A Yuletide Kiss

by Glynnis Campbell

  His first instinct was to protect the woman.

  But he was prevented when she seized the back of his neck and pulled his head down to hers, pressing her lips against him in a forceful and demanding kiss.

  At first, he was too shocked to move. Her mouth felt soft and foreign, inviting and compelling. For an instant, nothing else seemed to matter.

  But the commotion of the intruders crowding into the doorway finally won his attention. As he pulled away and peered over her hood, he saw several blond giants mixed in with his brothers. Vikings. Perhaps they wanted the beauty for themselves.

  He glanced down at her hooded face, which she was keeping carefully concealed from the others. She looked up at him with beseeching blue eyes, wordlessly begging him not to give her to them.

  At that moment, his brother Taran growled at the Vikings, “How dare you interrupt a man at his bed sport.”

  “Bed sport? Bed sport!” one of the Vikings exclaimed. “That is no harlot!”

  Galan argued, “Indeed? Well, she took our coin readily enough!”

  The lovely blue-eyed maid suddenly hissed a whisper at Brude, “Kiss me!”

  A second blond warrior crossed his arms over his chest. “If she’s a harlot, I’ll eat my helm.”

  “If she isn’t a harlot,” Galan said, standing nose-to-nose with the Viking, “I’ll eat your helm, and I’ll take my coin back.”

  The lass in his arms skewered Brude with a poisonous glare and bit out words in a harsh whisper. “Kiss. Me.”

  She wasn’t the first woman to look at him with such viciousness. He was used to hateful leers. The few women who weren’t terrified of him despised him.

  What he wasn’t prepared for was the sharp point of the woman’s dagger pressing against his ballocks.

  Needing no more convincing, he lowered his head and gave her what she demanded. She withdrew the dagger.

  Somewhere, distantly, as he reveled in the sensual pleasure of her kiss, he heard the Vikings deciding they’d made a mistake, that she couldn’t possibly be the woman they sought after all.

  But Brude scarcely noticed when they closed the door. Nothing could distract him from the intriguing sensation of the woman’s yielding mouth, the fresh fragrance of her skin, the warm caress of her gentle breath on his face.

  Kimbery meant to end the kiss as soon as she heard the door close.

  She just never heard it close.

  Instead, a hot and sultry wind rushed through her ears, swirling around her head, blocking out all other sound, blowing through her soul with devastating force.

  The kiss went on and on—gentle, searching, sweet. The warmth of his flesh thawed her winter-chilled face. The masculine rasp of his beard against her skin excited her. The unexpected suppleness of his lips made her ache with tenderness. It felt like she’d waited all her life for this.

  Her head spun.

  Her breath quickened.

  Her heart melted.

  Then the dagger dropped from her limp fingers and hit the floor.

  The sound split them apart faster than an axe.

  She staggered back, blinking as if awakening from a dream.

  The man looked just as astounded. There were still stern creases in his forehead, but the dark fire in his eyes had softened to smoldering coals. His jaw, unyielding before, was now relaxed, and his mouth—his delicious, warm, supple mouth—was open in wonder.

  Flustered, she averted her gaze.

  He bent down slowly, intending to retrieve her dagger.

  Panicked that he might confiscate it, she dove for the weapon and rose, brandishing it before her.

  Backed against the wall, he had nowhere to go.

  She licked her lips. Now what was she going to do?

  For a long while they only stared at each other. Finally, he narrowed his gaze at her, drilling into her with his night-black eyes.

  “You’re not a harlot, are you?” he asked.

  She stared back at him, working out the best reply.

  If she said nay, he’d call the Vikings back and turn her over to them.

  If she said aye, he might be more willing to assist in her escape. Of course, saying aye also came with the risk of certain entitlements he might expect.

  On the other hand, how much could he do while she held a dagger on him?

  “Aye, of course I am,” she said, challenging him with a lift of her chin.

  “You’re here of your own free will?”

  “Aye.”

  “And you were paid?”

