Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  He shifted his fingers, moving them upwards toward her pelvis. They found a place at the top of her cleft and began to move in slow circles. The resulting jolt of fire almost made her leap from his lap. As she heard his low chuckle behind her, she wondered—was he pleased to have found some magic place that, when he touched it, lightning streaked through her? She turned to look at him and saw no hint of confrontation in his eyes now, only the warmth of passion. His sensual mouth curved into a smile of pleasure.

  Dag gazed at the woman on his lap, mesmerized. He had forgotten the skald and his sword brothers gathered around this hall. Nothing existed but this woman who tilled his senses and made his body act of its own accord. He couldn’t get enough of her warmth, her softness. She meant to yield to him, yield as he had imagined in his dreams.

  He smoothed her skirt over her thighs and looked around the hall, wondering if any would notice if they left. Of course they would. Brodir and Kalf never took their eyes from the woman for long. But what did it matter? She was his thrall—why should he not claim her for his bed?

  He eased her off his lap and stood. This was the test. If she followed him willingly to the bedcloset, he would know she had made her decision. What did he care that she might once have considered bedding Sigurd or Knorri? In the end, she would have chosen him.

  She stumbled slightly as he guided her away from the jarl’s table; he steadied her with his arm around her waist. The hall behind them was still, eerily so. Only the skald’s spirited voice broke the silence. She took a step and then another until they stood before the door of his bedcloset.

  He helped her into the room and closed the door behind them. For a long time he simply stared at her—her lustrous skin, dewy and pink with arousal, her startling eyes, darkened now to a mysterious moss-green, her perfect mouth, stained the shade of lingonberry juice. She was spectacular, but her expression was vulnerable, shy. He felt uncertain how to begin.

  He approached her and leaned over her. His hands glided over her shoulders and down her arms. Then he drew her arms up around his neck and kissed her.

  He had wanted to do this forever, since that first time on the ship. To feel her soft mouth open under his, to tease her lips with his tongue, to explore the silky, honey-sweet warmth within.

  Their tongues touched and mated. Dag smiled inwardly at her boldness. She was a greedy thing, eager for all the delights he could teach her. And there were more, so many more.

  The kiss deepened. Dag felt her body meld to his; her pliant softness joined with his strength. He moved one hand down to cradle her bottom and lifted her up so her pelvis met his. Obligingly, she moved against him, her slim hips rotating over his swollen shaft. He groaned and groaned again. The woman was simply too arousing. He released her hips and, gripping her rough gown, began to jerk it up. When his fingers found bare, soft skin, he lifted her and pressed her hard against him. This time, she groaned.

  He let her gently down and went to his knees, steadying her with his hands on her hips. Then he reached up and tore her gown down to her waist, burying his face in the softness of her breasts. Her scent tantalized him. The luxuriant warmth of her skin made him ache. He nuzzled both her breasts, then found one taut point and suckled. She cried out and her hips jerked. He deepened the pressure on her sensitive flesh until he had to strain to hold her writhing body. Then his mouth explored her other breast, tasting her fully.

  Slowly, he released her. Pulling off her garment, he lifted her onto the bed. He arranged her bare limbs so her breasts were exposed, her legs splayed to reveal the glistening pink folds of her womanhood. Then he leaned over her, scrutinizing every inch of her beauty. He moved his hand between her thighs and fondled her, watching her face. It gratified him to see her eyes darken with passion, her lips part with ecstasy, her cheeks flush with rosy heat. Her body went suddenly rigid, her engorged nipples jutting upwards, her slender rib cage arching, her hips straining against his hand.

  She sat up and grabbed his wrist, whispering imploring, desperate words. He kissed her then stood to remove his clothes. He had barely removed his trews when she again reached for him, her hand closing around his shaft. He moaned and moved to settle himself beside her on the bed.

  Her hand shook as she touched him, clumsy and tentative at first. The awkwardness of her maiden’s touch aroused him even more. He tensed his muscles, struggling for control. He would not waste his seed this first time with her. He would plant it deep within her virgin thighs.

