Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  “You did.” He misremembered whether she had or hadn’t, but that mattered neither here nor there. It was always good policy to make a woman feel guilty. They did all kinds of delicious things to make amends.

  “Are you seriously saying that you would agree to my terms if I would agree to rut with you?”

  Rut? He cringed at her vulgar word. “Nay, I am agreeing to nothing. I merely answered your question.”

  “What question?”

  “You asked what I wanted from you, and I said the first thing that popped into my head.”

  “Well, pop this into your head, my Lord Lech. I will not, now or ever, make love with you. Not for coin. Not for lust. Not for any reason whatsoever.”

  Tykir grinned. “Is that your final word?”

  “Nay, these are my final words…”

  He waited expectantly.

  “…you are a troll.”

  Yea, I am. Else why would I be considering what I am considering? ’Tis foolhardy. ’Tis a mistake in the making. ’Tis like jumping off a cliff into a stormy sea.

  ’Tis bloody damn tempting.

  Her lips were a hairsbreadth away from his, close enough for a kiss. His wick knack took particular note of that fact, too, and he had to clench his fists to keep from grabbing for her. Best he change the subject, with all haste. He forced himself to yawn widely. “Well, best we get some sleep. I would like for us to be on our way afore midday.”

  “Can’t we stay at least another day?”

  He shook his head. “Nay. The rowing will be hard as it is for my seamen, especially if there is ice on the oars. Winter is truly on the horizon. I can tell by the ache in my leg tonight. When my battle scar throbs, that usually portends cold weather. Methinks there may even be frost on the bracken come morn.”

  “Would that be the leg that has moved into forbidden territory?” she asked waspishly.

  He groaned inwardly. He hadn’t realized that his knee had moved instinctively upwards. But what a feckless maid she was to call his attention to the fact. Now, if he moved it, he would appear guilty. But if he did not move it, he would not be able to stop thinking about the heat that seemed to emanate from her there. He chose the latter course. “That would be the leg,” he admitted. “And best you watch your tart tongue, my lady, or you may provoke other of my body parts to move into other of your forbidden territories.”

  “Your crudity knows no bounds.” She tried, unsuccessfully, to squirm out of his grasp. “Only you would find a way to bring a discussion of the weather back to…to…”

  “Sex?” Oh, that was very intelligent of me. Bring back the unwanted subject.

  “Yea, sex, you bloody fool. Sex, sex, sex, that’s all you men think about. Mention plowing, you think of sex. Mention weaving, you think of sex. Mention horse riding, you think of sex. Mention sheep, you think of sex—”

  He laughed so hard then that he began to choke. “Sheep? Sheep?” he sputtered. “Oh, Alinor, you are unbelievable.”

  “Don’t think that I don’t know what you’re thinking!”

  “There are a goodly number of thinks in there,” he quipped. “I’d best think about that for a while.”

  She slapped at his chest in remonstrance. “You are thinking that I may be mud ugly in the daylight with my brash hair and freckles and other uncomely attributes, but in the dark, one female is the same as any other.”

  “You have me all figured out, do you?”

  “Yea, I do. ’Tis just as Egbert and Hebert used to say when they came home late, after a night of wenching. It matters not the beauty of the sky when you are plowing a field.”

  “We Vikings have a similar saying,” he said. “Imøer all katter.” He paused for only a moment before translating with a laugh, “All cats are gray in the dark.”

  She punched him.

  Which was a mistake, because he laughed even harder.

  Then she made the biggest mistake of all. She shifted abruptly to confront him, thus causing her breasts and upper legs to abrade his forearm and thighs, but, most alarming, putting her lips within kissing distance of his. And if there was one thing he relished in the lovesport more than any other, it was kissing. Long and deep, short and soft, demanding and persuasive, wet and dry. Good kissing was almost equal to good sex. Not quite, but almost.

  So, without considering the consequences, he put a hand to her nape and drew her to him. Her lips parted with surprise, and he took advantage by slanting his mouth over hers in a perfect fit, with her lips forced to remain open.

