Page 43 of Hungry Like a Wolf
He held it out to show her but didn’t hand it over.
“It’s a strong boat, good for big waves,” she said with a serious nod.
He didn’t speak and snatched the boat back to his chest.
“Come, Thormod. Let us find that rhubarb,” Erin said. “And let your father and new mother rest after their long journey.”
Quickly, Thormod turned and ran to Erin.
She hoisted him up into her arms. “I will take him until you ask for him or he asks for Helga.”
“Thank you.” Ravn nodded and stroked his son’s hair, a tender gesture that had his features softening.
Erin left the dwelling.
“You missed him.” Carmel nodded at the doorway.
“Ja. He is my son. My blood.”
“He reminds me of my brother at that age. His hair was also the color of dawn light.”
Ravn sat and shoved at his boots. They fell to the floor with two bangs and he left them lying. He then stood and pulled at his top, dropping it over his boots. “This tunic needs burning.”
She didn’t reply.
He pulled his belt free, dropping it down with a clunk as the axe and dagger hit the floor. “And these. Also for burning.”
Next came his pants. He pushed them down his wide thighs, the left one dark with ink, and kicked them away.
Carmel gasped and spun around. “In God’s name, what are you doing?” The sight of his big cock flaccid against his dark body hair had made her heart skip a beat and shock rampage through her system.
“Bathing,” he said. “Unlike you, I do not hold such a high price on my naked body.”
She heard the slosh of water and his deep sigh of bliss.
Without a word, she walked past the fire trough, the statue of Thor, and into the bed area. She lay on the thick, white furs, drew up her knees, and closed her eyes.
Sleep. She needed sleep.
And if she prayed hard enough, maybe she’d wake up in her castle and this would all be a bad dream.
Chapter Eleven
Ravn closed hiseyes, sank down, and let the water circle his neck. He’d been dreaming of a soak in hot water for days. He hadn’t expected it to smell of rosemary, but he wasn’t complaining. The smell would always remind him of Carmel.
Carmel.
What game were the gods playing to set out his fate with a Christian woman? A princess, at that.
He didn’t want to want her.
Hadn’t planned on bringing a woman back to Drangar.
But here she was. In his home. Looking like a shiny berry ripe for plucking. With wit, compassion, and wisdom and a way of looking at him like she saw something good there—and not just the bad blood he’d become used to thinking flowed in his veins. He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
But she’d been so quiet on the boat. Tortured by her grief. Something he thanked the gods he had not had a hand in. She could blame Haakon, Astrid, and Orm for that. He’d left her to her melancholy knowing that time was a healer and these things couldn’t be rushed.
And that kiss. Also not planned. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d had no choice but to press his lips to hers. She’d been irresistible. He’d been expecting a swift slap or tart remark, but nothing had come and he’d lost himself in her for a few sweet moments marveling at the fact a woman could make his heart beat so fast.
