Free Vengeance Hammer (Viking Vengeance) by Jianne Carlo Page B

tray, straightened, and fiddled with the eating knife tied to her gyrdel. She flinched when Dráddør rested his hand on her leg. What was he about? His thumb rubbed a small circle. She held her breath and stared unseeing as a trencher was placed ‘tween the two of them.
    “I would learn your tastes o’er the coming sennights. For now, a simple shake of your head if you do not like a morsel I offer,” he spoke in a low voice.
    Xára knew ‘tween the stomping of the maids and boys and the lively conversation Konáll, Nyssa, and Tighe conducted, none could hear his words or see him kneading her thigh. She prayed the fire in her cheeks went unnoticed.
    “Look to me.” He squeezed her leg.
    She steeled herself and then peeked at him. Mother Mary, she was lost, lost in the blazing dark blue of his eyes.
    “How fare you? Are you sore?”
    Her sex clenched and she recognized the sweet ache from this morn. The exquisite need he had stoked with his fingers, tongue, and teeth. Remembered the incredible ecstasy he had wrought.
    “Lady, you tease me so with your rosy color and soft pants. Dare I believe you recall my tasting of your sweet puss this morn with pleasure?” His hand slid higher on her leg and he cupped her mound.
    ’Twas wickedness, this desire that held her in thrall. The notion they could be discovered added the razor-sharp allure of danger to a hammering excitement. Puss. What a thrilling name for her womanhood, her drenched womanhood. Could he feel the dampness through her gown? Shame rekindled the waning heat in her throat and face. Would there be a wet patch on her cyrtel? She ducked her chin breaking the spell he’d cast o’er her.
    “I did not mean to cause you distress, sváss.” He gave her leg one last lingering caress and then offered her a brass goblet. “Drink. ’Tis ale.”
    Xára sipped and wished she could press the cool goblet to her roasting skin.
    A moment later, he offered her a portion of roasted meat speared at the end of his dagger.
    She accepted the food and chewed. Fowl seasoned with wild thyme and bittersweet nettle. Knowing her duty to feed him, she speared a piece of boar with a crisp skin and cupped her palm to catch any errant juices.
    Why did he not take the meat? Her breath caught as she watched three fat drops of gravy fall.
    He captured her wrist, tugged the food off the blade and into his mouth and chewed rapidly. His jaw worked, he swallowed, and then slowly he sucked the rich gravy from her palm.
    She heard naught but the thundering of her heart. Saw none but him, his etched features, and the intent writ in his blue-black eyes.
    “I have ne’er tasted any food, any wine as sweet as your woman’s nectar.”
    Her puss contracted madly. She averted her gaze from his and took a deep inhale. Counted. Lost count. Recited the Lord’s Prayer over and over in her mind until her blurred vision cleared.
    “I will tease you no more this meal, lady wife.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
    Uncert whether to believe him or not, Xára shot him a sidelong glance.
    His expression had sobered, the dancing mischief no longer twinkled amber halos around the blue of his eyes. “Haakon tells me your mother’s condition has improved. ’Tis astounding. While I hope Konáll will agree to Nyssa healing her, I cannot argue with his concern for his wife and babe.”
    Xára touched his shoulder in understanding. She, too, had consulted with the steward, Haakon, before collecting the sand tray from her chamber.
    “The poison will not affect the babe.” Nyssa leaned across Xára to address Dráddør. “Mús would ne’er send me to any harm. Xára, is there aught you have to add about your mother’s poisoning?”
    All the warmth left Xára’s body. Her fingertips iced. Tension corded her muscles. Had Nyssa guessed her secret? She sifted through memories of their time together at Circe Fearn Abbey? Nay. ’Twas not possible.
    Who was this Mús they all spoke of with such fear and