by Karin Tabke
He envisioned his large callused fingers gently brushing across a pink nipple and feeling it come alive beneath his touch. His cock filled as his eyes traveled down her flat belly to her rounded hips and to the blush-colored triangle between her thighs. He hissed out a low breath. She was breathtaking, and at that moment Stefan knew what it meant to want something so badly that he would give his right arm to possess it. His cock lengthened at the spectacular sight, and had she been alone he would have been so bold as to show himself, Adam to her Eve. He wanted to join with her, and mate.
“You are shameful!” Jane scolded. “What if there are bandits in the wood?”
“Keep watch, Jane, I will only be but a few minutes. We have been riding hard for days; the dirt of the road clings to me and you know I have not bathed since we departed Dinefwr.”
Dinefwr? ’Twas where Prince Hylcon resided. This he knew, for the Dinefwr-Castile bloodline was amongst the finest; not only in all of Christendom, but even the Saracens of the Holy Land traveled to Dinefwr to breed their mares to Hylcon’s stallions.
Intrigued, he watched the lady gingerly stick a toe into the cool water. She gasped in a breath at the chill, and when she did her breasts rose higher, as did he. He smiled despite the pain it caused him, as she slowly glided into the pool. Her golden skin puckered and her blush-colored nipples tightened.
“Go, Jane, and leave me. Go down the path and make sure that letch Dag keeps his distance.”
The errant lady slid the rest of her long body into the cool, clear water, gasping at the coolness. Stefan squirmed where he stood, the tension between his thighs overriding the tension of his wounds.
The servant set her bundle down on the rock and untied it, then spread out clothes and a long linen towel. “Here are your clothes, you will have to dry yourself, I cannot guard the path and dress you at the same time. Do not dally, milady, we must be back on the road.”
The lady splashed water at her maid and scoffed. “Dag has lost his way, and because of it, we have lost time. I fear we will never get to Yorkshire.”
“He is not the most intelligent of men,” Jane admitted, then, reluctantly, the old woman moved back down the path they had come.
Stefan knelt on the soft loamy ground and watched, captivated, as the wood nymph swam in the small pool, and as he had done, she grabbed a hunk of springy moss from beneath a fern. When she stood and the clear water sluiced down her breasts to her belly, glistening like pearls under the sunlight, Stefan stifled a groan.
She reached over to the bundle and grabbed a bar of soap, and when she lathered it he held his breath. Her slender hands smeared it across her breasts and down her belly to her thighs. She tilted her head back, her back arched, those luscious breasts pointed to the sun. Her hands slid across her body with brazen familiarity. He wanted to touch her so. She had no modesty, and he could tell just from the way she touched herself she would be an adventurous lover.
She sank deeper into the pool, allowing the water to carry the lather away. When she completely submerged and shot up, her body glistening in the sun, Stefan slowly stood and took a step closer. She put the soap to her hair and vigorously washed it. She went under again, and this time when she erupted from the water, like Venus herself, the erotic image was too much for Stefan. He groaned. She gasped and turned, crossing her arms over her chest. “Who goes there?”
Stefan grinned, ignoring the pain it cost him. How badly he wanted to show himself, and how badly he wanted to lose himself in all of that gold and honey, he could not measure, but even had he the time for a dalliance, he doubted he possessed the strength. ’Twas a shame, for it had been months since his last woman, and none could he recall as comely as this one frolicking in the water before him. He was just about to move deeper into the wood when he heard another voice. A man’s voice.
“Would you like some company Princess?”
Princess? Stefan’s interest suddenly went from his cock to his head. A Welsh princess? Mayhap Hylcon’s daughter?
“Dag! How dare you trespass! Turn your back and return to the others!” she commanded.
Stefan eyed the intruder as he emerged from the path into the clearing. Nearly as tall as Thorin, bald, but sporting a full blond beard, hard narrowed eyes, and dressed in the manner of a Norseman complete with battle-ax. A Viking. What was a Viking doing with a Welsh princess in the middle of battle-fatigued Mercia? She had mentioned Yorkshire. An area, despite Hardrada’s defeat last year, still heavily populated with Norse.
