“I brought these for you. Stand up and I’ll help you put them on.”
Without a word she obeyed him and rose, catching his arm to steady herself when the boat suddenly swayed beneath their feet, the waves grown choppy in the stiff wind whistling past the tent. Her unexpected touch sent a charge racing through him like wildfire. Rurik clenched his teeth, warning himself to move fast with what needed to be done. Standing so close to this golden goddess was proving too much of a temptation.
“Lean on my shoulder.” While she did, Rurik bent down and slipped first one trouser leg and then the other past her feet. He drew the garment quickly up to her waist beneath her borrowed tunic so that he had little time to focus upon the enticing curve of calf and thigh. Grabbing the rope belt, he secured it around her and then he turned her so she faced away from him.
“I’m going to wrap this sash around your breasts,” he told her, bringing the piece of cloth up under her tunic. “Let me know if I tie it too tightly.”
Rurik swallowed hard as his knuckles grazed firmly rounded flesh, and he must have startled her, for she gasped and stepped backward. Instinctively, his arms closed around her and for an instant he reveled in the arousing sensation of her slim body pressed against him.
Surprisingly, she did not pull away but leaned even closer, her bottom rubbing against the hard bulge his flesh had become. With supreme effort he pushed her away, concentrating again on tying the sash. Last, he gathered to one side the extra folds at the neckline of her tunic and fastened them with a plain metal cloak-pin. Her disguise would be for naught if the tunic slipped again from her shoulders.
“It’s safer for all of us if you’re dressed as a male slave,” Rurik explained as he turned her to face him, although she didn’t seem the least interested in her garb. “We’re very near your new home…and your master. Soon you’ll be with him again.”
She looked at him silently, her tantalizing lips forming no response. Rurik wondered if perhaps he should try Arne’s remedy. There must be something he could do to shatter the queer spell that gripped her, something that would draw forth her master’s name. By the gods, he wasn’t one to use brute force against a woman, but in this case…
“My lord, we’re nearing the city wharf!” came Leif’s voice just beyond the tent.
Deciding to wait until they had found their next few nights lodging before attempting a drastic measure that could bring on a noisy flood of tears, Rurik surveyed his handiwork and deemed the woman’s attire passable. She made a pretty lad, but with her breasts flattened beneath the sash and baggy clothes, he doubted any would question her sex. Yet he had to do something about her hair, although the thought of cutting those magnificent tresses did not set well with him. He had never seen their like before.
“Could you braid your hair for me, wench?” Wielding a sword was far more suited to his large hands than such a task.
Rurik was gratified when she twisted her hair into a thick braid as deftly as if she had done so a thousand times. “Like this?”
He was stunned by her soft query, the first question she had posed to him for three days. Despite himself, he reached out and touched the heavy braid, admiring its silkiness and wondering if she sought to please her master as readily as she had just done for him. He imagined, as a concubine, that she must know many ways to please a man…
His imagination firing at the thought, a sudden idea came to him. His blood raced red-hot through his veins.
By Odin, why had he not considered it before? For a woman accustomed to giving pleasure to one man, whose name, then, would she most likely cry out at the height of passion? Surely that of her lover, the hated enemy with whom Rurik hoped to strike his furtive bargain.
A jarring thud suddenly threw the two of them together. As Rurik grabbed the startled woman to prevent her from falling, he realized the boat was sliding against the wharf. Yet this time he didn’t push her away. He crushed her against his chest, his lust rearing inside him like a wild thing set free. Why not both satisfy his need and aid his plan? He saw no harm in it, and the quicker he got rid of this far too captivating wench, the better!
Lifting her chin, Rurik brought his mouth down fiercely upon hers, tasting her lips for the first time and finding them as warm and soft and as sweet as he had imagined. He was not surprised when she didn’t struggle or twist to escape, instead leaning seductively into their kiss as might any concubine.
