“Ranulf. The name is not familiar,” his father was saying. “I will go see the reeve in town right now. He’s a reliable man and we’ve built a good relationship since he helped us when Steinar was wrongly accused of murder. If you’ll excuse me, little one?”
“Of course.”
After placing a kiss on his wife’s temple, Wolf exited the hut, a man on a mission. Torsten didn’t doubt for a moment he would get results, and sooner rather than later. Not many men could stand in the way of the formidable Icelander, especially when it was a family matter.
Once they were alone, his mother took a step forward, a reassuring smile on her lips. “You can trust your father to get to the bottom of this.”
“Yes.” He always did. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back home.” He’d changed into dry clothes before going to his parents’ hut but he was feeling rather tired and he longed to lie down.
“Of course. But before you go, I have one last question. What exactly is between you and Aife?”
Torsten swallowed. Trust his mother to leave the practical aspect of the questioning to her husband and focus on the personal side of the adventure.
“What do you mean? We’ve been friends since we were born.”
He was sidestepping the question but what else could he say? That they had kissed many times over the last few days, each with increasing urgency? That the reason they had been captured was that they’d argued about her motives for kissinghim? That he fantasized about her when he stroked himself in the morning? That last night, for the first time, he’d been intimate with a woman and it had been her? That he’d allowed her to pleasure him and had been so lost to decency that he’d filled her mouth with his seed? That he’d teased her softness with his fingers and could still feel the spasms he’d wrenched out of her in his soul?
That he wanted to feel those spasms again, this time on his tongue?
“Well, my hair was auburn from the day I was born. Until it started turning gray,” his mother told him with a side smile. “From then on, there was no going back.”
Torsten shuffled on his feet, unsure what she was trying to say. Of the four siblings, he was the one who had the closest relationship with his mother, perhaps because he was the one who resembled her the most physically. Most of the time they understood one another without words, but she was being unusually cryptic today.
“Things we take for granted can change,” she added when he remained silent. “Sometimes it is for the best.”
“You do look good with the sliver streaks in your hair,” he agreed slowly, because he was starting to have an inkling of where this conversation was going, and he didn’t like it. Better to focus on her hair since she had started it. “I’m sureFaðirhas told you many times.”
She made a cutting gesture, indicating she was not fooled by his pretence at evasion, as he should have guessed. She never was.
“The night Aife was born I was with Frigyth, assisting her instead of Helga, who was in bed with a high fever. It was her fourth child and we were confident all would be well. You were only a year old then, as you know, and you found it hard to be without me. So I took you with me, knowing youwould sleep most of the time anyway.” She gave a fond smile of remembrance. “When you woke up just after dawn, the baby was born. You took your first real steps that day, waddling toward her as if drawn by an invisible force and took her hand in yours. She gripped your little finger and refused to let go. You didn’t say anything, you just looked and let her hold on to you.”
By the time she had finished her story, Torsten’s throat had gone dry. How was he finding out about this only today? It appeared hugely significant somehow, even if he could not fathom why.
“You share the day of your birth with Aife, but I think you share much more than that, have from the start. Only, neither of you were aware of it.”
Yes, perhaps. And perhaps now they were all too aware of it.
He took his mother’s hand in his and kissed the knuckles lightly. “Forgive me, I have to go. I didn’t sleep well last night. I mean not enough. I mean?—”
A squeeze on his hand stopped the fumbled declaration. “I know what you mean, son. Go and get some rest.”
Aife stared at the ceiling,panting with the strength of her release. Her body had spasmed out of control for long moments, draining her of all her strength. This had been unprecedented, almost as good as what she had felt in Torsten’s arms. She had not even taken the conscious decision to touch herself, the caresses had been brought on by the dream she’d had. A dream in which she had revisited what she and Torsten had done two nights ago in the Roman ruins. As she lay down, still fighting sleep’s hold over her, her fingers had found their way to the place between her legs. It was throbbing, slick and hot fromthe very naughty images her mind had conjured up, and before she’d known what she was doing, she’d been stroking herself to a storm of release that bore no resemblance to her usually tamer explorations.
It was as if something had been unlocked in her body, allowing her to access its full potential.
Though no one could see her or know what she had done, she blushed to the roots of her hair. It was not the first time she had thought of Torsten as she brought herself pleasure. As she’d told him the other night, over the last few days she had imagined him while she stroked herself. But never had it been so wicked, so…precise. And no wonder. This time she had not imagined what they could do, she had remembered what they had done, in all its scandalous glory.
Once she’d gotten her breath back, Aife left the pallet filled with a sense of purpose. Today she would set things right. She couldn’t let Torsten be maligned any longer, not when she knew there was nothing wrong with him.
As soon as she was ready, she exited the hut and headed straight for the baker’s shop. The morning was chilly and a light drizzle was falling from the skies but she didn’t bother with a cloak. Resolve would be enough to warm her. Sitting next to her stall in front of the hut, at her usual place, Gudrun welcomed her with a smile.
“Aife. How are you this morning?” The baker’s wife eyed the bruise on her cheek with ill-concealed curiosity.
“I’m exhausted, if you must know.” That was no lie. Between images of the man’s assault and lewd memories of the moments she had shared with Torsten, the last two nights had not been as restful as she’d hoped.
“You will be, poor thing. I heard all about your ordeal at the hands of the Normans.”
Of course, she would have, the woman made it her business to know—and comment on—everything that went on in the village. Which was precisely the reason Aife had come to her. She wanted to make sure Torsten’s name was mentioned in the next few days, and that what was said contradicted the current rumors. But she had to be clever about it. It would not do to just announce that Sigrid’s friend was lying about Torsten not having been able to bed her because, well, he had indeed been unable to. But that didn’t mean he was the impotent lover he was purported to be.