  Then he proceeded to show her, well and true, that all men were not alike.

  Chapter Eight

  A kiss.

  So this is a kiss.

  Hmmm.

  Ummmmm.

  Tykir had caught her unawares, lips parted, about to protest, when first he pulled her to him. Now the gentle pressure of his lips forced hers to remain open for his plundering. Shifting and shaping, he plied an age-old expertise till he won her pliancy.

  Then he started over again.

  It should have been embarrassing, but it was not.

  It should have been an assault, but it was not.

  It should have been repulsive, but—oh, sweet Mary!—it was not.

  By the time she realized that she lay quiescent, surrendering to the seduction of his kiss, it was too late. Her curiosity was aroused, her senses enflamed.

  A kiss is like an exploration, she marveled. Man of woman. Woman of man. And of oneself.

  And it is a dance. She smiled inwardly at such uncharacteristic whimsy on her part. But truly it was a dance—a lyrical movement of the body set to the music of the senses. An erotic play of slow rhythms and subtle nuances.

  She wanted to know more.

  There was a clean, musky fragrance to his skin, contrasting with the lingering scent of the animal furs and the wood fire. His breath tasted of honeyed mead.

  But, nay, it was madness to continue on this path. She should push him away now. Stop this insanity before the lout deemed her smitten with him…which she was not. It was the kiss that held her in thrall, of course, not the man. Instead of resisting, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and lay back to give him easier access.

  His body stilled. Then he murmured one word and one word only against her lips: “Alinor.” There was wonder in his voice, and surprise, and raw, frightening promise.

  Blessed St. Jude, patron of hopeless cases, come to my aid. I fear I am becoming the most hopeless case of all.

  Leaning over her, he placed one hand to her throat to hold her in place, with his wide thumb resting on the pulse spot on her neck. Could he feel the thundering of her heart? The roaring of her blood?

  His kiss changed then, reclaiming hers with a shocking hunger. Before Alinor had a chance to register the significance of this switch and realize that now might be the time to call a halt to this risky game, Tykir forced her lips wider with his own, and his tongue pushed slowly and deeply into her mouth. Stunned, she allowed him this invasion. His tongue withdrew, then plunged again.

  Tongue kissing, of which Alinor had heard but never quite believed, was deliciously revolting, she decided. The slickness in her mouth—whether hers or his, she could not tell, to her horror—should be distasteful. The rhythmic thrust and parry of his tongue should have caused her outrage. The command of his lips that she respond should have caused her consternation. But, oh, what a traitor her body proved to be! Her breasts peaked into hard points and ached with the need for…something. Heat curled into a strange knot at the pit of her stomach. In that secret place between her legs a throb started, clenching in slow, progressively stronger counterpoint to the cadence of his tongue’s sheathing and unsheathing.

  Just when she was starting to discover the intricate steps of the tongue sport, he broke the kiss and whispered against her ear, “Did you like that kind of kiss, witchling?”

  She couldn’t have answered if her life depended on it, so mortified was she at his guessing her appreciation; so she
did something even worse. She moaned.

  To her amazement, he didn’t laugh, or make some biting remark about lustful widows. What he did was moan back at her—a low, masculine rumble of pure arousal.

  She ducked her head against his shoulder to hide her shame.

  He tipped her face back up with a forefinger under her chin. “Do not hide from me. Your eagerness excites me.”

  Before she could deny his ludicrous claim, she saw his head descending. This time his kiss was a gentle act of controlled aggression. He nipped her bottom lip with his front teeth and tugged lightly. He showed her with soft, sexual words of encouragement how to glide her own tongue into his mouth, and how to draw on his tongue when he entered hers. He angled her head and settled his mouth over hers again, murmuring, “’Tis time to get down to the serious business of kissing.”

  God’s teeth! What had they been doing thus far, if not the serious business of kissing?

