by Sandra Hill
He laughed some more.
“You have grease on your lips,” he remarked in a tone that was oddly husky.
She licked her lips.
He exhaled with a whoosh.
“What does that mean?”
“What?”
“The whoosh?”
“It means that you affect me greatly, my lady warrior.”
“Oh,” she said, but what she thought was, Ooooh!
He reached out with a thumb. “You missed a spot.” He used his thumb to wipe a wide swath under her bottom lip, then put the thumb to his mouth and sucked. The whole time, he watched her, and she watched him.
For the love of a Valkyrie! Tyra had never seen a man do such an erotic thing in all her life. She felt the effects of the gesture right down to the tips of her tingling fingers and curling toes, and some unmentionable places in between.
“Do not play with me, Saxon.”
“I like playing with you, Viking.”
“Stop now, or—”
“Or what?”
She had no idea what … because the impertinent, arrogant born-to-be-a-libertine was lowering his mouth toward hers. And she was frozen in place. Mayhap it was because she had a pigeon in one hand and a ladle in the other, but more likely it was because her lips had somehow parted of their own volition. She wanted his kiss. She wanted it badly.
“Tyra,” he whispered against her mouth just before his lips claimed hers. The man was proving to be a master at a number of things. Medicine, for a certainty. And now, kissing. She did not allow herself to ponder what other areas of expertise he might have.
He pulled back slightly to look at her. His eyes devoured her, searching for what, she did not know.
“Well, that was … nice,” she choked out.
“Nice?” he sputtered.
“So, now you have your thank-you kiss-token.”
“Hardly,” he said, even as he bracketed her face with his hands and drew her down to the wide bench with him.
The water ladle dropped to the ground with a thud and the pigeon flew in another direction … she hoped not into the well.
He shaped her mouth, he nipped her, he laved her with his tongue, then sucked at her. His lips were hard, demanding something of her. Finally he gritted out against her mouth, “Open.”
She did.
“Wider.”
She did.
Then, by all the gods and goddesses, he showed her what a man could do with his tongue in a woman’s mouth. The wetness … she should have been revolted; instead, she sighed inwardly at the delicious taste of him. The aggression … she should have shoved him off the bench; instead, she allowed him to take charge. The sinfulness of the thrusting action … she should have felt guilty; instead, she reveled in her first experience with a man’s lust for her.
Somehow, in the midst of this brain-muddling kiss, he moved himself atop her.
“Why do you whimper, sweetling?” he whispered against her ear.
Sweetling? He called me sweetling. She could not keep herself from smiling against his neck. “I thought it was you that whimpered,” she whispered back.
He was leaving a trail of kisses along her jawline when she spoke. He laughed against her mouth and admitted, “Mayhap it was.” Then he resumed kissing her, and his hands … his wicked hands … moved everywhere on her. Everywhere.
Tyra loved the way he kissed. She loved the way he touched her, ravenously, as if he could not get enough of her. She loved the way he made her feel … feminine and desirable.
“Dost know what the best thing is about these insufferable braies you wear?” he asked her.
“What?” she asked, though she recognized the teasing mirth in his voice.
“This,” he answered, putting his hands under each of her buttocks, then twisting his ankles about her ankles and spreading both their legs wide. The result: his manhood was nestled firmly against her womanhood.
He gasped.
She gasped.
“Oh … my … God!” he said.
“Oh … my … God!” she said, too. Sometimes only a good Christian expletive would do.
Now when he resumed kissing her, she had the double pleasure of feeling him move against her there. Tyra thought she had died and gone to Valhalla, so intense was the pleasure.
The one time when she experimented and dipped the tip of her tongue into his mouth, he jerked against her. What a wonderful gift! To know that she … Tyra the Big … Tyra the Man-Woman … could have that kind of effect on a man like Adam … well, ‘twas nothing less than a gift from the gods.
“Why are they groanin’ so much?” a little boy’s voice asked.
“Are they makin’ a baby?” a little girl’s voice asked.
