The Dragon Slayer

by Jianne Carlo

  Ruard liked that she smelled of spring even in the dead of winter. Her hair held all the colors of a blazing fire, every shade of gold and red captured in the riotous waves. Her woman’s curls glistened, beads of the harem oil winking in and out when she tried to dislodge his fingers from her mound.

  “Desist Catriona. ’Tis my right to caress you.”

  “There?”

  She squirmed and he squeezed an ass cheek in chastisement.

  “’Tis bedsport, Catriona. Does it not give you pleasure when I touch you here?” He grazed her woman’s nubbin, her fingernails dug into his arm, and she hissed like a cat. “Or here?” He licked one rosy nipple; she shivered, arched, and murmured something he couldn’t decipher. “What ails you Catriona?”

  “I know naught of bedsport my lord.” She bit her lip. “One lady told me to lie still, close my eyes, and let you rut. She said ’twas o’er more oft than not in the time it takes to thread a needle.”

  “Thread a needle?” Aghast Ruard could only repeat his wife’s bald statement. “Thread a needle?

  By the gods lady, ’twas to spare you pain that ’twas over fast. Thread a needle?” He snorted. “We shall thread the needle for what remains of this night, wife.”

  Not married for longer than the space of a few hours and already she threatened his manhood. By Odin, he’d plough her till daybreak. She’d not have any cause to complain of his loving.

  Ruard rolled Catriona onto her back. Her tits mounded and rounded, and his mouth watered. He weighed the heavy curves, rubbing his thumbs over the buds pearling to his touch. His cock slid on the oil coating her woman’s hair and her woman’s spice wafted to his nose.

  He traced the circle of her areola with his tongue; her fingers tangled in his hair, and she pressed him to her breast.

  Greed had him mesmerized.

  He latched onto one taut nipple and grazed the point with his teeth, sawing lightly. She squirmed, her skin slipping and sliding on his cock. His sac contracted, and Ruard struggled to slow his pace, to think of weapons, training, to not bury his face between her legs and lick her secret bud until she screamed his name.

  Sweat coated his forehead; he kneaded one breast, tested her folds with a finger, and nigh roared when he found her slick and ready. When he thrust two fingers inside her, Catriona locked her legs together, near breaking his wrist she squeezed so hard.

  She bit his shoulder and shuddered when he slid another finger into her sheath. Ruard cupped her face and smiled when her eyes glazed over and she worried her lower lip. Color bloomed in her face and she tossed her head from side to side, mewling low in her throat. His prick throbbed and he withdrew his fingers.

  Ruard gripped her bottom, lifted her off the straw, and eased into her heat, not wanting to hurt her. Ecstasy coated his pores, her walls clutched around his length, his balls tightened like hard walnuts, and he pumped his all into her, his seed erupting hot and plentiful as her puss milked him dry. His lungs burned, he couldn’t catch his breath, and it took everything he had not to collapse on her, not to sniff her nape, not to lick the salty sweat from her neck for he knew his wayward member would rise again if he tasted her flesh or inhaled her woman’s spice. He groaned when she whimpered and her muscles clenched his half-hard prick.

  He wondered how long it took to thread a needle.

  Ruard preened when she blew out a long sigh and her nostrils flared ever so slightly. His wife had found her pleasure twice this night and by Thor, she would find it again before the night ended.

  Dawn found him studying his bride’s face, her beautiful features in repose sweeter than honey, and as tempting. Her lips pouted even in sleep, the plump lower lip twitching as she dreamed. She slept like a babe, curled into a tight ball with her knees grazing her full breasts, hair tousled on the bed cushion, the locks catching the golden rays of the sun peeking through the wooden window shutters.

  Her fingers clutched the cushion and once again the faint purple marks on her wrist drew his attention. He tugged at the sheet, checked her other hand, and found a similar bruise. Had the reins of her horse snagged her hands in a fall? Had Ulfric provided a steed too strong for his delicate bride?

