The Dragon Slayer

by Jianne Carlo

  Tis some mad enchantment. Some magik curse from the ring.

  “Lady Catriona?” His soft whisper penetrated the spell holding her body hostage, her mind prisoner.

  Grinding her teeth so hard she feared one would snap in two, Catriona placed the ring on his finger, and risked a peek at him when the metal refused to slide over his thick knuckle. Her heart turned over in her chest at his piercing stare. The amber in his blue eyes spewed the molten heat of a dragon about to roar plumes of fire. His hand covered hers and he helped her push the band down his finger.

  She knew not how they came to be seated at the high table.

  When yet another disgusting trencher appeared, Catriona yearned for nothing more than a crisp apple or mayhap a carrot. Though her belly rumbled, never would a morsel from the fetid trencher slide through her lips. She peered at the food trying to determine if any of the mess looked familiar.

  “Neither Njal nor I can identify the contents of the cook’s pot.”

  Catriona near jumped out of her own skin and her heart threatened to fly out of her mouth. She twisted to face the lord, unprepared for the one-sided smile he flashed, amusement crinkling lines at the corners of his eyes, and the quick wink he shot her. Unable to contain an answering smile she wished for one of the miracles King Cnut witnessed when he attended the papal coronation.

  Ruard leaned low to her ear and her gaze slid sideways to try to read his face. “Njal has secreted bread, cheese, wine, and apples in our chamber.”

  “Apples? Truly?” Her mouth watered and she looked at him as if he held the keys to Christ’s kingdom. “I have yearned for an apple for nigh on three sennights.” She closed her eyes remembering the tart-sweet taste of her favorite fruit, and blinked when his finger brushed her neck.

  A frown chased his brow. He took her hand and pushed her sleeves up to bare her wrist. “How come you by these bruises, my lady?”

  Chapter Two

  Catriona the Pure might have been Catriona the Proud, for she had stood tall and unflinching during the ceremony. Only Ruard had felt her fingers trembling and heard the hitch in her breathing when her tongue tangled the vows.

  Njal had taken the seat on his left and Ulfric the one adjacent.

  “I see not why Ulfric need be seated at the high table. He is but a third son.”

  “Must I remind you I am Njal the Peacemaker?

  ’Tis your wish for Ulfric to depart on the morn, no?” Ruard folded his arms and glared at this brother.

  “Think you he would not tarry for spite if offered any excuse?”

  Letting out a long sigh, Ruard rolled his eyes. “I bow to the wisdom of Cnut’s peacemaker.”

  “I like not this proclamation sealed by King Máel Coluim.” Njal broke a burnt loaf in two.

  “What if Catriona is not a maid?” Ruard’s teeth snapped together. “What of it?”

  “The laws of this land are not familiar to me.” Ruard’s gaze swept the room. The crowd grew louder with each downed mug. ’Twas not likely he could avoid the whole hall crowding the bedding chamber.

  “If your lady is no maiden, the lands may be forfeit.”

  “A quick cut of my arm, a bloody sheet.”

  “Nay. We know not the local custom. Mayhap the women cleanse her after?” Njal shook his head.

  “Mayhap Ulfric and the men check your flesh for a cut?”

  “Many a bride has been saved by the blood of a pig or fowl.”

  “I will see to it,” Njal promised.

  Ruard did not intend to allow any man to ogle Catriona’s bountiful breasts, or strain to see if the flame curls on her head matched those between her legs. His glance dropped to her lap as if he could discern the answer to that question by staring long and hard at her clothed mound.

  She sat motionless, her hands folded at her waist, and made no attempt to use her eating knife.

  “My lady?

  Gifting him with an honest smile, one of the two she had bestowed this eve, she whispered, “I await the apples my lord.”

  He pictured her full lips, the red apple, her biting into the flesh and his prick ran juices aplenty. Ruard drew in her fresh spring scent, and his sac fired hard and tight, rocks of molten stone ready to spew.

  One of the local ladies cleared her voice, rose, and went to whisper in Catriona’s ear.

  Catriona squared her shoulders and set her hands on the table. “’Tis the withdrawal time, my lord.”

