Malice Striker

by Jianne Carlo

  Why had he separated her from the others?

  How was she to navigate her way around the holding?

  “Wine, mead, or ale, wife?” He draped an arm around her shoulder.

  She yearned to shake off his embrace and empty a pitcher of ale over his head. “We prepared hot cider with spices, my lord. ’Tis most pleasant to the palate.”

  “’Tis a drink for babes. This eve we feast. Again I ask, wine, mead, or ale?”

  Forsooth he was a stubborn warrior, a man after all, and the worse for it. “Wine, my lord.”

  “Brökk. I would have you address me by my name when we are privy.”

  Lout! Fool! Harbinger of misfortune! ’Tis the manner she wanted to address him. How dare he? Separate her from the only solaces she knew—Lady Gráinne, Elspeth, Muíríne, and Dagrún? Flaunt his mistress, Hilda, to her, to the entire hall? Whilst suckling her palm?

  Skatha chewed the insides of her cheeks, seeking a calm long vanished. Elspeth had described the Lady Hilda to Skatha. Tall, stout, breasts the size of large gourds, hair the color of ripe wheat, and eyes so deep a blue as to rival the color of a fjord. She flexed her fingers in a futile attempt at squelching the longing to scratch the woman’s fine eyes out of her sockets.

  Nay! She was not jealous. She did not envy Hilda. Nay. Nay.

  ’Twas impossible. She had known Lord Brökk less than a sennight. Nay. She could not care for him. But, he…he had been inside of her.

  “I traded dearly for this wine, wife. Sip. Tell me of the taste.”

  The cold glass touched her lips; Skatha had no choice but to swallow the liquid. ’Twas pleasant, sweet, and fruity, but she knew of her frailties. “I have not the head for wine, my lord. I am prone to giggling and worse.”

  He was silent for a long moment, and Skatha wondered if she had erred by being honest. Her insides rioted and her belly clenched as if she’d swallowed poison. She was so tired, so empty, so lost in surrender.

  She must be brave. Muster her courage. Do not give in.

  How was she to survive when Lady Gráinne and her friends departed? Nay, nay, she would not consider the future, only this day, this eve. For if she pondered an entire lifetime spent hiding her blindness, she would become crazed.

  ’Twould be as it was when the darkness had descended, one terrifying day after another, until the terror became the norm, until the panic abated, and all that was left was the numbness. All her life she had coped, dealt with one situation after another. Made the impossible happen. She would do so again.

  “We will save the wine, then, wife, for when we are privy in our chamber.”

  * * *

  Could any female be so innocent? She blushed hot and furiously throughout the náttverðr. Flinched and stilled if he so much as grasped her hand, yet when he caressed the curve of her shoulders bared by the courtly gown she wore, her flesh warmed beneath his touch. How could he not have noticed her beauty? The delicate line of her nose, the sweet hollows below her high cheekbones, the shadows of her lush lashes that fluttered like wild butterflies skipping from daisy to daisy?

  “Tell me of your life at Sumbarten.” Brökk speared a morsel of boar, a chunk of roasted apple, and after sliding a glance at his wife’s full ruby lips, a tiny piece of leek.

  “’Twas a simple existence, my lord. Ruled by the church’s dictates. I have been trained to run a holding. I trust that I will not disappoint in the running of Bita Veðr.” She ducked her head.

  Brökk tipped her chin. “Word of our union has spread up and down the coast. Several jarls and their wives sit in the hall. I would have none see any unease between us. ’Twill fuel gossip. Come. Accept my feeding of you this meal.”

  Why was she so reluctant to accept food from his eating knife? ’Twas common custom to share trenchers during a meal. Yet, color stained her cheeks, the delicate flesh above her mouth dampened, and her small breasts heaved as if she’d been sprinting across a field. He had to nudge her lips twice with the food before she slowly and sensuously suckled the morsels into her mouth. And when her pink tongue flicked the seam of her lips to capture any errant juices, he stifled a groan. Ali’s talk of jötunn cocksucking conjured vivid images of her wine stained lips sliding down the length of his pecker.

  “Have you ne’er shared a trencher afore?”

