by Sandra Hill
"It's not a blanket. It's an arisaid."
"Whatever you call it, its pinkish color reminds me of a confection I ate once in the home of an Eastern potentate. It was so sweet, I remember licking the spoon afterward and my fingertips, as well."
Maire was getting truly alarmed, not just by his lecherous words, but by how they made her feel. "My gown is not pink, it is faded red. And I do not understand this licking business. Now let me up."
Of course, he did not obey her order, but kept the stone rocking with a mocking grin upon his face. His eyes were heavy lidded, burning intensely. "Let me explain this licking business, then. Never let it be said that Vikings do not make themselves clear. You look good enough to lick, Maire the Fair. All over. Stark naked. Starting with your nipples, which have already hardened with my words and ache for my attentions."
"They do not… They are not." She glanced down, guiltily, before she could catch herself. Of course, there was no way he could see through the thick fabric of her arisaid. He had been guessing. The brute.
"You are a perverted man, Rurik."
"Yea," he agreed with a half smile. "That is one of the good things about me. Women love it."
"Never let it be said that you are an excessively modest man." Her upper lip curled back in a snarl. "Well, I am not one of your women, and will not be."
"You were once."
"Never again."
He put up a hand, his eyes sparkling with the love of combat. "Protest all you want, Maire. This is my promise to you. Every day I bear your mark, you will bear mine. On fair days, I will work with your men and mine to build up the defenses of your castle against the MacNabs, but I will devote the long nights to you and you alone in your bedchamber. On rainy days, there will be more time to devote to your marking, and we might just spent day and night in bed. I have so much to teach you… so many ways to mark you."
She gasped. She could not help herself.
"Somehow, after a few days of this, I think you will remember your dark arts, or find another witch to stir up a remedy for you. Surely, you are not the only witch in all the Highlands."
"You don't scare me, Viking."
"I don't?" The jut of his chin and the determination on his face did not bode well for her. Then, with deliberate insult, he let his gaze move down from her face to her chest. "Speaking of your nipples… and licking…"
Nobody is speaking of nipples. Please do not bring up that horrid subject again. I can feel that part of my body reacting already.
"… there is another place I would like to lick on you, sweetling," he said. Before she knew what he was about, he rocked the stone more forcibly, causing her legs to flail, and he landed with deliberate intent between them. His sex pressed intimately against her sex, and it mattered not that there were several layers of cloth betwixt them. His lips were lowering to hers.
To her embarrassment, she heard a panting noise, and it came from her.
But Rurik was equally affected. She could see that in the sensual hazing of his eyes, his half-lowered lids, and the way he stared at her.
Maire knew then, without a doubt, that Rurik did want her in a man-woman way. She also knew that when he was done with her, she would indeed be marked.
Right now, she did not care.
Chapter Five
Quickly, Rurik eased himself atop the startled wench who lay like a sacrificial victim, arms and legs akimbo, where she'd landed when he'd rocked the stone. He'd intended only to scare the witch, who would not disclose the remedy for removing his blue mark.
That was what he'd intended.
But, oh, the consequences of a foolish man's warped intentions.
As soon as he'd settled himself betwixt her inadvertently parted thighs, it was as if a thunderbolt struck him. All thoughts of intimidation or revenge fled his head. He should have known that a favorite part of his body would thicken with a will of its own. He wasn't absolutely positive, but Lance appeared to be actually throbbing. Whilst manhood pressed against womanhood, and his senses grew as fuzzy as the moss he'd just been handling, he could not remember why he had hated this woman for five long years, why he needed to have her fearful of him, why it was important that he remain aloof and unmoved by her.
Unfortunately, everything that was male in him moved, of its own accord. Lance—the bloody lackwit!—was nigh smiling with anticipation.
I just want to show her who is in charge. I am going to stop… in a moment, he told himself. And he was serious.
"Nay," she whispered.
"Yea," he responded, his arms already reaching out for her.
I am going to stop… in a moment.
Really.
