The Peacemaker

by Jianne Carlo

  She bit down on his lower lip and he lurched off the chair. Her hands cupped his jaw and her tongue darted into his mouth, tangling and curling and caressing, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  He stumbled to the bed, holding her with one arm, and unlacing her dress with the other. They fell onto the bed, he tore at her chemise, ripping the thin fabric, and her breasts, those marvels, plumped and firmed before his eyes.

  “Cocoa,” he muttered before latching onto the up-tipped bud. He worshipped the peak, bathing it slick with his tongue and mouth, finding the other mound, learning the shape and contour of her softness, and plucking the nipple, before switching his attentions.

  She moaned his name, clamped a hand behind his head and urged him on. He suckled harder, drawing the nipple between his teeth over and over until she arched under him, one leg clamping his thigh. Sawing the taut tip, he looked up at her as she stiffened and shuddered.

  Knowing his control rested on a hairpin, he shoved his breeches off, bunched her skirts to her waist, and settled between her legs. He reached down to her mound. His fingers found her slick and creamy, soft and open, and he guided his prick to her puss, watching her intently. Her eyes opened slowly. He rubbed the crown up and down her folds. She gave him a sloppy one-sided smile and stopped breathing when he nudged himself inside. Her head fell back on the bed cushion and her brows rose as he pushed in, and her sheath clamped his throbbing flesh.

  He withdrew and thrust harder, gaining precious little ground she was so tight, so hot. His jaw clenched, and sweat beaded his temples as her walls convulsed once, twice, and she moaned his name.

  His balls swelled, stretching so taut the flesh burned. She arched off the mattress, seating him deeper, and his sac slapped her creamy folds, the sensation setting his semen near to erupting like an exploding, fire-spewing mountaintop.

  He pumped harder, his hips driving into her slick channel. He thrust to her womb, tearing through the film of her maidenhead, and tensed every muscle in his body, laboring to keep still, knowing she needed time to adjust to his girth.

  Tendrils of her hair tickled his chin and he buried his nose in the fresh hazel fragrance. His groin fired and his thighs rippled with the effort not to move, not to pummel into her sweet heat.

  She wriggled under him and he grunted, begging Freya’s mercy, but clamped his jaw tight and held on.

  Her hand stroked his shoulder; she bent and licked the cusp, and then bit him hard.

  His cock declared victory and he began pounding, holding her hips, molding her mound to his groin, spearing in and out, savoring the soft pop as her flesh refused his retreat.

  Her nails raked his back, the pain spiraled into him, and the orgasm began low in his groin, spearing through his cock. “Valhalla,” he roared as he shuddered and his seed shot out of his prick, one spurt after another until he collapsed, spent. Not wanting to crush her, he rolled over onto his back, and clamped her tight to his chest.

  Chapter Three

  ’Twas some time before Bettina regained her senses. Her body rose and fell with Njal’s rasped breaths, his chest lifting and dropping, the rhythm settling her into a deep lethargy. Her limbs felt boneless. Her legs straddled his groin and refused to move. Her sex jealously guarded the delicious sensation of his manhood engorged and heavy inside her quivering walls.

  He stirred beneath her, a slight rocking, and then the bed furs covered her bare shoulders. His arms slipped under the warmth of the skins, one hand cupped her bottom, and the other stroked her spine.

  All at once, she understood why tabby cats purred and stretched when petted. The soothing sensation lulled her into a dreamy state as when foxes nuzzled sheep into acquiescence. ’Twouldn’t be a despairing state being a goose caught by a fox, not after such bliss.

  “How fare you, wife?”

  His soft question warranted answering but words led to quarrels and insults, and she wanted to hold the magik of their coupling to her heart a few minutes longer. To mollify his need for a reply, she turned her head and kissed his chest, an open-mouthed kiss like he’d placed on her palm earlier, and smiled when his man part twitched inside her. Never had she felt so content, so warm and secure, so womanly.

  “Bettina?”

  Frowning when he cupped her jaw, forcing her cheek from the cozy nest of his chest fuzz, she blinked and managed one word. “Sleepy.”

