Vengeance Hammer (Viking Vengeance) (27 page)

Xára swept a glance around their chamber. Wispy curls of steam rose from the massive wooden tub. The spicy fragrance of the sandalwood oil she had added to the hot water perfumed the room. A cold pitcher of ale and a tray of apples, cheese, and bread lay on the low table next to Dráddør’s favorite chair, and a roaring fire danced in the hearth.

The door burst open.

“Why are you not in the hall?” Dráddør tapped his gloves against his thigh. He wore a scowl she had come to know well. He was cross with her.

“I have had a bath drawn for you.” She indicated the tub. “You have been gone for o’er five eves and I thought to wash the stench of travel from you.”

He dragged a hand through his damp hair and eyed the tub. “I sent no word of my arrival.”

“I knew the moment you crested the hill bordering our lands from Godfraid’s.”

“You would have me believe you heard me for so far afar?” His brows knitted and his lips thinned.

“Aye.” What was it that vexed him so about her immortal powers? She could hear things no one else was even aware of, and see the memory of those she touched. ’Twas no harm in either ability.

She firmed her resolve, stepped out of the shadows, and walked to him swinging her hips in the manner Skatha had taught her. The diaphanous gown she wore revealed more than concealed and she had rubbed her nipples and nether parts with the aphrodisiac oil Nyssa had given her.

He slammed the door shut and his hungry gaze raked her from head to toe. “Seek you to seduce me into spilling my memories for you? I will not have this, wife. I have forbidden you to see my memories. You must do as your lord and master commands.”

Dolt, lout. Did he think she could pick and choose what memories she saw? Ooh, she wanted to pinch him. Instead, Xára smiled sweetly. “As always, husband, I am at your command. Let me help you with your cloak.”

She unpinned the brass brooch holding the woolen garment in place. “Did you learn aught of interest of Godfraid?”

Her question distracted him as she knew it would. He relaxed his guard, absently sniffed her neck, and kissed her temple while shrugging off the wet garment.

“Aye. We did. ’Twould seem Magnhildur had met Godfraid in the spring while both visited Godfraid’s brother, then King of Mann, Maccus mac Arailt.” Dráddør took off his belt and began removing his weapons.

“And Néill—was he there then, too?” Xára knew the answer to her query having glimpsed that memory from Néill, a memory she hoped to forget in time.

He stiffened and crossed his arms. “Aye, but you know. ’Tis writ plain on your face, wife. Tell me.”

Xára sighed. “I cannot help the memories I see, husband. Néill and Magnhildur became lovers at a court, mayhap ’twas the King of Mann’s court, I know not for cert. But she also had another lover there, the man you described as Niketas.”

They had discussed this after discovering not only Godfraid’s body but Haakon’s not in the tunnels as Néill had told Dráddør, but on the cliffs near Gná’s tunnel.

“Aye.” Dráddør scratched the stubble on his chin. “I am more convinced that Konáll had the right of it when he suggested Magnhildur was captured by a slaver. How she came to be under Niketas’s control I fear we may ne’er know.”

By rote, Dráddør arranged his hammer, sword, axe, and daggers on the iron chest. She knew he was deep in thought and hardly aware of his actions.

“’Tis a poorly run kingdom, Godfraid’s. Most who live on the lands are either aged or sickly. ’Tis said he recruited his army from Connacht with promises of gold and a rich life living at Kenneth’s court.” Dráddør tugged off his tunic.

Xára took the garment from him and spread the fine material next to his weapons. As always, the sight of his chiseled chest had her nipples tingling and her puss creaming. Heat stole across her face.

During the five nights, he had been gone, she had tried to pleasure herself, but had failed miserably. Even worse, guilt and shame had attacked her at odd times during her daily chores. How Nyssa and Skatha did such a thing in front of their husbands she would ne’er understand.

They had not swived since the night they had quarreled again about her immortal ability to see another’s memory five eves ago.

Xára longed to have his cock inside her and to feel that sweetest of invasions. But even more she yearned for the delicious intimacy after they both found their pleasure, the way he toyed with her hair and caressed her breast, the ease she felt with him then, and to simply talk to him of her day and hear about his.