“Nay. You have to be naked to make babies,” a voice that could only be Alrek responded. “Leastways, I think that is the way it works.”
Tyra and Adam did indeed groan then. They turned as one, with him still lying flat atop her on the well bench.
It was Alrek, all right, with the baby Besji in his arms, sleeping apparently, her little head cradled against his shoulder. On either side of him were Tunni and Kristin.
Adam pressed his forehead against Tyra’s and seemed to be counting to ten. When he was done, he sat up gingerly. And she did the same.
“What do you want?” Adam demanded testily. Tyra could sympathize with his frustration.
“Rashid sent us to find you,” Alrek said in a shaky voice.
“He did? Are you sure?”
Tyra understood Adam’s confusion. Rashid knew what a nuisance these children were to his master.
“Tell me exactly what were Rashid’s words.”
“Well, he was in your bedchamber. Conductin’ inter … inter … interviews, I think he called ‘em.”
“Interviews?” she and Adam both said at the same time.
“Yea, and what a mess it was, too! Had a dozen women lined up outside in the corridor, he did.”
“Interviews for what?” Adam asked through gritted teeth, though he and Tyra both knew the answer.
“Yer harem. We wuz helpin’ him with the interviews. Openin’ and closin’ the door, holdin’ back the pushy ones. When we kept askin’ him questions, that’s when he said, ‘Why do you not go hunt for Master Adam?’ What does buxom mean, anyhow? And belly dancin’? I have heard of dancin’ round the Friggsday bonfire, but belly dancin’ … I jist can’t picture it.”
Adam stood abruptly and began to stalk away. “I am going to kill the man, I truly am.”
The children were staring after him, worried, no doubt, that they had said the wrong thing. Tyra, on the other hand, had her palm pressed over her mouth, stifling a laugh.
Just before he reached the outside staircase, Adam halted and turned. Pointing a finger at her, he asserted, “You and I have unfinished business.”
Tyra didn’t even bother to disagree.
In truth, she couldn’t wait.
Harems, anyone? …
Adam had to shove his way through two dozen milling women—the number appeared to be growing by the minute—to get to his bedchamber.
I am going to kill him. Forget about my newfound dedication to healing. I am going to kill him.
As he opened the door a crack, he heard Vana the White—Tyra’s very own sister, for the love of God!— asking, “Does it matter if a new harem houri is a … a … virgin?” The last word came out on a mortified whisper.
I am going to kill him.
“Nay, it matters not.” Rashid was waving a hand airily. The other hand held a parchment on which he’d presumably been taking notes on the harem candidates. “There is an ancient Arab proverb regarding this very thing. ‘Virginity is like a blister. Once pricked, ‘tis gone forever.’” Then he smiled widely, enjoying his own wisdom, no doubt.
“Rashid!” Adam practically bellowed, opening the door wider.
Rashid jumped, and so did the young woman.
“Out!” he ordered Vana, then slamm
ed the door after her.
“Do you have a death wish?” he asked his assistant, who had the nerve to stare back at him with wide-eyed innocence, not the least bit repentant.
“Nay, but I do have a wish to be happy. Is that too much to ask? That a man may be happy in this lifetime? Allah says—”
“Do not dare quote me a proverb now. I am in no mood. Did I not tell you, over and over, that I do not want a harem?”
“Who said the harem is for you?” Rashid placed a hand flat against his heart as if Adam’s charge had wounded him greatly.
Hah! Rashid wasn’t fooling him. “And who might this harem be for? The sultan of Baghdad? A desert caliph?”
“Nay, nay, nay! Just for me.”
“Oh, really? And where were you planning on setting up this harem? My weaving shed in Northumbria?”
Rashid raised his chin stubbornly. “You cannot tell me what to do with my free time. And if I want a harem, and have the funds to support it … which I do … then that is precisely what I will do.”
Rashid stormed out then. Adam wasn’t sure if the hasty exit was because he was offended, or if he just wanted to escape his wrath.
I have insulted my best friend.
I have gained a triple shadow of pestsome children.
