The Dragon Slayer

by Jianne Carlo

  Catriona sent a silent thank you to the Lord that two of King Cnut’s personal guards had been ordered to stay by her side until she dismissed them. Captain deGrecy and his soldier had flanked her on the journey to Dunsmuir and thwarted many of Ulfric’s attempts to get her alone. “Mayhap the Lord deigns to look over us once again.”

  “The Lord abandons not even the worst sinner.” Helene’s faith had never wavered, unlike Catriona’s.

  “’Tis true I know.” She sought to divert a discourse on the teachings of the church. “What think you of my grydel?”

  Helene cocked her head. “’Tis exquisite. I have not seen this one before.”

  “Nay. ’Tis my bride gift.” Catriona could not stop the heat scalding her cheeks.

  “And your lord has given you the keys to the castle. ’Tis a most promising start as lady here.”

  “You speak wisely, Helene. I must make haste to right the wrongs of the keep.” Catriona linked elbows with Helene and the two women resumed their slow strolling. She glanced at the half-shuttered windows adjacent to the fireplace and knew she had but few hours to accomplish her goals. “Continue. Tell me all.”

  “The kitchens are a mess.” Helene grimaced.

  “’Twill take a full day to scour every surface. The steward is steward in name only.”

  “Why think you that?” Catriona paused at the entrance to the kitchens.

  “The new cook procures everything.”

  “The new cook?” Catriona frowned. “How long has he seen to the meals?”

  “Five sennights.”

  “’Tis a remarkable feat to switch a duty of such import from steward to cook in so little time.” Catriona flicked a speck from her skirt. “Another’s hand is in this, Helene. A cook cannot command without a sword’s support.”

  “’Tis my thinking as well.”

  Helene’s appraisal of the kitchens proved accurate. The cook’s surly attitude fired Catriona’s temper, but she held her tongue. When she opened the larders to find three meager potato sacks, a half-empty bucket of shriveled carrots, and a pile of rotting onions, Catriona choked back a scream of frustration.

  “The flour has weevils.” Helene stooped to examine a sack.

  “’Tis to be cert the ale and milk will be sour, the butter rancid, and the meat beyond spoiled.

  Dunsmuir was without a lord for nine sennights.

  How did this come to pass so soon?” She shook her head. “Where are the tapestries? The polished chairs? The wooden plates? The brass goblets?

  Papa said Dunsmuir’s riches dwarfed that of ours tenfold.”

  Helene curled her hand around Catriona’s wrist. “Ears listen.”

  “Aye. Let us see the spice chests.” A smidgen of spice remained in each drawer.

  Enough for both women to identify by scent and color what the chests had contained.

  Helene inhaled. “Cinnamon, cloves, turmeric—” She clamped her hand to her mouth.

  “What?”

  “I wager the salt jars are empty. ’Tis a fortune the new lord has lost.”

  “Aye.” How would her husband take this news?

  “And ’tis plain someone else has found it.” Salt mixed with sand half-filled one jar.

  Catriona ordered a kitchen boy to sift the twain into a burlap bag, and fetch the salt sack to her chamber, for salt was too precious to chance the meager store vanishing. And the soiled jar needed a thorough cleaning.

  A tour of the entire castle revealed woefully few pieces of furniture and, save for three tattered tapestries clinging to the rough brick walls for support, no other signs of wealth. They found not a single pewter mug, not one glass goblet, not a woven bed cover in any chamber. Catriona’s ire grew with each new discovery.

  Catriona’s mind churned as they wound their way back to the master’s chamber. Once the door closed, she turned to Helene. “’Tis sad to use knights to do a woman’s work, but I need seize control of the keep at once. And this eve I must see you settled in a chamber.”

  She held up a hand when Helene started to protest. “Nay. We must begin as we seek to continue. I will have none gainsay my orders. And none will gainsay the king’s man, deGrecy. Will you send a boy to fetch him?”

  While Helene saw to that chore, Catriona took inventory of the chamber. ’Twas large with one wall of shuttered windows through which faint rays of sunlight chased dust motes. Two men and a scouring brush and soap would expunge the lingering musty odor. When her dowry carts arrived, the tapestries and rug furs would lessen the starkness of the room.