She went stiff as he gripped her head with two hands by tunneling his fingers into her hair… hair so fine it formed a cobweb of red about her face. Smudges of scarlet bloomed on her cheeks in a most becoming manner, making her seem younger than she was, like a sun-drenched maiden, which he knew too well that she was not. She dropped her green eyes under his steady gaze but not before he admired their misty illumination. Like pale emeralds, they were, shaded by thick lashes of a darker hue, in this light more brown than russet.
"Ert mjg falleg," he told her in a voice he barely recognized for its huskiness. "You are so beautiful."
Her chin shot up at his words, and her eyes locked with his, wide with surprise. "I am no such thing," she protested hotly, but he could tell she was pleased at his compliment.
Women! They are so predictable. He took a deep breath for control, and girded himself with resolve. I am going to stop… in a moment. I swear before all the gods that I will… well, some of the gods… Loki, perchance. That lighthearted jester of a god is having a good laugh on me now, I would wager.
It must have been Rurik's long period of self-denial—he could not recall the last time he'd lain with a woman—for Maire was becoming compellingly attractive to him. The consummate woman. All that was feminine and desirable. She made him want her body, but it was more than that; she made him want… he felt mysterious yearnings he could not name, which tantalized and terrified him at the same time.
I am going to stop… in a moment. I am, I am, I am.
His lips were lowering to hers beginning the mating ritual that came instinctively to all men and women when the sap thickened in their bodies and pooled in certain places. In truth, it was almost as if he could feel the blood flowing, torrid and insistent, from his fingertips, all the way to his toes, and some important places in between.
I am going to stop… in a moment, he repeated to himself like a litany, trying to ignore his thundering heart.
But almost immediately, under the assault of a million lustful impulses, he exclaimed to himself, To hell with stopping!
"By your leave, my lady witch, be forewarned. I am going to kiss you senseless."
"I do not give you leave," she said on a gasp.
"Oh?" He pondered her protest, but not very seriously, then replied, "More's the pity." With a sigh he set his course to do what he damned well pleased, her wishes notwithstanding. That decided, he settled his mouth over hers. Wanting to be slow and gentle, he entreated and persuaded her into the love play by moving his lips against hers, back and forth, till they slickened and fitted together perfectly. When her lips turned pliant, his senses flamed and he glided the tip of his tongue along the seam.
She obligingly parted for him with a moan.
That moan was his undoing. He made a rough growl deep in his throat and entered her, his tongue lightly touching the roof of her mouth.
Instinctively, she sucked on him, and he almost catapulted off the boulder. Tearing his mouth from hers, he stared down, stunned by the turbulent passions that swirled betwixt them, at just that one kiss. A hunger for her assailed him, so intense he could scarce breathe. He panted, trying to rein in his burgeoning desire.
Her long, sweeping lashes lowered over green eyes that held a glint of wonder. She, too, must be experiencing the selfsame emotions. He should get up now
from where he still lay sprawled over her. He had accomplished his goal. He'd scared the spit out of her. But her lips were moist, and, oh, so inviting. He could not resist her allure.
Had she bewitched him with a spell, or one of her love potions?
"You taste like mint," she said in a breathless whisper.
Damn, damn, damn! Did she have to say that? He could not resist her now. "You taste like heaven," he countered. And she did.
Lacing his fingers with hers, he stretched their arms overhead. At the same time, he ground his hips against the heart of her, which lay open to him betwixt her cloth-covered thighs.
"Oh… merciful… Mary!" she rasped out and arched herself up toward him. "What is happening to me, you wicked man? You are turning me into an inferno."
Her artless admission of arousal stirred all that was masculine in Rurik. And, indeed, a red flush did color her skin… skin that was deliciously warm and tempting to touch. He murmured against her parted lips, "I have always wanted to play with fire, m'lady."
