“Who are you?” the stout, unpleasant-looking man asked me. He was a bit taller than I was, with dark hair and a rough beard. His clothes and face were covered in travel dirt, and there was a beery smell as he came closer.
“My name is Hilda. I am looking for…” I hesitated just a moment. “I am looking for a slave that escaped my home. I thought I spotted him in your wagon train.” The man looked at me suspiciously for a few moments. I considered whether I should have dressed in something finer.
“Looking for a slave, eh?” He asked. He turned back towards the wagons. “Men, step out. Let’s see if she recognizes her property in any of your faces.” Slowly, the men in the wagons, as well as the ones riding around them for protection, came out and assembled themselves in front of me. I searched each and every face for long moments, trying to find the man that had looked so much like my husband. There were some blond men, but none of them had my husband’s particular hair color. None of them had his face, his eyes. There were none that looked even the slightest bit like the man I had married, the man I had loved. My heart was racing in my chest, trying to find something—anything—the slightest hint of what I had seen the day before. I swallowed down my disappointment.
“I was mistaken,” I told the man who had confronted me. “My slave is not here.” What had made me think that my husband would be? Was I losing my mind? Not a single one of the men in the wagon train had looked anything at all like the man I had known so well. After so long, after so many dreams, I must be so desperate as to see his face everywhere. I thanked the men for accommodating my request and started to turn to the horse. I intended to race back into the village, hopefully avoiding the farmer until I could safely return his horse without him knowing. I was shaking my head slowly, not paying the men behind me any attention; that was a mistake.
I felt a hand grab at my wrist, tightening on it in a viselike grip. I reached for my sword but another hand claimed my other wrist before I could, and the dirty, unpleasant-looking man, stepped around to face me. “How exactly are you going to thank us for our help, m’lady?” the man asked, leering at me. I heard the other men laughing. I could feel my cheeks flushing.
“I am afraid I have no gold to offer you.” I glanced up at Brandt, wishing more than anything that I had not brought him with me. It had been folly, absolute folly. These men might kill me and take Brandt as a slave—might kill him. For a moment I wasn’t sure which fate would be the worse for my son.
“I’m sure none of the men would mind an equal trade,” the unpleasant man replied with a raucous laugh. “We mustered for you, you could muster for us.” I tried to get my hands free, but it was no use. I couldn’t get to my sword. I had to be brave. I had to think. I remembered the gambit that I had used the last time I was cornered—years ago. It had only been one man, instead of three, but I thought to myself that three men out to be three times as gullible. I looked around myself wildly, pretending to panic—though my real sense of fear was growing in truth—and pretended to start to faint, sagging and relaxing my arms and letting my knees bend to make it look like I was sinking. The two men holding my wrists both loosened their grip at the same time, moving to claim me. I wrenched my wrists free and grabbed for my sword, thrusting at the nearest man first and stabbing him in the leg. I darted to the side—the man I had stabbed was crumpling to the ground—and got between the leader and my horse, facing all of the men at once.
I kept my sword raised, not even daring to glance up at my son, perched up on the saddle and waiting for me. Brandt, brave half-Viking that he was, didn’t make a sound; not like my little sister at all. He was smart enough to know better at three. “That was a good trick, wench,” the leader said, baring his half-rotted teeth in a grin. “But you don’t really think you’re going to fight us all off, do you?” I swallowed against the fear rising up in me. If I could get onto the horse, I might get away. But there was no chance that I could climb up and settle myself behind Brandt quickly enough.
“I don’t think I’ll need to fight you all off,” I said, forcing more courage into my voice than I really felt. “I fully expect that after I kill three or four of you, the rest will decide that I’m not worth the trouble.” A few of the men grinned—one even laughed—at my comment. I decided that, whatever happened, those men were better than the rest. The unpleasant man scowled at me and made a lunge for me. I thrust out with the sword, just as Brynjulf had taught me years before, and the man stopped as the point of the sword pierced his leather shirt, though I didn’t think I’d done much more than scratch him.
I heard commotion coming up from the other side of the wagon train, men shouting and the muted thunder of feet on the packed earth of the road. I couldn’t look away from the leader who was in front of me. If I did, I knew he would do whatever he could to take advantage of my distraction. I could feel my heart pounding, but I was more excited than scared now. I remembered the way I had felt when the villagers had battled with my husband and our community, the way I had slashed and stabbed without worrying about the blood, without worrying if I had hurt or killed anyone—just wanting to make them stop. Brandt had been in the arms of one of our servants, safer then than he was now. He was too small for me to send the horse off with him on its back.
The shouting increased in volume, and I could hear that it wasn’t just men’s feet on the road; it was horse’s hooves as well. “Out of my way!” I heard someone shout. I still didn’t dare to look away. The voice was so familiar, but my mind was buzzing, trying to sort through the problem of how best to keep my son safe, how to keep myself safe.
“Make way for the Jarl, you vermin!” I gasped, almost lowering the point of my sword in surprise. I knew that language. It was the Viking tongue my husband had spoken. These men, whoever they were, might know something about my husband. They might be able—and might even be willing—to help me regain him. Whoever the Jarl was, he might know who my husband was, know how I could find him. Then I felt another thrill of fear. They might instead want to take his son from me, raise him up among true Vikings. They might claim me themselves.