  Mercifully, her hand left his groin and she leaned over him to caress the rest of his body. She twined her fingers in his hair, stroked his face and jaw then swept her fingers lovingly over his chest and shoulders. He endured her caresses by taking slow, even breaths and remembering that he had suffered it once before. Then he hadn’t known any hope of finishing their loveplay; this time he did.

  She kissed him, her mouth sampling his as his had hers. He shuddered as her warm lips moved over his neck and shoulders. She paused to draw one of his nipples into her mouth, and he felt a vague pleasure that startled him. In her innocence, she had discovered something no other woman had.

  Her hot breath seared down his belly, tracing his body hair to his groin. She moved her face against his shaft, then kissed him. He thought she might take him into her mouth, but she did not. He breathed a sigh of relief; at this intensity of excitement, some pleasures were unendurable.

  When she returned her lips to his throat and pressed herself against him, he decided it was time. He eased her on her back and kneeled above her. He spread her thighs again then fondled her silken folds to gauge her readiness. She was very wet, and the way she moaned attested to her eagerness. But he worried he would hurt her. He eased a finger inside her, then a second. She cried out softly, as if in pain. He withdrew his hand, thinking they should engage in more loveplay.

  But Fiona had other ideas. she reached for him and spoke in a breathless, urgent voice he could not deny.

  Positioning himself against her slippery opening, he pressed into her a bare inch. She moaned, but didn’t cry out. He eased in deeper until he felt the barrier of her maidenhead. He gasped as the pressure of her tight passageway nearly undid him, then thrust in fully, driven half-mad by the urge to penetrate her warm, mysterious femaleness.

  He heard her cry out and forced himself to remain still. The primitive desire to yield to his body’s rhythm, to possess her with hard, swift strokes, pounded at his brain. But the feel of her beneath him—her slim body impaled by his strength and power—reminded him that he wanted their lovemaking to last, to satisfy her as it did him.

  To distract himself, he began to whisper to her, knowing that she understood not a word. He told her how wonderful it felt to be inside her, how warm and welcoming her body felt. He told her how soft her skin was, how perfect her breasts, how beautiful her hair. How her lips made him want to kiss her endlessly. He told her how perfectly her buttocks fit into his hands and how lovely she looked between her thighs, the way the dark, silky hair over her mound curled like dark moss and her nether lips were like the petals of a rosy, dew-kissed flower.

  He told her all the things he wanted to do to her, using crude and masculine words to describe her body and the pleasure he wanted her to experience in his bed.

  She listened, and he felt her relax. He took a deep breath, sensing her trust, and began to move. His rhythm was slow and deep, not so savage as to hurt her, not so gentle as to deny his satisfaction completely.

  He felt her stretch around him and quickened the tempo of his strokes. His control shattered. Fire erupted in his brain and shot down his body. He made one last lunge inside her and felt his seed explode against her womb.

  When he became aware again, he quickly rolled off of her, fearful he had hurt her. Immediately, she cuddled against his chest, sighing softly. With his free hand, he pulled the bedfurs over them and settled her in the hollow his body formed when he curled on his side. It felt good to have her buttocks pressed against his thighs, her
breasts soft and warm in his embrace.

  He sighed. She was content, and so was he.

  Chapter 16

  The gods help her—how did this man fall asleep so quickly, as if he simply willed it? She wouldn’t sleep for hours, if at all.

  Fiona wriggled away from Dag’s embrace and moved her hand down to touch herself, exploring the strange, still-moist flesh between her thighs. She had barely been aware of this part of herself before, although she knew it for the place where a man planted his seed to make babies grow. Now it seemed the very center of her.

  Cautiously, she found the slippery opening and pushed a finger inside as Dag had done. Her woman’s place felt like a sheath, narrow and slick. It also felt sore. No wonder, after his big shaft had filled her. But she had wanted him to do it. There was something about the way he touched her, the feelings he aroused, which made her ache for their joining.

  Fiona shivered. She didn’t like to think of the power this man had over her, the knowledge he seemed to have of her body that even she herself didn’t possess. For a time, she had lacked any control over her actions, responding blindly to some primitive force that drove her to mate like an animal.