  “That’s right,” she said. At least, she thought that was right. That was how it was usually done, she assumed. A harlot would be paid before she… Kimbery gulped.

  “Then why are you holding a dagger on me?” he asked.

  That was a good question. She racked her brain for an answer until her gaze landed on his blade. Arching her brow, she asked, “Why are you still wearing your sword?”

  Brude supposed that was a reasonable enough question, though none of this encounter seemed to be what he’d expected.

  What was the woman hiding?

  Why had that retinue of Northmen stormed the door?

  And what kind of harlot brought a dagger to a tryst?

  Since he knew better than to startle an armed woman, he unbuckled his sword belt with care. She had to realize, however, that surrendering his blade made him no less dangerous. He could snap her slender neck in one hand.

  Still, she showed no fear of him, which was rather disarming in itself. How curious it was to be alone with a woman who wasn’t reviled by his size or intimidated by his scowl.

  He wound the leather belt around his sheathed sword and propped it in the corner.

  When he turned back, showing her his empty hands, she bit her lip, looking uneasy. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of the dagger. She was obviously not so willing to relinquish her own weapon.

  “Do you think they’re gone?” she asked.

  He nodded. He’d heard the pounding of their steps down the stairs. At least, he thought he’d heard it. After that world-shattering kiss, it might have been the pounding of his heart.

  There was a sudden sharp rap on the door, and she gasped, turning toward the sound with weapon raised.

  Through the door, he heard a muffled female voice. “Let me in.”

  “Shite,” the dagger-wielding lass muttered. “Modwenna.”

  After a moment, there was another knock, and the woman outside spoke again. “I don’t know who you are, Miss, but you’ve got the wrong chamber.”

  Brude frowned. What the devil was going on?

  The lass turned back to him. She narrowed her silver-blue eyes, quickly assessing him again from head to toe. Then she motioned him forward with her dagger. “You answer the door. Tell her to leave.”

  He growled. He didn’t much like a wee wench with a dagger ordering him about. But he did want to find out what was afoot.

  Keeping an eye on the lass and moving slowly so she wouldn’t stab him by accident, he crossed the room. She pulled her hood closer around her face. When he cracked open the door, she moved to hide behind it.

  The short, brown-haired maid at the door opened her mouth to say something and froze. She stood with her mouth agape as her eyes moved slowly upward from the middle of his chest to meet his gaze, then went round with horror.

  “I…I…I…” She gulped. “Nay. Nay, my mistake.” She blinked and scuttled backwards, calling into the room, “He’s…he’s all yours, Miss.”

  Brude smirked. That was more like it. That was the reaction his dark and stormy countenance usually got from women.

  As the frightened wench scurried down the hall, he closed the door.

  When he turned back, the blue-eyed lass in his chamber was smiling. Smiling. That never happened.

  “Good,” she said. “Now no one will trouble us for a while.”

  He hoped she was right. He might be new to this, but he was fairly certain it was preferable to have privacy for such thin
gs.

  “What about your dagger?” he asked, nodding to the weapon still in her grip.

  She looked uncertain. But in the end, she placed it on the table, beside his cup of ale. “May I?” She picked up the cup.

  He nodded. Galan had bought Brude that ale to steady his nerves. But the harlot probably needed it more than he did.

  She gave him a brief salute with the cup. When she tipped back the ale, her hood fell away, exposing the most beautiful, silky, pale blonde hair he’d ever seen. The maid must have Viking blood. Her long tresses, which flowed softly past her cheek and disappeared beneath her cloak, were caught at the sides of her brow in a few tiny braids. He had the sudden, absurd urge to fondle one of those braids, though he knew his clumsy fingers would probably tangle the delicate thing.

  Then his heart sank as he realized this was never going to work. The lass was obviously far too fragile for the likes of him. She was no bigger than a kitten. He would crush her.

  Just as he was mentally lamenting his brutishness and her frailty, she finished off the ale, set down the cup, and let out a loud belch.

