Sandra Hill (23 page)

He pulled his chair closer and examined her breasts in more detail. He should have pinched and prodded her in punishment till she was black and blue, but instead he used gentle fingers and soft sweeps of his palm to fondle her. Against her will, her body betrayed her. It liked what he was doing. He could see that in the widening of her eyes and the flare of her nostrils.

He moved his hand lower then, spending some time on her indented navel and the smooth skin of her flat belly. Finally he allowed himself to touch the silky curls of her woman-fleece and the damp folds hidden within.

She groaned aloud.

He swallowed his own groan.

“Are you going to eat me…again?” she asked.

“
What?
” He whipped his hand back. He could not believe she had asked him
that
. “Uh…not right now. Mayhap later. I do not want to give you pleasure. This is supposed to be torture.”

A voice in his head asked,
For her or for you?

He stood abruptly and walked away from the bed. As he was reaching for his cloak on a wall peg, she asked him in a panic, “Where are you going? Are you going to leave me here…alone?”

He secured the wolf brooch on his cape and walked back over to her. Taking one last look at her luscious body, he flipped the fur pelt up to cover her from the coolness which would fill the room once the fire died down. “I am going back to the keep. There is much news that I must catch up on.”

She nodded.

“But you are not to worry, wench. I will be back to sleep with you.”

She said something then that ladies rarely say. But then, she was not a lady. Hadn’t he learned that the hard way?

Sometimes laughter is the best medicine…

Toste was soaking in a large brass tub in an upper bedchamber of Ravenshire.

He’d eaten a huge meal belowstairs, then come up to his room to shave his bristly face. Finally he’d lowered himself into the hot water. It seemed a year and not ten days since he’d bathed completely.

The relaxing soak also gave him time to think. What to do about Esme? He still did not have all the answers, but one thing she’d accomplished with her outrageous abduction was that he didn’t intend to leave right away in pursuit of Vagn’s killer. That could wait till he’d resolved some other problems. Like Esme.

His relaxation was soon broken by the entrance of Eirik, Tykir and Bolthor, who’d been in the stables helping a mare with a difficult birth.

“How goes it?” he asked.

“Not so good. The colt did not survive, and the mare probably will not, either,” Eirik said.

“Sorry. I know that Sunlight was one of your favorites.”

“She was. But she has given us four other colts in the past, and she had a good life.”

“Speaking of the good life,” Tykir said, pulling over a low stool and sitting near the foot of the tub. Eirik sat
on the bed, and Bolthor leaned back against the wall. “How is yours?”

“Just wonderful.”

They all grinned at him, waiting to hear the whole story. Figuring they would not leave him alone till he told them everything, he began with the seductive message he’d received and how he’d wound up tied to the bed. He even told them how he’d originally misheard Esme’s name as “Eat me.” When he finished, the three of them stared at him as if he’d grown another head.

Eirik was shaking his head from side to side. “You and Vagn always did have a talent for attracting preposterous situations.”

“You think I invited this?”

All three men nodded their heads vigorously.

Bolthor, to no one’s surprise, gazed off into the distance dreamily as the verse mood overcame him. “Methinks I should call this one ‘Men and Their Convenient Ears.’”

“Huh?” the other three said.

“How true! How true!” Tykir said.

“What will you do with her?” Eirik asked.

“Damned if I know!” Toste said, then immediately
added, “Whatever I decide, none of you are to interfere, and that includes your meddlesome wives.”

“Did you leave her back at the woodcutter’s hut?” Eirik asked.

“I did, and there she will stay till I decide otherwise.”

“Naked?” Tykir inquired.

Toste did not answer. He didn’t have to. The other three men in the room grinned.

“And, really, none of you can condemn me. You have done as much and more. You, Tykir, once locked Alinor in a bedchamber at Dragonstead for days.”

“Yea, I did, and some of the best memories of my life took place there. Wouldst like to borrow my collection of feathers? It was given to me years ago by a sultan who used it with his harem slaves.”