  “Nay, my lord. We have wooden bowls at the abbey and are each responsible for our own feeding. Is the boar stew to your liking?” She kept her gaze averted from his.

  “Aye. ’Tis far from the tough, dry fare produced by the kitchens.” He deliberately spoke louder than normal and glared at Hilda. Since Etta had died, the housekeeper had punished the entire holding with meals unfit for a herd of pigs.

  Skatha jerked to face him, and their gazes met for a brief moment. She shook her head and looked down. “’Twas Lady Gráinne’s impression, lord, that the Lady Hilda’s care of the kitchens is much to your liking.”

  Mindful of all the visitors in the hall and Hilda’s vindictive bent, Brökk lowered his voice. “Nay, your abbess is mistaken. I welcome your command of my holding. Once you are settled here, Lady Hilda will be sent elsewhere. Has she given o’er the spice keys to your keeping?”

  “I have not asked for them, my lord, not knowing your wishes on the matter.”

  Brökk studied his wife’s downcast gaze, the tight purse of her mouth, and the clenching fists resting in her lap. He had not expected Hilda to start spewing her spite so soon. ’Twas time he made arrangements to send her elsewhere. Mayhap he should rid Bita Veðr of all the females that Etta had insisted on hiring when she had taken the reins of the holding. But many had come from the surrounding farms and villages, and he did not wish discord so close to his home.

  “My wishes are that you have the keeping of the household, Skatha. I will instruct Hilda of this on the morrow.”

  Her head whipped up, and she gifted him with a dazzling smile, her brows raised high in surprise. Even white teeth gleamed in the light from the oil lamps behind the dais. Forsooth, she was no beauty, but those violet eyes mesmerized him, and her raven tresses framed a face glowing joy at hearing his words.

  “I thank you for your trust in my abilities, my lord.”

  “Brökk.” He captured her hand and absently kissed the base of her wrist. Mayhap he should send Hilda to Jutland with Ali when he departed within the sennight.

  The meal went on too long for his liking. Olaf toasted their union, as did the score jarls and their noblewomen in attendance. Even Ali stood to wish them happiness.

  Skatha ate little, pleading she had tasted too much during the preparation of the meal. He had served in many royal courts and knew how to draw a woman into conversation, but his wife proved guarded when replying to his questions. Brökk signaled the end of the feast by giving thanks to all who had journeyed to the holding.

  He helped Skatha to her feet, and they left the hall to loud cheers, the odd vulgar shout, and much thumping of his shoulders. They walked in silence to his lodge. During the meal, he had arranged to have a fire lit, and food and drink to be left for them.

  Brökk secured the door and lifted her into his embrace. “Last eve you bore the pain of your virginity, Skatha. This eve you learn of the pleasures to be had once your maidenhead has been taken.”

  She shivered and her throat worked, but she uttered not a word.

  After settling her gently in the middle of the mattress, he whispered, “Be not afeared, wife. All will be well.”

  “I know my duties, my lord.” The musical lilt to her voice had vanished, and she clasped her fingers tightly together, but otherwise sat rigid where he placed her, not seeming to even draw breath.

  Brökk shed his garments, leggings, and boots, added three logs and tinder to the blazing fire, and doused all but two of the sconces on the wall. He poured wine into a goblet and made his way to the bed, pausing to study his goddess.

  The blue tint to the ringlets falling to below her waist glistened like the finest black bear pelts h
e had once purchased from a Rus trader. Goddess she would look spread naked on a bed of those furs, with her fair skin, violet eyes, and ruby lips. He had been hard and aching since speaking with Ali in the tavern, and now knowing soon he would have his fill of Skatha, his stones fired tight, and his prick wept.

  He eased onto the mattress. “Will you hold this wine for me, Skatha?”

  She flinched, shifted to him, and held out her hands. “Of course, my lord.”

  “Brökk. Say my name, lady mine.” He folded her fingers around the base of the goblet and brushed his lips across her forehead.

  “Brökk.”

  Smiling, he drew the bed curtains and scooted against the headboard. Aware with the lights doused and the bed drapes drawn, she could see little, he gently lifted her onto his lap and took the goblet from her grasp. “Will you share a few sips of wine with me? ’Twill relax you.”

  He heard her swallow. “As you wish.”

