Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (23 page)

He bit his bottom lip to hold back a moan. ’Twas a good thing his private parts were covered with a breechclout. Else he would, no doubt, scare her with the size of his appreciation.

She finished with the palate of skin from collarbone to groin, much too soon. But then she entered a different territory. Carefully raising his arms overhead, she began to lather the hair in his surprisingly sensitive armpits. He almost shot up off the bed at the intense pleasure her fingertips brought there. To be sure, he was going to make her play in that newly discovered erotic spot once they made love.

And there was no doubt in his mind that they would be making love sometime soon. She owed him.

Yea, he could picture the scene. He would be lying on
the bed, naked, with his arms folded behind his head. She would be straddling his waist, naked. Or should she be lying on her side, naked? Regardless, he would have his arms upraised, and she would lower her head to kiss and suckle first one nipple, then another. He would have his eyes closed the whole time because he’d want to prolong the anticipation. That was another thing women loved about him…how he prolonged the anticipation. In any case, after she’d nigh melted his bones by suckling on his nipples, she, still naked, would trail soft kisses up to his armpits where she would…

Nay, nay, nay, he had a better idea. She could be wearing that little harem outfit he’d gifted her, and every time she moved, there would be a tiny jingling of bells.

“Are you awake?” she whispered.

Uh-oh.
Had his heart lurched against his chest walls with all these imaginings? Or had he inadvertently grinned? He didn’t think she’d noticed the tentpole in his breechclout. Otherwise, she would have no doubt slapped him with her damp washcloth. But wait till he got her naked. Then her goose was cooked…so to speak. Or was it her chicken that would be cooked? In all humility, she wouldn’t be able to resist him, naked…her naked, not him…well, actually, both of them.

“Are you awake?” she repeated softly.

He said nothing to her question, just moaned softly, as if in deep sleep. He planned to do a great deal more moaning sometime later, and she would be moaning, too. That was one of his greatest talents, making a woman moan. And prolonging anticipation. And…well, he misremembered all his bedsport talents now, but there were plenty of them. He could scarce wait to hear how a witch moaned. Or would a witch howl? He shrugged mentally. Moan, howl…either one would suffice. He planned to
roar, himself. And moan and howl. And those other things he couldn’t remember.

But wait, there were interesting events taking place whilst his mind had been wandering. Alinor had flipped the bed furs up to cover his chest and stomach, exposing his legs. She was using the cloth to wash the furred skin from loins to toes. He called on every bit of self-control his battered body still held in store as she skimmed the tense muscles of his inner thighs. A good warrior, forced to ride unruly destriers into battle, soon honed those inner thigh muscles, and with honing came heightened sensitivity. The unbelievably intense pleasure her soapy caresses engendered caused him to clench his fists and grit his teeth, but he could not stop a certain part of his body from rising to the occasion. Never had his staff felt so hard and long. Never had it throbbed with such wonderful pain.

But then her fingers worked in the lather, rather than the cloth, and that was his undoing. Much more, and he would humiliate himself.

With a roar of protest, oblivious to the pain in his head, he sat upright and shoved her hands aside. “Are you trying to kill me, woman?”

She blinked at him with surprise. “You’re awake.”

“Yea, I’m awake. I would have to be a cadaver not to revive after all that prodding and poking.”

“Prodding and poking?” she exclaimed indignantly.

“Blessed Lord, Alinor, were you using a washup as an excuse for finding every blessed erotic spot on my body?”

“Erotic spot? What’s an erotic spot?”

He couldn’t help himself. He began to laugh. When he finally calmed down, he informed her, “Everyone—man and woman alike—has erotic spots on their bodies. Places that are especially susceptible to excitement. Some have more than others. Some have them in very…uh, different
spots. The inner thighs are among my particular favorites, as you very well discovered. I thank you not to torture me so…leastways, not till I am well enough to follow through on your invitation.” He smiled at her to soften the blow of his criticism.

She frowned, and he could tell that she did not really understand his words. A widow three times over, and she was naive as a virgin farm girl.

“Why, you ungrateful cad! Where is your appreciation for all my ministrations these past three days? Where is your thanks for my taking on the odious task of bathing your body? Where is…”

Her words trailed off as her eyes latched onto his midsection. He cupped his hands over himself, but it was too late. She’d seen enough. She narrowed her eyes at him, then began whacking him all over with her wet washcloth…his shoulders, his arms, his legs, his “tentpole.” The whole time, she was berating him, “As if I would deliberately tempt you…or any other man! You lecherous lout! You odious oaf! You perverted puddinghead! You—”

She drew herself up suddenly, as if realizing the impropriety of beating a sick man.