Three male mouths went slack with disbelief. One never knew when Tykir was teasing or telling the truth.

“No, thank you, Tykir. I can come up with my own methods of torture.”

“Might I suggest—” Eirik began.

“Nay! And one more thing. No one…I mean,
no one
…is to go within shouting distance of that hut. Is that clear?”

“Well, you’d better have this resolved by next week,” Eirik said.

“Why is that?”

“Because this castle is going to be overflowing with guests for the yuletide festivities.”

Toste put his face in his hands. “I am afraid to ask, but what guests?”

“Archbishop Dunstan, Ealdormen Byrhtnoth of Essex, Aelfhere of Mercia, Aethelwold of East Anglia, Aelfhead of Hampshire and various other notables. I would not be
surprised to see the king or one of his closest
thegns
arrive, though they made no promises. And though not invited by any means, Lord Blackthorne may very well show up to claim his daughter.”

“Can my life get any worse than this?” Toste asked.

Without asking, Bolthor walked over to the fire and got a bucket of hot water warming there. He dumped it in the tub, figuring that Toste was getting cold, if not wilted.

“Well, actually, life could get worse.” Tykir stared at him grimly. “I fear for Esme…oh, you are no danger to her…but her father and brothers are. They are a scurvy lot. I suspect that her early years at home were not pleasant.”

“You know, I had the same feeling,” Eirik said. “There are some men who hate women. They marry them, have daughters and sisters and yet, at heart they hate women.”

“I love women—always have.” Tykir took a long swig from the mug of ale he’d brought with him.

“We know,” everyone else said.

“Don’t let Alinor hear you say that, though,” Eirik told his brother.

“She knows. As long as I keep my hands and my manpart to myself—and her—she does not mind.”

“That’s what women say, but it is not what they really feel,” Bolthor advised. Bolthor giving Tykir advice about women was like a nun giving a harem houri advice on swiving.

Tykir turned his attention back to Toste. “What I was trying to say before I was so rudely interrupted, Toste, is that you must not be too harsh with Esme till you understand from whence she came. And she came from a snake pit.”

“Mayhap that means she is a snake, too.” Toste refused to make excuses for the deceitful witch.

“Or a mouse who has managed to escape the snakes…thus far,” Eirik offered.

They discussed the situation further while Toste dried himself off and dressed in clean clothes lent to him by Eirik. They all went down to the great hall then to partake of the evening meal. The subject of Esme was avoided by everyone. It was midnight before Toste made his way down the path again, carrying a bundle of food, soap, linens, a comb and various other items.

He wondered if Esme would be waiting for him, wide-eyed and scared. Would she beg for mercy? Or suffer in silence?

Instead, as he was about to open the door, he heard the oddest thing. Whistling. His captive, who should be shaking-in-her-skin fearful, was bloody hell whistling.

Turnabout is fair play…or is that fun play?…

Esme was lying flat on her back, naked, whistling. She always whistled when she was nervous. She was
really
nervous now.

“You are a terrible whistler,” Toste remarked as he hung his cloak on a wall peg and then threw several logs on the fire.

“The quality of the whistle is not so important as the fact that I whistle at all.”
Dumb, dumb, dumb! The man is making me dumb. Next I will be conversing about the quality of breathing
. “Believe you me, whistling has been the only thing to keep me sane on many an occasion in the past.”

His eyes shot up at her words. He waited for her to elaborate. Hah! She would not tell him she’d whistled
when her father’s birch rod whipped her back. She would not tell him she’d whistled when her brothers had locked her in a root cellar for two full days as part of a youthling prank. She would not tell him she’d whistled on many an occasion at the nunnery when her loneliness had become nigh unbearable.