“I cannot do as you command, Princess Arianrhod. As you have so thoroughly done to my uncle, so too you haunt my every waking thought.” He continued stalking her, as a fox would a plump hen.
“Stop now, Dag. Stop before you do something we will both regret,” she warned, and though she tried to keep her voice strong and sure Stefan heard the fear in it.
Dag laughed as if every day he plucked an unwilling maid from the water, and continued his slow, deliberate pursuit. “I will have no regrets. I want you as I have never wanted anything in my life. I will have you.”
The princess backed up to the rock she had undressed on and grabbed the linen from where the maid had set it. She started to stand, to wrap it around her, but thought better of exposing herself to the unwanted intruder. Instead she dragged it into the water, soaking it, then wrapped it around her body. Stefan shook his head. ’Twould only weigh her down and show off every curve.
She dragged herself from the water on the side of the pond closest to where he hid. He swallowed hard at the display. As forethought, she was a vision, to be sure, in the thin wet cloth. It clung to her full curves, and despite the position she found herself in, the princess’s royal nipples were hard and strained mightily against the cloth. Slowly, Stefan moved closer to the edge of the foliage that hid him. And, as was his instinct when trouble brewed, he reached for his sword where it lay on the ground beside him.
The Viking nimbly hopped from the shore to one rock, then another, then to the one she stood upon. The princess opened her mouth to scream, but the Viking was quick; he grasped her and slapped his hand across her mouth. The little hellion bit him and punched him with her fists. The damp linen clung to her between them, but now it covered less than it had a moment ago.
Stefan’s impulse was to defend the lady’s honor, but too much was at stake for him to show himself.
For a woman she had spunk, and a considerable punch. Had she a weapon, the Viking might find himself looking at serious injury. But she did not. The Viking was bigger, stronger, and most intent on breaching the lady’s thighs.
When she twisted in his grasp, Dag grabbed her flailing body and flung her upon the flat rock Stefan had so recently napped on. He clamped his hand across her mouth again, and drew his short knife, pressing it to her throat. “Scream and I will give the command to snap your maid’s neck.”
Ah, threaten a loved one for compliance. Stefan watched to see how much she loved her maid. She nodded vigorously, and Dag grinned. He slowly removed his hand from her mouth, but kept the blade to her throat. “Let me see what my lucky uncle will have when he is wed.” He yanked the rest of the damp linen from her trembling body, revealing those creamy breasts. “God’s blood, but you are magnificent!”
Crudely, he grabbed her. The princess cried out, but bit her lip to keep the sound to a minimum. “Magnus will geld you when I tell him of your trespass,” she said bitterly.
Dag grinned wider and slid his hand down to her waist. His gaze trailed across her long supple body and Stefan could well understand his admiration. But, so enamored with her, Dag did not see her right hand grasp a rock. “He will not believe you, nor will he keep you as wife,” he breathed, and pressed his lips to her right breast. Her body stiffened and she squeezed her eyes shut, arching into him as if succumbing to his ardor. Stefan’s body nearly snapped from the tightness of his muscles.
When the trespassing Viking swept his fingers across her downy curls, the princess stiffened and slammed her fist
with the rock into the side of his head. But he moved his head away just in time, so that the blow, though solid, was glancing. Roughly, he pushed her flat onto her back, and with his right hand he pressed the blade to her throat while with his left he hiked up his leather-trimmed tunic and unlaced his braies.
“Do not do this, Lord Dag!”
“I have wanted you since the moment Magnus described you. ’Twas I who made sure the king summoned him, and ’twas I, his loving nephew, who volunteered to bring you to him in Yorkshire.” Dag slid the dagger across a taut breast. “When I saw you, I knew you had to be mine.” He chuckled. “My gift to the groom, a breached bride.”
“You would do such a thing to your kin?”
“Aye, my sweet Arian,” Dag breathed, “and when he rejects you, I will have you as my own wife.”
“Never!” she cried, and punched the dagger from his hand. She rolled out from under him when he reached for it, then caught himself from falling into the water. She darted from him, the linen dragging behind her, as she valiantly tried to run and wrap it around her nakedness at the same time.