  At least Dag had been as helpless as she to control the whirlwind that overtook them. She recalled his extravagant release, the way his neck arched and his body jerked as he cried out. The memory evoked an intense response that frightened her. She couldn’t allow herself to feel tenderness toward this man. He was still her master, and she a slave. She dare not forget that.

  She turned over, adjusting Dag’s heavy arm so she was more comfortable, and tried to sleep.

  * * *

  Dag stirred, suddenly aware of Fiona’s soft body pressed against his. Arousal, comfort, and doubt all warred for his attention. How long had it been since he had known the luxury of a woman’s supple curves welcoming him in the morning? Kira, his mind reminded him. She was the last woman he had lain with all night.

  His apprehension deepened at the thought. Would this woman disappoint him as Kira had?

  She shifted slightly, and one of her breasts rubbed against his arm, distracting him from his worries. He reached to smooth her silky hair away from her face. She was so lovely. He wanted her again and again. She turned to face him. As her eyes met his, he saw her surprise and confusion at finding him so close. He smiled at her.

  He wanted to begin lovemaking again but felt uncertain how to proceed. The crude way he had seduced her the night before didn’t seem appropriate now. He could scarcely believe he had handled her so intimately in a roomful of men. At the time he’d felt she owed him her compliance, but he no longer knew the urge to act like a demanding brute. This time, he would not be so selfish, so unsubtle.

  She sat up with a kind of moan, and his eyes went immediately to her groin. Realizing she was sore, he climbed out of the bed and went to his storage chest. On top, along with the lamp. He kept a beaker of water for drinking if he became thirsty during the night. Grabbing one of his old tunics hanging along the wall, he tore off a piece then dipped the cloth in the water.

  Returning to the bed, he motioned Fiona over to the edge. She slid toward him and sat there, looking hesitant. With swift efficiency, he knelt in front of her and pushed her thighs apart. She gasped as he brought the wet cloth against her body. He ignored her reaction and began to wash the dried blood and semen from her upper thighs and between her legs.

  Although he tried to be gentle, she tensed as he rubbed her. He glanced at her face and decided it was embarrassment that made her resist. He continued cleaning until, satisfied, he threw the cloth aside. She waited, motionless. Between her thighs, she looked rosy and swollen, and absolutely enticing. Following an impulse he had never felt before, Dag leaned down and kissed her, pressing his mouth against her silken folds. She jerked and tried to pull away. He held her tightly, his hands firmly grasping her hips.

  She moaned frantically and grew moist and slippery as he tasted her. Salty and earthy—exactly as a woman should taste. He sensed the tension building in her body, felt her shudder. Her hips arched. The wetness seeped from her body. Exploring, he put his tongue inside her. Her hips thrashed and she cried out. He repeated the motion, probing her with light, fluttering strokes. She screamed, an uninhibited shriek of fulfillment.

  He kissed her tenderly, waiting for the waves of her pleasure to subside. When he finally released her, her eyes appeared unfocused, her face flushed. She met his gaze, and he tried to smile reassuringly at her. She looked more uneasy than ever.

  He ran his fingers down her long slim back, feeling his own desire. He must have her again before the day was over. If he brought her to climax again, mayhap she would let him satisfy his need to mate with her.

  But that was for later. He could hear the men stirring in the longhouse, and he had promised the shipwright, Ranveig, that he would go out and look at timber for new strakes for the Storm Maiden.

  He broke off the embrace, retrieved his clothes, and began to dress. Fiona pulled up the blanket to cover herself and watched him with a dazed expression. He wanted to tell her his plans, to reassure her that he did not really want to leave her. Of course, he hadn’t the words.

  He gestured as he went to the door, trying to indicate that he was wanted in the hall. She watched him, seemingly bewildered. Crossing to the bed, he kissed her quickly before he left.

  Fiona stared at the door through which Dag had left. She couldn’t decide if she felt mortified or rapturous. Sweet Saint Agnes, she’d never heard of a man kissing a woman there! Faint waves of completion still washed through her.

  She stood up abruptly, seeking to banish the haze of satisfaction that clung to her. Turmoil immediately replaced contentment. How could she have let herself lose control so completely? She must not forget how she had come to be here, that the Vikings had taken her prisoner and killed her kin.