  The harsh lines of his face had softened. When he smiled the candlelight reflected yellow in his blue eyes, the dancing flame twinkling as if he laughed at some jest. “Seems I have wed a woman with no need for speech after a loving.”

  Tempted to ask what made it a loving instead of a tupping or a fucking, she bit her tongue, folded her arms on his chest, and rested her chin on cupped hands. “’Tis required?”

  “Nay.” He touched the tip of her nose. “’Tis your first time. I wondered if you had questions.”

  Many but none she dared ask. Was he the fox and she the goose? Would he eat her up and spit out the bones?

  “’Tis the manner Fox and Geese is played at the king’s courts?” She shuttered her eyes, but watched him carefully.

  “Nay, ’tis played for coin, not kisses.” He sifted her locks through his fingers.

  “You set out to lose,” she accused, but leaned into the hand caressing one shoulder.

  “Think you I lost, sweetling? ’Tis a loss I would repeat over and over for the glory of watching you find your pleasure.”

  His words battered the wall of coldness she had erected after Papa died, closing off all womanly soft and vulnerable feelings, and forcing her thoughts to what needs be done to protect Mama and the keep. That he had studied her when she wore no armor stirred fear and anger.

  Njal’s hands framed her face as he rolled them so they lay on their sides. His manhood slipped out of her and the loss of their connection left her empty. A cold draft sailed over one exposed arm and she shivered.

  “Let us speak plainly, Bettina. We are man and wife now. I would have us strike a bargain.”

  She knew of no man save her papa who kept his word.

  “I would have trust and loyalty between us.”

  Agree with him. Say naught. He leaves for the king’s court soon.

  “You would give your trust to a coarse, unlearned, simple country lass?” She jerked out of his hold. “Nay, my lord. I trust not your words, and I have reason not to.”

  His lips flattened. “I have already said I regret those words and that I was in the wrong. What else would you have from me? Blood?”

  No man she knew ever admitted being wrong, yet she wanted to hold on to her petulance.

  Taking a deep breath, she met his gaze and said, “I honor my word, my lord. Would you have me tell you true or false?”

  “Always true, Bettina, and I would have you call me Njal.” He teased the locks covering one breast and curled the tresses to frame the mound.

  A wave of heat rushed from her curling toes; flames licked at her woman’s folds, and set her nipples tight and burning.

  “Shall we begin by agreeing to be true to each other?” His hand cupped her breast and he thumbed the nipple; her wayward body reacted, and the bud pearled to his touch.

  How could such a simple caress affect so much? She found it hard to draw in air and could scarce remember what he asked of her. Butterflies seemed to have found a home in the low part of her belly, for she was all aflutter.

  When his head dipped and he suckled her flesh, drawing the throbbing peak into his mouth and caressing the aching point with his tongue, a delicious shiver crept up her spine and started a tingling all the way to her scalp. His mouth withdrew. She near wailed her frustration, and barely restrained from pleading for more.

  “I am a greedy man.” He kissed the space between her breasts. “And you are sleepy and tender. Come, wife.”

  Reaching around her, he sat up, plumped the bed cushions, gathered her in his arms, and gently pressed her head to his chest. “You are my wife and ’tis
my duty to care for you and keep you safe. I give you my oath that I will be true to you. No other woman will share my bed. Can you agree to do the same for me?”

  When he said it that way, she felt foolish and unreasonable for her earlier refusal to trust him. Resting her palm on his chest, she twisted to look at him. “I would never dishonor you, my lord. You have my word. No other man will ever know me this way.” Her gaze dropped.

  “Ask. I can see from your expression you have a question.” He wound a lock of her hair around his hand.

  “’Tis not seemly.” She chewed the inside of her mouth.

  “Ask me. Say Njal…” One finger traced the arch of her brow. “Call me by name, Bettina, and ask what you will.”

  Staring at the dark fuzz on his chest, fascinated by the way the curls swirled toward a small, erect black nipple, she said, “Will you be true at the king’s court or here?”

  “Both.” He tipped her chin. “Do you believe me?”

  She met his eyes and read no hesitation in his gaze. She nodded.

  “Are we agreed then, wife—loyalty and trust?”