But the Viking was wily and he was quick. He threw a long arm after her and grabbed the corner of the linen, yanking her back toward him. She shrieked and let it go. Naked, she ran straight for Stefan. He braced himself for the impact of her, and as she broke into the green, he grabbed her arm, spinning her around, then thrusting her behind him. She let out a long shrill scream that sent the birds flying from the trees.
He did not attempt to reason with her. Instead, he trained all of his focus on the livid Viking wielding an ax, stampeding directly at him. Stefan pushed the screaming princess away from him as hard as he could, and as she hit the ground with a loud thump, the Viking cleared the thick foliage that hid him, skidding to a stop in the small clearing when he saw the naked man holding a very naked sword.
“Is she worth your life, Viking?” Stefan menacingly asked, in English.
“No woman is worth my life,” the Viking answered in stilted English.
Stefan laughed, the sound rough and caustic. “I would have to agree with you there, Viking, but truth be told, I abhor a rapist. Come, raise that ax higher so that I can be done with you and clothe myself.”
The Viking narrowed his eyes, and though he had a sword barely an arm’s length from his gut, the craven lout could not help but take another look at the naked woman behind him. Stefan could feel the lady gather herself at his back. She hissed in a deep breath, but made no move. She was as wise as she was beautiful. He could not run with his leg in the condition it was in, and if she bolted and the Viking went after her, then she would indeed lose more than her modesty this day.
Despite his great discomfort, he smiled. ’Twas a most unusual situation to be found in. A naked Norman knight defending a naked Welsh princess against a fully clothed Viking.
Dag smiled, his wet lips twisting in perverse glee. He nodded in the direction of Stefan’s ravaged leg, then looked up to his equally torn face. “For one so unencumbered, Saxon, and ’twould appear gravely wounded, I doubt you will find yourself clothed any time soon.” The ax rose just an inch. “Move aside and hand over the lady, and I will spare you. If you do not, her betrothed will turn over every rock on this miserable island for the man who would keep her from him.”
“Mayhap you should have thought of that yourself before you attempted to force yourself upon the lady,” Stefan said clearly, growing weary of the talk. He was a man of action.
Arian pressed her naked body up against Stefan’s back, placing her hands upon his shoulders as she rose on her toes to peer at her attacker from behind him. And despite the tenuous position they were in, he could not help but respond to the breasts pressing into his back and the soft thrust of her hips against his buttocks. From behind him, the princess menacingly said, “Magnus will cut your black heart from your chest when I tell him of your actions this day, Dag! Leave me now! Go back to the train and await me!”
“Nay, I will have you, Arian, just as soon as I remove this petulance!” Dag roared, and in a swift, practiced move, he dipped the ax, then with both hands swung it up. Stefan thrust Arian from him, turned and parried the strike with his sword, his arms high in the air. The Viking brought down his brawny arms with such force that Stefan’s sword rattled in his hands. Planting himself firmly in the soft forest floor, he swung his sword back up, and caught the ax just below the steel head. The blade dug into the wooden handle. Stefan kicked the Viking in the gut with his good leg, but the weight on his bad one took most of the force from the kick. The Viking stumbled back only a half step, and Stefan nearly toppled.
Arian gasped, not knowing what she should do. Who was this naked man? Would he force her as Dag had tried to? Would he—
“You are weak, Saxon!” Dag bellowed, and raised his arm. The Saxon half-turned toward her and thrust her further away from him where she hovered near his back. She slammed into the hard trunk of a nearby oak, her head snapping back with a loud thunk.
Instant pain speared behind her eyes, radiating forward. Indignation at being handled in such a brutish manner quickly dissolved: Dag’s handling was far worse.
The Saxon dropped to his knees beneath Dag’s deadly ax, barely able to withstand the attack. Arian looked wildly about for some weapon. A rock, a stick, anything! She spied the black destrier, and the Saxon’s sword belt hanging from the high pommel of the saddle. She cried out in relief. The hilt of a dagger protruded from a short scabbard secured there. She grabbed it and hurried back to him.
In a great sweeping motion from his ankles up to his shoulders, Dag swung at the naked man. The wound on her champion’s thigh bled bright crimson, sweat glistened on his tan skin, and he labored greatly. He could only parry each swipe of the ax, but with each swing, the ax came closer and closer to splitting open her protector’s gut.
