Free Heart's Ease (The Northwomen Sagas Book 2) by Susan Fanetti Page B

room was better than most. Many others bedded in larger quarters meant for nobles, but slept many to a room. This small nook was hers alone.
     
    “I like this one, and I deserve no more than I need.”
     
    Before she could turn around, Leif was behind her, his tall, broad body like a wall against her back. He kissed her shoulder, and she felt his fingers move lightly over her hip, then the soft tug as he picked up her braid and untied the strip of cloth that bound the end.
     
    With a slow, gentle touch, he unwound the simple plait, all the way to her head, and then combed his strong fingers through her long tresses, scratching lightly at her scalp with each stroke. Olga sighed and leaned her forehead on the door, giving herself up to the feeling of sultry indolence that came with his caress.
     
    “Your hair is magnificent.” His voice was so low he might have been speaking to himself.
     
    Olga had often noted the raiders’ seeming fascination with hair and with grooming in general. Although they reveled in the wash of blood and gore during battle, at times of peace, and in preparation for war, they took great care of their appearance.
     
    They cleaned their clothes and their armor regularly and carefully. They washed often—more than the habit of her people—and they cleaned their teeth. And, men and women alike, they fussed over their hair. They kept many different styles, and they combed and brushed and trimmed and braided and beaded the hair on their heads and, for the men, on their faces. Nearly every single man had a full beard. Some were more impressive than others, but few men chose a smooth face.
     
    Their braids were often works of art. Vali, who kept his head shorn on the sides but the hair on the top and back nearly as long as hers, wove his hair from scalp to ends, twisting two braids around each other to hang like a rope down the length of his back. Brenna kept a simple twist in peaceful days, but Olga had seen her dressed for war, and on those days, she had made an elaborate pattern of tight braids.
     
    Leif wore his hair plain—long and straight. Olga had never seen it any other way. But, except when it had been covered in blood, it was always clean and smooth and gleaming.
     
    She thought it funny that a man from a world where hair appeared to mean so much would marvel at her unremarkable dark waves. But there he stood, twisting the strands through his fingers, bringing them to his face to rub them over his cheek.
     
    He gathered the thick hank of it in his hand and set it over her shoulder, then smoothed his hands down her arms and untied the apron at her waist. She stood with her eyes closed, her head still on the door, sensing in the movement of his body that he had tossed her apron away. His hands came around her waist then, and he loosened the woven belt over her skirt. When he tossed that away, too, her skirt, which wrapped around her body and had been held to her by the apron and belt, fell to her feet.
     
    Wearing only her long, embroidered blouse and her woolen leggings and little leather shoes, Olga felt anxious. No one had undressed her before, not completely, and not in this lingering, favoring way. When Leif’s hands came back to her, resting on her shoulders, his thumbs began to knead the muscles at the base of her neck, and she trembled.
     
    He felt the quiver and paused. “This is what you want?” he asked again, his mouth at her ear.
     
    She turned and put her back to the door. Leif loomed over her, blocking her sight of everything but him. “Yes. I want this. You.”
     
    He cupped her face in his rough hand. “ Sa oled mulle…kallis…väga .”
     
    Olga covered his hand with hers and smiled. “You are as dear to me, as well.”
     
    With an answering smile, Leif took a step back and unfastened his belt. He tossed it aside with the same lack of concern with which he’d discarded her clothes, then pulled his blue woolen tunic, stained with blood from the tragedies