  But Dag is not like that, a part of her mind told her. He cares for you. Fiona began to pace, torn by her conflicting thoughts. When the door opened, she whirled to face it, unsure whether she dreaded or longed for Dag’s return.

  Breaca’s eyes met hers, and a slight smile turned up the corners of the slave girl’s full lips. “So, Dag has at last mastered his thrall.”

  Fiona defensively wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Where are your clothes? ‘ Breaca asked.

  “I’m afraid my kirtle is beyond repair.” Fiona nodded toward the tattered garment lying on the floor.

  Breaca picked it up. “ ‘Tis hardly worth mending. Mina will have to find something else for you to wear.”

  She left the room, promising to return with clothes in a moment. Fiona resumed her pacing. If Dag or Mina declined to provide her with garments, she would have none. She was utterly at the mercy of her captors. The thought unnerved her.

  Breaca came back and handed Fiona another coarse brown kirtle. Fiona washed her face and put on the garment.”Come,” Breaca said impatiently. “There’s much to do. That you sleep in Dag’s bed doesn’t mean you don’t have to work.

  Fiona reluctantly followed the other woman through the longhouse and out into the steading yard. She didn’t want to meet anyone, to face any of the Norse, man or woman. They would see her submission to Dag as a sign of her acceptance of her status as thrall. It wasn’t, she told herself. She’d wanted Dag. She’d allowed him to bed her because she desired him, not because she’d submitted.

  A dark-haired woman thrall passed by them, carrying pails of milk on a crossbar over her shoulders. She gave Fiona a curious look, and Fiona immediately flushed. Did the thralls at Engvakkirsted know Dag had taken her to bed? Would they despise her for giving in to one of their oppressors?

  “Come,” Breaca called sharply when Fiona dawdled.”Even with Dag’s favor, you won’t be allowed laziness.”

  Fiona quickened her pace to walk beside Breaca.”I didn’t let Dag bed me in order to win his favor,” she said.

  Breaca laughed. “Don’t be witless, of course y
ou did.”

  “Nay, I went with him because I desired him. I wanted him to bed me.”

  “It doesn’t matters why you did it, only that you have finally come to your senses and decided to make use of your beauty.”

  “But it does matter,” Fiona protested. “I don’t want you to think that I’ve accepted being a thrall. I still mean to leave this place and return to my homeland.”

  Breaca turned to regard Fiona. The cynicism in her young face was startling. “Dream all you wish of freedom, Fiona, but do not allow your bootless fancies to cause you trouble. You are a slave now and will likely die a slave.”

  Although Fiona’s whole being protested Breaca’s words, she realized it was pointless to argue. She silently followed Breaca to a low timber building. Inside, bales of raw wool were piled almost to the ceiling on one end, while several large looms occupied the other. Two Norsewomen Fiona had seen in the longhouse sat spinning the wool while Mina worked at one of the looms. At Fiona and Breaca’s entrance, Mina sighed and stood up to stretch, then rubbed at the small of her back. Fiona watched her intently. The Norse woman seemed big for this stage of pregnancy, and the dark smudges beneath her eyes testified to her fatigue and discomfort.

  “Ask Mina if I may look at her. Tell her I’ve had some training as a midwife.” Breaca’s eyes widened at Fiona’s request then she phrased the question to Mina. The Norsewoman hesitated, then nodded and stepped away from the loom.

  Carefully, Fiona felt Mina’s belly beneath her loose kirtle. It was big and hard. The woman carried no fat upon her body. Indeed, except for her midsection, she seemed to be wasting away. Fiona pushed at the smooth flesh beneath her fingers. The answering kick surprised and delighted her. She looked up and smiled at Mina. “Tell her that the babe seems strong,” she told Mina.

  Mina smiled back, obviously pleased. Fiona returned her attention to her examination. Gently pressing in a different spot, she was rewarded with another tremor of life. She glided her fingers upwards, seeking to feel through the distended skin and gain a sense of the babe’s position. A flutter of movements met her fingers. Fiona furrowed her brow. From what Breaca said, three moon cycles must pass before the babe was due to be born, yet the babe was very active, and Mina very large. Sudden apprehension struck Fiona. What if the Norsewoman carried not one babe, but two?