by Bambi Lynn
If only she could find such freedom. She had taken care of everyone around her since she was a child, and a brighter future did not loom before her.
Not that she was complaining. She loved taking care of those she cared about. She even got some satisfaction from caring for those she did not particularly like. But to have a family of her own. A man she would enjoy spending her days with.
And nights. Especially the nights.
After casting her net again, she dropped to the sand. With a quick glance around, she readjusted the skirt of her smock around her waist, pulling it tight beneath her belt, and knelt at the water’s edge. The sea, frigid after the long winter, barely cooled the lust that inflamed her skin. Dipping her fingers into the icy salt water, she splashed it onto her feverish sex. Her own musky scent wafted up to her as she gathered another handful of water.
She pressed her cold finger tips between her legs, covering her opening and the tiny bud that seemed to be the center of so much sin. She slipped her two middle fingers into her quim and marveled at how warm she felt inside. She slid them out and pushed in again, easy with so much of her woman’s sap coating her fingers and the searing walls of her channel.
Before she could reach far enough, she came upon her virginal barrier. Not to be deterred from her wicked probing, she swirled her fingers around inside her shallow opening. As she slipped a third inside, her thumb grazed the spot of pleasure that ached with need.
A surge of pain, or was it pleasure, stabbed her at the touch. She slid the pad of her thumb, slick with her own juices, across the sensitive spot, small circular motions that caused her need to build until she fairly ignited from the inside, sinking back on her heels and thrusting her hips forward. Throwing her head back, she felt her hair wisping against the back of her legs. Her release rocked her body for a long time as she continued to massage her cleft with the three fingers inside her. Her mind filled with visions of her big Viking master towering over her, making her his slave and thus relieving the guilt she felt at the pleasure he gave her.
She opened her eyes and looked around nervously. What if someone had seen? Someone besides the Lord, that is, who was most likely passing judgment at this very moment? He would banish her to Hell, she just knew it.
Satisfied that at least she was not about to be defiled by a band of marauding warriors, surely a suitable punishment in His eyes, she lifted her hand and inhaled the aroma of her sex. She wondered what it tasted like. William had not put his tongue inside her, had not tasted of her. Where was the fun in it for him if all he did was lick around it a little?
Reining in her curiosity, she wiped her hand on her skirt and stamped down her vision of being devoured, suckled, fucked by a man’s tongue.
She climbed to her feet and fetched her net. Everyone who depended on her was starving and here she was having completely sinful sex with herself and shirking her duties. God should strike her down this instant.
A rumble of thunder in the distance caused her to shiver and glare up at the ominous clouds overhead. They had rolled in quickly, blocking out the already meager sun and driving away any hope of relief from the blistery air. Grabbing the corner of her net, she hauled it in.
She stood there, fighting tears. Frustration clogged her throat, just as supper certainly would. Apples and cabbage again. With a heavy heart, she folded the empty net. She knew she had given up easily today, but it was too cold for fish. Besides, the short time she had spent away from the village, and undoubtedly the myriad requests for assistance she would have received, had been a balm to her soul. She rarely took time for herself. She refused to feel guilty for letting everyone fend for themselves for one morning.
Hefting the heavy net in both arms, she gazed once more out to sea. She could easily understand a man’s desire to explore the lands that lay beyond the horizon. Had she been a man, such an adventure would surely have appealed to her.
But could a man not explore and settle new lands without subjugating the people he found there? Why did these Norsemen have to be so brutal? Recalling the loss of her brother, Hugh, she swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. The attack on the abbey had been vicious indeed. Every monk had been slaughtered, none left alive. They had been unarmed, unable to defend themselves against the devils that swarmed their hillside retreat.
She had not seen the devastation herself, but the condition of Hugh’s mangled body was proof enough that the Viking bastards had slaughtered those men, most of them having seen too many winters, like pigs in the spring. They looted the Lord’s treasures and turned tail back the way they had come.
If only they had taken what they wanted and never returned to these shores. Instead, they had apparently regaled their countrymen with stories of Angleland’s bounty: gold and slaves. Raids from the north were now a common occurrence, so the stories went. Soon they would be claiming the land, as well.
With a sinking heart, she sent up a silent prayer. Maybe her village would be spared. She turned back toward the spot where she had left her worn leather boots. Had they not suffered enough at the hands of those bastards? Had not her own family…
Drawing up short, she squinted into the sea spray. Was that a big piece of driftwood awash on the sand? A wayward sea lion, perhaps?
Or was it something else?
Chapter Three
Ignoring the unease that urged her to caution, Kaylla edged down the beach on cold, bare feet. Concern for her people invoked courage she did not entirely feel. As she drew closer, she could see that it was definitely the body of a man, his Viking garb evident. For the briefest of moments, her fear and uneasiness fell away, replaced by hatred so overwhelming, her face burned with rising vehemence. Fury welled up within her. She hoped he yet lived so she could kill him herself. Vengeance for the loss and terror these animals had rained down on them.
She tugged the hem of her smock from the rope at her waist and tiptoed closer, pausing in apprehension as a wave crashed against him. The cold sea jostled the man so violently she feared he would stir if he were indeed still alive.