All at once, she could not abide the deception inherent in what she had planned for the evening. Placing her palms flat on his chest, she tipped her head back, and met his gaze. “I fear I love you, Dráddør.”

He blinked and a wide grin stole across his face. “As a wife should. I approve of this, mit sváss.”

She ground her teeth and prayed for patience, could find no reply to his arrogant declaration, and instead untied his breech rope.

“Nay.” He smacked her hands away. “You sought to entice me with this siren’s garb and you have. I am at ready, wife. It has been a long, long, five days and nights and I have thought of naught but your titties and puss.”

Xára grinned. For with each sentence he spoke, Dráddør tore off a piece of clothing or a boot or hose, no longer the disciplined warrior who aligned his garb and weapons in a neat, methodical manner.

“Come.” He scooped her off her feet. Buried his nose at the side of her neck. “’Tis Valhalla holding you in my arms.”

“Nay, husband.” She pushed at his chest. “I have thought of naught but cleansing your flesh. Of lathering your cock and stones. This eve I do my wifely duty and bathe you.”

The blue in his eyes all but disappeared and his voice was thick and coarse when he said, “Aye. Aye.”

He slid her down his body, paused to grind his pecker against her mound, and then set her to standing. Dráddør stepped into the tub, sat, and dunked his head. Hot water splashed everywhere, including down the front of her chemise.

Xára laughed and knelt beside the wooden barrel. She soaped a linen square into a fine foamy lather, and began working on his neck and chest.

“’Twill ne’er work,” he growled and hauled her into the tub.

“Dráddør,” she squealed and smacked his shoulder. “I am all wet.”

“Are you?” He asked, and nibbled her lobe.

She jumped when his hand cupped her mound.

“’Tis hard to tell with all this water.” He brushed the wet tendrils clinging to her cheeks and temples behind her ears. “Are you wet for me, sváss? Is your puss drenched with your nectar? Is your clitty throbbing with need?”

“Aye, aye, aye.” She looped her arms around his neck and feathered kisses on his brows, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, his nose, and the delicious stubble on his jaw. Then she set her mouth to his and nigh melted when his tongue tickled her lips. He tasted of all she had ever yearned for—excitement and comfort and bliss.

She yielded when he took charge and changed the angle of their kisses. He cupped her head, his fingers tangled in her wet hair, and he drank from her deeply, taking all she had to offer. Love. The promise of a future. Bairns. Family.

He lifted her, positioned one leg on either side of his waist, brought his knees up, and pushed her to lie back on his thighs. “’Twas hard to sleep these past nights. I closed my eyes and pictured you thus. These tasty buds all pink and hard for me like they are now.”

“Dráddør,” she moaned when he latched onto one nipple and drew hard using teeth and tongue.

“The sweetest sound, your voice calling my name,” he growled and nosed his way to her other breast. He nipped the peak and then soothed the throbbing point with long licks. He lifted his head, grasped the neck of her chemise, and ripped the thin fabric in two. “I need you naked.”

“Aye,” she agreed and helped him discard the sodden garment.

He tossed the chemise across the room and she giggled. “You are impatient, husband.”

“Aye,” he concurred. “Five nights I have been without you. Five nights too long.”

“Dráddør, I have missed you so.” Locking her hands behind his head, she urged him from one breast to the other, squirming and rubbing her clitty on his belly. When he inserted a finger into her she cried out, “Aye.”

“Aye, sváss, aye,” he crooned, and pushed another finger inside.

The delicious sensations she remembered began. The walls of her puss quivered and quickened with each thrust. He cupped one breast and toyed with her nipple, suckling the aching bud, drawing his teeth over the tip, and all the while his fingers drove into her, thrust, retreat, over and over. Her excitement spiraled, her desire uncontainable, she wanted him, needed him desperately.

Xára leaned forward and plucked at his male nipples. She ground on his fingers, arched and lunged trying to find the rhythm she craved. Ground her teeth in frustration and rubbed her clitty on the heel of his hand.

He set his forearm to her belly effectively stilling her frenzied movements. One hand spread her folds apart while his fingers thrust into her clenching puss. “To my hand, wife. To my hand. Find your pleasure.”

With those words he bent his head and set his mouth to her nub. She shattered as a storm of furious contractions broke over her. Her puss squeezed and released his fingers.

He stood.

