by Betina Krahn
“Where is this he-wolf . . . who takes such big bites?” she growled softly, flexing her shoulders, grinding her breasts against him. She could feel the beast straining in him, watched it clawing at the backs of his eyes, roaring to be free. And she sunk her nails into his wide, hard back. “I want him. Set him free.”
With a terrible groan, he gripped her tightly . . . then drove his flesh-blade into her hot, receptive sheath with one stroke. She lay still, breathless, trembling with shock waves of pleasure. Heat billowed in her lungs, in her heart, in her head. Then she sought his mouth hungrily, kissing, sucking, raking his lips with her teeth . . . coaxing him.
He responded in kind and soon his kisses and licks gave way to voluptuous suckling and delicious rakes with his teeth. She arched and shuddered and he paused, staring at her with eyes like white-hot brands.
“Are my bites too big?” It came out on a growl and it took a moment for it to right in her mind. Her ravenous he-wolf was asking if she wished to be consumed a bit more gently. There was something delicious in the irony of it, but she had no time to explore that sweet paradox in him, only to enjoy it and to cling to the pleasurable fury in him that was driving her to the limits of her own passions. She had breath for only one word.
“Nej.”
He laughed raggedly and plunged into her kisses and into her woman’s body, plying his pleasure-blade with devastating skill and power to overcome her exquisitely sensual resistance . . . winning her cooperation bit by bit. Then at last they moved together, straining, writhing, melding their bodies the way they had already joined their souls. And when her senses were finally stuffed full in that wild feast of pleasure and she erupted in his arms, her response ignited an explosion in him that rocked him to the very bottom of his soul.
It was some time before they parted and lay side by side, bodies moist and glowing, spent. She began to laugh and he turned to her with a light frown.
“What is it?”
She smiled and ran her hand up his chest and across his mouth. “‘Are my bites too big,’ you said.” Her eyes were liquid and warm, shimmering with love. “That is some soft-hearted beast in you, Borgerson . . . to be so concerned about the comfort of his victim.”
He looked a little shocked. “I . . . I said that?”
“You did.” She pushed up onto her elbow and leaned over him, giving his love-bruised lips a brush with hers. Then she settled her chin on her palm, letting her love rise into her gaze. “You must not be afraid to use your strength with me, Jorund. Why do you think the Norns sent you such a strong wife? You needed someone to match your strength . . . or perhaps someone to free it.”
Jorund stilled, feeling her words washing through him, releasing a warm tide of insight. Freeing his strength. It was true. For these last three years, an essential part of his nature had been imprisoned and denied . . . the raw physical strength and the intensity that were interwoven with the very maleness of him . . . It was as though he had gradually built a shell around his stronger impulses, fearing them . . . forbidding them.
With each touch, each look, each fiery exchange between them, Aaren’s strength had called to his, awakened it, sustained it . . . even as he had called to the woman-softness in her, roused and nourished it. Each time he saw the love in her eyes, each time he felt the power of her marvelous body moving against his, each time she pushed his control to its limit and beyond . . . he had reclaimed a bit of himself.
Despite the exhaustion in his body, he suddenly felt like running and jumping and even flying . . . anything that could express the joy he felt at his returning life. He rolled from the furs and scooped her up into his arms and swung her around and around in an exuberant demonstration of raw power.
“Jorund!” she cried breathlessly, her eyes sparkling as she was caught up in the release of his pleasure.
“I don’t know why the Norns gifted me with you, my beautiful she-wolf,” he said with a laugh. “But I will be forever grateful that they did.”
WORD CAME, LATE that morning, that Jarl Gunnar had collected the silver for his son’s ransom and the news spread through the hall with the speed and impact of a bolt of lightning. Borger roared up and down the hall, shouting orders that reverberated mercilessly in heads still mead-sick from the night’s revelry.
“Couldn’t have come at a better time!” he bellowed. Lumbering to the planking tables nearest the high seat, he snatched up a sleeping head by its thick brown hair. “Hrolf?” He cocked his head to peer at the face, then grunted disappointment and dropped it back onto the table to seize the one beside it. “Hrolf?” Another miss, and he dropped it, too. “Where in Hel’s sway is Hrolf? Hrolf!”