When he remained quiet, she swallowed the terror that threatened to claw its way from her belly and crept silently toward him, pulling her knife from her belt as she moved in on her prey. She held the knife in a death grip, willing her hand to stop trembling. She stopped within an arm’s length of him and stared down at the man lying at her feet.
Where was the big brute with flaming red hair and wild, bushy beard? Where were the battle scars said to riddle his skin?
Except for a shadow of stubble, this man was clean shaven. His hair looked to be the color of wheat, though it was difficult to tell as it swirled around him in the waves that rocked him from side to side. This jostling further exposed his skin, a lot of it, and she saw it was indeed peppered with scars.
He was very ill-dressed for battle.
Once when she was a girl, she had accompanied Rinan and Hugh to Elmham. There she had seen fighting men. They had covered their bodies with special clothes, designed to protect a man from attack. A heavy shert made from too many metal rings to count. Thick-soled boots that reached above the knee. At the very least, a jerkin made of water-hardened leather. In addition to sword and shield, most had some sort of head covering made of iron.
This man wore no such attire. The lower part of his body was encased in the tanned hide of some sort of animal, a deer perhaps, but his torso was barely covered at all. He wore a soft leather jerkin bereft of sleeves and open down the front to reveal massive muscles bulging from his chest and grooves so well sculpted on his stomach, she could have scrubbed her dirty laundry on them.
Her throat went dry.
She huffed down at him. The logger-headed measle. A man could freeze to death in such an outfit. She forced a smile at the thought. She wished he were dead, though she had already guessed he was not. This scum from the north did not deserve to live yet were too cold-blooded to die.
Nor did they deserve mercy. I will kill him. She nodded in reassuran
ce. She would slit his throat while he lay vulnerable at her feet. She would exact some vengeance for Hugh while watching this maggot’s blood soak into the wet sand.
He did not respond when she nudged him with her bare toe. Hauling her foot back, she kicked him hard in the ribs and was rewarded with a moan so low she almost did not hear it. A reward overshadowed by the shooting pain in her near-frozen foot. She squatted next to him, pressed her knife to his throat.
When a drop of his blood pooled around the tip, she drew back with a curse. Her heart pounded. Screwing up her face, she summoned her courage and pressed the blade firmly against the soft skin that pulsed from the flow underneath.
“Dost live, Viking?”
The man made no response.
She gnawed at her bottom lip. The faint rise and fall of his muscular chest told her he did. Every sense in her body urged her to run. She steeled herself against her own spinelessness. She could do it. She had slid her blade across the flesh of a spring pig more than once. It was like slicing through butter. This would be no different. She could slit his throat, watch his devil’s blood seep out and soak into the sand. It was no less than he deserved, he and all those like him.
Another cold wave crashed against him and soaked the bottom of her skirt. She ignored it, her attention drawn to his now bare chest. His jerkin had slipped over one shoulder and the tail was caught underneath his body. She felt a sudden ache between her thighs. Still sensitive from bringing herself pleasure, the core of her niche throbbed.
She squeezed her thighs together and gaped at him. She itched to run her hand over his body, thick and powerful, so masculine it made the skin seem to crawl up her back. His nipples jutted out from the brown puckered skin around them. She reached out and grazed it with the pad of her finger.
Hard as a pebble.
Her body rippled against the shock of desire that swept her. He was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. She felt like she had something stuck in her throat and swallowed hard against it. Heat rose up the back of her neck prickling the tiny hairs rooted to her scalp. The urge to touch herself, again, was almost overwhelming.
She actually growled aloud. She refused to play the harlot at the mere sight of a man whose very existence raised her ire and drove vengeance into her heart.
Still, it did not prevent her letting her gaze travel across his tightly muscled body, lingering on the deep indentation that divided his chest. His lean, hard muscles stretched across his rib cage and fanned out to meet the widest shoulders she had ever seen on a man. In that sense, he almost looked like the beast she had imagined. His scars, more than she had first realized, intrigued her. Such an array covered his rich, tawny skin, she wondered how he had survived them all.
He must be a strong warrior indeed to have been victorious over such battle injuries. Some of them looked vicious and must have caused him great pain. How could a man withstand such damage?
Stop it! She would not feel sorry for this…this…mangled, hedge-born ratsbane. She reached out and touched his cold skin. The contact sent a spray of fire up her arm and straight to her core.
Recoiling at the sensation, she glanced at his face and gasped, shocked anew at how sinfully fine looking he was. He could easily rival the angels Friar Henry had described the last time he had come down from Elmham. She stared at his sharp, handsome features. He had an exquisite beauty with a hint of savagery that made her heart race.
She had never seen a more handsome man. Even when she visited Elmham, the only town she had ever been to, no man there had rivaled him. No woman, either, truth be told.
Her natural inclination to take care of him, to get him warm and fed, to treat his wounds and see to his comfort, nagged at the corner of her mind. But she fervently stamped it down. She would give this murderous heathen no quarter, show him no mercy. With renewed intent, she tightened her grip on the knife.
