Ruby knew that Thork was trying to be honest with her, not cruel, but tears welled in her eyes nonetheless. Sensing her dismay, Thork went on softly, “Honor demands I leave here as soon as possible, and you keep throwing stones in my path. Still…”
Ruby waited but he remained silent, his eyes deep pools of blue heat reaching out to her. Finally she could contain her curiosity no longer. “Still what?”
In one deft motion, so quick she had no time to react, Thork reached over, grabbed her by her waist and had her on her back under him on the groaning pallet. He adjusted his body on top of hers, and Ruby knew gloriously, without a doubt, what his “Still…” had meant.
“Thork, don’t,” she whispered, but, at the same time, her traitorous body betrayed her by shifting seductively under him. Her eyes froze on his sensuously parted lips, basked in the smoldering heat of his gaze.
“Shush,” he rasped in a husky whisper. “Don’t talk. Just lie still and…feel.” Thork’s wildly beating heart telegraphed erotic messages to her. Without moving, like a master puppeteer, he used just the pressure of his body to pull her sensuous strings to a vibrating pitch.
Thork’s lips brushed her eyes shut and swept like a whisper across her cheek, to the edge of her lips, then teasingly away toward her ear. The wet tip of his tongue traced its narrow whorls, then delved inside. In and out it plunged until Ruby arched against him, unable to stand the intense pleasure he had set throbbing in her center.
“A-a-ah!” Ruby inhaled sharply, arching her neck, and Thork countered with a husky moan deep in his throat.
“Kiss me, Thork. Please…,” Ruby begged. Then, “Oh!” as his warm lips brushed hers, back and forth, back and forth, like a butterfly’s wings, teasing the petals of her lips open, then tasting her nectar. “Sweet, sweet,” he rasped out against the softness, then kissed her hungrily, demanding more and more as he shaped and reshaped her lips. Softly persuasive, then fiercely devouring, he pressed, sucked, nipped, devoured until Ruby accepted his plundering tongue. “That’s it, dearling. Oh, yes, open for me,” Thork murmured silkily, filling her mouth, and slowly, seductively, set a cadence with his smooth, wet strokes, a fierce counterpoint to the movement of his lower body against her sensitized womanhood.
But Tyra’s loud shriek somewhere in the house recalled them both from their mindless passion. Thork groaned his frustration against her neck. Willing their breathing and aroused bodies back to normal, they lay still. Finally Thork pulled back slightly. Desire illuminated his eyes, and his warm breath fluttered against her lips.
“Still…,” he whispered hoarsely, “…still I am tempted to take the risk of making love to you, knowing I would be doomed to your siren’s spell.”
Ruby’s body hummed at his words as he buried his face in her hair. She pondered his softly spoken words while her breathing stabilized. She, too, would take the risk—if given the chance. Ruby was about to pull his face up to tell him just that, but she was appalled to discover that his body shook—not with spasms of hot passion, but laughter.
Laughter! The jerk was laughing at her!
Ruby gave a mighty shove and Thork rolled off her. He laughed aloud by now as he sat up on the bed, trying to tell her what was so funny but unable to get the words past his mirth. Finally, when he’d laughed himself out, while she fumed, he told her disjointedly, stopping every few words to chuckle infuriatingly, “You should have seen the look on Olaf and Dar’s faces when Sigtrygg told me why I had been summoned back—not because you had been doing that silly running thing again or sewing up frivolous garments, but teaching his woman how to prevent the bearing of his child.”
Then a hearty laugh rippled up out of his throat, and Ruby poked him in the ribs with an elbow, threatening, “If you don’t stop, I’m going to dump that pitcher of water on you.”
That sobered him a bit but not for long. “The funniest part was when he told us about the…the orgasms, I think he called them, and Dar asked him to explain what they were. And then…and then”—he went off on another fit of laughter—“Sigtrygg said something about multiple orgasms. I thought Olaf would have a fit on the spot. I think Dar swallowed his tongue.”
“Oh, no!” Ruby groaned. She hid her face in her hands. Could a person die of humiliation? She wished she could drop through a hole in the ground and disappear. To think that everyone, including Thork, had heard all those outrageous things she’d said.
