Magnus felt a lot better the following morning. His wound no longer felt swollen or hot, and the head-splitting pain was gone. All that remained was a light stiffness in his shoulder that he suspected would ease with some easy labour. Last night, he had seen stars through gaps in the roof, all while he’d tried his best to ignore the warmth of Kendra at his side.
‘Do you have a ladder? You will need those gaps to be filled before the weather turns,’ he said, pointing up at the thatch.
Kendra nodded. ‘I’ve been making one. It’s almost finished, I only need to bind the steps with twine.’
‘Did Heimdall do anything?’ Magnus asked, outraged by the quantity of work her master had expected from her.
Kendra shrugged with a wry smile. ‘Not really. He drank, ate, and hunted when he was here. He left all the tasks of the home to me. I think that’s why he captured me. He wanted a wife without having to go to the trouble of wooing one.’ She laughed, but it wasn’t the merry chuckle he liked to hear from her; it was dry and bitter.
‘Well, I will finish the ladder and then fix your roof. You should not be climbing up there regardless of whether you are with child or not.’
She smiled at his statement as if he were sweetly unaware of the necessities of her life, and he realised she was probably right. ‘Thank you, Magnus,’ she said. ‘But let me wash and braid your hair first. You desperately need it tidied, and a shave too.’
‘I cannot argue with that,’ he agreed, running his hands through his hair, and wincing as it snagged on his fingers.
They went out into the garden, and he sat on a log while she gathered combs, soap, and a shaving blade.
‘Head back,’ she said cheerfully, and obediently he dipped it backwards, glad to see her pretty face even if it was at an odd angle. She poured water over his head with a ladle, catching it in a pan beneath. Stray drops ran down his naked back, settling in the blanket she’d draped around his waist.
Lathering up his hair, she made quick work of washing it, and then began to rinse it through. After several pours of the ladle, she moved around to his front to check the hair was free of soap. Her apron dress and shift were damp. It clung to her breasts in a distracting way, and he was tempted to grab her ample hips and drag her onto his lap. She leaned forward, reaching around him to pour one last ladle and catch the drops with her pan.
Her chest was so close to his face he swore he could feel the wool against his lips.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered when she saw him shiver, and he tried to ignore the lust building in his veins as she leaned away. She glanced down at him, the ladle and pot tilting in her hands and splashing soapy water on the ground.
Neither of them noticed—they were too enthralled by each other’s eyes and the growing heat between them.
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