He pushed his luck just a mite too far when he inquired with a grin, “Does that mean you’re not going to finish bathing me?” He looked pointedly down at a part of his body that would really, really like to be bathed by her soft woman hands.

She answered by storming out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Instantly, the door opened again, and she was the one grinning now, except the grin never reached her flashing green, evil eyes.

“I showed Rurik my tail today.”

“Really?” He grinned, never having believed that tail nonsense.

“If you’re not careful, Viking, I’m going to show you my tail—and a whole lot more.” Then she slammed the door again.

I’m counting on it, witchling. With all my being, I am counting on it.

It was a cozy, familiar scene that met Tykir’s eyes as he made his way carefully to the great hall the next afternoon, to the warm greetings of his men.

The burly warriors and seamen, dressed in leather tunics and braies, huddled close to the three roaring hearths for warmth as wind whistled through the closed shutters of narrow, arrow-slit windows. Other heartier souls, covered with cloaks of wolf, sealskin, bear and fox, sat about the hall in small groups. Some of them were drinking mead and playing dice, while others polished swords and armor. Two men in the corner squinted and cursed as they painstakingly sewed a tear in one of the longship sails spread over a trestle table.

From the kitchen came the chattering voices of house carls and maids at gossip and the delicious scent of meat roasting on a spit. Tykir sniffed several times. Not chicken, thank the gods! Probably reindeer.

He sauntered over to Rurik, who was whittling shards of wood off a chunk of oak and forming them into crosses on leather neck thongs. Tykir shook his head in amusement at his friend, who appeared to be amassing a fortune off the back of Lady Alinor…or rather her tail.

Tykir was still chuckling over the tale Rurik had regaled him with the night before in his bedchamber, something about a grand jest the witch had played on him involving an eel skin. He had to give the lady her due. He had not thought she had a bit of humor in her bones.

Bolthor, who’d accompanied Rurik to Tykir’s room, had then burst into a new saga:

“I swear, Bolthor, someone is going to slice off your tongue one of these days,” Rurik had raged. “Your sagas get worse and worse. And I’d better not hear that particular one being recited belowstairs. I’ll not be the jest of any more of your stories.”

“Why should you be any different than the rest of us?” Tykir had remarked with a chuckle.

But now Tykir was making his first trip downstairs since his illness began. His fever was gone, and his leg felt better than it had in years…flexible and pain-free. He supposed he had the witch to thank for that.

“Where is she?” he asked Rurik as he dropped down to the bench beside him.

“Well and good you should ask!” Rurik growled and continued with his whittling.

A maid handed Tykir a cup of mulled ale, along with a trencher piled high with several slices of flat bread and some
skyr.
At least it was not
gammelost,
he thought, though he would not tell the Saxon wench that he, too, was sick of the smelly fare. Then he berated himself for always thinking about the wench. She was ever on his mind these many days, and he did not know why, nor care at all for the obsession.

“Where is she?” he repeated to Rurik.

“Walking.”

“Walking? Where? The parapets?”

“Nay, not the parapets. That would be the choice of a normal woman.”

A long silence followed. “Well, speak up, man. Where is she walking?”

“Around the lake.”

“The lake! ’Tis colder than a witch’s tit out there.” He immediately realized the fitting nature of his choice of words when Rurik slanted him a look of approval and said, “Indeed!”

“Really, Rurik! Lady Alinor could get lost, or freeze to death in these strange surroundings.”

“Oh, that we would be so lucky!” He continued his infernal whittling and added, “Beast is with her. Of course, Beast is
always
with her. The animal is no longer my pet. In truth, he gives me the same condescending, I-am-better-than-thou looks as the witch when he passes by. Furthermore, Beast laid a pile of dung in my bedchamber yestereve after I yelled at the witch for her eel prank. Methinks it was deliberate.”

Tykir put a hand over his mouth to hide an unbidden smile. But, actually, Rurik’s continual criticism of Alinor
was starting to annoy him. Not that Alinor didn’t annoy him, too. But it was not Rurik’s place to…well, never mind. He cut those wayward thoughts short and took a long drink of mead. Once he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he commented, “I have been thinking…I am not so sure the Lady Alinor really is a witch.”