“To be a good whistler, you must wet your whistle first,” he told her and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

He must be as dumb as I am…continuing a lackwit discussion on the art of whistling when there are more important things to discuss, like my imprisonment
. “I don’t need to—”

It was too late. He was already leaning down and outlining her lips with the tip of his tongue. She noticed irrelevantly that he must have shaven his face and his skin smelled of soap. Then he dipped his tongue inside her mouth and laved her lips with moisture. Over and over he did this till her lips were more than moist. Then he stuck his tongue inside again, and kissed her long and deep. As much as she disliked the rogue, her body liked his ministrations.
Well!
she thought.
Wellwellwell!

He pulled back just slightly and said against her wet mouth, “Now whistle.”

Apparently, I’m the only one overcome with passion here
. “Whistle this!” she said and nipped his lips before he could pull away.

He jerked back, then stood. “Not a smart move, Esme. Now you will have to be punished even more.” He rubbed his mouth as if she’d severely wounded him when in fact she hadn’t even broken the skin. “But first, are you hungry?”

She nodded.

“Good,” he said and took great pleasure in making her
eat tiny morsels of manchet bread dripping with honey from his hand, like a pet dog. After each bite, he forced her to lick clean his fingers. She seriously considered, biting one of those appendages, but decided to pick her battles. She suspected that licking his fingers might be the least of the offenses he planned to inflict upon her. When she finished, he gave her a cup of cool water, then asked, “Do you have to relieve yourself, Esme?”

She did, but she would wet the bed afore she let him put a pan under her bottom and watch her empty her bladder.

He just laughed when she raised her chin defiantly. Then he loosened her ties, telling her, “I’m only untying you for a few moments while I go out to gather wood for the fire. You have a very short amount of time to take care of yourself,” he said, pointing to the chamber pot in the far corner.

She’d done everything she had to do and was back in the bed, covered to her chin with the fur pelt, when he returned carrying a large load of logs. He went out two more times for other loads, which he piled next to the hearth. He must be planning a long stay in the hut. Or was he building up the fire for her so he could go back to the keep?

She got her answer soon enough when he took off his belt and raised his tunic over his head. Esme already knew the man was stunning in his physical appearance, having seen him naked when he was brought to the nunnery from the battlefield and again here in the woodcutter’s hut. He no doubt knew how stunning he was, too. Women fell at his feet like weeds under a soldier’s boot.
But not me. I am stronger than that. I hope
.

He sat down to remove his boots, watching her the
whole time. She turned on her side away from him, but she assumed he then stepped out of his tight
braies
, too. She was proven right when he slipped under the bed furs behind her and she felt his nakedness against her back…
all
of his nakedness.
Is it possible to see a man with one’s eyes closed? Well, yea, it must be…because I am seeing vivid pictures behind my eyelids
.

“Turn over, Esme, so I can secure your ties.”

Does that mean I have to open my eyes?
“Why do you need to tie me when your big body blocks my escape?”

“I might fall asleep and you could crawl over me.”

Crawl over him? Naked? I…do…not…think…so!

He laughed. “You do not like my big body?”

She didn’t answer.
Truth to tell, I like your big body too much
.

“Perhaps I will tie you
to me
,” he said and took her left hand in his right one, palm to palm, fingers entwined, then tied them together at the wrists. He raised both their arms so they rested on the pillow above her head.

“Relax, Esme, I am not going to tup you tonight. I am too tired. But if you move or squirm about, I will interpret that as meaning you want me now. And I may decide to change my mind.”

As a final outrage, he let the fur pelt remain where it was, mid-body, so that her breasts were visible to his eye. And eye them he did. Then he yawned loudly, laid his head next to hers, his mouth against her ear, and proceeded to fall asleep.

Esme couldn’t believe what was happening. She had expected the brute to come back and rape her…or at least have his way with her. Instead, she was lying naked
in a bed, her arm tied above her head, her breasts exposed, while he snored beside her, oblivious.

It was utterly humiliating.

Which, of course, was his point.

Planning a road trip…

“We are going to Ravenshire for a yuletide celebration,” Gorm announced to all those at the high table.