  Am I mad to think like a newly wedded bride?

  Ulfric swears he will kill Gæierla if we do not wed.

  But what prevents him from killing both of us once we have wed and he has Dunsmuir?

  Catriona jumped when the door opened, her hand clamped to her chest, and let out a long breath when Helene strode into the room.

  “DeGrecy is sparring in the keep. He will be here shortly.” Helene linked her hands at the waist and Catriona knew before she spoke what worry furrowed her brow. “What of the poison? And your husband? Can you do it—”

  Placing two fingers against Helene’s lips, Catriona whispered, “I will not let Ulfric win. And I will find a way to get Gæierla to Dunsmuir. I am lady here now. Ulfric cannot corner me.” Helene nodded. “DeGrecy will thwart him, ’tis true. But what did you do with the poison?”

  “Hidden in the chest.” Until she could empty the pouch into a garderobe. “I have decided to tell Lord Ruard who you are, Helene.”

  “’Tis not necessary. When deGrecy leaves for King Cnut’s court he can take me to Scalling Castle.”

  “Nay.” Catriona shook her head. “’Tis too dangerous. Lord Ruard must know, and then he can assign you a guard. If Ulfric even suspected who you are…nay ’tis the only way, Helene.” A thunderous pounding made both women flinch.

  “’Tis deGrecy. Stay whilst I speak with him.” Captain deGrecy readily agreed to assist her in forcing the castle workers into clearing out the rotted rushes, to re-organizing the hall benches, and to moving Helene into her new chamber.

  Satisfied, Catriona bid Helene accompany deGrecy and requested she oversee the making of fresh bread.

  Catriona made her way to Lady Carlton’s chamber. The woman had helped her last eve when all the other noblewomen wanted the bed curtains open. Mayhap she had found a local woman to call friend.

  * * *

  “And how do you plan to keep Ulfric away from the castle on the morrow?” Njal slowed his mount to a trot once the two brothers drew ahead of the rest of the hunting party.

  “We hunt on the morrow and the morrow after that. We hunt until he lingers here no longer.” Ruard gave the terse answer without thought.

  Catriona had kept him in their bed too long this morn. But he could not refuse her sweet flesh.

  What mischief had Ulfric stewed during the long hours he swived his bride?

  When he’d finally descended to the hall, the back of his neck had itched the way it did before an ambush. And half of Ulfric’s men had gone missing.

  Ruard suspected his distraction had resulted in more conspiring to relieve him of his holding.

  “And what of rain? Snow?”

  Ruard scanned the dismal sky and eyed the shadowed globe looming at the horizon. He groaned, recalling that the sun had been blood tinged early on the morn. The air was thick with moisture and ice. ’Twas cert to either sleet or snow on the morrow.

  “We spar.”

  Njal glanced over his shoulder. “They approach.The monk is near Magnus’s equal with the crossbow. Know you many holy men with warrior skills?”

  And few rivaled their brother’s skill with that weapon.

  “Nay. I want him watched.”

  Castle Dunsmuir came into sight. Even as he knew ’twould take the winter to set the holding to rights, Ruard couldn’t stop the fierce pride blasting through his insides as he looked upon his property.

  No wooden structure Castle D
unsmuir, but built of stone and mortar. The twin towers glistened gold under the rays of the fading sun. The murky waters of the moat shuddered under a stiff breeze, making the castle’s reflection undulate and shimmer.

  “’Tis a holding to be proud of even if it stinks.” Njal’s mount pranced sideways impatient at being halted.

  The wind changed direction, Rurad braced for the stench from the rotting rushes in the hall.

  Njal sniffed. “I smell bread baking.”

  “Nay.” Ruard took a shallow breath and saliva washed his mouth. “’Tis indeed similar to that fragrant aroma.” Noticing a line of boys toting buckets of water from the well to the great hall, he kneed his steed and sped through the bailey to the castle steps. Dismounting, he threw his reins to one of the bucket boys, and then raced up the stone stairs.

  Before he reached the massive mahogany double doors, they opened.

  “Welcome, my lord.” The steward’s usually droning voice held a jovial note.

  Ruard peered at the man’s face. Was that a smile cornering his dour steward’s thin lips?

