Einar nodded, despite looking confused.
“You will always have a place here. But it might not be the place you thought,” Tormod said. Einar frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Arne picked up a wooden sword himself and started to go through various moves, and both boys were distracted.
Tormod’s shoulders slumped as he and Aoife walked towards the hall. She glanced back a few times at the boys before stopping next to the fire. “Why did that seem… as if you were giving Einar away?”
“I’m not. He is not mine to give,” he said, then he pulled himself to his full height. “And it is all in the past.”
“Please, I need to understand.” She put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off. He didn’t want to have this conversation just now. He glanced back at Einar, taking in the shape of his face, the uplift of his mouth, the line of his nose. The boy had the pale blond hair of his mother. The rest of his features he must have inherited from his natural father. Whoever he was. Ingrid had taken that secret to her grave. A grave into which Arne had also nearly fallen. He strode away from her, towards the shore.
Chapter Thirty
Aoife needed to knowabout the past so she could understand the present, whether her husband agreed or not.
Tormod was clearly upset—the tension in his shoulders was clear as she struggled to keep up with him as he strode along the beach. She wasn’t going to let him just disappear, though. She was tired of all these secrets and half-truths. How could he just give away his son like that? Fostering was common practice, but this seemed somehow more permanent. And what debt?
“Tormod!” she called. He ignored her and kept walking. “Tormod!”
This time he paused and looked at her over his shoulder, then shook his head and strode onwards. His boots were stronger and more able to deal with the stony beach, while her shoes let her feel every stone beneath her feet and she winced whenever the sharp edges dug into her skin.
He was past the bathhouse now and the shingle was becoming larger stones and rocks. He barely paused when he reached the rocks and continued to walk as if they were of as much concern as the shingle had been. It was not nearly so easy for Aoife, who had to stop often to choose the best route. More than once she had to turn back to avoid pools of water or large patches of mud she daren’t risk stepping into and discovering they were deeper than she had thought. She did her best to keep up with him, but fearedthat by the time she made it to the top of the rocks he would be far from her sight.
He wasn’t. He had stopped at the far side of the next cove and was staring north up the sea-loch. A wave of light-headedness passed through her that she put down to relief. She started to make her way down the slope towards him.
He was a solitary figure standing at the edge of the water, the waves lapping at the tips of his boots. She could understand why there was something amiss about his relationship with the boy. She had seen the distance between them before, although she did not want it for her own children. It was the distance between her and Ula and, while Tormod did not seem to hate Einar the way Ula hated her, there was still something very wrong. Even more wrong was the idea of Einar living with Arne permanently. She sensed a deep sadness in the decision for both men. More than just an acknowledgment that the boy was not Tormod’s natural son. He had not wanted her to keep secrets, and yet he was keeping many of his own.
“Tormod?” He didn’t turn or acknowledge her presence, so she guessed he had known she had followed him the whole time. Her fists clenched. He had known and had not slowed down or better yet stopped. Perhaps it was a test to see how much she cared. She would soon find out if she had passed. “Tormod?”
She placed a hand on his shoulder and was surprised when he spun around and grabbed her by the waist. He took a long look at her face, then closed his mouth hungrily over hers.
Eventually, he wrenched his mouth from hers and leaned his head against the side of hers, panting. Her thoughts whirled. She had been correct; her husband’s emotions were as disturbed as her own. Arne fostering Einar did not account for the pain she saw in his face, the desperation she had felt in his kiss.
“What is going on? Why does it seem like Arne is going to bring up Einar?”
“The villagers are willing to accept him, say nothing about his parentage, especially about his mother, but he cannot become jarl.”
“I understand, but…” Aoife pulled back from him. “What is it you are not telling me? There is something more, isn’t there?”
Tormod’s head bowed, and he took a deep breath. “Ingrid did not die when Einar was born.”
“Oh,” she said. “I thought…”
“No.” Tormod sighed. “Ingrid birthed Einar—another man’s child—no problem at all.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “I thought…”
“It was my child that killed her.”
“Yours? But…” She stared at him, she couldn’t make her mouth form words. She was struggling to understand what he was saying.
“You do not need to love me…” He paused, a frown crossing his face. “But I do not wish to lose you.”
“Oh, Tormod.” So he feared her dying? He had wanted to wait to have children because he believed it had been his fault Ingrid had died. A knot of tension inside her loosened, and she reached for him. He kissed her again, his kisses more desperate than passionate, but she returned them, cupping the side of his face, trying to reassure him.
He lifted her and carried her up the beach to the edge of the woods, where he laid her down on a patch of grass before joining her. He swept her skirts up her legs and fumbled with his breeks. He used his fingers to touch her intimately, teasing her until she began to tremble with anticipation. His fingers moved from that sweet spot and she could feel how wet she was when he slid two fingers inside her. Then, with little ceremony, he moved over her, shoving her legs apart with his own, and pushed inside.
She welcomed the desperation she felt in him, the need to be one with her, to join with her. Unlike after the battle on the beach, however, this time he was looking at her and she knew he wasseeing her, Aoife, and not just any woman. His thrusts were deep and reached right to her very soul. He changed his angle, and she responded to the contact on her most sensitive part. She clung to him, soundless words escaping her until she cried out in ecstasy, losing touch with the reality around her as she felt him reach his own peak and spill himself deep inside her.
He collapsed on top of her, panting. She was too disoriented to care. When finally he sat up, he pulled her skirts higher, baring her stomach, and ran his hands over the smooth skin. She shuddered and looked down at his hand covering the gentle swell of her stomach.