“Here, Jarl!” Hrolf came hurrying in from the cook-hearth with his mouth and hands full of warm flatbread.
“I will need a dozen men to take to the exchange . . . Garth, Erik, you and your son . . . Get some buckets of water and roust these deep-gulpers. Then see to the horses and provisions.” As Hrolf went about rousing the men, Borger strolled back through the hall and stood looking down at Leif Gunnarson.
“The old goat collected the silver I demanded. It seems you will go back to your people, after all.” When Leif’s eyes narrowed, but he made no other response, Borger laughed and stroked his beard. “You’re a better whelp than your old woman of a father deserves, Gunnar’s son. And to think: but for a coin to buy your mother’s favor . . . you might have been mine.”
Leif jerked forward furiously and Borger lurched back a step, then laughed raucously and strolled out the doors.
“You will pay for the pain you have caused, old man . . . I swear it,” Leif gritted out, sinking back onto his ragged pallet, his eyes flinty. “Your blood will redden my blade ’ere long.”
Most of the villagers and all of Borger’s head-sore hird gathered outside the long hall that afternoon as Borger’s ransom force assembled. The warriors’ iron-banded helmets, finely honed spear tips, and iron shield bosses glinted darkly in the sun, and their horses pranced as if eager to be gone.
Leif Gunnarson was brought outside and Brun Cinderhand struck the irons from his hands and feet. Leif straightened to his full height for the first time in weeks and turned a look of utter loathing on Brun, then on Borger. As his hands were retied with rope, he looked up to find Marta standing at the edge of the crowd, her face pale and her eyes pained. He watched her as they led him to a horse and forced him up on it. Then he turned his head and sat arrow-straight in the saddle, his face grim.
Garth, who was among the warriors selected for the mission to collect the ransom, sought out Miri, standing by Marta at the front of the crowd. Before the whole assembly of warriors and villagers, he removed his helm.
“I have not yet spoken to the jarl, little Miri. There has been no time,” he announced boldly. Then he pulled her straight into his arms and placed a lush, possessive kiss on her upturned mouth.
A murmur of shock spread through the crowd. All other warriors who had entertained thoughts of bidding for Miri’s future had their hopes dashed utterly when Borger merely threw back his head and laughed at Garth’s coltish heat. Garth’s bold action had just won the jarl’s tacit approval, as he had hoped it would, and his grin at Miri afterward said it was only a matter of time before they would sleep in each other’s arms.
Borger mounted his great Norman-bred stallion, accepted his helm from his bondsman, and bellowed for Bedria, the Brewer. When she hurried forward, he gave her orders, his voice booming with confidence.
“Hurry your best mead and ale along, Bee-woman. Make them ready three days hence, for my return and a great celebration of my new riches!” Cheers and shouted luck-wishes filled the commons as he gave his mount the spur and led his men and their captive out of the village, along the lake path.
Jorund and Aaren stood by, watching as Borger and his men departed, then turned to each other with warm, speaking looks.
“It will be over soon,” she said quietly, slipping her hand into his.
�
�Let us hope so,” he answered with a half smile. Then he turned to another topic. “I should go see about that foaling in the stables and check the roof on the granary. Then I need to see Brun in the smithy, and I promised Garth I would look over the house he is building. Do you mind?” She shook her head, understanding his need for action to dispel the tension in him. He gave her a kiss, which drew curious looks, then gave her hip a pat of promise as he strode off.
Aaren re-entered the warm hall with Miri and Marta and stopped dead as the heat-ripened smell of the place assaulted her nose and lungs. She grimaced at the stench, looking to Miri and Marta with alarm.
“Foul, I know,” Marta said, glancing at the empty corner where Leif had spent nearly two months of captivity. Her voice was small and tight as she fought to keep back tears. “The jarl’s men are . . . not a cleanly lot.”