  “Brökk.” He kissed her cheek.

  “Brökk.”

  “Do you wonder why I have darkened the chamber?”

  She started and her brows pinched for a moment. The pink tip of her tongue moistened her lips.

  He knew she had to feel his cock’s further engorgement.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “This eve we learn each other by touch and feel. We have no need for light or sight.” His arm supported her back, but thus far she had kept apart from him, holding her spine straight and her legs still where they lay across his. To his delight some of the stiffness eased from the shoulder lying on his. He had been right to douse the torches.

  “’Tis the way of bedsport?” The steel that had previously tempered her voice softened.

  “One of the many. ’Tis of import we learn what pleases each other.” He had trained many a wild creature to his touch—falcons, hawks, and the high-spirited wild horses the Arabs raised—and ’twas all the same steps. Accustom them to his touch, speak soft and crooning of what he would do next, and reward oft with food and caresses.

  “I know not the ways of men, my lord. Naught of bedsport and pleasing men.”

  He kissed her full on the lips. “Brökk, Skatha.”

  “Brökk. I was sent to the abbey in my tenth and first summer. No men lived at Sumbarten.”

  “No man aided when labor was needed?”

  “’Twas seldom needed, but if it was, then Lady Gráinne dealt with them. We had a king’s legion to protect the lands and the farms and villages, but Lady Gráinne forbade the warriors entry to the manse and the abbey fields.”

  He curled a lock of hair behind her small ears and traced the tender whorls. “Wear you no earbobs?”

  She laughed, the sound a joyous delight ’twas so unexpected. “Lady Gráinne trained me to serve the Lord almighty, not for marriage. Decorating the flesh is a sin.”

  Brökk felt for her small hand, sniffed her wrist, licked the center of her palm, and then set her warm skin to his chest. “I am a sinner then.”

  “How so?” Her fingers trembled.

  He moved her hand to his lobe. “’Tis common with the Jomsvikings to wear earbobs. Feel.”

  “’Tis a ring.”

  Brökk strangled a groan at her tentative tracing of his ear and the gold hoop strung through the edge. “Aye.” He worked on the lacings in the front of her gown.

  “I have heard of the Jomsvikings. Did you serve with them?”

  “For a time.” He nuzzled the crook of her neck. “Apples again, wife. Why do you smell of apples?”

  “The cider we made today necessitates the pressing of many apples. Does the scent offend you?”

  “Nay. ’Tis enticing. I am partial to the taste of apples.” He lifted her hair and suckled her nape. Delighted when she let out a small whimper, he sank his teeth gently on the moistened flesh and traced a path to her ear.

  “How come you to taste of the fruit, here, and here?” He bit her lobe, nibbled the tip, and tongued the whorls.

  She leaned into his caresses.

  “Like you, this?” He tickled the corner of her mouth.

  “Aye.” Her reply came out on a sigh, and she pressed both hands to his arm.

  He sipped at her lips and cupped her cheek. “Kiss me.”

  “I know not how.”

  “Have you not kissed one of your friends? Lady Gráinne?”

  “Aye.” She kissed his cheek.

  “Nay.” He captured her wrist and set her thumb to his lips. “Here.”

  She touched his chin, traced his mouth, and their noses bumped when she pressed her lips to his. A soft, teasing brushing of silky, plump skin. His stones throbbed and his prick burned.

  Brökk hungered too much to go slow and swept in to taste her depths, tangling their tongues and luring her into play. At first she tensed and pushed off his ribs, but then she opened fully into him, and her arms crept up his chest to link around his neck.

  ’Twas Valhalla in Midgard—to her Christian words, heaven on earth. Never had he feasted on any flesh so entrancing. He lost himself in her heat, her moistness, her eagerness to return his passionate gorging. His loins were afire. He bunched her skirts.

  Her pleasure must come first.

  Ali’s words thundered in his head.

  His balls slammed hard and fast against the base of his cock, his seed on the verge of erupting, and he broke away from her seductive mouth.

  “Nay. ’Tis wrong?” She rubbed her cheeks on his.

  ThMrr’s ballocks, ’twas the most righteous torture he had ever endured. He sucked in a deep breath and fought to temper his greedy desires. “I must see to your pleasure.”