  He couldn’t help but snicker in surprise.

  She immediately covered her mouth in embarrassment, which made him chuckle more.

  Then she leveled him with an irritated glare and gave him a spiteful shove, to little effect.

  His laughter grew. Had the wee kitten actually shoved him?

  She shoved him again, a little harder.

  He looked at her, incredulous. Nobody shoved Brude the Brutal. It was the height of foolishness, like poking a wolf.

  With a bemused grin, before she could make that mistake again, he captured the kitten’s paws.

  To Kimbery’s consternation, her shove had scarcely budged the big oaf. And now he’d trapped her wrists. What had been only annoying a moment ago seemed suddenly threatening.

  Her first instinct was to fight him. Snap her wrists down. Kick him hard between the legs. Smash her elbow into his chin. That was what Kimbery the Shieldmaiden would do.

  But at the moment, he didn’t know she was a shieldmaiden. To him, she was a harlot. And a harlot would do no such thing. Until she could be certain her da’s men were far away, she had to keep up the ruse of being the wench he’d hired.

  So she bit back her warrior urges and tried to imagine how Modwenna would behave. With any luck, she’d figure out how to keep the man in a congenial mood while she worked out the next part of her escape.

  Despite his shackle-firm grip, his eyes were dancing, which made him look a bit less menacing. He really was quite handsome—in a fierce and feral way—especially when he was smiling like that.

  She lowered her gaze to his mouth and was instantly reminded of their kiss—their warm, lingering, languorous kiss. She wasn’t sure what he’d done to her with that kiss, but she’d grown weak from it, almost as if he’d drunk every last drop of her will.

  As she continued to gaze at him, his smile gradually faded, and his eyes lowered to her lips. His thumbs idly brushed the tender inside skin of her wrists, hypnotizing her with their caress.

  She gulped. She dared not reveal the truth by resisting him. Yet she felt dangerously vulnerable, as if he dangled her at the edge of a very high cliff.

  “May I kiss you again?” he breathed.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She was hardly in a position to refuse him. He’d paid for her services after all. And to turn him down would rouse suspicion.

  It was only a kiss, she reasoned. And there was something tender and endearing about a man who had her at his mercy asking permission for a kiss. She supposed one kiss would do no harm. She nodded.

  His sigh touched her face like a balmy, welcome breeze. As he slanted his head, his beard tickled her cheek. When his lips met hers, the contact was faltering, uncertain.

  She answered tentatively at first as well, keeping her wits about her, staying aloof, determined to maintain the upper hand.

  It worked for a moment.

  Then he began to move his lips over hers, tasting her, savoring her carefully, as if he were nibbling a handful of juicy, ripe blackberries.

  His kiss was so curiously compelling that she was drawn to respond. Lightly, like a butterfly harvesting nectar, she began to sample his delicious mouth.

  He released her wrists then, but only to capture her jaw. Cradling her head like a precious jewel between trembling hands, he explored her further—touching his tongue to the corners of her mouth, biting and sucking on her bottom lip.

  She let him continue, telling herself she had to maintain the deception. But even she wasn’t sure she believed that.

  With a low, sensuous growl, he deepened the kiss. Again and again he brushed his eager lips over her yielding flesh. Finally, as if he were starving, he opened his mouth wide, feasting upon her.

  Despite her best intentions, his fast-growing desperation set fire to her desires. Her blood steamed. Her breath quickened. Soon her nails gouged into the leather of his hauberk. She fed upon him with an unnatural, insatiable hunger, wanting and needing more.

  He gave her more. When she parted her lips with a gasp, he slipped his tongue between them to taste her more fully. The instant his tongue touched hers, searing current raced through her veins, igniting her passion. Her head buzzed with sizzling energy. Every nerve came to life. While she gasped out in wordless longing, their tongues danced and battled and mated.

  Beyond thought, she floated in a euphoric haze. Her hands moved with a will of their own, drifting up his chest, encircling his neck, drawing him closer. Beneath her cool fingers, his flesh was hot and inviting.

