Helgi remained, helping Zarabeth oversee the cooking and the washing and all the other myriad chores. The men erected thatched huts, for Magnus knew it would rain and he wanted to protect Zarabeth.
Whilst the rebuilding went on, Magnus went quietly about refitting theSea Windand finishing repairs. Anger burned in his gut, and it grew each time he viewed the devastation of his home. His grandfather had selected the name Malek for his farmstead, but none knew where the name had come from, even his father. In truth, no one cared now, not even Magnus. Malek belonged to him, and it would remain his.
On the fourth day after the fire, Haftor Ingolfsson arrived, two of his sons with him.
They viewed the destroyed farmstead and stayed to help. They wanted to know if Magnus knew the whereabouts of Orm. Magnus denied any knowledge. He lied smoothly, and Zarabeth kept her thoughts to herself. The Ingolfssons were huge men, fair-haired, well-knit, and fierce. Their anger at Orm was great. They wanted to find him badly.
“Why did you not tell them the truth?” Zarabeth asked Magnus one night when they lay side by side under the stars. The night was warm, so there was no need to retreat under the thatched hut roof.
“I want him myself.”
She accepted that. She sighed and pressed closer. She felt a soft pulsing in her belly. Magnus had not made love to her since that night of the attack and the fire.
“I also want you.”
She smiled and moved closer, pleasure filling her at his words.
“But I’m afraid that I will hurt you.”
She came up over him, her face but inches from his. She bit the end of his nose and grinned. “What happens to a man if he does not relieve himself?”
“Choose another way of saying it, Zarabeth.”
“Very well. If you do not spend your man’s passion, what happens?”
“I become a bent old relic, my belly swells, my hair turns white, and my teeth rot out.”
Her laughter rang out, free and joyous. He stilled, satisfaction filling him at the sweet sound.
“Oh, Magnus, all that? Is that a white hair I see?” She was laughing, tugging at his blond hair, pulling at it, looking closely. “No, not a single white strand. Now, show me your teeth.”
He obligingly opened his mouth and she studied his white teeth, then kissed him. “I won’t let you up to see if you are yet bending. Ah, husband, we must ensure that you do not become this old relic of a man.” She ran her hand over his flat belly. “Ah, no swelling here as yet.”
“Nay, ’tis you who will do the belly-swelling.”
He kissed her, knowing that surely some of their people were close by, not yet asleep, yet he didn’t care. He whispered in her ear, “If I take you, will you scream when your pleasure comes? Tell me truly, Zarabeth, shall I have to place my hand over your mouth?”
“Aye,” she said, and giggled. “It is your own fault, so cast not the blame on me when it is you who make me howl like a demented wolf.”
He shifted, gently shoving her flat on her back. He was over her now, looking down at her laughing face. “I believe the only way that I am to save myself from baiting and taunting by my men is to proceed thus. Nay, say nothing. I am your husband and I will do things the way I wish to.”
He kissed her until he felt the yielding deep within her, the acceptance of him not only as her husband but also as a man. He ignored the restless twisting of her body beneath him, holding her still beneath him until she punched him in the arm.
“All right,” he said, and kissed her again, only this time he caressed her breast with his hand, kneading her gently. “You’re larger,” he said between kisses. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
He didn’t, and she wanted him. But he refused to allow her to touch him, to go beyond the pace he himself had set.
Finally, when she tried to bite his tongue, he laughed, his voice deep and warm in her mouth, and eased his fingers up beneath her gown to caress her woman’s flesh.
When he began to rhythmically caress her, she had no way to control herself, for the feelings were compelling, too full, quickly becoming uncontrollable. He encouraged her as she keened softly, deep in her throat.
“You are doing well, Zarabeth. It delights me, this pleasure in you.”
And when she stiffened and arched taut as a bow, he deepened the pressure and took her cries into his mouth.
He relished each of the small quivers that followed her release. Gently he eased her onto her side away from him and came into her. He nibbled on her ear and she tried to twist about so she could kiss him some more, but he wouldn’t allow it. “Hold still,” he said. “Let me come deeper... aye, that’s it. Let me take you...”
Zarabeth pushed back hard against him and he groaned. He gripped her hips in his large hands, controlling the depth of his thrusts until it was too much for him and he buried his face in her hair, and she felt his moans to her very soul. This, she thought, was what was real. This was sharing and knowing and pleasing and being pleased. It was trust and belonging and it was wonderful.