“
What?
That is the first I have heard of this,” Helga said with alarm. She and Vagn had been at each other like dogs in heat the past sennight, and the prospect of their being separated, even for a short time, filled her with surprising panic. Once separated, would he forget about her? Find someone else? No longer be interested?

“I have known for some time that Eirik and Eadyth planned a great feast, but did not think we would be able to go because of this winter storm that has beset us. Now that the roads are passable again, it seems a grand idea. All of us will go,” Gorm explained, making a sweeping gesture that included Vagn.

Helga breathed a sigh of relief. Not separated, after all.

“Actually, Gorm, I think I will stay here,” Vagn said.

Helga’s heart constricted. There was no way she could stay behind, too, without her father becoming suspicious…if he was not already.

“My side still pains me betimes, and I am not sure I could stand a full day on horseback,” Vagn said, reaching low where no one could see his hand to pinch her buttock…probably a signal to her to attempt to stay, too…which she could not do.

She let out a little yelp of surprise at his pinch.

Her father raised an eyebrow at her.

“Indigestion,” she explained.

Her father nodded, being an expert on chest pains. “I can understand your concern about traveling too soon, Vagn. You have been looking peaked of late, and you have dark circles under your eyes from lack of sleep. Nightmares, I imagine. Actually, I have an ulterior motive for wanting to go.” He winked slyly at Helga.

“What? What have you done now?”

“I have done naught,” he said as if wounded. “But Lord Ravenshire’s son John from Hawk’s Lair will be there, and methinks ’tis time for you to give him another look.”

“For what?”

“Husband.”

Helga slanted a surreptitious glance at Vagn and noticed with satisfaction that he looked rather green. He squeaked out, “Marriage?”

“Father! John is too young for me.”

“He is twenty and five,” her father argued.

“And I am twenty and eight.”

“Pfff! Three years! ’Tis nothing.”

“It is, when the
woman
is three years older.”

“’Twould be like robbing the cradle,” Vagn concurred.

She cast him a glowering look.

“On the other hand, I am thirty and one. A good age,” Vagn said.

Everyone turned to stare at Vagn. Where had that irrelevant remark come from? It was irrelevant, wasn’t it?
A good age for what?

Then her father threw in more irrelevant remarks. “I understand that John has grown into quite a handsome fellow. On the down side, he’s a Saxon through and through…grim and way too serious, unlike us Vikings who enjoy a good jest.”

“I enjoy a good jest,” Vagn said.

Helga sank lower in her seat. Why was he calling attention to himself this way? Did he want people to know of their relationship?

“On the up side,” her father continued, “John has his own estate, which is said to be prosperous. What say you, Helga? Will you at least reserve judgment till you’ve had a chance to look him over?”

Before she had a chance to answer, Vagn told her father, “Actually, I think I will go to Ravenshire with you after all. Eirik is an old comrade of mine, as is his brother Tykir, who lives in the Norselands. There are sure to be other Vikings of my acquaintance there. Yea, ’twill be good to meet up with old friends. We will all have a jolly good time.”

“Lackwit!” she mouthed to him in an aside. She’d like to show him a jolly good time.

He just winked at her and pinched her buttock again.

“So, it is settled then.” Gorm raised his cup of mulled ale high in a toast. “We will leave for Ravenshire five days hence. Will that be enough time for your sewing
ladies to make fine garments for us all, or refurbish the old ones?”

Helga nodded. Sewing duties were the least of her concerns. Somehow, deep down, she knew that her time with Vagn was coming to an end. And she suspected that the end would come at Ravenshire.

Why should it matter? She’d known all along that this was to be a short-lived affair. In that instant, she realized what was bothering her.

I love him. Oh, my gods! I love him
.

And that was the worst thing that could have happened.

Men and their epiphanies!…

Oh, my gods, I love her!