  A quiet moan came unbidden from her lips. The sound of it, foreign to her ears, spurred her on to new levels of arousal.

  He groaned in response. The savage rumble of his voice sent a shiver up her spine, curving around her ears to awaken a primal hunger within her.

  Brimming with mindless urgency, she clawed at him, snarling her fingers in his hair, unsure what she intended, but too overwrought to cease. Every inch of her longed to touch every inch of him. She smashed her bosom against his chest, relishing the hardness of his leather hauberk against her straining breasts.

  And then his hands trailed down her back, making her arch in response, until they rested indecently low on her buttocks.

  She thought she could be no more aroused.

  She was wrong.

  He coaxed her hips slowly forward with the pressure of his fingers until their bodies collided.

  She gasped at the sensation of his iron-hard length against the aching bud of need between her legs.

  Never had Brude felt anything so divine. He sucked a sharp breath of desire between his teeth as the woman ground her pliant body against the swelling in his trousers.

  Whatever he was doing must have pleased her, for she clung to him with breathless passion, as if she never wished to part.

  His brothers had said it would be like this—that the harlot would know what to do and that he need only follow his instincts. It seemed they were right. But now his instincts told him to remove all obstructions between them.

  Impatient, yet unwilling to spend more than an instant away from her, he pulled away just long enough to unbuckle his hauberk. Then, still kissing her as frequently as possible, he tugged his hauberk free and cast it onto the floor.

  Her eyes were glazed with longing as she followed his example, unpinning her cloak and throwing it onto the bed.

  His breath caught. Her deep azure apron brought the blue of her eyes to life. And the white linen kirtle underneath it perfectly draped her feminine curves, whetting his appetite for more.

  Unfortunately, he knew very little about removing a woman’s garments. He hesitated over the strands of amber and blue glass beads suspended between the twin silver brooches of her apron, unsure whether to unpin the brooches or simply slip it off her shoulders.

  Thankfully, he didn’t have to decide. As he gazed at her with hunger smoldering in his eyes, she let out
a soft cry of need and unpinned the brooches herself.

  Meanwhile, he swallowed hard and rummaged under his long woolen shirt, struggling with the belt holding up his trousers.

  She shimmied out of her blue apron, casting it atop her discarded cloak.

  He loosened the drawstring of his linen undergarments and pulled them down with his trousers, kicking them off.

  Bending down, she pulled off her leather boots and the woolen stockings beneath.

  He did likewise, stopping to bestow upon her a kiss full of feverish yearning.

  She pulled away, licking her lips. Then she labored over the pin of her kirtle, wincing in dismay as she pierced her neck with the sharp point.

  He frowned and unpinned it for her, peeling back the edge of her kirtle to kiss the tiny wound just below her throat.

  Meanwhile, her fingers wrenched at his shirt as if she wished to tear it from his body.

  Her eagerness pleased him. And yet he feared—unable to temper his need and stone-hard with desire—that he might hurt her.

  The lass, frustrated by her ineffectual attempts at removing his shirt, turned back to her own clothing. She slipped the kirtle from her shoulders, pulled off the long sleeves, and dragged it down to her waist.

  The sight of her bare breasts—so fair, so innocent, so perfect—drove his hunger to new heights. And when she tugged the dress down over her hips, letting it pool at her feet, his mouth went dry with lust.

  She was beautiful—pale and delicate, yet with sleek strength. Tendrils of her moonlight-colored hair flowed down over her shoulders and teased at her breasts, concealing and then revealing the rosy peaks. The gentle curve of her waist was as graceful as a longboat. And lower, her lovely thatch of flax-gold curls looked curiously inviting.

  He knew he should say something. He should say how much he wanted her. He should tell her she was beautiful. He should ask her permission to touch her.

  But he couldn’t seem to form words as he continued to feast his eyes on her angelic body and felt a devilish fire rise in his.

  With a groan of lust, he removed his linen shirt, the last obstacle between them.