Skårde silently dismissed him with an outstretched arm, signaling that assistance was unnecessary. When Eydis and Norhild rushed forward to attend Ylva, he waved them away with a flick of his hand. With unspoken command, he conveyed his preference for privacy as he led Ylva across the vast vestibule and up the stone stairs toward their royal chambers.
Moonlight and the salty scent of the sea filtered through the small open window at the end of the hall. Along the corridor, lit torches emitted the fragrant aroma of pine. Skårde retrieved one from the metal sconce on the wall and held it as a dutiful servant unlocked Ylva’s bedroom door. He took the key and dismissed the maid, leading Ylva into the moonlit room and locking the door behind him. With the torch, he lit a lamp on the bedside table and headed toward the antechamber which connected their two sleeping quarters. “I’ll be right back. I want to lock my door as well—so none of the servants disturb us.” With a seductive grin, he strode through the door.
Ylva walked to the pair of windows which overlooked the cliff, watching the moonglow and starlight dance upon the Narrow Sea. She removed her silver coronet and placed it on the small table where she had stored the lunula that Skårde’s grandmother had given her as a wedding gift. Remembering Gyda’s words to hang it over the bedpost so thatthe Goddess Freyja would bless her fertile womb, Ylva retrieved the crescent-shaped silver amulet from the drawer and tied it to the carved oak wood.
She removed her shoes and hose, quickly unbraiding and combing her hair while she waited for Skårde to return. Úlvhild’s otherworldly voice whispered in the wind.“You are destined to conceive Skårde’s son… the child born to the son of a Danish king and the daughter of a Norman duke will forge a dynasty that will unite this land and rule for a thousand years.”
Ylva jumped when Skårde crept up behind her, placing his hands on her outer arms. A jolt of current surged through her shaking body.
He swept her long blonde mane to one side, bending forward to kiss the back of her neck. “I love your hair…” he murmured, nuzzling her skin and ending shivers down her spine. “Your lithe body, graceful as a swan. Odin’s eye, Ylva—you’re a goddess. And I want to worship every inch of you.”
He turned her to face him. Ardor glinted in his greedy, grateful eyes.
As Ylva watched in fascinated admiration, he unstrapped his leather scabbard and stood his new swordDuradrakkagainst her walnut table. The enchanted emerald glittered in its hilt. Like my ring, she mused, her eyes darting to the faceted gem which pulsed on her finger.
Skårde stepped forward, unbuckling Ylva’s belt and helping her remove the silver overdress. He laid both over the back of the walnut chair he’d carved for hermundrbridal gift.
Ylva slid her dark green gown to the floor, stepping out of the silken dress. She picked it up and placed it on the bedside table near Skårde’s standing sword.
He moaned at the sight of her nude body, bathed in moonglow and starlight. Wrapping his arms behind her back, he pulled her against his chest. Soft, insistent lips swooped down to swallow hers.
Ylva slipped her arms up under his tunic, her fingers exploring his sinewy back. “Take this off,” she implored between breaths, struggling to lift the linen garment over his flexed shoulders.
Skårde complied, a mischievous glint in his eye as she ogled his massive chest.
Amidst a magnificent backdrop of dark blond hair, a jagged scar tattooed in black ravaged the rugged skin. Mesmerized—for she had foreseen this exact image in the pool of the waterfall cave in Saint-Suliac—she brushed reverent fingertips across the lightning bolt which marked him with the thunder of the Norse God Thor. “I saw this in a vision.” Her voice was a venerable whisper. Obeying an undeniable primitive urge, she covered the scar withsoft kisses and traced it with her tongue.
He groaned as if in pain. Gripping her bottom with calloused hands, he pressed his warrior body against hers. Hardness poked against her belly.
Her legs instinctively parted, an unbearable ache deep inside. Liquid warmth pooled between her trembling thighs.
Skårde took her hand, kissed it, and led her to the bed, laying her gently upon the feathered mattress. He stood for a moment, ravenous eyes roving over Ylva’s entire body, as he removed his breeches and dropped them on the floor.