Thork finally wiped his eyes and stood, preparing to leave. He reached down to her on the bed and ran a forefinger gently, regretfully along her lips. Then steeling himself back to his former cool composure, he told her of the time they would leave in the morning and warned her once again that, despite his lapse of laughter, she walked thin ice and must behave.
Stopping in the doorway, he gazed at her fondly, as if memorizing her features, but then he spoiled it all by getting in one last parting shot. “Fair warning, maid, I may decide afore these three sennights pass to discover for myself just how many of those multiple things you can have.”
Ruby threw a cake of soap at him, but he ducked and it flew out the door into the hall. She heard the echo of his laughter long after he walked down the steps and out of the house.
Chapter Nine
Thork didn’t laugh for long.
When Esle came to his sleeping chamber at the palace that night, he turned her away. Too many thoughts plagued him.
He’d been careless. Tonight, for the first time ever, he’d passed over that fine line he’d drawn long ago for his relationships with women.
Risks! He’d talked about taking risks with Ruby. By the blood of all the gods, what had he been thinking of? His own danger concerned him little. Death rode ever at his side, a constant companion, but he cared too much for Eirik and Tykir to jeopardize their well-being.
And Ruby? He knew that involvement with him would endanger her, as well. Did he care? Thor’s blood! Of course, he did. The seductive witch had wedged her way into his heart like a jagged splinter. He closed his eyes in self-loathing and weary recriminations. It had to stop immediately. Surely it was not too late.
If nothing else, his more than ten years of Jomsviking had taught Thork self-discipline. By morning, he had himself under control, firmly determined to keep his distance from the tempting wench. Women abounded to warm a man’s bed. He needed nothing more.
But the sight of Ruby’s attractive bottom bouncing up and down on her pony in front of him as they began the first leg of their journey caused his throat to dry. Even the dark tunic she wore for traveling could not hide her graceful neck, nor the slimness of her waist and hips. Freya’s bloody flux! he swore silently, then dug his heels into the sides of his mare and rode to the head of the small entourage. He refused to look at Ruby as he passed.
It was for the best—the only course of action a man of honor could follow. Still…
Thork’s cold demeanor had cut Ruby deeply that morning as the horses had been saddled and panniers had been placed over the small ponies’ backs, overflowing with clothing and accessories for Olaf’s family and the others in their traveling caravan.
At first she’d been unable to fathom the abrupt change in Thork’s mood from his laughing exit the night before, but then had rationalized it as reaction to the chaos that had overtaken Olaf’s barnyard.
Olaf had roared out an order to his seven daughters, including Tyra, who’d been running off to chase a wayward duck. “If any of you moves a hair’s width from the spot on which you now stand or speaks one more word, that person will be left behind with Ulf. Heed me well, for I have had enough of screeching, giggling, wandering, waspish children for one day, and it not yet begun.” He’d sworn at Selik then when he’d defied him by making cross-eyes at Tyra.
Ruby had almost doubled over with laughter as they’d ridden only a short distance to the edge of Jorvik and Tyra had asked her mother, “Are we almost there?” and soon after had whined, “I have to use the garderobe.”
But Ruby’s laught
er died now as Thork rode by her and gave no greeting. Encased in leggings, his muscular thighs guided his large horse expertly. He held his head high, with supreme self-confidence, but a tense muscle jumped in his stubbornly jutting jaw as he deliberately snubbed her.
Ruby wouldn’t have been surprised at his coldness after his tirade in Olaf’s hall yesterday if he hadn’t come to her room later and laughed about the scene at Sigtrygg’s palace. His hot, then cold, changes of emotion were driving her crazy.
Putting aside her hurt feelings, Ruby turned to Gyda. “I’m sorry for all the misery I’ve brought you, especially the way Olaf spoke to you.”
Gyda clucked her tongue at Ruby’s words. “I want naught of your apologies, girl. Leastways, I have not laughed so much in years, nor has Olaf or Thork, though ne’er would they admit it. Did Olaf and I mishear Thork in your room yestereve?”
