Page 50 of Hungry Like a Wolf
He squeezed her hand.
“And in the name of Jesus Christ my savior, I promise to honor and respect you, cherish you and forsake all others so that you are the only man in my heart.” The words came out easier than she’d expected and she’d managed to hold in the fact that it would only be for three years.
A round of three seasons, that was all she had to commit to, then she would be free to live a chaste life as a divorcee back in Lothlend.
“And now for the exchanging of swords.” Joseph handed a small, silver sword to Carmel.
She took the ornate handle and passed it to Ravn. He handed her his heavy one, which she held vertically with the point pressing into the wooden floor of the pier.
“And now”—Joseph held up his hands—“you are King and Queen of Drangar and husband and wife.”
The crowd cheered and clapped and a drum banged loudly.
“Queen Carmel,” Ravn said, snatching her close. “My beautiful wife, your people adore you, as do I.”
His lips hit down on hers as his arms held her tightly. She could practically taste his desire; his need was hot and urgent. She dropped the sword and gripped the leather straps that went over his shoulders. She was glad he was holding her up. Her knees had become so weak.
A shower of tiny, white petals rained down on them and burning sage wafted around them.
“We will feast,” Ravn said against her lips. “And then we can be alone.”
“Ravn.” She touched his cheek. “I…”
“What?”
“It is nothing.” She shook her head and pressed her legs together. The thought of what was coming was terrifying. She’d have to pray and hope it was quick and that she wouldn’t bleed too much afterwards or be in unbearable pain.
“Your day is only going to get better.” He turned to the crowd and raised their joined hands. “My good people, my wife and I invite you to feast with us, to drink with us, and enjoy good music with us.”
Tables and benches had been set up along the narrow beach and were stacked with fish and bread and buttered vegetables. Several great vats of stew sat over fires and the herby scent filled the air.
“Your Grace,” Erin said, holding out a chair for Carmel.
“Thank you.” Carmel sat and looked down the table.
The villagers were raucous and excitable. They raised their ale, shouting,
“Skål, skål!” Many turned her way as Ravn moved up the line clasping shoulders and accepting congratulations. Or at least that was what she presumed was happening, though some of the leers from men made her wonder just what had been said.
Erin passed her a plate of eggs and green vegetables along with a goblet of fruit wine. “The men of the village approve of their new queen.”
“What do they say?”
Erin laughed. “They say you have breasts as round as turnips and a backside as firm as a young filly’s and you are sure to have a cunny as sweet a ripe fig.”
“What?” Carmel covered her gaping mouth. “What truly awful…sinful things to say.”
“It is a compliment.” Erin laughed and supped her own wine. “Viking men have a way with words, no?”
“No.” She took a gulp of wine. “I don’t think they do.”
Ravn sat next to her and hoisted Thormod, who was chewing on a chunk of bread, onto his lap. “Eat,” he said, pointing to her plate. “You will need energy for later.”
Nerves wound around her yet again and she picked up the egg and nibbled it.
“Look!” Ravn suddenly pointed upward. “Odin watches over this auspicious day.”
A great flock of black birds, ravens, were flying overhead. They’d come from the direction of the fjord and were low andswift, their beating wings creating a low hum. There were so many, as they crossed directly over the feasting villagers, the birds cast a dark shadow onto the beach.
