“With so many strangers pouring into the village on market day, who’s to know?”
Both stall keepers quieted their speculation as she approached with Osborn and his brothers. She couldn’t help following her nose to the origin of the amazing scent, and the warrior had indulged her. The tradespeople eyed Osborn with wariness, but not suspicion. Relieved, she smiled at the baker who offered her a sample of the bread. “It smells delicious.”
Some time later when the sun was lowering in the sky, Osborn announced it was time to return to the cottage. As they walked up the hill, she couldn’t help stealing glances back at the village. So many things to see, and taste and smell. A few days ago she would have yearned for this exact experience.
It was almost dark when she spotted the roof of Osborn’s home. The boys quickly set to work, preparing the fire while another returned the pillow and blankets for her to use. Last night, she’d made a pallet on the floor, and apparently that was to be the arrangement again tonight. Probably another one of Osborn’s attempts to make her change her mind. It didn’t matter, the wooden floor of the cabin wasn’t soft, but she slept in front of the warmth of a fire, and her stomach was full.
Osborn walked over to her carrying a large woven sack, usually used to carry potatoes. He dumped it in front of her, and out spilled a pile of socks, shirts and pants. The mending.
“All this?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
Osborn raised an eyebrow. “There is a different deal we could make.” His gaze lowered to her breasts, and then moved still lower. To between her legs.
Breena’s mouth went dry. Never had a man looked at her so carnally. Acknowledged her secret woman’s place with such possession. Her hands began to tremble so she sank them into the bag.
“I love to sew. Mending even more. All I need is a needle.”
Osborn’s lips twisted as if he were attempting to hide a smile. “In the bottom of the sack. Good night.”
She rummaged among the cloth until she found a hard wooden case. Breena tugged it out and opened it to find several silver needles and a small pair of sheers. She reached for a woolen sock, sporting a rip in the heel. “And, Breena?”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to wear those in the morning.”
He turned and left, closing the door firmly behind him. The man apparently didn’t believe she could sew. She’d show him; her stitches were always tiny and neat. Osborn the warrior may be something amazing when he fought, but he still only had two feet, and he needed only two socks for the morning. Not the dozens stuffed into the sack.
She was also growing tired of his habit of calling her name after the conversation was certainly over—just to give her another order.
Survive. Yes, that’s what she was doing.
Breena closed her eyes and breathed in the woodsy scent that hung in cabin. The smoke from the fire. Once again she’d live through another night. And beginning tomorrow she’d start the second command that echoed in her mind. To avenge.
But first…she picked up a sock and threaded her needle.
A HAND TO HER SHOULDER WOKE her up the next morning.
“Wake up.”
She squeezed her eyelids tight and rolled away from the voice, sinking deeper into her pillow.
But the voice was insistent. “Time to train.”
Breena slowly opened her eyes to see Osborn’s familiar strong jaw and firm lips. Kissable. But then her thoughts were always a bit fanciful in that place between sleep and wakefulness. His hair was damp, and his cheek smooth. She reached up to slide a finger across his face.
He jerked back from her touch. Mister Prickly today.
Osborn stood, once again dressed in black, his scabbard slung low on his hip. “There’s something for you to eat on the table. I’ll be waiting for you outside so you can dress. Bernt and Torben are gathering wood and water. Five minutes.”
A hunk of cheese and dried berries waited for her, and she devoured them with pleasure. She’d discovered a smaller pair of drawstring pants in the mending bag last night and, after some trimming with the shears, managed to craft something that didn’t drag on the ground. She finger combed her hair, and nearly laughed at the idea of the maids who’d once chosen gowns of silk and fashioned her hair in elaborate styles and adorned her with ribbons and gems.
Who’d recognize her now?
And that was a good thing. She suspected she’d used up most of her allotted time. The impatient look on his face told her Osborn was just about to charge into the cottage and get her. “This way,” he said, and guided her to a clearing not too far from the cabin. Breena hadn’t discovered this place when she was wandering around his home on that first day. Targets and woven sacks filled with straw littered the area, and Breena realized this must be where Osborn kept up with his training.
Osborn tossed her a stick.
“I thought you were going to teach me how to use a sword,” she said, eyeing the sword at his hip. Her gaze slipped lower until she forced it back where it belonged.
He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Have you ever held a sword?”
Breena shook her head. As if her mother ever would have allowed it. Her brothers wouldn’t have dared to let her carry a weapon. Even the adored sons would have been afraid of the queen’s ire over that infraction. “No. Never.”
“Then that’s why you’re using a stick. Now, you’ve seen swordplay?”
She was quick to nod. “My father loved nothing more than to host a tournament. The knights on horseback brandishing their swords with a flourish were a thing to behold.”
“It’s the flourishing knights who are the first to die.”
Breena bit her lip to keep from smiling. Could that have been jealousy? She stood straight instead. “Okay, definitely nothing fancy.”
“Hold your sword like you’re about to face me in battle.”
She lifted her stick. Osborn moved to stand behind her, his big chest warming her back he was so close. The chestnut smell of the soap he must use to wash his hair made her want to breathe in deeply.
He lifted his arm, framing her body with his. “Bend your elbows,” he told her, “and bring your arms in close to your sides. The weight of your blade will only increase, and you want your sword to do the work, not your arms.”
The new stance did feel more comfortable.
Osborn positioned her arms out from her chest. “See how you’ve left this entire area open?” he asked, trailing his fingers along her collarbone, and down between her breasts.
Breena could only nod. Her skin turned goose bumpy.
“This is your most vulnerable area. You must always protect it.”
She was definitely feeling vulnerable. And she was really enjoying her lessons. That hand down between her breasts would be worth a pile of sock mending.
Osborn dropped his arms, but not before brushing the sides of her breasts, her waist and her hips. Breena couldn’t help but tremble. “Now turn and face me. Always keep in mind that the first blow is the most important.”
“My first blow?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he told her with a shrug. “Either you strike and hit or he strikes and misses—that’s what determines who walks away. If you strike first, make sure you connect. Otherwise, you are off balance and an easy target for his strike. Which will kill you.”
Breena began to bristle at that assumption.
“You will be smaller than any man you fight. Not as strong. Those are the facts, Breena. I’m not saying you can’t defeat your opponent, but you have to be twice as good as they are. Twice as prepared. You have to find their weakness, and use it to your advantage. What do you think my weakness is?”
Breena ran her gaze along Osborn’s broad shoulders, powerful arms and muscled thighs. Heat suffused her cheeks as she imagined her hands following the same path as her eyes—over his firm mouth with the full bottom lip. Down the strength of his brawny chest roped with muscle. The flat tautness of his stomach. And below.