by Bambi Lynn
While she agreed that Bearn, barely older than Wulf, should not go at all, much less alone, she absolutely would not allow her little brother, the only one she had left, to go traipsing around the countryside seeking out a band of Viking raiders.
“Modor is right, Wulf. ‘Tis too dangerous.”
“But…”
She stepped between Wulf and the door. “You are not going.” She spoke in a clipped tone, the one that left no room for argument.
Wulf knew that voice well. Nearly tripping over his protruding lower lip, he stormed to the wooden bed he had overtaken since their faeder’s departure. Stretching out on top, he jerked the coverlet over his head.
Experience told her it best to ignore him. She unrolled her pallet and spread it in front of the door, all the while keeping one eye on her prisoner. He would be hard pressed to get past her during the night, and she doubted he could squeeze through the single window. Pulling her own coverlet up to her chin, she watched the Viking tug Faeder’s tunic over his head.
The man’s muscles, as magnificent as she remembered from her earlier exploration, rippled with the effort. Her heart pounded at the vision of him standing before her, naked from head to toe, his arms stretched overhead. Her breath came a little faster. Dark bruises and deep cuts riddled his skin. She wondered about the battle Rheda had described. The fighting must have been fierce indeed for him to have sustained such injuries. She glanced away as his dark eyes, free of the tunic, met hers.
Tossing the shert over the trunk from which he had pilfered it, he took his time stretching out on the pallet laid out for him, all the while watching her.
The wagtail struts around like a damn cock. She refused to feed his arrogance by watching him parade around her home naked. Gloriously naked.
She was going to stop looking.
Right now.
Sufficiently comfortable, he took his cock in his rough hand and slid his fist up and down the length of it. His gaze bore into her, she could feel it. She watched, mesmerized, as it grew. Her lips parted as her breathing came in shorter and shorter gasps.
Dear God, the man was pure sin.
Dragging her gaze from his ever-growing manhood, her eyes sought his again. Did she recognize mockery behind his expression? Did his full lips turn up at the corners in silent laughter at her curiosity?
The villainous hedge-pig.
Turning onto her back, she continued to stare at the rafters long after she heard snores emanating from the hut’s other occupants.
The next time she opened her eyes, pitch darkness enveloped the tiny hut. The silence seemed to consume the interior, and she knew instantly that something was wrong. Slipping from beneath her blanket, she scrounged flint from a box next to Faeder’s bed and lit an oil lamp. She tiptoed to the spot where she half expected to find her prisoner gone. He slept soundly, one arm slung across his face, his coverlet pushed down so far it barely covered his hips. Meager light from the lamp she held overhead bathed him in shadows giving the impression of a statue carved of marble. She had seen one at the church in Elmham.
Surely, he must be cold. The temperature dropped at night and the embers in the hearth had turned gray. She resisted the urge to pull his coverlet up to his shoulders. Feeling the chill in her bones, she reluctantly turned away from her lustful fantasies, and retrieved the blanket from her pallet by the door. She pulled it around her shoulders as she surveyed the rest of the room.
She stood over her modor, frail from her recent trials. Squatting next to her, she longed to crawl under the coverlet and snuggle against her warmth as she had so often done as a girl. Long before Claennis died. She had been the oldest. After that, her modor no longer took the time to soothe her fears, heal her aches. Now she found their roles reversed. If she ever had a family of her own, she vowed to treasure her children, all of them, no matter how many lived or died.
It was that fear, the fear of losing her children one by one as her modor had, that had kept her from taking William, or any other man, as mate. She had begun to think it was not the only reason she had denied William.
She shivered as she shook off the blanket and laid it gently over her modor’s small form. With a sigh, she stood and moved to see about Wulf.
Her heart nearly stopped beating when she found the wooden bed frame, reserved for the man of the family, empty.
