Free The Shipwreck by Glynnis Campbell

showing her how to hold the sword, and he observed the nuanced play of the muscles of her shoulder.  She stood, planting her feet wide apart, and he admired her shapely calves.
    “Can you see me?” Kimbery called out to him.
    He gave a guilty start.  “Aye,” he croaked.  The truth was he’d scarcely given her a glance, so transfixed by her mother was he.
    “Pay heed, Kimbery,” the woman warned.  “Don’t get distracted.”
    The little girl began hacking away at her mother with her wooden sword, and the woman easily defended herself, coming around slowly and carefully with her own steel blade.  He’d never seen a woman wielding a sword before, and her skill surprised him.  He wondered how good she was when she wasn’t checking her blows.
    Of course, she was no match for a Viking.  But it was admirable that she was teaching her daughter useful fighting techniques.  It would keep the little girl from becoming easy prey.
    He continued to watch as she demonstrated proper shield technique, showed Kimbery how to dodge blows, and the two of them practiced diving to the ground, rolling, and coming up with blades at the ready.
    As they sparred, tendrils of the woman’s hair came loose from her long braid.  Her cheeks grew rosy, her skin glowed, and her chest heaved with each exertion.  She reminded him of the women he’d pleasured in his bed when he was a single, virile, carefree young man.  He suddenly longed to snatch away her sword, carry her off, toss up her skirts, and ease his desires upon her battle-warmed body.  And this troubled him deeply.
     
     
    Avril found it difficult to concentrate when the Northman was staring at her.  She didn’t return his stare, but she could feel his eyes upon her.  She’d left the door open for more than one reason.  Aye, she wanted to keep an eye on him—she was fairly sure he’d already made an attempt to escape—but she also wanted him to see that she was no ordinary frail lass.  She could hold her own with a sword.  And he’d have a fight on his hands if he tried to challenge her.  She’d been a victim once.  She didn’t intend to be one again.
    “Did you see me, Da?” Kimbery yelled after she’d done a perfect forward roll and lunged forward with her wooden sword.
    “Aye,” he called back, “well done.”  But his gaze wasn’t on Kimbery.  He was looking at Avril again with that smoldering heat, like a wolf about to devour a lamb.
    She gulped.  No one had ever looked at her with such hunger.  It made her knees weak and warmed her all over.  Curious lightning charged the air, an uncontrollable current born of the strange attraction between them.  It sucked the will from her and made her long to do things against her nature—to go to him, to touch him, to kiss him—which terrified her, because her sword was a useless weapon against her own desire.
    But fear turned quickly to self-loathing and then fury.  Troubled by her wayward emotions and reminding herself that he was her enemy, that his kind had murdered her people and ruined her life, she broke off her gaze and shook free with a shudder, trying to focus again on her lesson with Kimbery.
    “Mama, I want to spar with Da,” the little girl said, skipping in a circle.
    Sweeping her blade sharply through the air, Avril barked, “Don’t call him that!”
    Kimbery stopped skipping.  “What should I call him, Mama?”
    Avril could think of a dozen names for the Viking, none fit for the ears of a child.  Before she could choose one, he answered.
    “Brandr,” he called from the cottage.  “My name is Brandr.”
    It was a strong name—a strong name for a strong man.  But she didn’t want to know his name.  Knowing his name made things worse.  He was easy to despise when he was simply a Viking, a Northman, a marauder.  Calling him Brandr made him a man of flesh and blood.
    “Can Brandr fight with us, Mama?”
    “Nay.”
    “Why not?” Kimmie asked.
    He answered before she had