In my moment of distraction, the other man who had grabbed my arm lunged around my sword, grabbing for me again. He twisted my free arm behind my back hard enough to make me cry out in pain. The leader darted around my sword and before I could bring it back to bear on him he had taken out his own, pressing it up against the base of my throat. I heard one of the newcomers give a shout, and more commotion broke out. I stared at the unpleasant leader of the wagon train, feeling the cold steel of his sword against my skin, the pain in my shoulder and elbow where the other man had twisted my arm back, pinning it so that I couldn’t struggle. I was so fixated on my own moment of survival that although I could hear the scuffle going on, I didn’t see anything.
And then a big, tall man, with long, wild blonde hair and an immense beard, came up behind the unpleasant leader and grabbed him, cutting his throat in a quick, sure movement. The man holding my arm to my back let go of me in shock, and I almost let the sword fall from my hand from my own surprise. The leader’s sword fell to the ground and he followed it, slumping forward and collapsing onto his face in the dirt. In a moment I spun on my heel and looked at the man who had trapped me. “You mustered for me,” I told him, my voice harsh in my own ears. “I’ll return the favor.” I thrust the sword out, stabbing him through the stomach, pushing all of my weight behind the metal. It ran him through and he fell to his knees, dragging my sword down with him.
I yelped when I felt strong arms wrap around me from behind. “Let go of me!” I screamed. The man turned me around and I looked up into his face. Underneath the shaggy hair and the beard, the bright blue eyes staring into mine were so familiar that I almost started crying. This had to be a dream, I thought. But in all of my dreams, my husband had looked exactly the same as he had when we had parted.
“My fearsome little Hilda,” the man said, grinning down at me. “The Vikings don’t look well on a wife that tries to com
mand her husband.” He laughed, wrapping his arms more tightly around me and pressing his lips to my ear. “I will have to punish you later,” he whispered. I wrapped my arms around my husband, pressing my face to his chest, my heart racing with happiness and excitement and fear all rolled together.
“Punish me all you like, husband,” I murmured, leaning up onto my toes to kiss him on the lips.
Chapter Twelve
As soon as we returned to the village, my husband gave the horse back to the farmer I had stolen it from, giving him a few pieces of silver and explaining that his wife had been worried for him. I kept my mouth shut, though I wanted to laugh at the way my beloved played it off. When the brigands my husband had commanded had divided up the spoils between them, we had set off back to the village; the other brigands would take lodgings in town, but my husband would—joyfully—be coming home with me. I had introduced Brandt to his father, who was full of pride of his well-grown son, and lifted our boy onto his own horse, taken from the leader of the wagon train. He was still a Viking, my husband, still able to conduct a fierce, efficient raid.
When we arrived at the house I had taken, I called out to Agathe and Jehanne and Alder, who were stunned to see the company I arrived with. “Brynjulf and I found each other,” I explained, almost losing myself in laughter again. Ever since we had kissed, I had been torn between laughing with delight and an increasing desire to have my husband to myself, to get to know his body all over again, and let him become reacquainted with mine. “Jehanne,” I said, lifting Brandt off of his father’s horse. “I’d like to ask you to watch over Brandt overnight.” It was not yet evening and I grinned up at my husband with lust in my blood. Jehanne understood and smothered a laugh, leading Brandt away into the garden to work and play.
Agathe heated water and poured a bath for Brynjulf, adding in some sachets of herbs that I had around the house—she knew them as well as I did, and when I sniffed the aromatic steam, I recognized the ones she had chosen; ones with powers to relax and stimulate all at once. I gave her a little grin as she left my room.
I couldn’t bear to leave Brynjulf even to let him bathe, and I sat on the edge of the tub, watching him scrub himself clean, shave off the beard that almost made him a stranger to me. He laid back in the hot water and looked up at me, smiling musingly. “I always knew I would find you,” he told me, his eyes taking me in. “I didn’t quite expect to see you kill a man right in front of me.” I giggled, leaning in and kissing him on the forehead.
“You called me your little Valkyrie,” I reminded him. Suddenly, Brynjulf’s hands wrapped around my waist and he pulled me into the tub with him, fully clothed though I was. I let out a yelp, but the sound died out as my husband’s lips descended on mine, his kiss hungry and urgent as his hands worked at my clothing, trying to get it off. I was drenched, and as Brynjulf and I both struggled ineffectively with my dress, warm water sloshed out of the tub, soaking the floor around it. I broke away from the kiss laughing, and struggled to get up. Brynjulf pulled me back down onto him, his lips finding my neck.