Chapter Nine
Rolf woke to find his captor—what had they called her? Kaylla?—standing by the wind-eye, if it could be called that. The hole was barely large enough to observe the goings-on outside. She had her arms wrapped around her torso, little protection against the frigid morning air. She trembled so hard, he thought he heard her teeth chattering.
He admired her strength. She remained calm in the face of danger. But she was one of those women. One who could single-handedly take care of everyone and everything around her. The kind of woman whose calm approach to life made those around her feel inadequate.
His mother had been such a woman. He had often wondered if that was why his father abused her so badly. Some perverse need to prove his strength over her. That, leastwise, he could understand. Just looking at her made his sap rise with the animalistic need to pursue and conquer.
Dawn broke as he watched her. The girl’s beauty surpassed even that of the goddess, Sif – the most beautiful of all women. Her hair, the deep rich brown of a chestnut, cascaded down her back. He longed to entangle his fingers within its strands, pull her head back, revealing her creamy throat to his hungry mouth.
His balls churned, making his already hard cock twitch against his belly. Gods, he had been without a woman for too long. He rose silently, and holding the blanket before his protruding cock, stalked towards her. Shameless images crept into his thoughts. He could take her easily enough. Regardless of what meager weapons she concealed, she would be no match for him.
Yet for her to give herself freely, that would be the greater conquest. While he had done his share of pillaging, rape did not suit him. He liked his women willing.
Sensing his presence, she turned on him with a look of loathing so severe, he took a step back. He had never seen such hatred, not even in the expression of an adversary about to lose his life.
So much for remaining calm.
“If he does not return, I will slit your throat.”
Truly bewildered, he asked, “Who?”
“You have already taken one brother from me.”
He gripped the blanket tighter and lifted his hands in surrender. If she had indeed lost her mind, he could toss it on her like a net and overpower her.
“I have taken no one.”
She moved away from the wind-eye, making a wide berth around him. She walked to a cabinet by the door and retrieved a meal of salted pork and a hunk of dry, crusty bread. She reached him in three strides and shoved the food at him. He let the blanket drop to the floor as he took it, eagerly anticipating filling his empty stomach. He did not miss the hungry look in her eyes.
“My brother, Hugh, was an apprentice monk at an abbey north of here. Raiders from across the sea, your murderous brethren, slaughtered them to a man.” She moved past him, back to the wind-eye.
He recalled tales of that particular victory. The king’s nephew, Boddi, had regaled them with the recounting many times. It must have been brutal indeed. He had amassed a huge pile of gold on that raid. But no slaves, praise Freyja. Not after that last one.
He shoved some food in his mouth, ravenous. “I was not among them,” he said around a mouth full of the cured pork.
“As if that mattered.” She reached outside and lifted a rope with a clay jug attached at the end. “Now Wulf plays the scout.” She handed him the mug.
Pulling the cork out with his teeth, Rolf spat it onto the floor and took a long draft. Herregud! Mead. The ice-cold wine quenched his thirst and warmed him on the inside.
“If he does not return,” she continued, “you will not live long enough to be rescued. I should have slit your throat as so
on as I found you.”
He studied her, still savoring the mead. Fueled by anger, the gold flecks of her hazel eyes fairly glowed. Golden fire seemed to spark from them. He well-regarded her loyalty. To a Viking warrior, no trait held more value. But to her, he said, “Kill me and you will lose the one thing you can use to negotiate the safety of your village.”
A muscle twitched in her jaw.
He shrugged one shoulder. “He seems a wily one, your little brother. He may bring news that will increase your odds of success and save your hostage.” He popped the remainder of his breakfast into his mouth.
Taking a step towards her, he reached out with one hand and brushed a few strands of her glorious mane over one shoulder, trailing it down her back. The neckline of her tunic slipped down to reveal a bare shoulder. He let his palm brush against her skin. She pulled in a sharp breath but did not move away from him.
Lips parted, she slid her gaze from his eyes down to his chest, lingering briefly before continuing further. Tentatively, she pressed her hand against his midsection and pushed him back for a better look. He stirred immediately at her smoldering examination of him, his cock reaching for her almost of its own will.