  Her words fell on his ears but did not penetrate the lust-fogged haze coating his mind. Ruard stood and his eyes followed her swaying hips as she glided to the staircase. Never had he seen a female move with such grace, such promise. His prick battled the linen breeches, straining at the cloth, fighting to stand tall and proud. His mind’s eye filled with visions of Catriona, naked, under him, her legs wrapped around his waist, pleading for his touch, his kiss, his demanding possession.

  “Shutter your face, brother. Ulfric watches like the hawk he is. All can see your desire. Be seated.” Ruard took his brother’s advice and sat abruptly.

  The local female noblewomen rose to follow Catriona up the stone staircase.

  “I like this not.” Njal drained his goblet. “Who plots what? ’Tis no happenstance Ulfric is to witness the consummation of your marriage.”

  “Did you procure the blood?”

  “While you and your bride whispered to each other. You did not notice my absence?” Njal wore a mocking grin. He knew where Ruard’s thoughts lay. Swiving. “I have had two pouches set under the bed furs.”

  “Not one but two? Am I piercing a maidenhead or gutting a pig?”

  “One is the oil the harem master used with virgins. Catriona the Pure looks terrified enough to scream. The oil will ease your way and mayhap dull her pain.”

  Ruard’s eyes rose to the rafted ceiling; in his lust he had forgotten Catriona’s pain. “I will not have other men viewing my naked bride.”

  “Be of ease brother. Your lady’s maid has found a curtained bed. ’Twill ensure a modicum of privacy.”

  “You and our men must surround the bed. No one draws the curtains.” Reluctant though he was to take Catriona so publicly, Ruard knew he could not risk losing Dunsmuir. “’Tis needs be done this eve.” He ground his teeth together. In truth, though his cockstand had not subsided, taking his wife’s maidenhead while Ulfric and a score of others listened to her whimpers held no appeal. He remembered her fingers trembling during the priest’s blessing and vowed to shield Catriona from the gawkers.

  A roar erupted from the lower tables. Ruard glanced in the direction of the noise and lurched to his feet, sword in hand. Half of the men in the hall were drunk and most owed loyalty to none. The shouts and calls grew bawdier with each passing moment. Spilled ale soaked the rushes on the floor, smoke spewed from the dying fires, and the scent of urine held pungent sway.

  Ulfric’s warriors surrounded the young lord as he drank from a horn, and then tossed it onto a table. Ulfric raised his sword and shouted, “Time for the pricking.”

  Within seconds Ulfric and his men had Ruard and Njal surrounded.

  “’Tis a defiant wench you take to wife.” Ulfric rocked on his heels and sent Ruard a sly glance.

  “She refused to confess to the monk. Mayhap she will refuse your prick?”

  Ulfric signaled and his men separated Ruard from Njal, wrestled his sword away, and pulled his hauberk off. Though his fists met a half-dozen jaws, Ruard was soon stripped naked and thrust into the air riding on the shoulders of the men thronging the hall.

  Lewd cheers bounced off the walls, the men rushed up the stone staircase, shoved him through the chamber doorway, and straight into one of the local matrons. Her hand stroked his cock, and she squeezed him at the base before shouting, “By the gods, he has seed aplenty.”

  A woman shrieked, the crowd tittered, someone pushed Ruard in the direction of the bed, and he tripped over the rushes and crashed through the velvet curtains surrounding the bed to land on the straw mattress.


  * * *

  The women had stripped off her clothes, brushed her hair till her scalp tingled, and settled her on the mattress under the sheets. The cold linen sent shivers up her spine, gooseflesh popped on her arms, and Catriona crushed the sheets between her fingers and bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

  She looked at the green canopy covering the bed, but her eyes refused to focus. The other women had tried to stop her from drawing the curtains around the bed, but one of the local noblewomen, a Lady Carlton, had come to Catriona’s aid.

  Praying for the strength to survive the consummation, she near jumped off the bed when a din of shouts, whistles, and thumps rent the murmur of female conversation. She heard a woman attest to the lord’s virility. How did the witch know her husband had seed aplenty? Before she had time to ponder the source of the woman’s knowledge, the curtains parted and her husband fell onto the mattress.

