Page 31 of The Gathering Storm

She smoothed her dress down one last time, fixed a haughty expression on her face, and marched to the door, her heels tapping with each step across the hardwood floor past the carpet protecting the dining room floor.

She swung the front door open wide, letting in the evening’s chill. Will stood on her stoop, protected from the flurrying snow by the wide porch separating the house from the yard. He wore a black wool coat buttoned up over dark brown slacks and held a custom sized wine bag in one hand. Snow melted in his thick blond hair and a smile shone from his light green eyes.

She stepped back, allowing him entrance, and frowned at the flurry of nerves jumping in her stomach. Before she could subdue them, Will slid a hand around her waist, bent his head, and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. She relaxed against him, accepting his touch and the heat it stirred within her, awash in the pleasurable slide of his lips against hers.

He nipped her lower lip, kissed the slight pleasure-pain away, and drew back, a warm smile curving his mouth. “I brought the wine.”

She shoved the door shut, so rattled by the unexpected greeting, it was all she could do to thank him and take the bottle from him while he shrugged off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door.

He pried the bag out of her suddenly numb fingers and placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her gently into the room beyond. “Something smells good.”

Dinner. Yes, of course. That’s why he was here, after all, to partake of a meal. “Butternut squash soup, roast chicken, and winter vegetables, and for dessert, a chocolate and raspberry tart.”

“Sounds delicious. Where do you want the wine?”

“Here.” She took it from him again, steadier now that she’d gotten used to this newly polished Will with his suave style and poised grace. “Would you like a tour before the meal?”

“Please, but could you do me a favor?”

She paused halfway between him and the kitchen, and arched a single eyebrow. “Yes?”

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his slacks and rocked back on his heels. “Could we dispense with the formality and just enjoy the night?”

“I thought we were.”

A wicked grin flashed across his face. “Yeah, but I don’t want to spend our time rocketing back and forth between kisses and polite chitchat. Maybe we could find a middle ground.”

As long as it included the kisses.

The thought popped into her head out of nowhere and, unaccountably, warmth touched her cheeks. She swiveled away from him, hiding the blush, and set the wine on the kitchen counter. When she was certain the color had faded from her cheeks, she returned to where he stood, still grinning, and looped her arm through his.

“Be at ease, Will, here in my home.”

“I’ll do that.”

He slipped his hand out of his pocket and joined it with hers, twining their fingers together in a loose tangle. His palm was warm against hers, his touch gentle, and his attentiveness unwavering as she introduced him to each room within her home, the kitchen and living areas, the study and the many books she’d gathered over her life, as time and money allowed. The weapons lining the hallway, the guest bedrooms upstairs and down, and her personal space, the one room that was hers and hers alone.

His gaze lingered on the feminine yellow bedspread decorated with splotches of red roses, on the filmy curtains layered over the windows along two walls, on the antique sleigh bed and matching furniture, and his green eyes darkened as they glanced from her bed to her.

Would he lead her there tonight?

His thumb slid over hers, a sensual glide of warmed skin, and desire swirled within her, taking her breath.

“We should probably eat now, yeah?” he murmured, and she took the opening he gave her, somehow both glad for the reprieve and disappointed by the reminder.

Over the meal, they chatted about her work and his, skirted around his childhood, and landed squarely on hers halfway through dessert.

“Amma doesn’t talk much about growing up a Viking,” he said.

“It was a difficult time.” She scooped up a sliver of the tart with her spoon and allowed it to melt on her tongue before continuing. “I’m a few years older than your grandmother.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“She told me. Amma did. She told me a lot of things.” His gaze was steady on hers, knowing, and just a little discomfiting. “ ‘For thou seest the fate that to gods and men is given. What sign is fairest for him who fights, and best for the swinging of swords?’”

Her spoon clanked against her plate and her eyes widened. “Reginsmol.”

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