Aaren’s mind was so set on the disgusting sight and smell that she failed to catch the emotion in Marta’s voice. The tables were still littered with bowls and bones, the straw on the benches around the walls was damp and soured, and the floor was puddled in places. Over the unpleasant odors of moldy straw, stale mead, and damp earth floated the acrid smell of sickness, from the unlucky revelers who had drunk more mead than their stomachs could hold. Aaren picked her way through the mess, her nose curling.
Nearly as disgusting as the smell was the sight of grizzled male forms sprawled over the benches and tables, sunk into near oblivion. “Even crows and cowbirds know better than to foul their own nests,” Aaren said, eliciting a one-eyed glare from a nearby table . . . for having the temerity to invade their domain.
Their domain? she thought, scanning the disheveled benches and the stagnant floor, the smelly torches and greasy hearth. This was her home now, too . . . the place where she slept and ate . . . where she would bear and rear her children. She made straight for her sleeping closet, Miri and Marta close on her heels. Minutes later, she returned, garbed once more in her warrior’s breeches, tunic, and breastplate, and ducked down the stone passageway into the small hearth.
“Come with me,” she ordered the thrall women who were peeling cabbages and onions. She turned to Kara and Gudrun. “We’ll need brooms, buckets, and brushes . . . where can we find them?”
When they arrived in the hall, Aaren set the women to emptying the benches of straw and scrubbing them down with vinegar water. But they hadn’t gotten far when a major obstacle presented itself . . . in the form of a large, surly warrior who refused to be dislodged from his seat. Aaren watched the thralls, Olga and Una, shrinking from the fellow’s ugly temper, and she strode over to take charge. She politely asked him to carry his carcass elsewhere, and when he gave her a defiant snarl, she lifted the other end of the heavy bench he was seated on and dumped him into a foul-smelling puddle. There was an outcry from the others and a number rose to their feet, glaring threateningly at her.
“We intend to clean this filthy bog of a hall,” she said evenly, meeting each pair of eyes, one after another. “And if you expect to eat here this night, I suggest you go clean yourselves . . . sweat out the ale-poisons and make yourselves clean and presentable.”
They stared at one another in hot indignation, but none of them was of a mind or of a condition to truly oppose her. They had seen her blade-work firsthand. Glowering and red-faced, they shuffled out, abandoning their hall to the she-wolf and her minions.
As the last warrior quit the door, Helga, Kara, Gudrun, and Old Sith arrived and stood gaping at the sight of Aaren, garbed in breastplate and breeches and wielding a broom instead of a blade. Aaren paused, seeing their shock, and shifted uneasily on her feet, wondering what they would think. But when Helga’s surprise melted into a pleased look, she squared her shoulders and plunged forward into her new life.
“If you would take a broom or a bucket, Helga, Kara, Sith . . . There is plenty of work for all.”
By nightfall the great hearth was cleaned of grease and ashes, the planking tables had been scrubbed and oiled, and fresh straw had been spread on the benches and the few remaining damp spots on the floor. New torches burned brightly in the post brackets, and pine boughs and fragrant juniper were draped around the hall to counter any lingering odors.
Borger’s warriors slowly trickled back in, sniffing the air and muttering among themselves as they re-entered what some now irritably referred to as the she-wolf’s lair. Most had heeded Aaren’s advice and taken themselves to the bathing house for a good, restoring sweat, and a number of them had changed their tunics and groomed their hair and beards. But there were a few who had chosen to spend their time in the forest, hunting . . . and had returned empty-handed, with mud-caked feet and sullen tempers. They stomped into the hall and threw themselves onto benches conspicuously near the high seat . . . and planted their begrimed boots in the middle of the clean tables.
Aaren emerged from Jorund’s sleeping closet, freshly garbed in womanly attire once more, eager to greet Jorund in the newly cleaned hall. When she rounded the high seat, she spotted two warriors with their backs braced against the roof posts and their filthy boots fouling the table planks. She halted and her eyes traveled over those offending feet, up those slouching bodies to the grizzled faces of Hakon Freeholder and Thorkel the Ever-ready. She considered her course carefully. Then she walked straight to the table where the Freeholder’s foul boots held sway.