Reaching out with her other hand, she tangled her fingers in his wet hair and pulled his head back, further exposing his throat. His lips parted as his mouth fell open. His decadent, sinful mouth. The shadow that sculpted his jaw made his lips even more alluring.
Damn him to Hell.
She was going to do it. All she had to do was drag her blade across his skin, his golden skin covered with a prickly stubble of growth. She ignored the tiny pulse that winked at her. She strengthened her resolve and prepared to kill him.
To take a man’s life.
She dredged up images of Hugh’s broken body; of Faeder gone off with all the other able-bodied men of the village to ward off the marauders, surely lost now after so many months; of her modor’s children, buried one by one on the hillock overlooking the pig sty.
You can do this, she urged, drawing her lower lip between her teeth and biting down hard. Just kill him. It’s no more than he deserves. It’s what he would do to you.
Would he not?
Would he make her his slave?
All moisture seemed to draw from her mouth and fairly gush from between her legs. Her sex ached with such delicious torment, she wondered if she’d be able to walk back home.
The very idea of being this man’s plaything, of guiltlessly succumbing to the lust coursing through her, of being forced to relinquish her responsibilities was almost more than she could bear.
In an effort to combat her sinful carnal desire, she envisioned a horde of devils just like him, swarming on her small, vulnerable village, slaughtering the elderly, those too feeble to defend themselves. They would rape the young girls, brutally stealing their innocence. And when they had tired of their wicked play, they would leave the village decimated and dying, taking anything of value with them on their destructive path along the coast of Angleland.
Damnation! She pushed to her feet and stared out at the horizon. Gulls screamed overhead, startling her already frazzled nerves. A lone bird dived for a meal. Whitecaps littered the surface of the sea. The late morning sun struggled to push through the overcast clouds.
No sign of his fellows.
She felt a feeble sense of relief that they would not face attack this day. She looked back at the man lying at her feet. Never one to act in haste, she considered the possibilities.
Chapter Four
It was past midday before she and Wulf managed to drag the Viking across the threshold of their hut. She had run back to the village and fetched her little brother after being unable to budge the man on her own. Together they had rolled him onto her fishing net and hauled him back to the village. Even with the two of them pulling on the net, the task had been nearly impossible.
Despite the chill in the air, her smock had soon become soaked with sweat. Now, as she stood next to Wulf looking down at the Viking lying on the floor of their hut, she could feel rivulets of it sliding down her back.
“What are we to do with him?” Wulf asked.
She looked down at her little brother, the only one left to her, and tried not to panic. Betimes it seemed each day brought a new threat.
But this…
Wulf fairly bounced with excitement. She had to calm his bloodlust and measure their options before he did something rash.
Of the nine children her modor bore, only she and Wulf remained. She gritted her teeth. She calmed the urge to kick the man again. None of her modor’s children had died at the hands of this Norsemen, but she could blame him anyway.
To hell with options. “Let’s just kill him.”
“Why the devil did we not do that instead of dragging him back here?” Though only half her age, Wulf had just as much reason to despise this man. “We could have left his rotting carcass on the beach as warning against further trespassers.” Hatred laced his voice.
She smirked down at him. “For certes, Wulf. Finding one of their countrymen lying dead on the beach is sure to send those heathens racing from our shores.”
Her sarcasm was not lost on the boy. “At least it would be something,” he ground out. They stared down at him. “Now what? We’re going to kill h
im here in the village? Dig a hole to bury him in the frozen earth? We have to tell the others.” Wulf started to turn away.
“No!” She fairly shouted at him, causing him to turn back with a start. She lowered her voice. “Not yet. Not until we figure out what to do with him.” Her heart softened as she gazed at the Viking’s handsome face. She wondered at the man behind those features. Was he cruel? Had he been present at the abbey when Hugh was murdered? This back and forth with her emotions made her head ache. “Maybe after he comes round, we can find out where the rest of his band is. Surely the Lord dropped him into our midst for some purpose.”
Wulf shook his head and turned toward the door. “I’m going to fetch Modor,” he said as he pushed through and left her alone with their prisoner.
Not for the first time, she considered binding the man. If he awoke from this deep slumber, he could easily overpower her. Her heart surged at the mere thought. She knelt on the packed earth floor next to him and lifted the wet jerkin away from his upper body. His skin, though still ice cold to the touch, had lost some of its gray pallor. He had many fresh wounds she had not noticed before.
She marveled at the sight of him and the sensations he stirred within her. The ache between her thighs had barely abated since she had first found him, and now she struggled against the urge to relieve the pressure she knew she could expect from the touch of her fingers.
Gone were her visions of a faceless lover, replaced by that of a warrior with hawkish features and wheat-colored hair.
Rocking his body from one side to the other, she removed his jerkin. Easing back on her heels, she let her gaze linger over every plane and groove of him. She breathed faster now, her chest rising and falling in rhythm to her pounding heart. Lips parted, tongue between her teeth, she inspected his wounds.
He had several deep cuts on his chest and stomach. Pushing him onto his side, she found similar wounds on his back. She knew these would need to be dressed if she was to prevent them from becoming septic. His cold skin was evidence enough that fever had not set in, but these wounds could not be allowed to fester.