  “My loyalty you have.” She took a deep breath and added, “Njal.”

  The smile he gifted her with stirred the tingles and flutters all over again. “And trust?”

  “I will work on that.”

  “’Tis more than I had hoped for, Bettina.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed each finger in turn. “You have had much on your plate since your father died. No longer. I have arranged to meet with your steward on the morrow.”

  “Darwent?” She sat up, jerking her hand out of his grasp. “Luca has more talent for managing our coin than that fool.”

  “Why is he your steward then?”

  “Earl Mordred appointed him after Papa died. Mordred is my step-uncle and my guardian.”

  “Was, wife. He was.”

  But no longer. She dropped her gaze to the scattered bed furs, not wanting him to see the elation in her eyes. Finally, finally, she would see the last of Mordred. No longer would she have to plan and scheme to keep Mama safe from his attentions.

  For now she belonged to Njal.

  “I will meet with Darwent on the morrow. After that, you and I will decide how to proceed. Is that to your liking, Bettina?”

  The two of them? Decide how to proceed together? And he wondered if ’twas to her liking?

  She only restrained from throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his nose, his jaw, his cheeks, and babbling her thanks, by biting her lips until she tasted blood. Meeting his stare, she echoed his earlier words. “’Tis more than I hoped for, Njal.”

  * * *

  Njal left his sleeping bride with orders that none disturb her rest. He’d been unable to resist taking her again and ’twas his way of assuaging his guilt for using her too hard and too oft. Not that she lacked enthusiasm for bed sport. Nay, Odin had blessed him with a mate more passionate than the famed houris in the harems belonging to the Caliph of Constantinople.

  Mayhap he should discard the notion of taming Bettina.

  Whistling a witty limerick, he headed to the stables intending to gather his brothers and tour his new lands.

  The morning had dawned icy and cloudless. Sunlight streamed through the castle’s shutters and he halted at the foot of the stairs, arrested by the shabbiness the bright rays unveiled. Cracks and gouges in the fireplace’s mantle marred what once must have been a magnificent focus for the chamber. Of the dozen or so serving alcoves, at least half had ledges too crumbled and uneven to support a heavy candlestick, far less a haunch of venison. A quick survey of the roof showed stains from leaks.

  The contents of the hall did not boast the riches he expected from a holding as large and renowned as Castle Arbroath. Each bench or table he passed was in need of repair. The cleanliness of the keep could not be faulted, but ’twas not the rich holding he’d been led to expect. He scanned the walls and frowned when he noticed the unstained lighter rectangles where tapestries must once have hung. Save for the limp greenery left over from the wedding feast, a weary, stark dilapidation hung over the room.

  Spotting his brothers sitting with a group of men at a table on the far side of the fireplace, he changed direction and made his way to them.

  “Greetings, brother.” Magnus swiped ale foam from the corners of his lips. “How fare you this fine morn?”

  The smell of fresh bread preceded a kitchen wench bearing a basket of steaming loaves. Njal’s stomach growled. He clambered onto a bench and reached for a warm, crusty oval. Glancing at the three men who sat opposite, he inclined his head and broke the bread into two. “Good morn gentlemen.”

  “Greetings brother.” Jarvik refilled Magnus’ half-empty horn and set the ale pitcher on the table. “I trust you passed a restful night.”

  Magnus rolled his eyes and gestured at the men sitting on the opposite bench. “Meet Fordor, a wheat and barley farmer for Castle Arbroath. On his right is the village smith, Brock. Next to Brock is your steward, Darwent.”

  So this was the steward Bettina held in such disfavor? From the man’s expression, he had either swallowed vinegar or piss-flavored ale. Njal nodded to all and reached for a chipped butter crock. “What farm you, Fordor?” ’

  Twas his intention to lull the steward into carelessness by concentrating on the other men.

  “Wheat and barley.” Fordor had a round shiny face, slanted emerald eyes, and three chins of varying firmness. “’Tis flour from my fields with which cook bakes.”

  The butter smelled a tad rancid so Njal applied the yellow cream sparingly to his bread. He bit into the end and blinked. ’Twas soft and flavored with cinnamon. His mouth watered and he chewed rapidly, his eyes closing with rapture. “Fine grain indeed, Fordor. I have not tasted better bread even at the king’s court.”

