To Find a Viking Treasure by Gina Conkle

To Find a Viking Treasure by Gina Conkle

Author:Gina Conkle
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2016-09-12T18:00:00+00:00


Chapter Eight

Brandr was gone.

She sat up fast, the fur dropping from her shoulders. Island air needled bare flesh as sunshine poured through cracks overhead. The Viking wasn’t near. She sensed the loss of his presence the same as she smelled him on her skin. He’d marked her soul. Shifting her hips, a twinge nipped tender skin between her legs. She threw back the fur.

Her warrior scout marked her secret places too.

She rose gingerly and scooted out of the shelter. The forest floor chilled her feet. Birds warbled sweet morning songs. Her russet tunic and white underdress hung from the same low branch as last night, but the spot beside them was conspicuously empty. Brandr’s weapons and bag were missing too.

His vow…he’d not abandon her.

Shivering, she yanked the linen underdress off the tree and tugged it over her head. She snatched her tunic to her chest and bent low for her boots and the small knife, when her ear caught a sound.

Whistling. From the beach.

Tunic and boots clasped to her bosom, she trod a careful, bare foot path following the music. When she came to the edge of the grass, her heart lurched.

A perfect male form rose from the water.

Brandr. Of course he didn’t desert her. He stood waist-deep in the channel, his big hands rubbing sand everywhere.

She ducked behind a tree and breathed a prayer. “Bless the Vikings for their need of cleanliness.”

Sand made a natural cleanser for tables and cooking pots. Why not enticing male?

She could go back to the shelter. Wait for him. But water splashed, and his whistling—a strange sound from the surly warrior—begged for another peek.

Did last night’s hearty swiving put him in a good mood? She nibbled her lower lip. No highborn woman with silk sheets gave him satisfaction. She did.

Brandr rinsed himself, and her mouth went dry. Morning light glinted on a hundred water beads meandering down his body. She’d take her time, too, if she were a droplet. With full sun this morning, each water spot shined like a diamond stuck to his torso. Ink black hair sprinkled his chest. A natural crease split his torso down the middle, separating muscle born of hard labor and hard fighting. She followed the furrow to its end in water and pressed full-bodied against the tree.

A nasty, apple-sized bruise flared red and purple on his waist. She covered her mouth. Yesterday, the Viking’s hammer had struck him. Plenty of scars marked his chest and arms, tell-tale signs of his brutal, warrior’s life. A big white scar slashed his ribs. Another thick one snaked over his shoulder. And she wanted to explore each one in daylight.

Rough tree bark abraded her tender nipples and bit her cheek. The thin underdress rubbed bothered skin, places she wished he’d touch…softer with his fingers. Last night was a rush. She’d straddled him, yet Brandr rutted hard, feverish and desperate. Her thighs pressed together at the memory.

The Viking scout liked sex the way he lived—rough.

Finding Brandr in the simple act of washing



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