Vengeance Hammer (Viking Vengeance)

by Jianne Carlo

  As always, he tasted of paradise and the promise of ecstasy. Her puss quivered and squeezed his cock. He feathered kisses down her neck. The moist, delicate caresses made her nipples ache and burn. She urged him to her breast and lifted to give him better access.

  Dráddør growled his protest and thrust upward.

  Her grip on his arms slipped and so did she.

  The action drove him deeper into her until she knew his cock touched her womb. Impossible though it was, the fever started to rise in her again. He walked over to the bed. With each long stride, his pecker hammered her puss and abraded her clitty.

  When they fell onto the mattress, she locked her ankles around his back.

  He pounded into her, his hands gripped her hips, angling her this way and that. Each stroke a magnificent battering, taking her higher and higher. He clamped his mouth on the cusp of her shoulder and bit.

  She howled his name. Dug her nails into his shoulders and surrendered. Let the bliss take over, savored the way her walls sucked at him, relished the hot hardness of his invasion.

  Xára closed her eyes and tried to hold onto to the ecstasy. To carve this moment, this man, into her soul. They smelled of soap and the musk of the aphrodisiac oil. Where their flesh touched they were clammy and wet and it felt delicious. He was heavy and huge and she cherished his weightiness on her.

  He lifted his head from where he lay 2tween her breasts and pushed onto his forearms.

  “Nay,” she protested and pressed him back down.

  “I am too heavy to lay on you so,” he mumbled into her ribs, his lips and warm breath a teasing tickle.

  “Nay. Stay.”

  “You will catch a chill.” He rolled them over, reached down to snatch the covers, and tucked the heavy fabric over her shoulders.

  She cuddled into him and smiled when his chest hairs made her nose twitch.

  “I missed you, Xára.” He finger-combed her hair.

  Now was the time.

  She looked up at him. “I am with child, husband.”

  “Nay.” He sat up and their bodies separated. He cupped her face and their gazes met. “In truth?”

  She nodded. “It pleases you?”

  “Aye.” He hugged her to him so tightly she could not draw a breath. “Aye. I am most pleased, wife.”

  A smile chased her lips.

  He drew back and studied her with anxious intent. “Are you well? Do you have the morning sickness? Are you hungry? Let me see your belly.”

  She laughed aloud when he peered at her stomach and palmed her flesh.

  “’Tis my babe growing in there. My son.”

  “Our babe, mayhap e’en our daughter.” Oh how she loved this fierce warrior who turned tender and amazed at the notion of his child.

  “Nay.” He frowned. “A son. ’Twas enough that I worried o’er Hjørdis from the day she was born. Now I have the worry of Evie. ’Twill be thrice worse with mine own daughter. Nay. A son. We will have a son. Mayhap your immortal powers can make it so.”

  The hopeful expression he wore made her heart sing. Surely a man who could worry about his sister and Evie would forgive the one secret she had left to tell.

  “Nay.” She took a deep breath. “There is something I must tell you. Jennie was not my mother.”

  “What?” He narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

  Her parched throat clogged her words for a moment. “My mother, Crista, and Jennie were sisters, the only daughters of my grandfather, the true Earl of Caithness. When Arnfinn invaded, my mother was with child. Arnfinn killed my grandfather and all his sons. He intended to marry the first-born daughter to legitimize his claim to the title. Jennie and Crista would not tell him which one of them was the firstborn. Foolishly they thought this would thwart his plans. He raped them both.”

  Dráddør frowned. “It makes no sense. To what end did he do this?”

  “I know only what Jennie told me after she drank the poison. Crista and Jennie had their babies on the same night. Crista died in childbirth and Jennie’s baby was stillborn. Ulna switched the babies. Arnfinn married Jennie and had the priest date the marriage to the day of his invasion.” She fiddled with a loose thread on the sheet knowing what his next question would be.

  “Who was the elder of the two?” He lifted her chin with a forefinger.

  “Jennie said it mattered not and refused to tell me. She made me promise not to tell Evie any of the tale.” Xára could not meet his gaze. He was a man of honor. She had no notion what he would do now. “You may have married the wrong daughter.”

