The Norse King's Daughter

by Sandra Hill

  “It was five years ago.”

  “Still arguing with me, sweetling. That is no way to persuade me to do your bidding.”

  She said a foul word under her breath. “What do you want me to do?” They were so close he felt said breath on his mouth.

  “Open for me.” He took over the kiss then, and it turned out Drifa hadn’t forgotten much at all. Soon they were both panting with excitement. He could tell she was astonished by her quick response to him. He was astonished, too, and pleased.

  “Oh my gods,” she whispered, putting the fingertips of one hand to her lips.

  He smiled. “Be in my chambers afore nightfall and do not plan to leave until dawn. Another thing. Do not bother to bathe afore coming to me. We will bathe together in my bathing pool.”

  He could tell she was shocked at first, as he intended, but she quickly shuttered her expression with a cool look of disdain. “Good. Because you stink.”

  Lifting an arm, he sniffed. No problem. Of course there wasn’t. He had washed and put on a clean uniform before coming to court. He realized two things then.

  Drifa was gone.

  And the witch had gotten the last word in.

  Chapter Twelve

  Let the lessons begin . . .

  Drifa had hours to prepare for her “meeting” that evening with Sidroc, but she waited until the last moment to tell Ivar her plans.

  “I will be spending the night with Sidroc,” she said without preamble.

  “Princess! You cannot do that.”

  “I can and I will, Ivar. With all due respect, I am twenty and nine years old, well past the age for maidenly protection of my virtue.”

  The shock on his face pierced her. “I promised your father to protect you, m’lady.”

  “And you do so, well and good.” Seeing that he was unconvinced, she said something she knew she should not, but it preserved at least a bit of her self-respect and might convince her guardsman to relent. “Sidroc and I are betrothed.”

  She was therefore in a stormy mood by the time dusk rolled around and she arrived, with Ivar, at Sidroc’s quarters. And, yea, Ivar would be standing guard outside the door all night. That was the concession she’d had to make to his demand that she allow him to speak to Sidroc first. She knew what “speaking” would entail. Fists, at the least. Blood, at the worst.

  When she knocked on his door, Sidroc opened it immediately, raised his brows at Ivar’s scowling presence and raised them even farther when she shoved him aside and slammed the door behind them, leaving Ivar behind.

  “That was rude.”

  “Do not speak of rudeness, you arrogant lecherous libertine. Do not pretend to—” She stopped speaking on getting her first good look at the cad. He was wearing only braies, low slung on his hips, and naught else. Even his big bare feet with their narrow toes reeked sex. If she were not so blistering mad, she might have been tempted by his handsomeness. She might have put a hand to the light dusting of reddish-brown fur on his chest. She might have pressed a fingertip against his hard male nipples. She might have done so many wicked things. Instead she snapped, “Expecting a heat wave?”

  “Nay, just you.”

  She could tell he was amused by her fury, which had not been her intention. If there were a pottery pitcher nearby, she would hurl it gladly.

  “Is Ivar going to stand out there all night?”

  “Yea. Feel free to go out and remove him, if you will.”

  “His presence does not bother me. Just do not do too much squealing with bedjoy, lest he think I am killing you.”

  As if I even know what bedjoy is! She shot him daggers of revulsion.

  He just smiled. “How did you convince him to allow you to come stay the night?”

  “I told him we are betrothed.” She raised a hand to halt what she knew would be some insult or other about how he would not marry her now if she were the last female this side of Asgard. “Do not worry that I am deluding myself about your intentions. I will not be begging you to make a virtuous woman of me.”

  “Virtuous?” he scoffed.

  The donkey’s arse! “What do you want me to do? Let us get this farce over with as soon as possible.”

  “You are so anxious for us to begin.”

  “Nay. I am so anxious for us to end.”

  “Sweetling.” He laughed. “We have at least nine hours to while away, by my guess. I have even lit a timekeeping candle so you can keep count. We have plenty of time.”