“Easy for you to say! You have been lying abed these many days whilst she conjured up trouble hither and yon.”

“Like what?” he scoffed.

“The chicken soup, for one.”

He laughed. “Mayhap she was overzealous in her cooking, but her intentions were pure. And Girta tells me it cured the sniffles amongst the men, and helped bring my fever down.”

“Girta is under the witch’s spell, too.” Rurik’s mulish expression reminded Tykir of a little boy’s stubborn whining. Next he would be sticking out his lower lip and pouting.

Rurik stuck out his lower lip and pouted. “’Tis true.”

Tykir grinned. Then, more sober, he lectured, “Rurik! ’Tis unlike you to accuse someone without just cause.”

“Well, mayhap Girta is not really ensorcelled, but there have been strange happenings. Inga, down in the village, gave birth to triplets. Three girls! Explain that.”

Tykir nodded, giving serious consideration to Rurik’s charge. “Dropping three babes at once is a rare occurrence, but not unheard of. And ’tis true, many a man would be disappointed in having not one girl child, but three. I suppose it could be within a witch’s power to influence the birthing, but I cannot be certain ’twas Alinor’s doing.”

“She is e’er interfering in men’s work and play.”

“Like?”

“Like this morn, we men were engaged in a mere con
test. The witch raised such a to-do amongst the women, we had to disband for all the shrieking.”

“A
mere
contest?” Really, ’twas like pulling a plow-horse out of a bog to get a clear answer from Rurik.

“Oh, if you insist! ’Twas a pissing contest…who could spell the foulest word in the shortest time in the new fallen snow. Now, is that such a bad thing that the Lady Alinor would fly into a rage? Is that any reason for Girta to call me a crude oaf? It could have been called a learning situation…those who can read and write teaching those who cannot.”

Tykir choked on his ale and spit out a shower onto the table as he attempted to swallow and laugh at the same time. When he finally wiped his mouth and the table with a linen cloth, he gave Rurik a level look. “Methinks you need to find a life-purpose. Methinks you dwell too much on a witch who is not a witch because you are idle too much. Methinks Girta is correct…you are a crude oaf. Methinks there is no proof of witchcraft, Rurik. Face that fact and get on with it.”

“Nay, my friend. You are the one not facing facts. Those are only a few of the witch’s crimes.”

He exhaled loudly, then waved Rurik on. “Proceed.”

“Three of the maids have refused to service us men, even though they always did in the past. Those that will are barley-faced and stiff as sticks in the bed straw. ’Tis like swiving a loaf of bread.”

“Come now, Rurik. ’Tis a maid’s prerogative whether she wants to sate a man’s lust or not. Leastways, that has always been the rule at Dragonstead. You cannot blame that on a witch.”

“Yea, I can.”

“If Alinor interfered in that regard, it was no doubt as a high-born lady, not a witch. We have become accus
tomed to living the rough life here for overlong. My sister-by-marriage, Lady Eadyth, would have advised her female servants much the same, and you know it.”

“Why do you defend the witch, Tykir?”

“I do not defend her. I am trying to be fair.”

“Well, you cannot say that the witch is not responsible for interfering in the planned wedding of Bodil the Ripe and her intended, Rapp.”

Tykir put his face into both hands, atop elbows propped on the table. If he had not been muddle-headed when he came down to the hall, he was fast becoming so.

“Bodil is rescinding her agreement to wed with Rapp because the witch told her it is every woman’s right to change her mind. Can you imagine! As if women even have minds! And now Rapp suffers constantly from the gut rumbles. And that is not all. Jostein the Smith has been mooning about like a lovesick cow, and Bodil will not feel sorry for him.”

“Jostein? What has Jostein to do with this?” Tykir peeked out betwixt his fingers, thoroughly confused.

“Jostein is the one Bodil really favors, but Jostein spread her thighs and enjoyed her charms aplenty without the offer of matrimony. Then Bodil decided to show him what-for and agreed to marry Rapp in retaliation. Now, Jostein moons and Rapp’s stomach rumbles.”

“Rapp? Are you speaking of Rapp of the Big Wind? His stomach always rumbles. Is he not the one who farted and belched to the tune of ‘Three Maids and a Viking’ at the yule feast last year?”

Rurik ducked his head sheepishly, but only for a second. “She does not act as a captive should, Tykir.” He thought a moment, then asked, “She is a captive, isn’t she?”

Tykir cocked his head. “Well, yea. I mean, nay. ’Tis hard to classify her as captive, nor is she a guest.”