Vagn came to this amazing revelation while buried deep inside Helga, trying to fight off his fast-coming peak. He’d stopped his long, slow strokes seconds ago in hopes of slowing himself down before starting the short, hard strokes that would bring them both crashing to ecstasy.

Helga was staring up at him adoringly. All right, she adored the things he did to her body. And he adored the things she did to his body.

But
Oh, my gods, I love her!

In the midst of this mind-shattering tension, Helga asked him a most irrelevant question. “Vagn, you once mentioned that you have been celibate for a year. Why? I mean, I cannot imagine a man of your skill giving up the delights of the body.”

Vagn liked her mentioning his skills and the delights of the body, but, good gods, how could she put together so many words when engaged in the heat of coupling?
When he was able to speak above a croak, he said, “We were Jomsvikings. They lead celibate lives whilst at the island fortress. It was a bad idea, believe you me.”

“What are Jomsvikings precisely?”

“Helga, my sword is planted in your sheath up to the hilt. Your sheath is quivering around me. Can we not discuss this later?”

She laughed seductively, and he realized she was distracting him with these questions deliberately. The witch! Mayhap she was right. ’Twas best to prolong the peaking as long as possible. In truth, there was sometimes as much ecstasy in the anticipation as the end result. And so he began to blather like an idiot.

“Jomsvikings are an elite group of military men of proven courage, none older than fifty years. They live in a huge circular fortress on the island of Trellenborg on the west coast of Sjaelland…the Danish lands. Jomsvikings adhere to strict rules of fellowship. Each must avenge the other as a brother. None must ever speak a word of fear. No man can be absent from the fortress for more than three nights, unless engaged on a military campaign. And, most important, no women are permitted in the castle itself.”

“Sounds like foolishness to me.”

He pinched her behind for making light of serious men’s business and went on. “It is quite an honor to be admitted to this society. A foster brotherhood, some call it. At the initial swearing-in ceremony, a large ring of turf is cut from the ground in such a way that two ends are still held fast and under it is laid a razor-sharp spear. Four men are required to pass beneath it till they draw blood, lots of blood, and their blood mixes with each other’s and
with the earth beneath. After that, they clasp hands and pledge an oath to the brotherhood.”

Her eyes widened with disbelief. “That really is foolishness. Men! What utter nonsense, that they would spill blood just for the sake of making an oath. I tell you, women would never do that!”

He laughed. She was probably right.

“In any case, that is why I was celibate for a year…that, and my battle injury.”

“Ummmm,” she said.

He was not certain if she said “Ummm” as an indication that she understood or as appreciation of the throbbing of his cock inside her tight channel. Talented fellow, his cock was. He continued to hold himself as still as possible inside her, trying to control the game as much as he could.

She stared up at him, waiting.

While he held himself rigid over her, she did not question him. The woman trusted him implicitly. That he would not hurt her. That he would bring her pleasure. That he would keep his word as a man of honor. That he would hide her secrets.

Vagn knew she was ready—nay, anxious—for impending bliss because her inner folds were already clutching at him, but still she
trusted
him to know what was best for them in the bedsport. A heady compliment, that was: trust. It carried responsibility, too. Did he want that responsibility? Did he have a choice?

Apparently, I do, because, Odin help me, I love her
.

As if reading his troubled thoughts, Helga reached a hand up and caressed his cheek, trailing her fingers over his parted lips. “Vagn,” she murmured huskily.

He began to pound her then, as if in punishment, but
in reality to drive home to her what he could not say:
I love you
. To some men that might not be such an amazing revelation, but to Vagn it was mind-shattering. He had never thought love would come to him…love of the man-woman kind. And he’d never needed it before, not while he had his brother.

Helga flailed from side to side now, keening with the continuous pleasure he gave her. Her body went from one peak to another as the inner ripples went on and on. He’d never known a woman to have multiple peaks like this, but his Helga did. The anticipation of his own peak went on and on, too, to the point of pain…painful yearning, wonderful torture.