“That looks as if it is about to fester.”
He jerked a look down at himself, afraid he had somehow contracted the syph. Relief flooded him as he realized she referred to a nasty cut at the top of his thigh. It did indeed look red and vicious.
“Sit there,” she said, pointing to the empty bed.
He padded across the room and sat on the wooden frame. “Edlyn is gone, as well.” He indicated the empty pallet that took up the far corner.
“My modor sets out of a morning to see to the sheep. Some of the women from our village go together to look out for one another.” She rummaged in the only chest he had seen, the same one from which he had scrounged the tunic.
“Where are the men?”
Kneeling on the floor at his feet, she cut her eyes up at him displaying the same anger he had witnessed earlier. “Gone.” Bending over his wound, she began washing it with a gentleness he would not have expected. “You Norsemen have laid waste to the countryside until we feared our very existence was under siege. Our own men, farmers and fishermen mostly, sought to intercept them and fend off an attack.” Her hair brushed against his thigh. If she noticed his cock twitch, she gave no evidence of it. After cleaning the lesion to her satisfaction, she scooped a dollop of honey from a crock and spread it over the ugly redness. Her caress, though not meant as such, quickly brought him to full arousal. “As they have not returned, we can only assume they are lost.”
That explained why he had heard mostly women’s voices in the hall.
Gradually she slowed, the circulation of her small fingers coming to a halt as they rested against his thigh. He held his breath as she gaped at his cock, rock hard now and stretched to its full size.
He smiled when she shook her head and looked away. When she wiped the sticky honey on her skirt and made to push back to her feet, he stayed her. He gripped her arm, causing her to drop the honey pot, and held her fast.
Although her breathing showed signs of labor, he detected no fear in her eyes. With a grin, he leaned forward, dipped one finger in the clay pot that now lay askew on the floor and drew out a dollop of the honey. She watched, mesmerized, as he spread it over the bulbous head of his engorged cock.
“W-what are you doing?” she asked.
“The balm felt so soothing on my thigh, I thought perhaps it could ease the ache betwixt them, as well.”
Her lips curved into a small “O”. His balls clenched at the vision of those luscious lips closing around him. He reached out and smeared the remainder of the honey on her bottom lip.
“And does it help?” She slid her pink tongue across her lips, tasting the honey, and stared at his cock with an intensity that almost pushed him over the edge.
He shook his head. “You have done this to me,” he croaked out, his hand sliding through her hair. “Only you can help me now.”
She swallowed hard. “What do you want me to do?” Her voice wavered, barely more than a whisper. Even in the dim light of the hut, he could see the flush of her cheeks.
With as little show of force as he could manage, Rolf pulled her head closer. “Taste me,” he commanded. She did not try to fight him, did not struggle in any way. Here was a woman not used to saying ‘no’. Encouraged, Rolf stroked her cheek with his other hand. “Open your mouth, kjæresten.”
She did. Cupping her face in both hands, Rolf slipped the head of his cock between her soft lips. Sparks ignited behind his eyes. He shut them tight, willing himself not to shove the entire length of his manhood down her throat.
She needed little encouragement. She suckled the bulbous head, using her velvety tongue to clean away the honey coating and taste the tiny drops of his juice that seeped from the opening at the tip.
She almost smiled as she pulled away and looked up at him. “You taste salty, like the sea.”
Rolf ran his calloused hands down the side of her throat to her shoulders and pulled her closer. “Don’t stop.” He stroked her arms, circling them around his hips as he did so.
She frowned as he pulled her closer but did not resist. Pushing up onto her knees, she hesitated before taking a deep breath and closing her mouth on him once more. This time she slid her lips down the length of him, but drew back, coughing as the fat head hit the back of her throat.