  Ruard’s leg was brown against the whiteness of the sheets. Catriona stared at his sinewy thighs, mesmerized when the ropey muscles bunched.

  Someone drew the curtains lining her side of the bed apart. Ruard covered her body with his, reached one arm to set the velvet back in place, and shouted, “Njal, to me.”

  Catriona heard his brother’s voice, but Njal spoke Norse and she didn’t understand the commands he roared.

  She flinched when gnarled fingers snaked through the curtains and pinched her forearm.

  Ruard growled, grabbed the hand, and twisted the bony wrist until the man screamed in agony.

  A weight sank onto her chest, she couldn’t draw in enough air, and panic bubbled up her clogged throat. She struggled, squirming and wriggling and trying to dislodge the heaviness depriving her of precious breaths.

  “Desist, Catriona. To me, look to me.” Ruard grabbed her shoulders and gave her a little shake.

  “Ride her hard!”

  “Prick her well!”

  I cannot do this. I cannot.

  “You can. You will. Do not listen to them. Look to me.” His lips moved on her ear and then he drew back, his gaze trapping hers.

  I am speaking my thoughts? ’Tis the magik?

  “Are you a maid?”

  “Suckle those tits!”

  “Bite her buds!”

  Whistles punctuated the men’s raised voices.

  Stomping and cheering broke out and one man broke into song, then another, and another.

  Ruard shook her again. “Look to me, lady.” All thoughts whirled like snow in a blizzard and she couldn’t get away from his searing stare.

  He smelled of pine forest and smoke, and his hands threw out the heat of a roaring blaze where their flesh connected. He squeezed her shoulders.

  “Catriona. Are you a maiden?”

  She stared at his fingers, so brown against her pale skin. His forearms were slightly furred and tightly muscled with not an ounce of spare flesh.

  The outline of a fire-spewing dragon was drawn on the cusp of his shoulder. This creature, this man they called the Dragon Slayer, would protect her.

  The thought formed with such surety Catriona ceased struggling.

  The blue ink proved irresistible. Catriona traced the dragon’s wingspan with her forefinger.

  “Lady, you must listen to me.” His eyes were the shade of a summer sky, blue and bright and dazzling. His hand cupped her neck and his fingers brushed her cheek. “Are you a maiden, Catriona?”

  “You impugn my honor, my lord?” She squared her shoulders. “I am a maid.”

  The room had grown so quiet that when a log in the fireplace snapped, Catriona jumped. She realized all the men and women listened to her vehement pronouncement and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Njal, one of your bawdy songs would not be amiss.” Ruard glared at the curtains.

  When his brother burst into song, a wicked limerick about plucking an apple, Ruard rolled into a sitting position, lifted Catriona onto his lap, and whispered, “We will do this fast my lady. Cup your palm.”

  The faint hint of yeast from the ale he’d drunk earlier scented his hot breath, and the slight puffs tickled her ear. His throat worked when he spoke and a dusting of golden stubble feathered his chin.

  She felt as if the whole world had slowed, as if her mind had gone on hiatus because no longer were her thoughts hers to command. He shaped her hands into a cup and poured oil into her palm.

  “My lord?” She had wed a man whose mind did not function. Why else would he oil her palms? “I know not what you wish.”

  “To spare you pain, my lady.” He guided her hand to his man part and Catriona near swallowed her tongue. She jerked away from his erect manhood, the sheets covering her breasts fell, and oil spilled down her belly.

  When she snatched at the covers, Ruard tugged the cloth from her grasp, and rolled on top of her.

  He was heavy and hard and hot, and she wanted to shove him away and at the same time wrap her arms around his back and press him closer until they were joined everywhere.

  “’Twill be over quickly my lady.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  He drew back to stare at her, and she frowned when his naked body settled between her legs. His man part poked at her belly. She glanced down, fear lodged in her throat, and she could not draw a breath. Catriona twisted, desperation strengthening her limbs as she shoved at his chest and dug her nails into his flesh.

  “Nay. Follow my lead, lady.” His hand captured her wrists and one arm held her fast. His manhood poked between her thighs and she froze before babbling, “’Twill not work, my lord. ’Tis too big.

  Why are you spreading the oil there?” She let out a squeak when his fingers pushed between her womanly folds.

