Dark eyes aflame, he led her to their soft pile of furs.
Haldor unfastened her amber necklace and set it gently upon the stone shelf. Slowly, seductively, he unraveled the two slender braids in her long black hair, laying the strips of golden wool next to the carved image of Freyja.
Úlvhild caressed his scarred, bearded cheek, her eyes welling as she held his gaze where lust, longing, and love smoldered, fierce as the fire in the hearth.
She helped him remove his leather armor, which he carefully laid on a blanket near their bed. He stood proudly before her—his magnificent warrior body dusted with dark hair, rippled with strength, marred by brutal scars. The tattooed feathers, proof of Freyja’s magical gift of flight, shimmered like living wings, theseiðrfjáðrmark which bound their souls glowing golden with violet fire above his fierce falcon heart.
Her fingertips traced the glimmering feathers and sable curls across his broad chest. With loving lips and warm tongue, she tasted his tempting flesh, savoring the sizzle ofseiðrin the spiral of the feather-shaped rune.
He lifted her golden gown up over her head, then removed the soft linen shift underneath. Folding both, he placed them on the blanket beside his leather armor. His ravenous gaze rove over her bare flesh like a peregrine sensing its prey.
Falcon wings unfurling in flight, he wrapped her in his arms, swooped down for her lips, and fiercely claimed her as his.
He parted her lips and drove in his tongue, penetrating and probing. With a deep moan, he gripped her hips and pulled them against his hardened body, her knees weakening with want. Helicked her neck, her shoulder, her breasts, humming as his warm mouth suckled each puckered nipple.
When he lowered her to soft the furs and spread her legs wide, she quivered as he hovered over her, feasting with ravenous eyes. “I long for your taste …” his voice was guttural and gruff, the throbbing between her thighs making her whimper.
His soft, eager lips sampled her tender flesh, lapping and sucking as if devouring a delicious treat. His tongue probed her depths and flicked over her sensitive nub, driving her wild with desire. “Please, Haldor…I want you inside me.”
Impatient knees between her thighs, he lifted her hips and impaled her with a guttural groan.
She clamped long legs around his rocking hips. Dug her fingers into the tense muscles of his taut back. Pulled him in deeper, arching her body to meet his rhythmic thrusts.
When the cresting wave finally crashed, inundating her in waves of unbearable pleasure, Haldor arrowed into her, convulsed in her locked limbs, and filled her with his glorious seed.
After a few moments to savor the delicious bliss, he laid down at her side and cradled her over his thumping heart. As Úlvhild nuzzled the dark hair on his chest, Haldor kissed the top of her head and stroked her long black locks. “This is the first time I made love to you as my wife.” Tenderness laced his mellow tone. He smiled down at her, lovelight gleaming in his dark falcon eyes. “And it was the very best of all.”
She rose up to kiss his irresistible lips. “Indeed it was. I love you, my husband. And I always will.”
Heart full of love, womb full of life, Úlvhild nestled into Haldor’s loving embrace. And slept for the first time as his wife.
Chapter 36
No Mercy for Noyon
King Lothaire burst into the Sapphire Chalice Tavern in Dorestad with all the majesty, might, and menace of West Francia’s reigning monarch.
Flanked by two dozen royal guards in glittering mail armor and blue surcoats bearing the goldenfleur-de-lysemblem, he brushed aside obsequious servants who seated him at their best table and served him a sapphire-studded silver chalice of their finest Frankish wine. Adjusting the gold circlet upon his scowling brow, he smoothed the elegant white ermine fur trim of his blue velvet cloak and demanded to see the proprietor of the prosperous waterfront inn.
“Bring me Zhúlgorr.”
The young female servant, clad in a dark blue gown and silver apron—signature colors of the lucrative Frisian trade center—bowed before him, her voice quavering, eyes widened with fear. “At once, Your Majesty.”
A few moments later, Zhúlgorr emerged from the back of the tavern. His wiry black hair, murky wrinkled skin, and alarmingly reptilian yellow eyes sent shivers of dread snakingup Lothaire’s royal spine.
The repulsiveDökkálfar,proprietor of the boisterous tavern and the adjacent Sapphire Sands Silver— the shop where he secretly crafted and sold cursed talismans and deadly Dark Elven weapons—seated himself warily at the polished table.
Golden eyes with the vertical slits of a viper fixed Lothaire with a predatory stare.
The serving girl quickly poured a mug of golden mead, placed the ornate silver chalice encrusted with sparkling sapphiresin front of Zhúlgorr, and discreetly disappeared.
Lothaire wasted no time on frivolous banter.
“Alberic of Soissons defied my direct order and attackedle Château Blanc.Not only did he fail in his futile attempt, he was beheaded.” Pulse pounding, Lothaire drained his goblet and slammed it on the solid oak surface. “Richard the Fearless took the severed head to Hugh Capet in Paris—irrefutable proof that the Franks violated the treaty ofSaint-Clair-sur-Epteby attacking Étretat.”
Lothaire squeezed his goblet as if it were the Duke of Normandy’s vile Viking throat. “Capet has summoned a coalition of nobles to convene in Noyon on the vernal equinox. I want you to place five dozenDökkálfarin the dense forest surroundingla Montage Couronnéeand aid my royal Frankish army in ambushing themen routeto Noyon. I shall arrest them as traitors who dare defy their king—and execute them all for treason.” Livid with rage, Lothaire spat. “Including Hugh Capet.”
Zhúlgorr drank slowly from his goblet, unnerving golden glare fixed on Lothaire.