  The heavenly scent of a fattening loaf captured his attention. He glanced in the direction of the kitchens and blinked.

  “’Twould seem your bride should have many names, Catriona the Siren, Catriona the Housekeeper, nay, Catriona the Miracle Worker.” Njal clapped Ruard on the shoulder. “If you could add Catriona the Cocksucker to that, then you have won a prize indeed brother.”

  He barely heard Njal. His gaze swept the hall, taking in all the changes. The louts who normally lolled on benches drinking ale, farting, and spitting, had been put to work. Every single man had been corralled into labor, scrubbing floors cleaned of the rushes, moving the benches into lines, and smoke no longer filled the massive chamber because three men cleaned each fireplace.

  Striding forward, Ruard halted at a table, tugged off his gloves, and slid his fingers on the wood. Clean. No grease. He couldn’t stop his lips from widening.

  Turning, he addressed the steward. “Where is my lady?”

  “In your chamber, my lord.”

  For two strides, Ruard tried to control his impatience, then he snorted, and raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He would have the blacksmith make her another gyrdel. He would find every apple in the valley and feed them to her, one by one. He had wed a treasure.

  Uncaring of the audience in the hallway, he threw open the door to their chamber, and near swallowed his tongue. For there by the fireplace, immersed in a large wooden tub lay his bride.

  Cheeks pinkened by the warm water, her red-gold curls piled high on her head, his wet wife gifted him with a shy smile. “I bid you welcome, my lord.” His prick had hardened into the steeliest sword. His bollocks tightened as though in a vise.

  He slammed the door shut.

  Pulling his tunic over his head, Ruard growled,

  “How long does it take to thread a needle, wife?” When the cloth no longer hid her from sight, he glimpsed her open-mouthed confusion. “How long?” He untied the rope keeping his breeches in place and chucked off his boots. His cock stood tall and proud, the crown already weeping for her puss.

  “We bed again?” Catriona shot him a smile so bright he had to blink.

  “Aye.” ’Twas the only word his mouth could manage, it watered so much at the thought of suckling her breasts. “I needs first wash the stink of the hunt off my flesh.”

  “’Tis the work of a wife bathing her husband.” Ruard near melted from the inferno blazing in his groin. When she reached for the drying cloths lying nearby, he flew across the chamber, snatched the warm fabric, and held it up for her.

  She ducked her chin and stood. Envying the water clinging to her skin, Ruard groaned, his prick harder than boulder, his sac throbbing and aching.

  He gobbled her up, nigh inhaling her rosy flesh, the round mounds of her breasts, the pert nipples a-begging his mouth, tongue, and teeth. He wrapped the cloth around her and buried his nose in her hair. By Thor, even her smell made his cock glisten with moisture. Mindful of the taint of deer’s blood on his body, he drew back, kissed her forehead, and said, though the words cost him untold agony, “’Tis not necessary, wife. I can wash my flesh.” Throwing back her head, her brown eyes narrowed, and she lifted her chin in a way fast becoming familiar to him. “’Tis my duty, my lord, and I will not shirk from the task.” Who was he to argue? Though he did wonder at her fierce tone.

  Tying the cloth over one shoulder, she picked up a smaller fabric rectangle and waived at the tub.

  “My lord?”

  Folding himself into the wooden barrel he said,

  “Ruard. I would have you call me Ruard when we are privy.”

  “Aye my—” She blushed the rose deepening in her cheeks but met his stare head-on. “Ruard.” Chapter Five

  You are no wilting bluebell. ’Tis only flesh.

  Such flesh.

  His broad shoulders, the slick skin skimming his ribs, his magikal man part…her insides caught a-flame. Catriona could not stop staring at the thick, pulsing rod. The way his flesh burned red, then wept, then slapped against his belly, had her smoldering. She licked her lips recalling the wondrous feelings his tongue had wrought. The fire his mouth had burned into her breast.

  Picking up the soaping cloth, she flinched when he growled, “Be quick wife, I’m all afire to tup you.” Smiling, she dunked the fabric into the water, worked up a lather on the bar of soap, and scrubbed his thick neck. “May I wash your hair, my lord?”

  “Ruard. Wash any part of me you wish.” He caught her chin, and when she looked into his eyes, the blaze burning therein made her stop breathing.