Ruby told her about Thork’s account of the events at Sigtrygg’s court. When she ended, Gyda giggled with delight, then embellished the story with more from Olaf’s version of the court activities. “The funniest part was when they first arrived at the court, and Sigtrygg raged at them all, shoving this gray wrinkled thing into Thork’s hand, asking if he knew what the thing was.”
“Oh, no!”
Gyda laughed out loud now. “You will never guess what happened next. The thing Sigtrygg handed him—’twas Freydis’s condom, the one with red and gold embroidery, and, Ruby…,” Gyda sputtered, having to stop to control her giggles, “oh, ’twas so funny. You see, Freydis had added tassels to the end.”
“No-o-o-o!” Ruby exclaimed.
Ruby rode back to help with the children. She couldn’t help but notice the dozen armed men flanking their traveling party at the sides and rear, with Thork, Dar and Olaf at the front. She tied her horse to the back of the cart and crawled into the straw with the children. For the next few hours, until they stopped to eat at midday and water the horses, Ruby had amused them with stories and catchy songs. The only children’s songs she could think of were Christmas carols, so the children’s voices on this sunny, late summer day rang out incongruously with “Jingle Bells” and “Deck the Hall with Boughs of Holly.”
Thork glanced her way several times as she, Gyda and the children sat on a large boulder eating their cold fare. Did he feel the bond between them? Even if he didn’t believe her stories of the future, of a life they shared together, surely he didn’t deny this instant chemistry that ignited every time they touched. But Thork’s blank face betrayed nothing of his feelings, and Ruby felt sadly forsaken—again.
They expected to be at Dar’s manor before nightfall, but the long, tiring journey had turned the travelers weary and listless by midafternoon. The fortunate Tyra slept soundly in one corner of the cart after hearing Ruby repeat the nursery rhyme about the old woman who lived in a shoe six times.
Everyone jolted out of their complacent lethargy with surprise when a group of six horsemen thundered out of the woods and headed off Dar, who rode with Selik near the end of the human train. The horsemen had to have been trailing them for a long time to have caught Dar at just that vulnerable moment when he’d left his grandson’s side at the head of the caravan.
“Move the women and children off the road,” Thork shouted anxiously to the tune of some vicious swear words directed at the hesirs who’d failed to see the enemy approaching. “Selik, stay here with Eirik and Tykir and guard the women.”
Grim-faced, Thork and Olaf galloped off with six of the men. For more than two hours, which seemed like days, Ruby wept and prayed and worried over Dar’s fate, as well as the safety of Thork and his men.
When the somber-countenanced party rode back into the hastily made camp, Ruby quickly counted. They’d all returned, including Dar—thank God!—who appeared unharmed, except for a grimy face, torn tunic and baggy hose.
In addition, two bloodied strangers rode in their midst, arms tied behind their backs, wearing pants and nothing more. Deep whip welts covered their bare backs and chests. A sword wound in one man’s shoulder bled profusely, and an enormous bruise swelled on the other man’s forehead. They had obviously been beaten after their capture to obtain information.
When their horses came to a halt and they dismounted, Thork addressed Selik. “Two dead, two escaped.”
“Any information?”
“Not yet. They will talk afore morning, though, that I promise.” Thork’s steel-blue eyes blazed with a cold-blooded fury that frightened Ruby. These enemies of Thork’s would get no compassion.
“Will they die?” Ruby asked Gyda fearfully.
“That they will and not too soon, I wager. Mayhap they will torture them with the blood-eagle.”
Oddly, Ruby saw no womanly distaste on Gyda’s face for this barbaric behavior. True, the men had done a horrendous thing by kidnapping Dar and might have harmed him, but the threat of death did not fit the crime.
“What is a blood-eagle?”
“Have you heard naught of it?” a surprised Gyda asked. “Well, ’tis not practiced so much anymore. ’Tis what the three great Danish brothers, Halfdan of the Wide Embrace, Ubbi and Ivar the Boneless, did to King Aella some fifty years back to avenge their father Ragnar’s death. ’Twas Aella who threw Ragnar into a snake pit and watched gleefully while the vipers stung him to death.
