Lord of Fire and Ice by Connie Mason with Mia Marlowe

this. Even if all she brought to the union was herself.
    Then she bent double, grasped the hem, and pulled her tunic off over her head. She moved slowly, as if her mind were otherwise occupied.
    That was fine with him. Desire roared in him, and he was hot and ready in only a few heartbeats. He ached to bury himself in her softness, to feel her velvet heat wrapped around him.
    Unfortunately, she wasted no time slipping on her thin night shift.
    She slid her hands under her heavy hair and gave it a shake, spreading the dark mantle across her shoulders to dry. When she turned to climb into bed, she saw Brandr in the shadows and startled.
    “What are you doing in here?” she whispered furiously.
    “Watching you undress,” he said honestly.
    She narrowed her eyes at him.
    “But that wasn’t my main purpose.”
    A dark brow arched in suspicion.
    “You aren’t going to marry that louse-bitten toad, are you?”
    “That is none of your business.” Her frown eased into a sly smile. “Oh, I see. If I wed Albrikt, you’re afraid for your tongue. Don’t worry. If I decide to accept him, I’ll make sure the marriage contract stipulates that you remain my exclusive property.”
    “You’re not seriously considering it.” Brandr barely resisted the urge to grasp her shoulders and give her a shake. “If you are, you should know it’s not you he’s interested in here.”
    “Oh, really? Well, that’s flattering.”
    “You’re too bright a woman to need flattery. Oh, ja , I’m not saying he won’t use you.” The thought of Gormson in her bed made Brandr’s eyes burn. “He’ll rut you every time he takes a notion, but that’s not the main reason he’s considering this match. There’s something else he’s after.”
    To his surprise, she didn’t argue. She sank down on the bed, tucking one foot under her.
    “What do you think that might be?”
    So she’d felt it too, the sense of strategic measurement in Gormson’s gaze, not just when he looked at her, but also when he surveyed the long hall. When he silently counted the number of sword arms ringing the fire.
    Brandr knew Albrikt did it, because he’d done it himself.
    “He’s no farmer,” Brandr said, “else he’d not trade for a smaller steading.”
    “Even if I came with it?”
    Was she angling for a compliment from him? Wasn’t his cock tenting his tunic every time he looked her way enough?
    Or maybe she simply wanted another stick to bash him with. She’d have it if he admitted she was a powerful inducement to an otherwise uneven trade.
    “Even if you came with it,” he said firmly. She winced at the slight. “There’s something else that draws him to your property.”
    “I sensed the same,” she said thoughtfully. Then she looked up at him sharply. “But how would you know that?”
    It wasn’t unusual for a woman to have unwarranted knowledge of the hearts of others, but that was because they were naturally endowed with a measure of magic from the cradle. Everyone knew that.
    Men typically shied away from dabbling in seid craft. There was a saying in the North, old as the rocks and trees: If action is needed, turn to a man. For understanding, seek a woman.
    But Brandr had always had a knack for discerning the hidden thoughts of others. He read it in the set of their shoulders, the twitch of a muscle under the skin. He could smell out a lie like an elkhound on the hunt. If a game of chance required him to sense the other man’s next play, he won every time.
    “Just trust me on this,” Brandr said, running a hand over his shorn head. “Gormson isn’t the man for you. Stay away from him.”
    “That almost sounds as if you’re trying to give me an order.” She cocked her head at him. “I am your mistress. I seek neither your counsel nor your consent for what I choose to do.”
    “But you asked—”
    “Enough.” She stood to give more weight to her words. “Go to sleep, thrall.”
    “As you will,” he said and prepared to bed