  The room had gone quiet again.

  “Sing.” Ruard’s shout near scared the curls off her head.

  She yelped when he rubbed a spot that made her insides clench. “My lord.” She freed her hands and tugged a lock of his hair. “What are you doing?” He pushed a finger inside her and she went stock still when he poured liquid from a pouch all over her womanly curls.

  “What are you doing, Lord?” Catriona recognized Ulfric’s mocking tone.

  “Njal!” Ruard bellowed.

  Voices burst into song.

  Ruard rose on one elbow, grasped Catriona’s hips, covered her lips with his, and thrust.

  She opened her mouth to protest the sharp pinch and his tongue swept in. The heat the caress generated could warm an entire castle, set forests and meadows to flame, strike white-hot bolts to her curling toes. How could a mere tongue work such magik? Her eyes drifted closed and she gave over to the mastery of his kiss, following his lead when he cradled her face between his hands.

  Catriona caressed his jaw, touched the tip of her tongue to his, and fair melted away when he suckled lightly. He nibbled on her lower lip, she sipped the corner of his mouth, and when his hand covered her breast, she moaned.

  Ruard went rigid immediately, and then he lifted his lips and stared straight into her eyes.

  Never had she been so close to a person. Their breath mingled, and she couldn’t tell if his breathing fed hers or hers his. Beneath her palms, his flesh throbbed and his hot skin sent sparks to her nipples. They burned and ached, and when he licked the seam of her mouth, she tangled her fingers in his hair.

  He rolled her nipple between his fingers and the slight tug made her desperate for more, more, more. More of him, more of his weight, more movement. She wriggled her hips.

  He muttered something and slid down her body, and his man part cleaved out of her.

  “Nay,” she whispered grabbing his arm. “Stay.”

  “Nay,” he whispered back. “’Tis better this way.”

  When he thrust back inside her pulsing channel, she sighed, and wrapped her legs around his waist. ’Twas delicious the way he filled her, his manhood stretching her, and she knew she’d never be empty again. Flames licked at her core, heating her from scalp to heels. He took her mouth again and bega
n moving, his tongue and man part creating an inferno deep inside her.

  They mated faster and faster, his body pounding hers, and just when she thought she would die from sheer wanting, she convulsed.

  Shudder after blissful shudder made her go limp the moment he stopped moving and collapsed on top of her.

  The men were still singing, but Catriona only heard his rasped breathing, the drum of their hearts beating chest to chest.

  Ruard rose to one side, brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, and said loudly, “Desist, Njal.”

  He rolled over and she felt bereft at the loss of his heat. He pulled at the sheets, lifting her with one hand, stared at the bloody stain, and smiled.

  He parted the bed drapes, tossed the linen into the chamber, and ordered, “Everyone out. Now.” Sprawled on the bed, her limbs refusing to obey any command, she stared at her golden haired husband who so resembled the descriptions of Thor.

  ’Tis cert my dragon slayer husband carries the magik of the Norse gods in his blood. Gæierla will adore him.

  Chapter Three

  “Njal, hang the sheets for all to see.” Ruard listened as the witnesses left the chamber.

  “’Tis clear. I will leave now. Bolt the door.”

  “Aye.” Ruard looked over his shoulder at his bride attempting to cover her nakedness with two cushions. He pulled the bed curtains apart, strolled to the far side of the room, and set the metal bar into place.

  The fire needed replenishing and he wanted a moment to collect his thoughts. He threw in two logs, added a handful of tinder, and glimpsed the emerald cyrtel Catriona’d worn earlier lying on a trunk, her boots stacked neatly to one side.

  Ruard took the tunics to her, sat on the bed, and asked, “Shall I play maid, my lady?” Twin circles of rose dusted her cheeks. She hugged the cushions close and shook her head, sending her glorious tresses sliding on her smooth skin. He wanted to trail his tongue over the curve of her shoulder, lap the nipples a-begging his attention, and slide into her tight, fiery puss.

  “You are shivering,” he muttered, casting her dress aside as he lifted her onto his lap. She blushed, the color flowing across her neck and breasts. He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her spine, savoring her curves. Her hair tickled his nose when she wriggled her luscious rump on his thigh.