  The farmer’s ruddy face threatened to burst into flame, his complexion reddened so. “’Twas a good harvest this season, milord, one of our best. Neither the castle nor the village will be short of grain.”

  “My thanks for your hard work, Fordor.” Njal reached for another loaf. “My men will arrive shortly, Smith Brock. There will be many stallions and mares in need of shoeing.”

  “’Twill be an honor to service your herd, milord.” Brock folded his massive, muscled arms and leaned back, his eyes half-shuttered, his muddy shorn hair sticking up at odd angles. He sent Darwent a narrow-eyed squint. “Should you have need, I know of many a fine harras kept by the Highlanders. They be wild men, but eager to trade and they breed fine horseflesh. The chieftain, Valan, is eager to forge a truce ’tween the great King Cnut and the Scots.”

  “’Tis good to know. I have heard of the harras of the north.” Many a court nobleman would pay dearly for the prized horseflesh to stud their mares. Njal nodded at the man. “King Cnut welcomes alliances with the Scots. I know not this chieftain, but I will meet with him in your presence.”

  Darwent shifted on the bench. “The earl does not trade with Highlanders and the chieftain Valan the Viper finds no favor with him. The last steed the smith shoed for Earl Mordred went lame.”

  “’Twas not the fault of the shoeing.” Brock lurched to his feet and braced both palms on the table.

  “Smith, sit.” Fordor tugged at the man’s forearm. “Beg pardon, milord. The earl is new to his lands and cautious in his dealings with the village.”

  And the smith, Njal surmised. He knew Earl Mordred had only recently inherited his father’s holding. He also knew the man’s reputation for ill-treating both his cattle and people. But ’twas not Njal’s way to stir the hornet’s nest until he knew who to call enemy and who to name friend.

  “Have another loaf of the cook’s fine bread, Smith Brock.” Njal blinked when he realized the breadbasket held not a morsel. “’Twould seem I speak too soon. We must await a new batch.”

  “’Tis the third basket of bread from the kitchens.” Magnus leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his belly. “Even Cnut the Great’
s courts never produced such tasty fare.”

  “And well can you attest to that, brother.” When Njal raised a brow, Jarvik added, “Magnus consumed the first basket by himself.”

  “You should have awoken earlier.” Magnus shrugged.

  “I have oft spoken with the cook. ’Tis wasteful how much spice she applies to a simple loaf.” Darwent picked at a trencher covered in a flotsam of apples, onions, and roasted boar.

  “’Tis your third trencher, steward.” Jarvik grabbed his ale horn and drained it.

  “’Tis wasteful not to consume what is already prepared.”

  “How long have you been steward?” Njal plucked an apple from a bowl on the table and polished the ruby skin on his sleeve.

  “Earl Mordred appointed me this Samhain.”

  Noting Darwent’s sullen, defensive tone, Njal took a bite out of the firm fruit, and looked the steward full in the eye, but said not a word. He’d found silence begat babbling and babbling begat a riches of confessions.

  “I have tried to institute frugal practices to no avail. Neither lady of the keep will adhere to such practices.” The steward lumped a huge portion of stewed fruit and meat onto a torn trencher square.

  “Tell me of your suggestions.” Njal waited until Darwent gobbled down the food before he issued the command.

  “There were many debts accumulated by the last lord.” Darwent’s pitted Adam’s apple bobbed a thousand-fold with every word he uttered. “With Earl Mordred’s approval I sold the cattle and sheep, but ’tis not enough to settle the coin owed.”

  Njal gripped the table edge so hard a splinter wedged under his fingernail. The pain didn’t lessen the urge to batter the steward’s ugly face. Who sold cattle and sheep with winter’s approach?

  “Let him speak.” Jarvik’s whispered words were audible only to Njal.

  Njal had to clench his jaw to hold back his rising ire. He broke off a piece of bread, dipped the crust into the butter crock, and tasted the morsel. Not rancid, but definitely not creamy butter skimmed from freshly churned cream. The steward had indeed sold all the keep’s cattle.