  She had been delightfully responsive to his loving. ’Twould be no chore to bed his bride and get her with child. If she could set Dunsmuir Castle to rights, find a way to make the food palatable, erase the stench… Ruard sighed. Any Norse woman he knew could resolve Dunsmuir’s problems in less than a sennight, but the Mercian women he had met since arriving on this land played, danced, and were sadly idle. No doubt, with her beauty, all had catered to her every whim. He sighed again.

  Mayhap he could find a Norse housekeeper on his next sailing.

  Loathe to leave his tasty morsel of a wife, but knowing he must find answers to the questions plaguing his mind, Ruard laced his hauberk and sheathed his sword. He tucked the furs firmly around Catriona’s shoulders and left the room.

  A disharmonious orchestra of snores, grunts, and the sound of at least one man spewing the contents of his belly, reached Ruard’s ears before he gained the landing halfway down the steps leading to the hall.

  He grimaced when the stench of ale, unwashed bodies, and vomit assailed his nose. Few stirred when he made his way through the tangle of bodies, benches, ale horns, scattered rushes, and animals. Though the morn was grim with gray clouds blanketing the sun, he welcomed the crisp air, devoid of the perfume of human waste, when he strode through the castle’s great double doors.

  He spied Njal leading two mounts out of the stables and hurried to meet him.

  “Wipe that grin off your face, brother.”

  “I stood guard o’er your chamber door last eve.

  ’Tis some comfort to know one of our pricks is well drained.” Njal handed him the reins. “And not by a hand.”

  Ruard chose to ignore him. “We ride out this wintry morn?”

  “The morning gift for your bride.” Njal mounted his steed. “Did the excess of the marriage bed steal your reason?”

  Heat scaled Ruard’s neck. He had indeed forgotten the gold gyrdel he had ordered from the blacksmith. “She came to me a maid.”

  “Are you not pleased?”

  “Aye.” Ruard wedged his feet into the stirrup and straddled his steed.

  “What ails you?” Njal kneed his stallion into a trot once Ruard was astride his horse.

  Ruard shook his head. “That Máel Coluim demanded all be present for the consummation.

  Ulfric. A holy man who looks more warrior than monk.”

  “’Tis enough to make a man leery of his back.”

  “Aye.”

  Njal kicked his horse into a gallop and, with the roar of the wind down the narrow path through the copse, they could no longer converse.

  Ruard bent low over the saddle, as ’twas their custom to race to the village. Winter had declared victory over the lingering fall days. No longer was the air balmy, but an icy dagger stabbed across the rolling hills, and a white frost sheet stole the green from the last grass clumps clinging to the black soil. Njal beat him to the first village hut by a scarce stride. The exhilarating gallop left both warriors panting and they slowed to a halt.

  “’Tis wondrous. Your people’s welcoming smiles.”

  Three farm workers tossing loaded burlap sacks from a cart to the dirt in front of the village alehouse halted their labors to glare at them.

  “I understand this not. In all our battles, remember you one where the villagers didn’t strive to please their new master? Remember you a single one?” Ruard studied the grim faces of the villagers.

  Two squat elderly women marked a cross on their wrinkled foreheads when the brothers rode past. A matron shielded three children behind her wide skirts as they reached the village crossroads.

  “You were not with us when Cnut first took the north. Word of Norse berserkers who pillaged, plundered, raped, and stabbed babes spread like fire after a long drought. Many villages fought to the last man standing. ’Tw
as not unusual for a brother to kill a sister to spare her Norse raping.”

  “’Tis not the same with Castle Dunsmuir.”

  “Aye. But ’tis nigh on nine sennights these lands have been leaderless. When a man has none to answer to for so long, ’tis nay easy to accept another’s rule.” Njal turned into the lane leading to the blacksmith.

  Halting when thick smoke billowed from the smithy’s lean-to, Ruard met the man’s green eyes, and dismounted. “Good morn.”

  “My lord.” Of enormous girth and stature, the blacksmith scrubbed a soot-dusted palm over his face. Beads of sweat dropped from his cheeks to hiss onto the hot metal in his other, gloved hand.

  “The piece is ready.”

  When the smith presented the gyrdel, Ruard could not disguise his surprise. Exquisite and delicate, the chain could have been wrought by the finest artisans of Napoli. When he paid the smithy twice the agreed-upon price, the man’s expression went from a barely disguised sneer to jaw-dropped.