“’Tis said Aella bragged thus, ‘The piglings would be grunting if they knew the plight of the boar.’ Well, Ragnar’s sons proved Aella right, because the piglings did truly avenge their father boar’s death with the blood-eagle on him.”
“What exactly is a blood-eagle?” Ruby choked out.
“’Tis the slowest and most tortuous death of all. The Vikings tie the enemy to a tree and split his backbone so the ribs spring apart like wings, exposing the heart. The breathing air bags are pulled out to lay across his back, also like eagle wings,” Gyda explained in gruesome detail. “’Tis considered a noble sacrifice to Odin.”
“And you think Thork would do that?” Ruby asked, gagging at the image.
Gyda’s forehead creased in confusion over Ruby’s question. “Why would you doubt it? He is a Jomsviking, but any man would do as much or more to protect his family.”
Ruby tried not to dwell on the grotesque images called up by Gyda. She noticed that Thork ignored her still. In fact, Dar’s near-fatal experience seemed to have reinforced some determination in Thork, which Ruby didn’t understand but sensed had implications for her.
Because of the delays, dusk already shadowed the land when they rode onto Dar’s huge estate which lay in the midst of the fields and fells famous for its Yorkshire wool. Shepherds with crooks in hand and yapping border collies at their feet worked efficiently to herd bands of sheep into a distant pasture. It was still light enough to see bonders and freedmen who seemed well fed and happy as they came in from carefully tended fields, waving to their jarl.
Gyda had explained to Ruby earlier the Viking class system: high-kings; petty kings or noblemen; rural aristocracy of jarls or earls; lesser nobles called hesirs; bonders or farmers; freedmen or cottagers; and finally, at the bottom, thralls. At first, Ruby had trouble sorting it all out until she learned to connect names with titles. King Harald, was, of course, high-king; Dar and Thork were jarls, even though Thork disdained the title; Olaf and Selik were hesirs.
The houses in the village they passed through were of the Viking style—long, rectangular buildings of neatly interwoven wattle and daub from forty to one hundred feet long, topped with thatch roofs. The dwellings lay in an orderly street pattern near a small river. Barns and other outbuildings stood outside the village perimeter.
Leaving the village, they approached the manor on a flat-topped hill Gyda referred to as a motte and entered the gates of a high, stockade-style, wood fence where many Viking hesirs stood guard, watching diligently over the countryside. It resembled a palisaded western fort, rather than the castle-and-moat-style, stone castle Ruby had envisioned.
Inside the bailey or courtyard were
scattered stables, fowlhouses, kennels, smithy, armorer’s shed, bakehouse, a separate kitchen, storerooms, open hearths and other assorted buildings, while the two-story manor house held stately prominence, resembling a small castle. The newer sections of the manor were stone, attached stylelessly to the older wood parts.
A number of well-dressed men and women stood on the steps of the keep awaiting the arrival of the weary group. The gray-haired Aud stepped forward first to greet her husband, Dar, with a warm clasp of the shoulders and a quick hug. Then she turned to Thork and embraced him as well.
Dar dispatched the two prisoners to one of the small, separate buildings made of solid stone. Aud looked at them and back to Dar questioningly but held her queries for later.
“Well met, Thork!” A young, dark-haired woman sprang forward and leaped into Thork’s arms, greeting him with a sound kiss on the lips, before pulling back and smiling invitingly up at him. With dimples indenting her wide smile, she cocked her head and said loud enough for those closest to hear, “Have you missed me near as much as I have you?”
“Tsk-tsk!” Gyda said disapprovingly of the young woman’s forward behavior.
“’Tis wanton of Linette to behave so in company,” Aud told Gyda. “’Tis more like a lowly thrall she acts than the well-born Viking widow.”
But then Gyda traitorously conceded, “’Twould be nice to see Thork settle down and leave off the wanderlust. Even if it be with such as Linette.”
And Thork—the two-timing pond scum—didn’t seem to mind the widow’s attention a bit. In fact, he kissed her back—with relish! The brute!
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