When he reclaimed her lips now, there was nothing gentle or slow in his approach. Rapacious and devouring, he pressed his lips and thrust his tongue. Rurik had always prided himself on being an inventive lover who ofttimes followed specific, tried-and-true steps to bring his women to ecstasy. Now, he was barely able to focus through the haze of his excitement. He was a man out of control, and he did not care. Maire—bless her soul—gave herself freely to the fervor of his kisses. When he forced her lips open even wider, she made soft sounds of pleasure into his mouth… whimpers that spurred his invasion to be even bolder. He could not swear that it was so, but he suspected he might have whimpered back.
Rurik had never known that kissing could be so intimate or so glorious, and he told her so… in words that were sinfully explicit. Maire did not seem to mind. Actually, an erotic tremor rippled over her body in response. He even saw goose bumps rise on her bared forearms. In his experience, goose bumps on a woman's flesh during lovemaking were a good thing. Some men disdained all the preliminary exercises and gestures in lovemaking, wanting to get right to the tupping, but there was no doubt in Rurik's opinion that this kiss he and Maire shared was love play of the grandest sort.
But, wait, Maire's hands were fluttering with dismay, and he noticed her eyes darting from side to side. She was starting to think, he would wager, and a thinking female was not a good thing when the male sap was running high.
Swiftly, before she could spout all the reasons why this was not a good idea, Rurik laid a line of nibbling kisses along her jaw, up to her ear, which he exposed by brushing back her hair. At first, he just flicked his tongue against the shell of her ear, wetting its grooves and crevices. When she made a mewling noise, he knew—he just knew—that he had hit upon one of Maire's most sensitive spots. All women had them—leastways, those he'd come in contact with did—but they were ofttimes in different places… the ears, the back of the knees, the nipples, the sensitive flesh betwixt the woman-folds, the navel, even the arch of a foot. Now that he knew Maire's ears were susceptible to titillation, he launched a full assault. Using the tip of his tongue, he circled her ear, then gently blew it dry. He stabbed and withdrew, then sucked the lobe. All this was accompanied by whispered words of praise and encouragement to her.
Maire grew wild. "I am so ashamed," she cried out at one point. "Look what you do to me. Again."
"Nay, do not say so. Your passion is my pleasure, and there is no shame in that."
She shook her head in denial, even as she reared her neck up with continuing ardor. "I hate you, Rurik."
Rurik knew that. Hell, he hated her himself. Still, the words hurt. "Do you hate my kisses, too?" He could not keep himself from asking that question. How pitiful I am!
Her eyes were cloudy with arousal when she met his direct gaze. For a moment, it appeared as if she was going to lie, but then she stopped herself. "Your… kisses… are… sweet… agony," she admitted through gritted teeth.
"Ah, well, then we are equal partners, dearling," he confided back to her, "for you make me tremble." And that was the truth. On the other hand, mayhap his knees on the hard stone could be weak due to his landing on those joints so often during combat; they did tend to creak betimes. She did not need to know that, though.
When his lips met hers again, it was, indeed, sweet, sweet agony, for them both. And he was not surprised at the hissing noise he heard. He felt like hissing himself, and purring, and shouting with sheer joy.
But then, he realized that the hissing noise did not come from Maire. Oh, Holy Thor! Could it be more snakes? Is this the location of the den where the men relocated the snakes from the pit? His slumberous eyes flew open, and he leaped back off her body and the stone, at once in a crouched battle stance, ready to fight off this new, unknown threat. But, no, it was not snakes in the vicinity. It was a frenzied animal that now hurled itself at his back and began clawing his shoulders. And it was another wild animal, above Maire's head on the rock, that was hissing.
"Don' ye be hurtin' me mother, ye bloody, cod-sucking Viking," a child's voice shrieked into his ear as small fists pummeled his shoulders and clawed at his neck. At the same time that Rurik recognized it was Maire's son hanging on his back like a miniature berserker, he took in the large black cat perched on the boulder, still hissing, with its back bowed. It was about to launch itself at Rurik's face, he could tell.
"Now, Rose, settle down," Maire said, grabbing for the feline just as it was poised to attack.