  “But ’tis pleasure, much pleasure.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

  She would crucify him with her ardent response. “Nay. ’Twill be now.”

  He pushed the cyrtel up and bared her lower body. Hot, fevered lust had him in its grip. The urge to taste her cream had him salivating. He wedged his shoulder between her slender thighs. Her woman’s arousal swamped him, the blossoming of her spice headier than any poppy seed wine, and he closed his eyes and buried his nose between her folds.

  Slick and wet, and by Odin, she tasted of apples even here. Now he wished for light, for a blazing sun to see clearly the budded nub hidden beneath the hood he knew would be red and flushed. He set his mouth to that spot and thrust a finger inside her clenching sheath, and she arched off the bed. But he held her fast, his arm on her sweet belly as he bit down. She purred her pleasure and moaned. Around his finger, her walls tightened, clenching and clamping in violent spasms.

  He could wait no longer. He tore open her gown and chemise, cupped her firm bottom cheeks, and drove into her. She came apart again, her puss fisting his prick, and he roared his climax, pounding into her contracting walls.

  Ne’er had his desire been so carnal and magikal. Ne’er had his seed spewed for such an excruciating eternity. Ne’er had a peak so overwhelmed him.

  Though he strove to remain on his forearms, his elbows wobbled under the strain. He collapsed on her, his face nestled between her breasts, but struggled to wrench one last store of energy from his reserve. He grunted and rolled over, clasping her to him, not wanting to forgo the bliss of her sheath until his prick went flaccid. His rasped breathing refused to subside. Ne’er had he been so well used and satisfied.

  But had he gained strength and wisdom? He knew not and cared not. Her sweet puss hadn’t stopped milking his cock. E’en now her walls squeezed him. He dropped a kiss on her hair and stroked her spine, fingering the small bones, learning the shape of each tiny node.

  She stirred, rubbed her nose in his chest hair, and her lips dusted his skin. She sneezed, and by ThMrr’s hammer, her sheath drew on his prick, a fierce clenching ’twas nigh on painful to his still engorged shaft. Much time passed before his lust-drunken stupor lifted.

  “You found your pleasure this eve, wife.”

  “’Tis an apt word.” Her voice was husky and low.

  “On the morrow
I will take you to the ship of the Eastern trader, Ali H’malik, who toasted our vows at the náttverðr. He is a friend of Konáll and mine and has many fine silks, spices, combs, and jewels. We will choose your morning gift. By rights, you should have had it this morn.”

  “I need no gift, my lord. Lord Konáll’s dowry chest is generosity enough—”

  He stopped her words with two fingers to her mouth. “Nay. ’Tis my pleasure and duty to provide you with a bridal gift so all will know you are valued. I will have none doubt I am well pleased with my bride.”

  “I thank you, my lord.”

  “Brökk.”

  “Brökk.”

  He heard her hesitation. “You have a query, wife?”

  “The crofter’s hut you have deeded for use by Lady Gráinne and the others—’tis some distance from this lodge?” She had stiffened again.

  “Nay. In the morn, I will take you there. I wouldst not separate you and your lady friends.” His prick went limp, and he slipped from her sheath with a sigh. “But now I will cleanse us.”

  “Cleanse?” Her voice squeaked.

  “Aye.” He lifted her to the side and kissed the tip of her nose. “I will heat the water.”

  Brökk quickly warmed the water in the cauldron hanging o’er the fire, ladled a goodly amount into a basin, gathered linen squares, and returned to the bed. “Spread your legs, Skatha.”

  The light from the two wall sconces he had left burning allowed him a shadowed view of her face. She bit her bottom lip while he gently wiped her sex clean and dried the tight curls leading to his Valhalla. She flicked her elbow over her eyes, and a grin chased his lips. She was shy and embarrassed, but ’twould take no time for her to grow accustomed to his loving if this eve were any evidence of her passionate nature.

  “Come.” He threw the cloths aside, scooped her into his arms, and carried her over to the fire. “Is the gown ruined? No matter. We will ask Ali to find silk of this hue for you and commission another one. Slip off the cyrtel and then I will wrap you in these furs and we will partake of the food I ordered earlier.”