“The men ask when you intend to mete out her punishment. You have yet to discipline her for poisoning you back in Northumbria, not to mention her many crimes since.”

Tykir drew himself up with affront. “The wench will be punished, but I will be the one making the decision how and when, and no one else.”

Having lost that argument, Rurik tried again, “The lady pushes the bounds of impudence. Why, she whomped Bolthor over the head with a salmon just this midday when he was passing by the scullery. All he did was mention something about a saga involving trolls, witches and raspberry body parts.”

Tykir threw back his head and laughed heartily.

“I can see you remain unconvinced,” Rurik said with disgust. He sighed deeply, then informed him, “If the rest of what I’ve related does not weigh heavily against the witch, then hear this: The wolf packs have come down from the mountains. You must admit ’tis too early in the season for that. Some of the village folk claim the beasts howl all night long. I say they are the witch’s familiars come to do the beckoning of their sorceress mistress.”

It took several moments for Rurik’s words to sink into his thick head. When they did, Tykir stood abruptly. “You fool! Are you saying that you let Alinor walk the lake, alone, when there are wolves about? Best you say a prayer, or twelve, on those bloody crosses you keep carving. I swear, if she is harmed in any way, I will hold you responsible.”

With that, he grabbed a heavy fur-lined cloak and his broadsword, buckling it on as he stomped toward the double doors leading to the bailey and down to the lake. He could scarce breathe under the intense fear that overcame him.

It was he who prayed then. Not Rurik.

Please, God. Let her be safe.

No sooner did Tykir pass through the outer bailey than he saw Alinor approaching around the bend of the closer bank of the lake. Thank the gods, she was not far away. Though he was feeling much better and his leg hardly pained him, he probably would have been incapable of a long jaunt around the lake.

A quick glance back over his shoulder showed that Bolthor, Rurik and a dozen soldiers had donned light armor and weapons, about to follow after him. No doubt Rurik had told them of his concern about the wolves. By the wisdom of Odin! There should have been patrols guarding the area anyhow, if not for Alinor, then for the villagers who might be at risk.

He waved them back for now.

Alinor did not notice him yet, nor did Beast, who was racing up and down a slippery wooded path after a large rabbit. Alinor had stopped, her attention caught by the beautiful scene before her. Earlier that day it had snowed heavily. Now the lake and the snow-capped trees presented a vision of pure white under a bright blue sky. The air was chill and windy, but bearable. In truth, he could not blame Alinor for wanting this bit of fresh air whilst the light lasted. Although it was only early afternoon, it would be dark soon.

All that Tykir could see of Alinor was her face, in profile, covered as she was by his heavy, hooded, fur-lined cloak, which dragged on the ground behind her. For some reason, his heart constricted, watching her admire that which he held in such high regard, in his hidden heart of hearts.

He was thirty-five years old—a man of middle age—
and still the old hurts stayed with him. It was foolish, really, how he could not let them go. The first eight years of his life he’d struggled like a scrappy pup, seeking affection from anyone who came within sight of him. Yipping, yapping, “Love me, love me.” How many times had his hopes and heart been battered?

Oh, his father had never intended to wound him so. Staying away from him and Eirik had probably saved their lives, as intended. And his mother, who’d abandoned him asababe…she would have been a poor mother if she’d stayed. And his stepmother Ruby had had no choice in leaving him. And Eirik had had every right to go off afostering in the Saxon court, leaving him at Ravenshire with two grandparents, Dar and Aud, who’d died soon after.

What a poor Viking he was with all these weak-sapped needs! Sniveling and yearning over emotions best left to women and children…and small dogs. Actually, he had learned good lessons from all that heartache. Never care enough to be hurt. Never let any other know that you are vulnerable.

But there was one small weakness he allowed himself: Dragonstead. If he could not trust his feelings to another person, he could at least harbor secret affection for a place. And, Lord, he did love Dragonstead…every stone and timber of the keep, every drop of water in its lake, every tree and animal that marked the forests, and from a deliberately kept distance, even its people.

“Well, the troll has come a-walking.”

Tykir jolted to attention. Apparently, the lady had finally noticed him. He took the several more wide strides needed to reach her side. “Good day to you, as well, witch.”

“What brings you out of your cave?”

“You.”

“Me? Oh, God’s tears! You’re not going to start that captive nonsense again, are you? There’s nowhere for me to escape here if I tried, lest you suggest I try swimming.”