When she parted her lips, the moist tip of her tongue touching his, Rurik groaned from the desire shaking him. By Thor, she was eager and willing! Deepening his kiss, his hands slid down her back to squeeze her bottom, and he lifted her against that rock-hard part of himself that ached for the hot softness of her body—
“Harrumph…forgive me, Lord Rurik.”
Arne’s startled yet urgent voice broke through Rurik’s impassioned haze. “What is it?”
“Armed guards, my lord, making their way toward the boat. I suspect with the intention of boarding.”
Rurik eased his hold upon the woman. There would be time…later.
“Find the wench a hat, Arne, quickly!” he ordered. “Her hair must be completely covered.” While the Varangian warrior dropped the tent flap to do his bidding, Rurik lifted the woman in his arms and placed her on the furs. He took a moment to stuff her thick braid down the back of her tunic, and noting her flushed cheeks and the anxious frown between her brows, he sought to reassure her. “You must remain here, little one, until I come for you. Do you understand?”
To his surprise, she protested. “No, I want to stay with you!”
Rurik had no time to contend with this sudden and wholly unexpected spark of spirit, although it boded well for her recovery.
“You cannot, wench, it isn’t safe. You must remain inside the tent. Do not disobey me.”
He had spoken with such sternness that this time she nodded, her eyes very wide. As Arne reappeared with a woolen cap, Rurik rose and brushed past him.
“Put it on her, then meet me outside,” he said grimly. “But stay close to the entrance, Arne. It seems our meek little lamb has a mind of her own after all, and might think to join us.”
“She’ll not get past me, my lord. Have no fear of that.”
After casting a last glance at the woman, Rurik stepped from the tent to greet the enemy warriors he surmised were there to check all vessels docking at the wharf. It made sense in this time of war, and Chernigov was the usurper Prince Mstislav’s most recently conquered city.
***
“For this hole we must pay thirty silver grivna a night?” Arne held up a smoking lamp to better view the dingy interior of the shack they had rented close to the main marketplace. Tattered furs hung from two narrow windows, the only furnishings a dilapidated table shoved against a planked wall and two benches. Cursing under his breath, the husky warrior kicked at the filthy reeds littering the floor. “Smells of piss and stale ale to me.”
“We’re lucky to have it.” Frowning, Rurik ignored Arne’s continued muttering. “The city is overrun with merchants and Mstislav’s retainers. If we hadn’t chanced down this street as those other traders were leaving, someone else would have slept here tonight.”
“Aye, and if the prince’s watchdogs had only kept us a while longer with their questions, we’d have missed the honor!” Arne snorted in disgust. “Are you sure you won’t return to the ship, my lord? I’d trade a pallet on deck for this stinking hovel any day, and the thought of Kjell and Leif aboard alone, surrounded on every side by our enemies—”
“Enough, Arne.” Rurik’s voice was low and firm. “You know the plan. Leif and Kjell will stay with the ship while we gather what information we can at the market and deal with our valuable charge.” He glanced at the silent woman holding his arm, then met the warrior’s disgruntled gaze. “Don’t forget that our surly welcome committee granted us a mere four-day trading pass, then we must leave the city. We don’t have time to waste.”
Turning away, Rurik held his lamp
higher and pushed open a door leading to a tiny separate bedchamber. A mouse squeaked and skittered over his foot into the main room, causing the woman to start.
“You’ve nothing to fear, little one,” he said as he led her into the shadowed, windowless chamber. “It’s only a mouse—”
A loud stamping sound came from the other room, followed by a satisfied grunt. “A dead one,” Arne announced.
Shaking his head, Rurik set the sputtering lamp on the floor and tossed the large bundle of furs he’d been carrying onto the bed. The straw-filled mattress appeared somewhat fresh, but he would cover it with soft skins anyway. This room wasn’t the fine bower his wide-eyed beauty was surely accustomed to, but it was the best available. At least it would offer them more privacy than the tent aboard ship.
“My stomach’s yowling like the wolves of Hel,” said Arne, appearing on the threshold. “If you’d like, my lord, I’ll set up a fine feast in the other room.” His gaze raked over the woman. “She looks like she could use a hot meal. She’s a bit too skinny for my taste.”