  Drifa gulped, unable to imagine what could possibly last for nine hours. He was probably just teasing her.

  “I thought we might start with a light repast,” he said, pointing to a low table where there was fruit, cheese, and a flagon of wine.

  “My stomach heaves at the thought of sharing food with you at the moment.”

  He should have been offended, but instead he just shrugged. “Perchance later you will have worked up an appetite.”

  She hoped not.

  He handed her one of the goblets of wine, though. When she tried to decline, he said, “Drink it, Drifa. You need to soften your sharp edges.” She was about to argue that her sharp edges were her only weapons against this untenable situation, but he put his fingertips to her mouth. “Enough. Come, let me show you around.”

  Sidroc’s bedchamber was small, containing only a raised pallet with a thick mattress against one wall, several pegs on the wall for clothing, and a large chest. His bedchamber had another door, on the opposite side from the entrance door, which opened onto a bathing pool with floating lotus blossoms. It was situated in the midst of a small garden. There was also an antechamber with a table where soldiers could get massages to work out their weary muscles. Another table sat in the garden, this one for dining or playing the board game hnefatafl, which lay open as if a game had been interrupted.

  “They give such splendid accommodations to all Varangian soldiers?” If her mind were not consumed with what was to come she might have enjoyed investigating the garden more thoroughly. Right now flowers were the last thing on her mind.

  “Nay. Those in command of divisions, as Finn and I are, get separate quarters. And we share.” He pointed to five other closed doors arranged next to his in a semicircle.

  Drifa was appalled, but not by the bathing pool or massage area. “These men could come out at any time and witness what you . . . what I . . .”

  He smiled. “Your modesty is safe, Drifa. Those doors are locked, at my request.”

  Thank the gods!

  “The men know I am entertaining a lady, but not whom.”

  Oh good gods!

  “However, Ivar standing guard in the outside corridor might be a clue to some.”

  There was naught she could do about that. Ivar would not budge without her, she knew that sure as sin . . . the sin she was about to commit.

  “This is a good life you have here,” she remarked, sipping at the wine. Unlike Sidroc’s reason for giving her the wine, she needed it for courage. “Are you sure you want to give up all this luxury?”

  “For a certainty. Finn and I had a conversation on this very subject recently. Vikings are not meant for such a soft life. It weakens us.”

  She nodded her understanding. “My father always says that the coldness of the north hardens a man’s muscles.”

  “And other body parts,” he commented dryly.

  If circumstances were different, she might have laughed with him.

  “Don’t you feel guilty betraying Ianthe?”

  “Nice try, Drifa, but you cannot make me feel guilty. Ianthe and I did not have that kind of relationship. In fact, we have none now, except for being friends.” She must have gazed at him doubtfully because he added, “Are you looking for fidelity from me, Drifa?”

  “Nay, that is not what I meant.”

  As if she hadn’t spoken, he said, “Well, you have it. Yours will be the only bed furs I share until I leave this country.”

  “Even Ianthe?”

  “Even Ianthe,
” he agreed. Then laughed. “Guess who is visiting her this evening?”

  “Who?”

  “Alrek, your clumsy Viking.”

  This was news to her, though she shouldn’t be surprised. Alrek had talked about nothing but Ianthe since the emperor’s feast. “Visiting? Do you mean that in a carnal sense?”

  “I doubt it, but not for lack of the young man’s wanting. ’Twould seem he has fallen in love with my former mistress, or so he claims.”

  “And how does Ianthe feel about that?”

  He shrugged. “Mostly she is amused, I think. He is quite a few years younger than she is.”

  “And you don’t care that Ianthe would be with another man so soon?”

  “Nay. We are friends and always will be. I wish her joy in her life, wherever it comes from, or whomever it comes from.”

  That was amazing to Drifa. I wonder if he will care so little about me once he ends this game of his. Will he discard me like stale ale because, in truth, we are not even friends?