  “’Tis not the coin we discussed.”

  “Aye, but ’tis the coin the craftsmanship is worth. When we travel to the king’s court in the spring, my wife will be the envy of all the women.”

  “I thank you, my lord.” The smith wore such an expression of disbelief Ruard had to stifle a chortle.

  “Mayhap the smith will turn the tide in your favor,” Njal remarked as they headed back to the castle. “Naught like coin to inspire sudden devotion.”

  Would Catriona be pleased by the gift? Would it inspire her devotion? A sudden notion made Ruard blurt, “Know you how long it takes to thread a needle?”

  * * *

  Catriona woke to a swallow’s shrill cawing. She stilled every limb. She’d learned to listen before moving, to peek through slotted lids before opening her eyes.

  Where am I?

  All at once, the events of the last few sennights flooded her mind.

  Ulfric’s invasion of Papa’s keep, her steward and friend stabbed to death, blood flowing over the tunic she had sewn for him. ’Twere not for the arrival of King Cnut’s warriors, mayhap she and Gæierla would also be dead.

  Lord, keep my wee sister safe. Let not Ulfric’s men harm her.

  She heard a thud followed by the snapping and hissing of a fire.

  Castle Dunsmuir.

  Her eyelids flew up and she focused on the green canopy.

  Aware of the sheets scraping her nipples, her nakedness under the linen, she sat up and memories of the night had her blushing from head to toes. Hiding her face with her fingers, she tried to stop the vivid images of Ruard’s hands between her thighs, the oil, his man part, the breathless ecstasy he’d wrung from her.

  Forgive me, Gæierla.

  Ruard’s tender care of her, his easy smile, the way he made her forget all the horrors last eve, made her want to weep and scream at the same time.

  How can I feel joy when Gæierla is cold and hungry?

  She stared at the bed furs.

  I have lain with him. He has been inside of me.

  The door flew open with a resounding bang.

  Catriona froze. Boots stamped in the direction of the bed. She could not take in air and the roar of her galloping heart filled her ears.

  “Catriona?”

  The curtains parted and her Thor-god husband’s handsome face appeared.

  “How fare you this morn, wife?”

  She couldn’t move a limb, and her fingers refused to obey the command to loosen their death-grip on the furs. He had the loveliest smile, the bronze of his flesh showing the snowy white of his even teeth.

  He tugged off his gloves, dropped them to the bed, and his cold hand cupped her chin. “What is amiss?”

  How could his chilled flesh provoke the flames rushing through her insides, warming the very core of her?

  “Catriona? Are you ill?”

  I am all a fever.

  His golden brows met. The straw sank when he set his hip on the bed, and reached for her hand.

  “You are chilled.” He rubbed her hand between both of his. “How come you by the marks on your wrists?”

  The question iced her feverish brain.

  Gæierla.

  “Did Ulfric do this?”

  He knows? The shock paralyzed her. How?

  When?

  She nodded, unable to command her tongue to do anything but cleave to the roof of her mouth.

  “The monk told me Ulfric gave you a steed you could not control. He said you did not fall when the stallion reared.”

  Thoughts jumped will he nill he, bobbing like apples in a water barrel.

  What to do?

  “Speak to me, wife. Has the monk spoken the truth?”

  Swallowing around the constriction in her throat, she focused on the strong line of his jaw and nodded. His fingers caught her chin and he forced her to meet his gaze. His eyes seemed to pierce into her soul, and she prayed for strength.

  His brow creased, but he appeared appeased for the moment. “I will see to a new, gentler mount for you. And you will not ride alone until I am satisfied you can control your horse.”

  She focused her gaze on her twined fingers and gritted her teeth.

  Until he is satisfied?

  Even her papa’s most stalwart knights acknowledged her skills with horses.

  “The monk stays for the winter. He has a decree from King Cnut to that order.” Catriona wanted to scream: He lies - he is Ulfric’s man. But she had no proof of the monk’s deceit. Anger racked a shudder through her body.

  Ruard reached over and hauled her into his lap.

