The Viking's Woman Read Online Free PDF

hotly through his loins.
    He clenched his teeth and saw that her eyes widened with alarm. She tried to roll and further wedged him on top of her. She swore, struggling fiercely. Her nails raked him, and he caught her wrists and dragged them high above her head, his eyes ice blue and frigid as they gazed upon her.
    He had ordered Rollo to stay behind, but where in Valhalla was the man now? Eric needed him. His strength failed more completely with each second that passed, and he had lost a tremendous amount of blood. He had battled countless men and not received a scratch, but this bitch with her silvery blue eyes had nearly brought him down. A small sound escaped her. She twisted her eyes not to stare at him, and he saw that she bit into her lower lip.
    “You will die for this!” she cried out suddenly, passionately.
    “For this? For what, my lady, precisely? For coming to your coast or for refusing to die despite your talented aim? Ah, or for touching you so …?” He shifted his weight, fighting the darkness that threatened and softly sliding his fingers along the bare length of her inner thigh.
    Her face flushed with anger, and perhaps other emotion, and he laughed. But then pain streaked through him again. She’d shot him with her damn arrow, had kicked, bitten, and clawed him; and he was a fool if he didn’t realize that a beautiful enemy was a deadly one indeed. He hardened himself against her beauty, as well as against the raw desirethat the bitter fight and the brush with her soft, naked flesh had ignited.
    “Don’t fear, English witch,” he taunted, and he ran his hand freely along her thigh, dangerously near the apex of her limbs. “You are neither gentle, nor tender, nor appealing, milady. My options are to slay you or enslave you, and that is all. When I take a woman, she is just that—all woman, evocative and enticing. Don’t provoke me, madam, for if I were to touch you, it would indeed be mindless savagery.”
    “What else can be expected from a Viking other than savagery and death?” she charged him.
    He gritted his teeth, fighting the temptation to strike her again. He forced himself to smile slowly. God, where was Rollo? He saw everything through a red haze, but even through that haze she was beautiful … and deadly. Skeins of fiery gold hair entangled them, hair as fragrant as the spring flowers, as soft as swaths of the finest silk. Her blue-gray eyes were wide set and lovely, except for their expression of pure hatred.
    Her breasts rose and fell, nearing spilling from the confines of her tunic. “Perhaps I should take you,” he whispered. He touched her cheek with his knuckles, and she twisted her head violently. His fingers trailed over her throat and cupped over her breast, caressing the soft mound. His thumb moved in a rhythmic circle over the crest that hardened to his touch. She inhaled sharply, tossing her head again; her eyes glittering and wide as they touched his.
    “No … Viking!” she swore.
    He frowned, wondering why she insisted upon harping on his Viking lineage when he had comefrom Ireland. Not that he would bear the insult, or any insult, against his father or his father’s race. But he had come from his mother’s country.
    He ceased to torment her, his anger taking precedence. He hadn’t much time, he knew. “I want to know what happened!” he thundered at her.
    She stared at him in absolute silence for a moment. He released her wrists and reached for his dagger where it had fallen from his grasp, away from them. He started to sheath it at his calf when suddenly he was seized with weakness. Blood was pouring from his thigh again.
    He fought to stay conscious. To clear his head. “Nay, milady,” he began, “you’ll tell me who is the lord of this place, and why—” He broke off. He was falling again. He leaned forward, fighting darkness.
    He was going to die. The great warrior, the Spawn of the Wolf, was about to die because this chit of a girl would slay him