  Sidroc sat down on a low bench near the pool, his long legs extended and crossed at the ankles. “Take off your gown, Drifa, so I may see what I have ‘bought.’ ”

  And so we begin. “You have not bought me, knave. We are equal in this bargain.”

  “Take it off, Drifa.”

  She downed the rest of her wine, feeling the heady liquid rush to all her extremities, dulling her brain. But not nearly enough. She was fully aware of what she was doing as she removed her garments and soft shoes. She raised her chin but could not make herself look at him. She knew that her blush covered not just her face but her entire body exposed to his scrutiny, and that was evidence enough that he was humiliating her.

  “Unbraid your hair and comb it out with your fingers.” His voice was huskier than usual.

  She raised her hands, thus lifting her breasts, which were much too full for her slim frame, in her opinion. Combing through the long strands required her to not only raise her arms but twist her shoulders from side to side, which in turn caused her breasts to bob. In the process, she inadvertently looked his way. Then looked again. Not only was he flushed, too, but there was a large bulge sticking up from his braies.

  Before she could bite her foolish tongue, she asked, “The head drilling?”

  “Nay, this is all your doing.”

  Mine? My nude body has that effect on him? She was both flattered and gratified by his remark.

  “Come closer,” he demanded, and spread his legs.

  You can do this, Drifa. Think of Runa. You can do this. When she stood between his thighs, he ran his fingertips over the outside of her arms that she’d pressed rigidly to her sides. Every fine hair on her body rose to attention, including some unmentionable places.

  “Oh nay, no hiding. Open your eyes.”

  Think about planting bushes. And manure. Do not let him see your feelings. When she opened her eyes, she noticed immediately the haze of arousal in his eyes, which were more gray than green at the moment. “Good girling,” he said, and leaned up to kiss her briefly before setting her back so he could see her better. “You are so beautiful.”

  She was not, but ’twas not the time to argue. In truth, she doubted she could put two words together as he lifted her breasts from underneath, then ran his thumbs across the nipples, bringing them to hard points. Manure, manure, manure. Horse manure. Cow manure. Oooooh!

  Sensing that she was about to swoon, he put his hands to her waist for a moment. “It is all right if you moan your ecstasy here and there.”

  “I swear, I am going to hit you over the head with a pottery jug first chance I get.”

  “Do not be angry with me because your body betrays you, Drifa.”

  And then her body betrayed her some more as he played and played and played with her breasts. Tweaking the nipples. Running his knuckles across them. Pinching them, for Asgard’s sake! But it was when he put his mouth to her that it became too much. He suckled her, he actually suckled her. Hard. Rhythmically. Interspersed with flicks of his tongue. Then he moved to the other breast and did the same.

  “So much for manure!” she muttered.

  “Huh!”

  “I am thinking about manure so I can resist you better.”

  “Don’t you dare.” He licked one of her nipples, and a shock of pleasure rippled throughout her body. Her knees gave way and he caught her with a chuckle, placing her on his lap. But not just on his lap. She was astraddle his lap, wide open and exposed to his scrutiny. And he was scrutinizing her, all right.

  “Oh, this is not normal. Let me up.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “But . . . but . . . I need to visit the privy. I think my bladder is leaking.”

  His lower body lurched, and he made a low moaning sound at the back of his throat before pressing his forehead against hers, as if trying to catch his breath. “Drifa, dearling, that is not piss. It is your woman dew readying itself for my penetration.”

  “I must be as perverted as you are!” she exclaimed when she understood what he meant. Can this situation get any more embarrassing?

  “That is not perverted, silly woman. ’Tis the way the gods . . . or the One-God . . . made women. It will aid in your pleasure.”

  “Pleasure! I do not intend to get any pleasure from this act. Not at all.” If I can help it.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk! Do you not know better than to dare a Viking?”

  “I was not daring you.”