  The silence grew oppressive. She heard every little sound, the quickening of his pulse, the clenching of his jaw, but knew he did not.

  “Nay. Look to me sváss.”

  Their stares met.

  “Be you the rightful heiress or not, I am content with my bride and would have no other. We must seek to do what is fair with Evie. The king has granted me Godfraid’s lands, mayhap we can settle those on her. Think you ’twould do?”

  The tension in her neck abated. Xára grinned, “’Twould be perfect.”

  “Now wife, tell me true—what memories of mine have you stolen?” He crossed his arms.

  She cuffed him. “What must I do or say to convince you? I see naught of your memories. Your recollections are blocked to me.”

  He squinted at her.

  Xára had grown so tired of this recurring quarrel of theirs. “Mayhap now I am with child, they will come to me.”

  ’Twas wicked of her to let him stew, but she could not resist planting the seed in his mind. Not a minute later, Xára regretted her blurted statement.

  “Konáll said that Nyssa’s immortal powers blossomed when she began carrying his son. I like not the idea of you stealing my memories, Xára.”

  “I was distraught the whole time you were gone. I do not want us to ever part again on a quarrel. You must believe me, Dráddør. I see naught of your memories. Albeit, your concern on this troubles me. I have thought and thought on the matter and can only conclude that there is another who has your heart.”

  “What?” He raised his head. “Nay. Why would you think such?”

  “Why else would you want me not to know of your memories?” She was a jealous fool, but ’twas the only explanation possible.

  He closed his eyes and blew out a long sigh. “I can see ’tis naught to be done, but to tell you the sordid tale.”

  Xára tried to swallow around the sudden fear clogging her throat.

  “Arnfinn killed my father when I had seen but ten and three winters. He sold us all into slavery and claimed my father’s lands. Brökk and Konáll were fortunate, they ended up with the Jomsvikings. My mother and I were put on a ship headed to Miklagard to be sold at the slave auctions. On the way there, a storm arose, my mother was taken by Thor, and I was cast ashore in a strange land. A harem master found me and kept me as his serf for two winters.”

  ’Twas the last thing she had expected him to say. “A harem master? I do not know of this.”

  “The caliphs, rulers in the Arab world, take many wives. A harem master keeps the peace amongst them.”

  A deep blush stained her husband’s cheeks and she knew to tread gently with her next query. “What were your duties?”

  “To provide whatever the women desired.” He met her glance. “I was a randy lad whose pecker rose at the sight of a bared ankle suddenly thrust into the center of o’er a score women who had naught to do but await a swiving call from their lord and master. There were many things I was made to do that I prefer not to remember.”

  And mayhap many a thing that he enjoyed even though he had not wanted to. She understood better now his ready smile and the leashed anger he carried. The enforced silence at Touft Abbey had fired her rage, and she’d had no outlet for her anger. ’Twas one of the reasons she had taken great pleasure in defying the nuns’ strident rules and regulations, particularly those related to carnal pleasures. Yet, she had learned to conceal her ire with sweet smiles and
the best manners and he had coped with his rage in a similar manner, with ready grins and a sunny charm.

  Capturing his wrist, she turned the palm up, and kissed the center. She met his stare and repeated the gesture given him on that first day; touched her heart, set her fist in his hand, and wrapped his fingers around hers. “I give you all I have, Dráddør, husband mine, my heart, my trust, and my love.”

  * * *

  A sennight passed, then another, and another, and then one morn Dráddør awoke to discover his wife had sprouted a wee belly. They slept in the same position each night—her back to his chest, his hand on her stomach. He didn’t want to disturb her slumber and so slowly explored the slight curve. Their babe grew.

  He had tried to curb his growing obsession with her safety, but the only way he could do so was by removing himself from her company. And that he hated more than the constant watching of her every action. For not knowing where she was or what she was doing drove him witless.

  Two days ago, he had been desperate enough for any sort of distraction that he had called for a hunt on a day so freezing cold nary a mouse would’ve stirred from its cozy nest, far less a deer or any actual game. Dráddør knew his men thought him addled by winter restlessness after the hunt.