“You’re never getting away from me again, little wife,” he murmured in my ear, his hands wandering over my body over my wet clothes. I moaned as Brynjulf’s teeth nipped at my neck, even as his fingers brushed against my breasts through my dress. The wet cloth stuck to me, intensifying my sense of his touch. I touched Brynjulf all over, feeling the roughness along his skin where he had taken on new scars—the wound from the day we were separated, cuts and marks where he had fought or been beaten by his captors. He was not the same man that he had been when we had separated, not like he was in my dreams; but he was still my husband. I let my hands wander downward until I found his hard cock; it was exactly the way I remembered it. Brynjulf moaned as I wrapped my hand around his erection, moving it slowly up and down. “Ah, Hilda,” he said with a gasp, his arms tightening around me. “I’ve dreamed of this.” I rubbed my thumb across the head of his cock, smiling at the way it twitched in my hand.
“Me too,” I told him, tilting my head to the side to give my husband better access to my neck. Brynjulf pushed my hand away and kissed me deeply, pulling me with him as he rose up out of the bath. He lifted me into his arms and climbed out of the deep bath, setting me down gently. I broke away from the kiss and looked at the floor; our splashing had already spilled water all over, and now more water was sheeting and dripping off of my dress, adding to the mess. I laughed, gesturing at the enormous puddle to Brynjulf. He chuckled, his hands moving over my dress to unfasten me. He pulled the heavy, wet cloth away, letting it fall to the floor and following it with my underclothes quickly.
“Tell me how much you missed me, little Hilda,” Brynjulf said, his hands roaming all over my body. I moaned out loud as his hands found my breasts. He teased my nipples, rolling them between his fingers and pinching them carefully.
“I dreamed about you every night,” I managed to say, between moans. “Just last night I dreamed that you found me…” My husband leaned in and claimed one of my nipples with his mouth, sucking and licking until I rose up on the balls of my feet, arching into him. “Oh—oh! I dreamed of you and I pleasuring each other over and over again, and it drove me crazy. Sometimes—oh, husband—sometimes I would wake up from a dream about you and have to touch myself, I needed you so.” Brynjulf smiled against my skin, his free hand dropping down between my legs. He parted my labia, stroking me slowly. I was already wet for him, had been excited and anticipating the moment when we could be together ever since he had saved me.
“Mmm, wife,” Brynjulf said, finding my clit with his fingers and rubbing it slowly. “You are just as sweet as I remembered. You haven’t had any men, have you?” He looked at me sternly for a moment before his lips curved in a smile. I gasped as one of his fingers slid into my pussy, and he smiled slowly, kissing my lips quickly. “I can see you haven’t.” Brynjulf kissed me again and lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. I could feel his hard cock brushing against my pussy, just barely grazing against my labia. I pushed my hips down, wanting—needing to feel him inside of me, and Brynjulf laughed. “So impatient,” he murmured, holding my body against his with one arm and reaching down, around my hip and finding my pussy with the other. “Have I had you like this in any of your dreams, little wife?” I shook my head; it was like and unlike any of the dreams I had had since our parting. I kissed along Brynjulf’s neck, nipping playfully with my lips and teeth until he moaned out loud, crushing me against him.
I squirmed against my husband, loving the feel of his hard, muscled body against mine, the closeness between us. I had been craving his presence, needing to have him for so long, I knew that once he thrust into me, I couldn’t possibly last long. “Did you pleasure yourself, thinking of me?” I asked him sweetly, claiming his earlobe with my lips. Brynjulf chuckled and slowly pushed my hips down, spearing me with his hard cock.
“Oh yes,” he half-moaned, bringing my face to his and kissing me again. “I’ve pleasured myself over and over again, dreaming of your hot little body.” He nipped at my shoulder, pushing up into my pussy with his hot, hard cock. I cried out in pleasure, clinging to my husband tightly as I twisted my hips, taking him in as deeply as I could. We moved together, and I closed my eyes, feeling the friction between our bodies, the sensation of being filled, the desire hot throughout every part of me. Brynjulf slowly moved us toward my bed, somehow remaining inside of me the whole time; I trusted him completely as he lowered me down onto the blankets, pulling back to thrust his cock even more deeply inside of me. I opened my eyes to see him smiling down at me, his eyes full of love and lust as his hands wandered over me.
He began to pick up his pace and I arched up off of the bed, moving my hips in counterpoint to his fast thrusts. “Oh—oh Brynjulf,” I gasped, touching him everywhere, running my fingers through his hair and memorizing his body all over again. Brynjulf reached down and his fingers found my clit, rubbing it slowly in little circles with his thumb even as he pounded into me, ma
king me moan and cry out in pleasure.
“Tell me you’re my own little wife,” Brynjulf commanded me, panting and smiling down at me. “Tell me—tell me how much you’ve missed me taking you like this.” He leaned in and brushed his lips across my forehead, down my nose.
“I am, I’m your own, husband,” I cried, pulling his face down to kiss his lips. “I’ve missed you so, I needed to feel you in me like this.” Brynjulf carefully loosened my legs around his waist and lifted them up, bringing my ankles to rest on his shoulders. I almost screamed from the way the change in position made his cock feel inside of me, thrusting so deeply I was on the knife’s edge of orgasm. Brynjulf’s hands found my breasts again and he carefully pinched and rolled my nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight down to my pussy.
Stolen Fruits: The Complete Collection (A Historical Viking Erotic Romance Novella) Page 9