  “Sounded like a dare to me.” To demonstrate, he put a fingertip right into her wetness and fluttered it once, twice, three times.

  She almost flew off his lap.

  But he put both hands to her hips and held her in place. In fact, he moved her flush up against his cloth-covered bulge.

  “You are torturing me,” she said on a moan.

  “Sweet torture, I hope.”

  He began to kiss her then, and, oh, he was a good kisser. She’d always known that Vikings were masters of the art of sailing and fighting. She’d had no idea that some were also masters of kissing. In truth, she’d never known there was an art to it, but there was. There definitely was.

  He framed her face with both his hands and moved his lips over hers, slanting and pressing, licking and moving from side to side until he got their alignment right. And then, praise gods and goddesses, he kissed and kissed and kissed her until she was open and ready for his tongue, which he used like an instrument of sexual assault.

  “You are too good at this,” she murmured during one of his brief breaks.

  “Kissing?”

  She nodded.

  “I practice a lot.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” she said, and nipped at his bottom lip.

  He laughed and nipped her back.

  Her entire body felt as if it were humming, waiting for something momentous to happen. “Are you going to tup me now?”

  He made a gurgling sound. “Nay, Drifa, sex is like a good boar stew, best left to simmer and simmer.”

  “I have simmered enough. Do it. Now.”

  “Nay. First, I am going to bring you to peak, with my fingers alone. Do you know what peaking is?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Remember the time in your garden?”

  “Oh.” How could I forget?

  “Have you ne’er brought yourself to peak with your own fingers?”

  “Are you demented?” Get on with it, for gods’ sake.

  “I guess I will just have to show you then.”

  “Wait. Are you going to be peaking, too?”

  “I hope not. Leastways, I will try to forestall my pleasure until you have had yours. That is why I am keeping my braies on. Otherwise, I fear you would cause me to lose control.”

  Drifa rather liked the idea of her being able to make Sidroc lose control. She eyed him speculatively.

  Sensing her thoughts, he chuckled. “Put your hands on my shoulders, Drifa.”

  She could do that, though she wasn’t sure why.

 
She soon found out.

  “Lean back. More than that. Ah, just so.”

  If she hadn’t been holding on to his shoulders, she would have fallen backward. Acrobatic sex? The man really is perverted. But she was unable to think after that. About manure. Or acrobatics. Or anything else.

  He was touching a part of her body between her legs, a spot where all the nerve endings in her body seemed to be centered. She began to keen with the mounting tension filling her from head to toes to the tips of her fingers, but especially down there. If she hadn’t been so focused on what the fingertip was doing, she would have realized that the middle finger of his other hand was stuck up inside her. She yelped and tried to rise up, but he would not let her.

  “Press downward, dearling. Lift and press. That’s the way. What a good learner you are!”

  And then she screamed. She actually screamed with the pure white-hot flames of bliss that overtook her in wave after wave after wave. It was the most horrible/wonderful thing she had ever experienced in all her life. Better even than the time she’d managed to grow a bloodred rose.

  When she came back to her senses, she was slumped against him, her face pressed into the curve of his neck, his hands caressing her back in a soothing manner. She was mortified, not by what Sidroc had done to her, but by how she had reacted.

  He drew back slightly and kissed her softly. Then he said the last thing she wanted to hear right now.

  “That was a good start, sweetling.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  He was a regular Marco Polo . . .

  When Sidroc had first “coerced” Drifa into coming to his bedchamber, he doubted that he planned to carry through with his threats, just give her a bloody damn scare into revealing her secret. But now . . . Holy Thor! Now . . . He couldn’t stop now if he wanted to.

  Not only had she caused him to spill his seed in his braies like an overeager youthling with his first maid, but his enthusiasm was at high pitch again. He was almost afraid to show her the size of his cock lest she go running for the gates.

  Fortunately she was in a daze as he carried her into his bedchamber and laid her on his bed. He’d already lit an oil lamp when he’d been readying for her visit.