“I have several more cuts it seems. I was trying to clean them.” He offered a nonchalant shrug, as if being practically naked in front of a woman was nothing.
Perhaps it wasn’t to him. Clearly a virile man, he likely bedded a different woman every time he made port. She prayed he did not force himself on anyone. He didn’t seem the type and, frankly, what woman would turn him down?
She would, she reminded herself. A Viking in her bed was not what she needed right now. She motioned for him to sit on the straw mattress. “Let me do it. You’re making a mess, dropping water everywhere.”
Both his brows rose at her comment.
“Well, more of a mess than it already is. I do not have much time you see…” She snatched the cloth from him and urged him to the bed. “And ‘tis only me…”
“Ilisa…” He sat and she positioned herself behind his back.
“I am not strong enough for a lot of the things that need doing…”
“Ilisa.” His hand gripped hers suddenly and she stared at it. “It is well enough, Ilisa. You need not offer me any apologies.”
She straightened. “I wasn’t apologising. I just…” With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the grazes on his taut skin. Why did she care what a Viking thought of her dwelling so much anyway? He shuddered when she pressed the wet cloth to his back. His skin rippled with the movement, his muscles undulating. What would it be like to press herself against that back?
“I must have scraped my back on the rocks. It feels as though I have a thousand cuts there.”
Ilisa chuckled. “Not a thousand. Just a few. I fear they might be from me dragging you, though I avoided all the very sharp rocks.”
“Oh, well that is good to hear.”
“Anyhow these grazes are but small compared to some of the injuries you have clearly suffered in the past.” She dabbed away the crusted blood on his shoulder and scrutinised the cut. She’d been right—most were tiny and likely caused by her rather than a meeting with the rocks. But the many scars slashed across his skin reminded her of the warrior behind the jovial manners.
“Aye, well I don’t intend to gain any more injuries.”
“What do you mean?”
“My life as a warrior is far behind me. This was to be my last voyage.”
Ilisa gulped. Coldness seeped into her bones and pooled in her stomach. “And what was your intention behind this voyage?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “To gain supplies and…”
“And?”
“Naught more than that really.”
“I see.”
She shifted away and placed the cloth on the table. Had he and his crew intended to raid the coastline? Had she been wrong about Alrek? It stood to reason he’d be no different from any other Viking she’d encountered—bloodthirsty, dangerous, greedy. Still, she had committed to aiding him and Ilisa always saw things through to the end. Rummaging through the coffer at the end of her bed, she found an old shirt and trews and handed them over.
His brow creased. “What shall I do with these?”
“Wear them.” Frustration and a deep well of anguish burned in her gut. How much longer she could endure the sight of his gleaming skin and muscles she did not know. The last thing she needed was to throw herself at him again.
“I shall wear my own clothes.” Alrek fingered the coarse plaid, barely disguising a look of contempt for her departed husband’s clothes. His lips—those lips that had touched her own not long ago—curled down as he lifted the shirt. “This will not fit me. Bring me my garments.”
A burst of anger sparked in her chest. Heat flowed freely through her and she threw up her hands. “Your clothes need washing and these are all I have. By God, I should have left you where I found you. You cannot go walking around dressed like a Viking! You have no idea what sort of danger you would put us in. You will wear these clothes and you will be grateful!”
Chapter Three
Alrek blinked at this hissing and spitting woman in front of him. Where had his sweet siren gone? He’d offended her, he realised belatedly. His contempt for the garments she’d so graciously given him had angered her. His chest deflated. Bitterness sat in his throat. What an ungrateful fool he must seem? First he kissed her and now he had upset her. But he had to admit, with her hair aglow in the candlelight, her cheeks rosy with anger and her eyes wide with indignation, she made for a tempting sight.
He doubted Ilisa would appreciate him saying as much. A loose curl of hair snaked its way over the curve of her breasts and his traitorous gaze followed it as she drew in several deep breaths. She wasn’t wearing a chemise. He knew mostly because he’d seen her dress. Another dishonourable act on his behalf, but after all he was just a man. Perhaps the glimpse of a well-rounded, pale rear and gently curving spine had addled his mind and forced him to forget his manners. He had even been lucky and caught sight of the curve of one breast. Even now, her nipples pressed against the blue wool of her gown and he knew if she bent just right, he would have a wonderful view. The woman was made for a man’s hands. Made for holding, and caressing and loving.