  He gathered her close and cupped her bare shoulders. “You are shivering. ’Tis my negligence. I took not the time to build the fire this morn.” That the warrior all called the Dragon Slayer had a care for her warmth startled her so ’twas all she could do not to blurt all, to tell him of her sister, to chance trusting him.

  He leaned over to the bottom of the bed, grabbed a fur, and draped the soft skin to cover her exposed flesh.

  “Here, wife.”

  He handed her a cloth bundle.

  “’Tis your morning gift, my lady. I am well pleased with my bride.”

  She glanced up and the smile he wore settled like a cozy blanket over her confusion and fear. The last gift given her had been from Papa shortly before he died in battle. The keys to Carden Tower.

  Undoing the bow, she fixed her eyes on the bright blue ribbon hoping for a signal from the Lord above. The gyrdel took her breath away. Delicate, intertwined gold links, a mother of pearl clasp ending in the finest cross she’d ever seen. But beneath the gyrdel lay the prize she truly wanted, the keys to Castle Dunsmuir’s larders and spice chests. ’Tis all she needed to free Gæierla, the spices to hide the poison in her husband’s food.

  Chapter Four

  Her woman parts still all a-flutter from her husband’s lusty bedding after giving her the morning gift, Catriona never made it to the hall until the watery sun claimed its mid-heaven position. She walked through the hall wearing the gyrdel, swinging her hips so the keys clinked, an unspoken declaration of who had the running of the holding from this day onward.

  She relaxed her clenched hands flexing her fingers. Her thoughts rushed one way then another, Gæierla, Ruard, their joinings, the tender way he held her, the poison in the pouch, Ulfric, Gæierla.

  What to do?

  She scanned the great hall, the two fireplaces, the narrow porch to one side, the rounded corner at the far end leading to one of the towers. The magnificence of the structure brought her to a halt.

  ’Twas a holding of great value and import. As was her husband, Viking though he be.

  Stop being such a wilt-o-wheel. She stiffened her spine. Papa would have none of this wallowing in murky water. I am lady here. None can gainsay me. I have power and I will use it.

  The stiffness in her shoulders eased as she spotted her friend, Helene, waiting for her near to the dais. Daughter of the Earl of Northumbria, Eiríkr Hákonarson, Helene ha
d had the misfortune to be visiting when Ulfric had arrived at Carden Tower. Knowing the men to be sworn enemies, Catriona had claimed Helene as maid and kept her close.

  “Tell me all you have found.” Catriona knew Helene would have spent every waking moment since their arrival assessing the castle workers and the rest of the holding.

  Side by side, they ambled toward the kitchen, keeping their voices low, not that the dozen or so castle workers lolling in the hall took the slightest notice of the two women.

  “None but a handful of the servants are worth keeping. The new cook rules the kitchen and he will not yield to any. ’Tis common gossip you will find the larders and spice chests empty. The two women who serve the hall are naught but tavern wenches.” Had Ruard availed himself of the wenches?

  Catriona squeezed her lips together, but the question burning in her mind erupted from her mouth nonetheless. “Do all the men use the wenches?”

  “Nay. None of the Norse warriors have touched the wenches, as ordered by Lord Ruard.” Catriona blinked rapidly trying to halt the sudden flow of moisture blurring her sight. She squeezed her eyes shut. Did the order apply to Ruard too? Or had he wanted the wenches for himself?

  A wave of fury slashed color to her cheeks and had her hands fisting once again. She vowed to learn every wench bedsport trick, to seek instruction if need be. Her husband would not bed another female.

  “Catriona? What is amiss?” Helene tugged the sleeve of Catriona’s brown cyrtel.

  “’Tis naught of import—where are the warriors?”

  “All are hunting, save the king’s men.”

  “Good. ’Twill give us time to inspect the keep.” Helene yawned and cupped a hand over her open mouth. “Beg pardon, Catriona. I slept little last eve.”

  All at once, shame and fear had her stomach roiling. “Where did you lie your head?” Catriona halted and clasped Helene’s hands. “Forgive me, my friend. I should have arranged for your safety.”

  “Worry not. The captain and his man kept guard o’er me last eve. And the lord’s brother ordered his men to keep all at bay from where we slept.”