Rolf laughed softly. “Take it slower. Relax and you can take in more.” Odin’s spear! He could hardly hold back. A quiet growl rumbled from deep in his chest. “Soften your tongue.” Her mouth felt especially warm. The air inside the hut was chilly absent a fire in the hearth. He blew out a deep sigh at the luxurious feel of her tongue lathing round and round his cock.
She did as he instructed, gently suckling him as she worked his cock deeper into her mouth. When she made to pull away a second time, he held her still. “Shhh...relax,” he whispered.
She knelt there between his knees, half of his cock in her mouth and pushing against the back of her throat. He felt her muscles ease beneath his palms. Loosening his grip on her shoulders, he stroked her arms through the rough fabric of her tunic.
“Take more of me,” he said, pressing his cock further into her. Not without difficulty, she sucked more and more of him into her mouth until he felt his balls press against her chin.
Rolf let his head fall back. By the gods! She felt good. Her mouth was warm and wet, and despite her lack of experience, her curiosity and seeming enjoyment of what she was doing brought him more pleasure than he would have thought possible.
With eyes closed, he cleared his mind of all thoughts but her, losing himself in the feel of her mouth sliding up and down his shaft and giving himself over to the immense pleasure of her attention.
When he felt ready to explode, he threaded his fingers through her hair to better guide her rhythm. He spilled his seed into her, moans of pure pleasure escaping his own lips. She swallowed every drop, nursing his cock until he was completely drained.
Rocking back onto her heels, she licked her swollen lips causing his balls to stir already. She avoided his gaze as an uncomfortable silence loomed.
He cupped her face in both hands and pressed his mouth to hers. The intensity of what he had just felt was the type that made a man rash. Best he occupy his mouth before he said something stupid with it.
He sucked her tongue between his lips mimicking what she’d just done to him. He could still taste his sap on her. She moaned, a deep rumbling that vibrated against his mouth. As he withdrew, he swirled his tongue around her lips, savoring the sweetness of the honey he’d smeared there mixed with his seed.
She jerked away from him. “Enough!” Wrenching from his grasp, she pushed away.
“Wait.” For some reason he couldn’t explain, he did not want her to go, yet. He gazed down at her, still kneeling between his thighs but perched to flee. All he could think to say was,
“You did not break your fast.” His voice sounded husky, even to his own ears.
She shrugged. “I am not hungry.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. He had seen her hungry look as he ate the food she pressed on him. At what game did she play?
“Have you sustenance other than what you gave me?”
Pushing against his knees, she shoved to her feet. “Fear for Wulf eats at my belly. There is no room for food.” She returned to the wind-eye.
He believed her, but he also thought she lied about having enough food. Why would she feed him, a hated enemy, while she went hungry? Was she always so selfless? Was it a trait common among the Angles? He began to doubt many things he had heard about these people. While they considered fleeing from the threat of invasion, many of them argued to fight off their attackers, and ‘they’ consisted mostly of women. Women brave enough to defend the village in the absence of their men.
But this one – she impressed him like no woman before. Beautiful. Strong. Capable. What more could a Viking want in a woman? More than her comeliness stirred the lust within him. She meant to keep the remnants of her family safe. He believed she would do anything towards that end.
It should not be so. Such burdens should not fall on the shoulders of one so gentle. He retrieved the blanket he had dropped to the floor and, crossing the room in three strides, laid it across her shoulders.
He was on the verge of wrapping his arms about her when she gasped. She turned and hurried to the door, ignoring his kind gesture. Just as she reached it, the boy burst in, struggling to draw breath.
“I saw them! I saw the Vikings.”
He could not determine if Wulf expressed fear or excitement. Perhaps a bit of both.
She took him by the shoulders and shook him until Rolf felt his own teeth rattle. “You could have been killed.” Just as viciously, she pulled him into her embrace and hugged him hard against her. “If ever you do anything so reckless, I will throttle your arse ‘til your nose bleeds.” She pushed him to arm’s length and took a deep breath. “How far?”