Ylva’s breath hitched at the sight of his magnificent hardened body, standing proud like hisLjósálfatsword. He knelt on the bed above her, hovering with voracious hunger. Like a famished man at a sumptuous feast, he sampled and savored every inch.
He started with her lips, swallowing them into his own, probing the recesses of her mouth with a penetrating tongue. His breathing ragged, he trailed kisses down her throat, caressing her breasts, making her body arc toward his tantalizing touch. When he suckled her nipples, she whimpered with want, unaware of what she craved. He parted her womanly curls, exploring the folds of her flesh with tender fingers. Inhaling the musky scent of her arousal, he murmured, “I am dying to taste you.”
Skårde lowered his mouth to the opening between her thighs, lapping and humming as if he loved her taste. His clever tongue twirled on a tender, sensitive bud, making her writhe on the bed. He rose up onto his knees and sucked his fingers, penetrating her with first one, then two. A sharp, sudden pain seared, but quickly disappeared when he returned his mouth to her aching nub. Under the persistent pulse of his long fingers, and the insistent stroke of his skilled tongue, her body tensed, taut as a bow, the unbearable pressure pushing her toward an inexorable, unknown end.
When she could bear no more, she cried out as her body shattered in radiant light, like a thousand bursting stars. Gasping for breath, damp with sweat, she looked down at Skårde as he rose back up onto his haunches.
“Delicious,” he grinned wolfishly, licking his moustache and placing his knees between her thighs. “I cannot wait to bury myselfdeep inside you.” He slipped his hands under her bottom. Lifted her hips up to receive him. Positioned himself at her opening. And plunged inside.
Ylva moaned in pleasure, wrapping her arms around his broad back and her legs around his thrusting hips. She clutched him tight, pulling him in deeper, gripping him inside and out. She inhaled his slightly pungent, masculine scent, kissing his tense shoulder, savoring the sweet salty taste of his bare skin.
With a deep groan, he arrowed into her. Convulsing and shuddering between her taut limbs, he filled her womb with his abundant seed.
A few moments later, while she still quivered beneath him, Skårde shifted his weight onto one elbow. He swooped down to kiss her with an immensely satisfied smile. “That was incredible. Indescribable. As if I poured my soul into you with my seed.” His languid lips and warm tongue washed her in waves of pleasure. “I am yours, Ylva Rikardóttir. And you are mine.” He kissed her again. She could taste herself on his wicked, wonderful tongue. “You’re exquisite, my beautiful Breton bride.” He lowered himself to lay down beside her and noticed the lunula tied to the bedpost. “What’s that?” He indicated the silver amulet with a jut of his chin.
Ylva sat up, untied the black leather laces of the amulet, and handed it to him. “It’s a lunula. A Viking fertility talisman. Your grandmother gave it to me. She told me to tie it to the bedpost, so that Freyja would bless my fertile womb.”
He grinned from ear to bearded ear. “Mayhap the seed I planted tonight will take root.”
“I hope so.” Ylva smiled as she showed him her emerald ring, sparkling in the moonglow and starlight. “Úlvhild gave me this. She said the emerald will heal my heart. Help me to overcome the pain of my father’s abandonment. And enable me to love you.” Ylva pushed a wayward strand of long blond hair from Skårde’s rugged face and leaned down to kiss him. She smiled at the irony of loving him.
He’s a Viking. Like my ruthless, fearless father. And the violent warriors who conquered my village. After so many years of hating them—and my ownNordic blood—I am in love with a Viking. Although I loathed this forced wedding, I am now glad that we’re married. Destiny has entwined our fates. And I’m grateful that he is mine.
He laid the lunula on the bed at his side and pulled her down on top of him. Wrapping his arms around her back, he kissed her long, tumbled hair. “I love you, Ylva.” His voice was raspy and rough. “I never thought this marriage would make me happy. But I’ve never known a greater bliss.” Warm, soft lips welcomed hers.