I love her
. He could not say the words. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But he showed Helga that he loved her in the best way he could. With a roar of male exhilaration, Vagn shot his seed
inside
Helga’s welcoming womb.

And it felt so right.

Making sweet butter, Viking style…

Tears welled in Helga’s eyes, which she hid from Vagn by pressing her face against his heaving chest. What a miracle lovemaking was! What a miracle lovemaking was when love was involved, as it was on her part!

I love you, Vagn
. She wished she could say the words aloud, but she would probably scare him spitless. Not that he would abandon her to her own devices, but it would make their relationship strained. She wanted to relish this peace between them for a while longer.

But there was something more important to consider. Vagn didn’t have to say the words for her to know what
he had just done. For the first time in what seemed like a hundred bouts of lovemaking, he had stayed inside her body and given her his seed. And it was deliberate, she knew it was.

What does it mean?

And what a joke on him…because she was probably already with child. As careful as he had been in spilling himself into a cloth, he had made love to her so many times that the chances of her conceiving accidentally were high. Oh, she did not know for a certainty that she carried his babe, but her monthly flux was late. She would not tell him. Not yet. Not till she was sure. Mayhap not even then…nay, that would be dishonorable of her. If she was indeed pregnant, she would let him know. But not yet.

He kissed the top of her head and said, “Helga, you are going to wear me down to a nub.”

“Am I too much for you, Viking?” she teased, nipping at one of his flat male nipples.

“Hardly,” he boasted. “In truth, dearling, your enthusiasm in the bedsport gives me much pleasure. Thank you.” He patted her hand which lay over his heart. “You heal me.”

What a touching thing to say! Tears welled again in her eyes, and this time he noticed.

“Tsk tsk tsk! What kind of lover am I to make you weep?”

“The best kind,” she said, “but do not let your head get big. I am sure I would be just as pleased with any other man…Finn, for example.”

“Liar!” he hooted, obviously believing that what existed betwixt them in the bed furs was unique. Smart man!

She nestled herself into a more comfortable position
with her face against his chest, one arm across his waist and a leg thrown over his thigh. Sleep was fast approaching. She loved sleeping in Vagn’s arms, though she must be sure to awaken before dawn and return to her own bedchamber.

But Vagn brought her fully awake with his question, “Helga, what do you have against marriage?”

She moved her leg off his but still rested her face on his chest and her arm over his waist. “I don’t think there was any one happenstance that made me mistrust marriage. My mother died when I was only three. My father did not raise me as a boy, as many sonless men do with their girlings, but he did breed independence in me.”

“’Tis unusual, you must admit that.”

She nodded, and breathed deeply of his skin. He had his own unique skin scent, like salt and leather, masculine, and not at all offensive. But she was being distracted from the subject at hand. “I know my father gives the impression of being a crude oaf betimes, but he really is a fair-thinking man. He taught me—and all his people, really—to use their gods-given talents. In my case, that talent lay in a needle and thread.” She shrugged.

“How does your plan for a child fit in with all this? Is it yet another notch in your goal to be independent?”

“Of course not. When he taught me independence, my father’s only miscalculation was in his yearning for a grandchild…something he did not realize till recently. I truly think he does not mind my being husbandless. He knows I could carry on for him when he is gone. I may not be a soldier, but there are soldiers aplenty who would work for me.”

“But what about you, Helga? You speak of a child for your father’s sake. What about you?”

“I want a child, too. I did not realize that afore. The maternal instinct came late to me, apparently.” That was all she would say for now…all she could say, as her throat closed with emotion.

“Is it fair to the child not to have a father? Why can’t you do both—marry and have a child?”

“Really, Vagn, how many men would allow their wives to have such independence? What man would allow me to continue operating my trading stall in Jorvik? What man would allow me to travel to the trading towns of the Norselands seeking new fabrics and dyes and threads? What man would allow me to be a woman, a mother, and a merchant, too?”

“You are looking at this from the wrong angle.”