I might very well have to run for my life if the king should die.
I’ve become involved, despite my best intentions, with a female Viking soldier.
How did my life become such a tangled mess? he wondered and put his face in his hands.
What else could happen?
The comedy of life just got funnier…
“Your Uncle Tykir is here,” Rashid called out gaily a mere one hour later, as if they had never exchanged harsh words.
But then Rashid’s message sank into Adam’s brain. Tykir? Here? Oh, good Lord, what would he make of this mess? He will laugh at me … that is what he will do.
Adam was in the king’s bedchamber, checking on his condition. Thorvald had not come out of the deep sleep yet … if he ever would. But his breathing was normal, and his body temperature had not elevated. Fever was always a concern.
Closing the door softly, Adam left Father Efrid behind to watch over Thorvald, with instructions to call him immediately if there was a change.
As he walked down the upper corridor, Rashid told him, “They brought the new babe with them. ‘Twould seem they miscalculated the birthing date, and it came six sennights ago. It is a boy … a fourth son for them, I believe. Allah must be well pleased with the father to bless him so.”
Rashid was rambling, as he often did, but Adam suspected he did so now to cover the awkwardness of their parting a short time ago. He put a hand on Rashid’s forearm to halt their progress for a moment. “I apologize for my harsh words.”
Rashid nodded and patted his hand in acceptance. “No apologies are necessary between friends. Just know this, Master Adam, we come from different cultures. Do not be so quick to judge my ways.”
They continued toward the great hall, where Rashid went off to find Rafn. Meanwhile, Adam was greeted immediately by his Uncle Tykir, who lifted him off his feet and hugged him warmly. He and Tykir were of the same height, but Tykir had several stones on him in weight, being a fierce Viking warrior who guarded his home at Dragonstead with an iron hand. Dragonstead was less than a day’s journey by horse and a half day by longboat. They were neighbors by Northern standards.
“How is everything going, boy?” Tykir asked as he drew back. Tykir had seen more than forty winters, but age sat well on him. There were only a few gray hairs in his light brown hair. Already Tykir was leading Adam toward a trestle table where a housecarl was pouring mead for them. “We heard that you were here, and I was worried. Alinor suggested that we come. She was worried, too.”
“I operated on King Thorvald this morn. Thus far he seems to be holding on,” he told his uncle.
Tykir nodded, took a deep draught of mead, then plopped down onto the bench and motioned for Adam to join him. Then he did what Adam had been expecting all along. He grinned.
Adam pretended not to notice and sipped thoughtfully at his ale.
Just then Alinor came up and hugged him from behind. “How fare you, Adam dear?”
He turned in his seat to get a better look at his aunt-by-marriage. He had not seen either of them for several years. Her hair was still rusty-red and her face was covered with freckles. Tykir thought she was nigh gorgeous. Even now, after a full ten years of marriage, it was clear that the man was besotted with his wife, so sappy was the expression on his face when he gazed on her.
“Ah, and this is the new addition to the Tykirsson family, I take it,” he said, peering beneath the swaddling blanket at the newborn babe.
“Yea,” she said with great pride. “Our fourth son. Selik Tykirsson. Is he not beautiful? He looks just like his father.”
Adam had to take a deep breath before he could swallow over the lump in his throat. They had named their babe after his adoptive father, Selik … who had been sort of a stepbrother by marriage to Tykir.
Adam had to smile. “Of course, Selik is beautiful. All babies are. But I do not know about his being beautiful if he takes after his father.” Adam regarded the infant, not knowing whom he would favor as he grew to manhood.
Tykir punched him in the arm, then relieved his wife of her blissful burden, cradling the still sleeping child in the crook of his big arm. Adam noticed that Tykir and Alinor’s firstborn, Thork, was making friends with Alrek, who was of a similar age. Although he was only nine years old, Thork already had a reputation for being wildly mischievous. Adam wondered what domestic disasters would come of Alrek’s association with him. The Wild and the Clumsy! Tykir and Alinor’s second son, seven-year-old Starri, and their third son, four-year-old Guthrom, were already chattering away with Alrek’s brother and sisters.