  No wonder Konáll carried Nyssa rather than risk her tripping or worse, tumbling off a cliff. He counted the moons to the birth of their child. Seven. ’Twould be a long, hard, haul.

  She wriggled her shoulders and rolled over to face him.

  Every morn she greeted him thus, with a beam that made his chest ache, and a dreamy, sensual gleam in her wonderful eyes. An upsurge of tenderness and happiness swamped him and he could do naught but return her smile. “The babe swells your belly.”

  “Aye. Soon I will be as large as Nyssa. I wish there was some way we could send a message and find out if her babe is a boy or girl.” Xára fingered the short, spiky hair lining his jaw. He shaved now once a week at her request as she liked the feel of his stubble on her clitty.

  His morning erection twitched and addled his words for a brief moment. He shook his head. “’Tis too soon. Their babe does not come until the winter solstice. We will have to wait for a thaw to hear the news. Best curb your curiosity until the spring.”

  ’Twas a dreary morn and the shadows in the room had not lifted even though dawn had long past. But the furs from two black bears appropriated from one of Godfraid’s ships kept them snug as rabbits in a burrow.

  She drew a circle on his chest, and asked, “Think you, they will visit then?”

  “Nay. Konáll will not risk travelling with his son until mid-summer at soonest. Why do you ask?” He nuzzled his way from her shoulders to the tip of one earlobe.

  “I am anxious to meet Nyssa’s babe and see how she fared.” She reached down between them and fingered the seed leaking from the slit in his pecker’s crown. “Mayhap if they visit in mid-summer, she can act midwife for me.”

  He jerked up to meet her gaze. “Mid-summer? Our son is not expected until nigh the Harvest End.”

  Rosy color washed her cheeks, she blinked, and stroked his cock pulling back the foreskin. “Surely they would stay for some weeks? Then Nyssa could be here for the birth.”

  “Nay, sváss. Konáll, too, has fields to plant and harvests to reap. Mayhap they would stay a sennight, but no longer. But, I am not interested in talk of my brother and harvests. Methinks ’tis time to while away a dreary winter morn under our furs.” He waggled his brows.

  “I have been thinking on what you told me of the harem girl who spoke of pleasuring you with her eyelashes.” She leaned in and fluttered her lashes on his chest.

  He grinned.

  “Albeit, you must lie still and let me have my way with you.” She jutted her chin and pointed at the slats in the headboard. “I want your vow you will cling to those until I give you leave to loosen your hold.”

  Dráddør struggled to repress a howl. His wife thought to control their coupling? ’Twas most amusing.

  She folded her arms and her beautiful breasts plumped together.

  “I will. But first.” He captured both pink-tipped nipples and tugged. ’Twas a caress his wife was partial to and he loved the way she gasped and her eyes glazed over.

  “Nay.” She swatted his hands away. “Nay. Either you give me your vow and place your hands right there or I will…”

  He quirked a brow. “You will what, mit sváss?”

  “I will inform Hjørdis and Evie you have challenged them to beat you at chess and that they may play you until they win a game.” She shot him a smile reminiscent of a fox cornering a hen.

  ’Twas a formidable threat, for the two girls were relentless in their goal to beat him at the game he had recently taught them. They never tired of chess either. He narrowed his eyes. “Mayhap I will tell them the same thing.”

  She flashed him a crooked grin. “Think you, they would believe you o’er me?”

  Reluctantly, he edged to the middle of the bed and gripped two slats.

  “Your word,” she stated.

  “I will not let go of the slats until you give me leave to do so.” He rolled his eyes. For now, he would let her believe she gave the orders.

  Quick as a flash she scooted off the mattress, dashed to her sewing basked, and came back with three lengths of cloth.

  “What do you do?” He drew back when she came close.

  “Why I am going to cover your eyes and bind your feet.” She mimicked his earlier brow waggling.

  “I did not agree to that.”

  “Nay. But you can do naught to stop it without breaking your vow.” She promptly tied the dark fabric around his head and all he could see was the tips of her breasts.