  He was rapacious then. His mouth closed on hers again and again, entreating, claiming, playing, persuading. His molding, unending kiss changed patterns like rain in a summer storm, alternately rough and tender, harsh and wonderful.

  Her breath caught in her throat, then came out in a thready exhalation.

  His breath was a hot, ragged reminder that he was male and dangerous.

  Alinor never knew a kiss could be so many things.

  He tore his mouth from hers and pressed his forehead against hers, panting. “I want to make love with you,” he said in a thickened voice.

  Who knew what she might have replied if St. Jude hadn’t come to her aid then in the form of the most unlikely angel: Rurik.

  Water was dripping down on Alinor’s face.

  At first she thought it was a leak in the roof where rainfall might have started while her attention had been diverted elsewhere. But, nay, the droplets were coming off Tykir’s hair because of the holy water Rurik was drizzling from above.

  “Have you lost your bloody mind?” Tykir shouted as he reared up, off of her and out of the furs.

  The loudness of his voice awakened Rachelle, Ottar and Karl. Rachelle lit a soapstone lamp and Ottar rushed forth with raised sword, not knowing if there was an intruder.

  Rurik was raising a fist, as well as his voice, as he berated his friend. “But I saw you kissing the witch and knew you must be under her spell. Did she give you another potion?”

  “Nay, lackbrain, she gave me nothing…no thanks to you.”

  Rachelle raised her lamp high, took one look at Alinor’s kiss-swollen lips and whisker-grazed face and laughed so hard and long that everyone turned to stare at her in question.

  No one except Alinor seemed to be aware, or care, that Ottar, Karl and Tykir were nude. Totally. In fact, Alinor couldn’t keep her eyes from stealing glance after glance at the hard evidence between Tykir’s thighs that bespoke just how much he had wanted to make love with her. Now, that is a magic wand if I ever saw one…which I haven’t, of course.

  She was glad now that they had been interrupted, but glancing down one last time, she felt the tiniest twinge of regret. And curiosity.

  What would it be like to make love with this man?

  What would it be like to make love with this woman?

  That thought and many others in a similar vein were keeping Tykir awake. At least an hour had passed since he’d called out, “Ga ntt!” to everyone, and they had returned, “Good night!” and gone to their rest, again. From the sounds of snoring and even breathing, he assumed they were all asleep.

  Except him.

  And Alinor.

  What was she thinking that kept her awake? Probably ways to cut off certain of his body parts in retribution for the embarrassment he’d dealt her a short time ago. Who knew she would be so missish over a little exposed male flesh? Or teasing about swollen lips? With the distance she put between them now, he assumed she was not entertaining the same erotic thoughts as he. Nay, she practically hugged the wall so that not a hair on his body could touch a hair on hers.

  Holy Thor! Just that “hair” image caused his staff to lengthen a tiny bit more…as if any more was possible! He was rock hard and more than eager. Much more of this and he would have to go dip his staff in the water bucket, after first cracking the ice that formed on top. Now there was a thought to dampen a hard man’s “enthusiasm.”

  “Alinor…” he said tentatively.

  “Nay.”

  “Nay? I didn’t even ask the question yet.”

  “The answer is still nay. Nay, nay, nay.”

  He chuckled.

  “Smirk all you want, lord of Lech.”

  “Lord of Lech?” he gasped out.

  “We are not going to resume those kissing games. You are not going to touch me. I am not going to touch you. I may have lost my senses there for a moment, but I have them back now. And this witch is not making love with yon troll.”

  “Would yon troll be referring to me?” he said, choking with laughter.

  “If the name fits, Viking.”

  “The witch and the troll. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “Aaarrgh!”

  “You wanted me,” he pointed out. “Do not try to deny it.”

  “’Twas just curiosity.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Wouldst there be any chance you are curious about how my staff would feel in—”

  “Do not even think of suggesting such! I was curious, but now my curiosity has been satisfied. That is the end of it.”

  “You are satisfied?” he inquired incredulously.

