Page 47 of The Last Viking

“You’re going to camp in my yard?”

“Did I not say so?” Yea, Magnus had the right of it where female intelligence is concerned.

“But…but…what will people think?”

“Unlike you, I care not what other people think of me.”

Scarlet patches bloomed on her cheeks. “I said I’m sorry.”

“I heard you, wench…now and afore. And ’tis too late for apologies.” He studied her for a long moment, reconsidering. “Do you take back the words?”

“Yes. I mean, which ones?” She wrung her hands nervously, looking everywhere but at him. “No, you’re not dismissed,” she finally mumbled with ill grace.

“Ah,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, waiting till she was forced to meet his gaze. “And the other words?”

“The other words? Oh, yes, well, of course I need you for the project.”

He shook his head. “Those were not your exact words, my lady. What you said was, ‘I don’t want you.’”

“I just said I needed you for the project. Darn it! What do you want from me?”

“The truth. Do you want me?”

A soft moan escaped her lips, hitting him like a potent aphrodisiac he did not need. “Yes, I want you, but I’m fighting the desire, strenuously.”

He grinned. Her heightened breathing and flushed skin told him that she wanted him, even without her reluctant confession. Why did she hesitate? “Mayhap you think too much, sweetling,” he said tenderly, skimming his fingertips over her parted lips.

She inhaled sharply. Did she experience the same shimmering heat that shot through his hand, up his arm, and out to all his sensitized body? “Have you ne’er chosen the impulsive path?” he asked thickly.

“Never.”

“More’s the pity.” He stepped closer.

She backed away from him, hitting the wall. As skittish as a colt she was…or a mare in heat, he observed inwardly.

“Stop smirking,” she ordered and slapped at his reaching hand, which had already loosened the brooch confining her hair in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. Immediately, the mahogany tresses blossomed out and the scent of drek filled the air.

He braced his hands against the wall on either side of her head and loomed over her. “Why do you tremble, Merry-Death? You have naught to fear from me.”

“You don’t intimidate me,” she said, raising her prideful chin. He knew she resisted the temptation to duck under his arms and bolt from his presence like a cowardly rabbit. Her courage was impressive, and foolhardy. For her fate was sealed now that the hunt was on. If naught else, Geirolf was a talented hunter.

“Ah, then you tremble for me,” he said, his voice husky. The first rule of the hunt was to disarm the prey. He leaned closer and brushed his lips along the line of her stubborn jaw.

“Wh-what? I do not.”

“Liar. Already your body makes ready for our mating.” He ran a calloused palm over one silk-covered breast, then the other.

She rewarded him with a whimper.

“Your hardened peaks bespeak the lie, m’lady.” While his hand was in the vicinity, he flicked open two buttons on her silk shert. Two, that was all. Parry and retreat, another rule of the good hunter.

She stared at him like a doe caught before the bowman’s arrow. He refused to break eye contact. Even the wildest beast of the forest could be mesmerized thus by a good huntsman. After a long pause, he opened one more button. Then another. Her shert gaped open, exposing her breasts.

He did not touch her. He just looked, and looked.

Under his smoldering scrutiny, the rose-tinted nipples bloomed, growing and straining against the lace cups of her undergarment.

His throat went dry, and a fierce shudder rippled over him. ’Twas not a good sign. The stalker must always be in control. At first, he could not speak. When he did, his voice came out hoarse and barely recognizable. “Do you ache for my touch as much as I ache to touch you?”