  They had tied him in the harem when they wanted to do things to him to which he objected strenuously. Dráddør fought to repress the memories of that time. Xára was his wife, not a trained harem female, and ’twas the first occasion she had taken the lead in their bedsport. He trusted her.

  She bound his feet to the posts, the ties loose enough for him to move his legs on the mattress.

  Dráddør relaxed a tad. He felt the silky sweep of her hair across his belly. Her warm breath skipped o’er his engorged shaft. Then she started a rhythmic sweeping of her locks from his stones to his chest in smaller and smaller circles. ’Twas exquisite. The lash of a whip without the pain, the sting of leather without the burn.

  His balls jerked when a slight feathery flicker raised the hairs there. He flinched when a wet, hot tongue laved the entire circumference.

  She blew on the dampness.

  Gritting his teeth, he battled for control, and went through the thrusts and parries of his everyday swordplay.

  When she cupped his testicles, he bit his lip until he tasted blood.

  “I have yearned to do this since you did it to me,” she murmured, her voice husky and full of sensual promise.

  With exquisite agonizing slowness, she rolled down his foreskin, and held him tight at the base. Her tongue danced across the crown, lingered on the seed leaking there, and rimmed the underside. She hummed and the sound vibrated on the sensitive flesh leading to his slit.

  Dráddør bowed his head. Sweat coated his brow. His fingers bit into the wood. Splinters pierced one thumb. She licked him like a child licked an icicle. Long, luscious strokes that brought him to the edge over and over again. He hung on, wanting to prolong the tantalizing torture, but when she took him fully into her mouth, he cursed.

  “Release me, sváss.” Was that his voice? Did he beg when he had vowed ne’er to do so again?

  She was at his side and in less than a heartbeat freed his legs and then scrambled the blindfold off. “I caused you pain?”

  The sight of her face, her incredible eyes, the concern and love furrowing her forehead, pulverized his bitter memories. “The sweetest of pain. I needs be inside you, wife.”

  He caught her to him and slanted his mouth over hers.

  Rolled them over and knee-nud
ged her legs apart.

  Cupped her arse cheeks and raised her off the mattress.

  Plunged into her fisting channel in one powerful stroke.

  He took her fast and hard.

  She matched him thrust for thrust.

  And all the while they kissed like starving beggars.

  The climax hit them both at the same moment. It erupted from his toes, flared across his groin, sucked his balls tight to the base of his cock, and his seed burst from him in short, sharp spurts.

  Time drifted and so did he, until the effort to stay on his elbows grew too burdensome. He shifted so they lay still joined with Xára on top.

  Never had he ever been so content. He had earned his fortune, had a castle to live in, and lands to farm. But even more, he held his treasured wife in his arms, their precious babe grew within her, and soon they would start a family.

  Xára had given him her all. He could do no less.

  “I wish to write.”

  A delightful giggle escaped her lips. She linked her hands on his chest, rested her chin on the knuckles, and crinkled her nose. “You wish to write?”

  “Aye. But I need a canvas.” He winked at her.

  The impish smile he loved stole across her kiss-swollen lips. She shifted off him, sat crossed-legged, and thrust out her breasts. “’Twill do, my lord and master?”

  “Mayhap. Close your eyes.”

  His dearling wife frowned.

  “Close your eyes.”

  She rolled them, but then squeezed her eyes shut.

  Dráddør traced the words, I love you.

  Epilogue

  Late Summer, the following year

  Dráddør surveyed his great hall. The changes he and Xára wrought over the winter had transformed the dreary castle into a home. The new high table at which they sat was made of worked oak and tiles from the east had been set into the top. It made cleaning easier and added a remarkable beauty to the furniture. That the tiles had come from the cargo of Godfraid’s three ships only augmented the completeness of his vengeance.

  His glance fell on Hjørdis and Evie, seated on either side of Ívarr at a table below the salt. The three had become inseparable. If ’twere not for his sister insisting on remaining at Lathairn, he doubted Evie would’ve been as resilient. The two young half-immortal girls had become fast friends and he was indeed grateful to Hjørdis for her eternal optimism and cheerfulness.