"Rose? You named that monster Rose? A witch's familiar named Rose?" By now, Rurik had disengaged the foul-mouthed urchin from his back and had him cradled firmly at his side with an arm wrapped around his waist, like a sack of barley. Who knew such a young person could spout so many coarse words? Or could stink so bad?
"Rose is no monster," Wee-Jamie yelled.
"And she's not a familiar, either," Maire declared, shimmying off the boulder to stand facing him with the still hissing cat in her arms. "She's just a sweet pet, given to Wee-Jamie by a passing tinker last year."
Rurik had seen pet harem cats with sleek, silky fur. This cat's mangy hair stood on end, and it was bald in spots. Not a pretty sight. Right now it was staring up at Maire with adoration and docile innocence. But Rose wasn't fooling Rurik one bit. He knew that, given the chance, the cat would put stripes on his balls.
Rurik wished his Beast were here now. The wolf-hound would make a tasty meal of yon cat.
"You odious wretch! There you are, you rascal," another voice exclaimed. It was the rotund monk, who came rushing out of the trees, his cassock lifted to his hairy calves; Rurik had seen him the first day he'd met the Campbell clan. The panting man almost tripped over a root and had to grab for the boulder to keep from falling over… which caused the rock to start rocking again… which caused Rurik to recall what he'd been about to do on said rocking rock.
"Father Baldwin!" Maire squealed with embarrassment.
"Were you not told to stay in camp?" Father Baldwin scolded the boy, calling Rurik's lustful thoughts back to the present. "Everyone has been looking for you hither and yon. Dost know the trouble you have caused? Dost know the danger you could be in if one of the MacNabs grabbed you?"
"No one's gonna grab me," the boy boasted, which was ridiculous, considering his position in Rurik's imprisoning embrace.
In a rush of words, Father Baldwin explained how the boy had slipped away from his guardianship and promised that it would not happen again, even if they had to tie the boy and his cat to a tree. At that the child issued an expletive so obscene that everyone gaped at him, and the cat pissed on Rurik's boot. His very expensive skin boots made of cured reindeer hide.
Rurik was too stunned at the cat's audacity to do more than gape… and plan his revenge.
"Listen to me, son or no son, you are due for a good mouth-soaping," Maire warned, wagging a fore-finger at her whelp, "and do not think I won't do it, either." God, he loved it when Maire was fierce and ill-tempered. She remin
ded him of a Norse Valkyrie about to go into battle.
"Why do you not bring the boy back to the castle now that the MacNabs have been banished from the grounds? Will he not be safer there under my guardianship?"
The monk's face, right up to his half-bald, tonsured head, turned nigh purple and Maire looked as if Rurik had suggested that they toss her son into a fiery pit.
"What? What's wrong with my suggestion?" he asked, thoroughly confused.
"Attend me well, Viking. Do not attempt to tell me what is best for my bairn. He is mine, and mine alone."
"Huh? As if I would want him!"
Maire gave him an odd look, then signaled to Father Baldwin, who picked up the cat, which Rurik would swear was smirking, and held out his free hand for the boy. Rurik released him, but not before swatting the youthling on the arse. Wee-Jamie gave him a look over his shoulder so malevolent it would have done Stigand proud. Rurik would be sure to watch his back in the future, though. An attempt at retribution was sure to come from this grimy gremlin.
'Twas odd the way Maire acted concerning her son, as if she feared for his safety in his presence or that of the Vikings who served under him. Rurik shrugged. It was her decision. Besides, he had no particular inclination to have an unpleasant child underfoot.
But then Maire made a soft sound—half plea, half sob. "Jamie," was all she said.
The boy heard, though. Turning, he pulled his hand from the monk's grasp and rushed back into her open arms. Hugging fiercely, the two were giving each other small kisses and speaking of how much they missed each other.
Rurik had never had a mother, and his heart about broke to see these two together. With such a strong bond between them, their willingness to be parted for even a day puzzled him mightily.
In a moment, the boy and the monk were gone.
Suddenly, Rurik and Maire were alone once again, and everything was quiet in the clearing.
He looked at Maire.
Maire looked at him.