“I must ask that you take your boots down, Hakon Freeholder,” she said. He gave an ugly smirk, sat up partway, and flung a wad of spit to the floor—precariously close to the lovely silk of her kirtle. Behind her the women gasped and she saw men thrusting to their feet and edging closer.
As he just sat, smugly defying her order, her eyes narrowed slightly and flickered to her right. Without warning, she snatched a great dagger from the belt of the warrior at her side and stood turning it over in her hands. “You will take your feet down, Freeholder,” she said with unnerving calm. “The women have spent hours this day purging the filth from this hall. You should honor their labor, for it is meant to see to your comfort.” Then her tawny eyes settled on his. “Shall I remove your boots for you?”
The tension thickened, and women and warriors alike exchanged looks of consternation. Proud Aaren Serricksdotter, the she-wolf . . . removing the Freeholder’s filthy boots?
In the blink of an eye, she raised that long dagger and plunged it into the tabletop—straight through the side of Freeholder’s boot. Hakon shot up with his eyes bulging, then reddening as he realized she’d pinned his foot to the table . . . without breaking his skin.
“Now, if I continue removing your boot in this manner . . . there will be precious little of it left to wear, Freeholder,” she said above the gasps and exclamations. “Perhaps you would prefer to do it yourself.” After a long moment, she pulled the dagger from the planking. It was another breathless moment before the Freeholder dragged his feet from the table, his face crimson. He shoved to his feet and Thorkel rose also . . . with his hand on his dagger.
Aaren met his furious look head-on and plunged the blade straight back into the table plank. “You are seasoned and valiant warriors, Hakon Freeholder and Thorkel Ever-ready. I salute that strength in you. In any fight I would be proud to have you at my back and would be honored to defend yours. But from now on, in this hall, you must be more than a fierce fighter—you must be a man of honor and bearing.” She drew a womanly cloak around the hard core of her voice, shielding but not disguising its strength. “I believe you can be that, as well.”
The Freeholder scowled and opened his mouth to speak, but shut it as he glimpsed the scowling women and gawking warriors standing around. He turned on his heel and strode out, and Thorkel joined him.
A while later Jorund entered to find the hall clean and green-scented and bustling with activity. He had already heard of Aaren’s confrontation with Hakon and Thorkel . . . and of the subsequent rules she had established for cleanliness and conduct in the hall. He caught her in his arms and drew her behind the high seat t
o kiss her breathless.
“You’ve been busy,” he murmured, nuzzling her temple. She pushed back in his arms, searching his face.
“My stomach churned at the smell, Jorund. I had to do something—this is our hall, too, our home,” she protested. Then she saw the grin lurking at the corners of his mouth and eyes and relaxed.
“Yea, but . . . no spitting, no blade-fighting, no blood-letting, no pissing . . . what’s a man got left?” he said with mock outrage.
“A sweet-smelling place to sleep,” she said tartly, arching her body into him. “A warm, tasty meal . . . the companionship of his fellows . . . and a pair of soft thighs that part willingly. Isn’t that worth a bit of restraint?” He slid his hands down her back and clasped her buttocks, pulling her tightly against his rousing hardness.
“Ummm. I’m not sure. Refresh my memory about the ‘thighs that part willingly.’ ”
Her squeal as he carried her back into his closet was heard all over the hall.
THAT NIGHT THE hall was crowded with women and warriors and village men . . . and a number of children. Aaren and Jorund sat close together at their table, watching the women making music and the warriors telling tales of battles past, each a little grander than the last. Aaren listened for a while, then rose from the bench and disappeared for a few moments.
When she returned she carried a great wolf-skin in her arms and led her two sisters . . . each of whom carried another large wolf pelt. They spread the skins over the edge of the wooden platform and high seat, and Aaren called for the children to come forward. She held her breath and waited, seeking out the little ones with her gaze. They stared at their mothers, then at one another, hanging back. Then she caught a glimpse of Helga’s boy, standing nearby with a wary but fascinated look on his face. With all the courage of a warrior facing her first battle, she steeled herself and engaged his eyes . . . and smiled.