories jammed her mind, and she blurted the words as the images flashed fast and furious. “Bagan One-Eye finding me. Your rescue. Mús’s injury. We swam. Fought.”
She pummeled his arms and ribs. “You bound me to staves!”
Chapter Four
Konáll captured her fisted hands. “I had no choice, mìlseachd. You have the strength of your jötunn mother and Mús warned me you would fight to the death.”
Nyssa fought to keep her turmoil from showing. She
Similar Books