  “I’m not talking to you anymore. So do not bother flapping your tongue at me.” She made much ado over the process of turning her back on him.

  She wants me, too, he decided with a grin. He was a man well versed in female ways. He sensed when they were attracted to him. And when a woman protested this much, ’twas a sure sign she was weakening. Yea, ’twas only a matter of time till Alinor crept closer to his tempting form. He’d best make ready.

  He arranged one arm under his head, striking a casual pose. With the other hand, he flipped the bed furs on his side down to his waist, exposing his shoulders and chest. Some women had told him, on more than one occasion, that he had an impressive upper body. Well, actually, many more of them had commented on his lower half, but he didn’t want to shock Alinor with that much male virility too soon. Not that she hadn’t seen it all already, but not from this close vantage point.

  He should be thinking about the consequences of what he was about to do, but he couldn’t care right now. All reason was being directed by the organ between his thighs, not the organ between his ears. Which was not a bad thing, in his opinion. Still, he assured himself, making love with Alinor did not mean he was committed to her, or that he was responsible for her care beyond delivery to Anlaf. She would understand that before he dipped his sword in her sheath, that she would.

  Odin’s breath! It’s cold in here. With his body half exposed to the night air, Tykir was beginning to shiver…and not from the bedlust. And speaking of breath, I can see my own breath. There will surely be frost on the oars come morn.

  Then the most amazing thing happened. Well, amazing for Tykir, who prided himself on his allure to women. He heard a sound. A soft sound.

  Alinor was snoring.

  She had bloody well fallen asleep on him.

  “Alinor,” he whispered.

  Nothing.

  Lightly, he touched her hair, which was the only thing showing above the furs.

  Nothing.

  He glared at her.

  Nothing.

  With a grumble of disgust, he pulled the bed furs back up to his chin and turned his back on her, as well.

  Mayhap she didn’t want me quite as much as I thought.

  From the other side of the bed furs, Alinor stopped her fake snoring for a moment.

  And what she thought was, Whew!

  Eight days later, they finally entered the wide fjord leading to King Anlaf’s
royal palace in Trondelag. The blowing of a horn pierced the air, announcing the arrival of new ships.

  The crew was nigh frozen to the bone. All of them were bundled up in huge furs or heavy woolen cloaks, even when rowing. Their hands were cracked, and bloody at times, from the harsh elements and the harsher task of maneuvering the ship on winter seas with ice-crusted oars and ropes.

  Alinor had lain, practically the entire eight days, curled up under Tykir’s sable cloak, shivering. She would have been bored to the point of insanity if she hadn’t been so cold…and frightened, for her fate would soon be decided.

  In this last leg of their ship’s journey, they had been hit with frigid weather—rain, snow, sleet and gusting winds—all of which the men managed to blame on Alinor’s witchly curses. In truth, she had been doing a fair amount of “cursing,” both inwardly and outwardly, but mostly in the form of complaints, not some impossible black magic.

  To make matters worse, the farther they traveled north into the region known as The Land of the Midnight Sun, the shorter days became. In just a few sennights, Tykir had told her, it would be dark all the day long, and this would last for several of the winter months. What a dismal prospect!

  Assuming she would be there that long.

  Rurik had taken to checking his manparts a dozen times a day because he contended that Alinor had been looking at him there with evil intent. She’d smiled at that idiocy, and waggled her fingers in a fey manner, which only made him madder.

  One of the seamen had complained that his loose bowels started the night the witch wished him “Good eventide” in passing. Alinor had told him it was probably the gammelost.

  Another had developed a fiercesome itch in the hair under his arms, on his chest, in his eyebrows and beard, but mostly between his legs, where he discovered crab lice with claw-like legs. Alinor must have caused the tiny creatures to suddenly inhabit his skin, the superstitious man had wailed. Never would he believe that the poxy wench he’d bedded back in Jorvik could be at fault. Soon the lice spread like wildfire—no doubt lured by all that Viking hair—but this, too, was blamed on Alinor.