Water sluiced from their skin and plopped onto the stone floor.

She wrapped her legs around his arse and the hardness of his turgid erection abraded her clitty in the most delicious way.

“Lean back,” he growled and loosened his hold.

Only too eager to have him inside her, she obeyed and they both watched as his thick cock pushed into her. The carnality of the vision of their sexes joining did her in. Her inner walls convulsed. Xára keened his name as the climax tore through her, the spasms short, sharp, and exquisite.

“Valhalla,” he said, his voice coarse and rough, and then took her mouth with his.

As always, he tasted of paradise and the promise of ecstasy. Her puss quivered and squeezed his cock. He feathered kisses down her neck. The moist, delicate caresses made her nipples ache and burn. She urged him to her breast and lifted to give him better access.

Dráddør growled his protest and thrust upward.

Her grip on his arms slipped and so did she.

The action drove him deeper into her until she knew his cock touched her womb. Impossible though it was, the fever started to rise in her again. He walked over to the bed. With each long stride, his pecker hammered her puss and abraded her clitty.

When they fell onto the mattress, she locked her ankles around his back.

He pounded into her, his hands gripped her hips, angling her this way and that. Each stroke a magnificent battering, taking her higher and higher. He clamped his mouth on the cusp of her shoulder and bit.

She howled his name. Dug her nails into his shoulders and surrendered. Let the bliss take over, savored the way her walls sucked at him, relished the hot hardness of his invasion.

Xára closed her eyes and tried to hold onto to the ecstasy. To carve this moment, this man, into her soul. They smelled of soap and the musk of the aphrodisiac oil. Where their flesh touched they were clammy and wet and it felt delicious. He was heavy and huge and she cherished his weightiness on her.

He lifted his head from where he lay 2tween her breasts and pushed onto his forearms.

“Nay,” she protested and pressed him back down.

“I am too heavy to lay on you so,” he mumbled into her ribs, his lips and warm breath a teasing tickle.

“Nay. Stay.”

“You will catch a chill.” He rolled them over, reached down to snatch the covers, and tucked the heavy fabric over her shoulders.

She cuddled into him and smiled when his chest hairs made her nose twitch.

“I missed you, Xára.” He finger-combed her hair.

Now was the time.

She looked up at him. “I am with child, husband.”

“Nay.” He sat up and their bodies separated. He cupped her face and their gazes met. “In truth?”

She nodded. “It pleases you?”

“Aye.” He hugged her to him so tightly she could not draw a breath. “Aye. I am most pleased, wife.”

A smile chased her lips.

He drew back and studied her with anxious intent. “Are you well? Do you have the morning sickness? Are you hungry? Let me see your belly.”

She laughed aloud when he peered at her stomach and palmed her flesh.

“’Tis
my
babe growing in there.
My
son.”

“
Our
babe, mayhap e’en
our
daughter.” Oh how she loved this fierce warrior who turned tender and amazed at the notion of his child.

“Nay.” He frowned. “A son. ’Twas enough that I worried o’er Hjørdis from the day she was born. Now I have the worry of Evie. ’Twill be thrice worse with mine own daughter. Nay. A son. We will have a son. Mayhap your immortal powers can make it so.”

The hopeful expression he wore made her heart sing. Surely a man who could worry about his sister and Evie would forgive the one secret she had left to tell.

“Nay.” She took a deep breath. “There is something I must tell you. Jennie was not my mother.”

“What?” He narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

Her parched throat clogged her words for a moment. “My mother, Crista, and Jennie were sisters, the only daughters of my grandfather, the true Earl of Caithness. When Arnfinn invaded, my mother was with child. Arnfinn killed my grandfather and all his sons. He intended to marry the first-born daughter to legitimize his claim to the title. Jennie and Crista would not tell him which one of them was the firstborn. Foolishly they thought this would thwart his plans. He raped them both.”

Dráddør frowned. “It makes no sense. To what end did he do this?”

“I know only what Jennie told me after she drank the poison. Crista and Jennie had their babies on the same night. Crista died in childbirth and Jennie’s baby was stillborn. Ulna switched the babies. Arnfinn married Jennie and had the priest date the marriage to the day of his invasion.” She fiddled with a loose thread on the sheet knowing what his next question would be.