“Better skinny than too fat like you.” The woman’s retort had been uttered so softly that Rurik almost believed he had imagined it. Then he noticed the slight jutting of her chin. Amused by this little show of temper, he glanced back at Arne, who thankfully had missed the insult.
“The wench and I will be eating alone tonight,” he said, not offering any further explanation.
Arne stared at him in some confusion. “You will?”
Rurik nodded meaningfully. Settling his arm around the woman’s shoulders, he felt the tension in her body subside as he drew her close.
Arne appeared even more confused. “But, Lord Rurik…you said you weren’t keeping the wench for yourself—”
“I’m not. I have a plan, Arne. Trust me.”
The warrior gaped at them for an instant, then understanding lit his eyes and his swarthy, bearded face broke into a lusty grin. “Aye, I’m sure you do, Lord Rurik. When it comes to pleasing the wenches…” Chuckling, he turned to leave.
“A jug of wine would be nice, my friend, and half of that fine crusty loaf of bread if you can spare it. And some of that spit-roasted mutton,” Rurik called after him.
“There’s more than enough.” Arne gave Rurik a broad wink over his shoulder. “It’ll take me a moment to fetch your meal, then I’ll trouble you no more save for my snoring.”
Rurik smiled wryly, but he sobered when he studied the woman nestled against him. If she had been affronted a moment ago, he saw no sign of it now. She seemed perfectly content in his embrace, her eyes large and luminous in the lamp’s golden light.
Feeling his heart beginning to pound, he hoped Arne hurried with their meal. He was inclined to slam the door shut so they would not be disturbed. He could not remember ever having such a pleasurable task before him, his goal being to drive this woman to such wild distraction that she screamed out her master’s name.
He couldn’t wait to claim her, to quench within her temptress’s body his mounting lust ignited too many long hours ago. Surely when he was spent and satiated, he would be freed from this ungodly fascination. Other enchanting women had ceased to intrigue him when he had tasted their feminine secrets. She would be no different.
Rurik was relieved when Arne’s hulking form appeared once more in the doorway, and he left the woman to drag a low, lopsided table over to the bed, indicating with a nod that their meal should be set upon it. As the warrior obliged him, Rurik cut the rope binding the furs and spread some of them over the mattress. The rest he tossed to Arne.
“Sleep well, my friend, but take care that your sword is drawn and ready at your side,” Rurik cautioned. “As you said, we’ve enemies all around us.”
“Aye, the usurping dogs,” Arne muttered in agreement as he shut the door behind him.
Following his own advice, the first thing Rurik did when he and the woman were finally alone was unbuckle his sword belt and lay it upon the floor within easy reach of the bed. Then he bade the woman to sit upon the lumpy mattress and he took the place beside her.
“Are you hungry, little one?” Rurik noted how prominent her cheekbones were in a face grown thinner during the past few days.
She smiled her assent, a small curve of her lips that tugged strangely at his heart. He tore off a chunk of bread for her, deciding as she eagerly took a bite that the recovery of her appetite was a good sign. Combined with her recent displays of temperament, he hoped that before the evening was done he would see many more such signs, and thus have a terse message addressed to her wealthy master not long after the first light of dawn.
“Wine?”
As she swallowed another mouthful of bread, she nodded, and he quickly pulled out the stopper and offered her the jug so that she might drink. To his surprise, she took a long draft as if very thirsty, yet it pleased him for her to do so. If she possessed any fears at all about his sensual advances, he hoped they would be dulled by the wine’s soothing effect.
“Try some of the mutton,” he urged, waiting until she had eaten a good portion despite the fact that the fragrant seared meat had his stomach growling.
It seemed in moments that the wooden platter was empty between them, the bread devoured, and the wine jug empty. He could not help noticing how delicately she had consumed her meal, confirming to him that her manners were indeed refined. Frowning as if trying to remember something, she seemed to look about her for a water bowl to cleanse her soiled fingers, then she sighed in frustration, her hands falling to her lap.