Arian panicked, never having been remotely exposed to such brutal men and unsure how to aid her champion. Dag raised his long arms high over his head, and with a resounding force, he brought the great ax down on the man. Arian screamed and watched in horror as he rolled away just in the nick of time; as he did he looked up at her, and grabbed the dagger from her hand, and in a turn so fast it blurred her eyes he crouched, then lunged, jamming the dagger deep into Dag’s throat. The Saxon twisted it, the sound of crunching bone and tearing tendon sickening. He yanked it out, then hopped backwards, bloody dagger in hand, crouched and waiting.
The sharp hiss of escaping air combined with Dag’s guttural scream sent the hair on the back of her neck standing straight up. Then he stood as still as the surrounding oaks, shock clearly written across his face. All at once, blood spurted in a high arc over them, warm droplets spraying across her chest and arms. Dag dropped his ax and grabbed madly for his neck.
The Viking sank to his knees and looked up at them, his eyes wide and incredulous. With each beat of his heart, blood flowed in thick waves from between his fingers. He opened his mouth to speak, and gurgling blood bubbled from his lips. He coughed and seemed to be trying to say something. Arian stepped closer but the Saxon flung his hand back and stayed her.
Dag spit blood from his mouth. “The stag,” he gasped, spitting more blood from his mouth. Dag closed his eyes and drew a deep, wheezing breath. Arian cringed at the sharp hiss of air as it rasped in and out from the hole in his neck.
The Saxon reached down and picked up the great ax. “What of the stag?” he demanded.
“He runs north.” Dag coughed more blood.
“Who do you speak of?” the Saxon demanded.
Dag grinned a macabre leer and looked at Arian. Even in the twilight of his death he was lecherous. He coughed up more blood, but managed to say, “Betray Norway.”
“What do you speak of, Dag? Who betrays Norway?” Arian demanded.
Dag sneered. “I will not betray Norway.”
“You betray your uncle!”
He spat a wad of blood at her feet.
“There is no more reaso
n for your stay here on earth!” the Saxon ground out, and in one mighty heave, he separated the Viking’s head from his shoulders.
Arian screamed as the head toppled to the ground and in a bloody rush rolled toward her resting upon her bare feet. Dag’s ice-colored eyes and twisted sneer gaped up at her in deadly accusation.
“You slew him!” she gasped, turning to the deadly Saxon. And as her eyes clashed with his brilliant blue ones, she shivered hard, and realized they both stood no more than an arm’s length from the other and neither wore a stitch of clothing. But more than that, with the removal of Dag’s head, so too had he removed any hopes of her reaching her betrothed a happy bride. The recriminations for what just took place would be far-reaching. That she had been nearly raped by the dead man mattered not: he was cousin to King Olaf of Norway, and her betrothed’s trusted nephew.
Her shock at what had just occurred turned to horror when she looked harder upon the Saxon’s ravaged face. From the crease of his right eye down along his hairline to the outer edge of his cheek was a long fresh gash, sewn in a most terrible way. Even with a most skilled hand he would be horribly scarred from the wound. ’Twas a wonder he had not lost his eye, the cut came so close to it. And just as ghastly was the horrific red imprint of a broadsword burned in his chest. His eyes narrowed dangerously. His full lips thinned into a sneer and she knew a deep-seated fear she had never experienced in her entire life. Not even when Dag attempted to rape her.
Her belly roiled when ugly visions of what this man would do to her burst into her thoughts. So terrified was she, Arian gagged back the bile that rose in her throat, then doubled over and coughed as one heave chased another. Her noon meal spilled upon the ground, yet even then she could not stop the relentless twisting of her belly. Finally, with nothing left to spew, she spat to the ground. Humiliated and sure she was done, Arian slowly tried to right herself, but when their gazes clashed, another heave roiled up from her belly. She retched again and again, the pain of the spasms overriding her fear. Finally, with nothing left, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and slowly stood. Through bleary eyes she watched him. He had not moved a hand to assist her. He stood rooted to the ground as if he were a statue, his ravaged face twisted in fury.