Alinor went to take a sip of her husband’s mead, then frowned at Tykir when she realized the goblet was empty.
Ignoring his wife’s frown, he commented to Adam, “Well, you landed in the middle of it this time, didn’t you?”
“No thanks to you,” Adam answered with a snort of disgust.
“Me?” Tykir inquired, widening his eyes with an innocence he’d never had a day in his life.
“You. ‘Twas you that was responsible for the warrior wench kidnapping me and bringing me to this godforsaken land.”
“She kidnapped you?” Alinor asked.
“Yea, she did. Whacked me over the head with a sword and tossed me over her shoulder.”
Alinor and Tykir tossed their heads back and laughed uproariously. As he’d known they would.
“Tyra actually did that? Carried you off on her shoulder? Like a sack of barley?” Alinor wiped the tears of merriment from her eyes, but her face was still split with a huge grin.
“You know her?”
“Of course I know her. I have lived in this country for nigh on ten years. She was at my wedding with her father and sisters. You did not meet her there?”
He shook his head, wondering how he could have missed such a … a … wonder.
They all turned as one then to stare across the room to where Tyra stood talking with her sisters. It was easy to pick her out. She was taller by a head than any of the others. And she was the only one wearing braies. Adam sensed Tyra’s insecurities, especially in comparison to her sisters and their renowned beauty, but frankly, Adam thought she looked ten times better than any one of them, even in her male attire, even when she did manly things like scratching. Was he looking at her through prejudiced eyes, just as Tykir did when he gazed adoringly at his freckled wife? Now, that was an alarming thought!
“She looks different somehow,” Alinor mused, tilting her head one way, then another as she studied Tyra.
“Yea, she does,” Tykir agreed, a grin twitching his lips.
Aaarrgh! It is starting already, the jesting at my expense.
“Methinks it is her tousled hair and her—oh, my God
!—her lips.” Alinor exchanged a look with her husband.
“You are right, wife. As usual. If I did not know better, I would think the lady soldier had been kissed good and well. In fact, her lips look rather, well, kiss-swollen.”
Tykir and Alinor turned their attention to Adam.
“Just like yours,” Alinor hooted with glee.
Once again, Alinor and Tykir tossed their heads back and laughed uproariously.
“Kiss-swollen lips, did you say?” It was Rashid who came up to join them. He looked pointedly at Tyra, then directly at Adam’s mouth, and nodded his head with satisfaction. “‘Tis well past time, too. Two years of chastity is more than enough for any one man, I tell you. Allah says—”
“Two years?” Mirth was replaced in Alinor’s voice by shock and something else … probably concern.
“Chastity? You?” Tykir was staring at Adam, his mouth agape with incredulity. He, too, looked a bit concerned.
“Methinks this calls for a saga,” Adam heard a booming voice announce behind him.
“Oh, nay, oh please, God, not this,” Adam prayed even before he turned around and saw the giant Viking with the one eye-patch. “Dear Lord, please, please, please, spare me.”
‘Twas Bolthor, the world’s worst skald.
“This is the saga of Adam the Lesser,” Bolthor began.
Alinor and Tykir smiled their encouragement. Adam just groaned.
But then Adam said, “What is this ‘Lesser’ business? You always say, ‘This is the saga of Tykir the Great,’ or ‘This is the saga of Rurik the Greater.’ Why is it I get no ‘Great’ after my name?”
“Well, Tykir was much chagrined when he found out that I named Rurik the Greater, and—”
“I was not,” Tykir protested.
“Yea, you were,” Alinor disagreed.
“… and he ordered me henceforth to name no one greater than he.”
“Are you really that vain?” Adam asked Tykir.
“He’s lying,” a red-faced Tykir lied.
“Yea, he is that vain,” Alinor said.
“As I was saying, this is the saga of Adam the Lesser.”
“Once was a Saxon healer,
All the maids his beauty did stir.
Some said he was overly cocky,