“Would you like to bathe?” Rurik asked, remembering the large bucket of fresh water that the owner of the shack had left them in the other room. At her low-spoken “Yes,” he was on his feet and striding from the bedchamber, startling Arne who almost dropped a hunk of mutton as he lurched from the table.
“My lord?”
“Go back to your meal.” Rurik picked up the bucket, wishing that he had hot, steaming bathing water to offer the woman. It was easy to imagine how fetching she might look sitting in a tub with her wet hair streaming around her, her beautiful breasts sleek and glistening with moisture.
When he returned to their room, the woman had stripped to the waist, her tunic and the cloth sash lying upon the floor, and she was working at the rope belt at her waist. She must have sensed him standing there, for she looked up and met his eyes, her expression troubled.
“I can’t untie the knot.”
Closing the door, Rurik moved quickly to her side, marveling that she was so unconcerned by her nakedness. As he deftly undid the belt, she regarded him with such frankness that it took his breath away. Her manner was so comfortable, so trusting, she must look upon him in the same light as her master.
Suddenly he found himself deeply envious of this boyar to possess such a woman. She seemed so eager to please him, almost as if awaiting his next move…
“Let me help you,” he said huskily, slipping her trousers down over her curved hips and deliciously rounded bottom. When she was standing naked before him, her body silhouetted in gold from the lamp behind her, Rurik doubted he had ever known such desire. She was fashioned so finely. Perfection.
His instincts screamed for him to take her, now, but another part of him wanted to savor the treasure that had been placed in his path. Wadding the sash, he dipped it into the bucket until the cloth was soaked. Then he began to bathe her, first her face, taking care to rub gently over the bruise upon her cheek that was just beginning to fade.
Her entrancing blue eyes never wavered from his gaze, and she stood still for his ministrations as if it were a common thing for a man to perform such a task upon her. Again he found himself filled with envy, but he did not stifle it, the emotion part of the spell under which she held him captive.
Next he slid the wet cloth down her lovely throat, across her fine-boned shoulders, and along slender arms he couldn’t wait to feel wrapped tightly around his back. Dipping the sash into the bucket, he brought it to her breasts and squee
zed, the coolness of the water that slicked her golden skin causing her to gasp and her apricot-brown nipples to pucker.
Rurik thought for sure that he had endured enough, but he continued to bathe her, down her taut belly, over her hips and between her legs, when suddenly she lost his gaze. Closing her eyes and whimpering deep in her throat, she arched against his hand, her soft woman’s curls tickling his skin.
It was too much. Sweeping her into his arms, Rurik laid her upon the bed and leaving her for only a moment, undressed more swiftly than he had ever thought possible. As he blanketed her with his body, he no longer cared about savoring her or taking his time. He wanted her so badly that he was shaking. Believing she wanted him just as much, he parted her legs with his knee and thrust inside her with such vehemence that she cried out…not a man’s name, not in ecstasy, but in raw pain.
“By Odin…?” Rurik had had virgins before, and in that unsettling instant, he knew the woman moaning beneath him had never known another man. Yet he could no sooner stop his wild assault than the furious hammering of his heart.
“Sshh, little one…sshh,” he soothed, knowing from experience that soon her pain would pass and rippling pleasure take its place.
Kissing her hungrily, passionately, the wine-scented taste of her mouth driving him into a frenzy, he nonetheless drew back a little and slipped his hand between their bodies. His fingers found the slick, wet heat he was seeking and he slid them into her, teasing the tender bud hidden there that seemed to swell beneath his touch.
He was rewarded at once by her sharp inhalation of surprise, then broken whimpers as she began to toss beneath him, her hips thrusting upward as urgently as he delved within her, neither his fingers or his deepening kisses giving her any peace. He almost laughed in triumph against her lips when her arms curled around his neck to grip him tightly, her panting as hot and breathless as his own.
The Pagan's Prize (Captive Brides Collection) Page 6