  “Say my name, Catriona.”

  His eyes held her captive. Had she seen any that breath-stealing blue?

  “Wife. To me. Speak my name.”

  “Ruard.” Lord, he possessed magik for in that instance all she yearned for was his man part inside of her, his arms around her, his weight bearing sweet pleasure on her.

  “What think you now?” His hold on her tightened and the look in his eyes sent a trickle of moisture to her woman parts.

  “Of you,” she replied, unable to stop the words escaping her lips.

  “By the gods you are mine. Mine and no other.” She gasped when he stood, rising like the Thor-god dragon slayer he was. When he snatched her up in his arms, her stomach went all-aflutter, and she could scarcely draw air.

  “Speak to me. Are you sore? Do you hurt? I need to sheathe myself in your heat Catriona, but I wouldst not cause you pain.” He strode across the chamber hugging her close to his chest. He smelled of horse, leather, and soap, and she wanted to burrow into his flesh, lick the golden hairs on his chest, touch her lips to his and drown in his kiss.

  When they tumbled onto the bed, she felt his manhood probing between her thighs.

  He shook her. “Catriona. To me. Do you hurt?”

  “Aye, I burn, but if you would but kiss me, my lord—”

  His tongue delved into her mouth and she gave over to the magik, following his lead, touching him where he touched her, licking where he licked. The fires he built inside her rivaled paradise; she had no thoughts, no direction save where he took her, no consideration at all, only a burning ache to have him fill her, put his man part inside her.

  “Ruard.” She buried her fingers in his hair.

  “Fill me. Make the magik happen.” The blue in his eyes disappeared and they seemed blacker than midnight. He cupped her bottom, lifted her hips off the bed, their eyes met, and he plunged into her. She near swooned from the ecstasy. ’Twas delicious the feel of him inside of her and, when he started the rhythm of the night afore, she cried out, unable to stopper the pleasure bubbling through every pore of her skin.

  “Ruard.” She grabbed his shoulders, her hips lifting to his, flesh slapping flesh. His sac battered her woman’s parts, his manhood ramming a spot designed for heavenly bliss. She shattered, wrapping her legs across his back, nibbling his neck, loving the zing
of his sweat, the spice of his smell.

  Time passed; she had no idea of how long they stayed joined, his mouth at her neck licking every so oft, his hot breathing washing heat waves over her throat, the phrases he murmured burning her cheeks.

  “Ruard?”

  “Aye, my beauty.”

  His words caused a glow from within.

  “’Tis Norse you speak? What means this word elsking?”

  “Aye. ’Tis Norse. ’Tis a term for a man to call his bride.”

  Catriona near melted under the heat of his stare. Her chest heaved. Be not of faint heart. Press on. He is a good man.

  “Have you bedded the hall wenches?” Catriona choked back a moan for ’twas not what she had intended to say.

  He devoured her with his fierce gaze. “Nay.

  Why do you ask this?”

  “Beg pardon, my lord.” She stared at his navel, marveling at the beauty of his body, not daring to glance lower. Foolish girl. Flatter him, praise his warrior skills. Uncert of her wayward tongue, she clamped her lips together.

  “Look to me, Catriona.” He tipped her chin so she had to meet his eyes. “I want none but you. You are wife to me and I will not dishonor you. Not here at your own demesne.”

  At others? At the king’s court? Where?

  She wanted to batter his chest.

  Breathe. Bind him to you. Speak of his manliness. Then tell him of Gæierla. Do what you must.

  “My thanks, my lord.”

  He caught her chin hard again. “R- u- a- r- d.

  Say my name.”

  “Ruard.”

  His smile made her belly flutter and her woman parts ache.

  He took her again and again, and they missed the evening meal. Hours later, they supped on apples, cheese, and bread. As he fed her a particularly fragrant morsel of cheese, he asked,

  “How did you work the miracle in the hall?”

  “’Twasn’t a miracle, my—Ruard.” He gifted her with the smile of the gods, his blue eyes teemed with amber, the skin around them crinkling, and his lips curving. She fair swooned, his touch, his hot stare, the sounds of his rasping breath, the smell of his warrior aroma, all contrived to flood her senses, and make her giddy and warm and deliciously safe.