Loki's Daughters

by Delle Jacobs

Ronan glared at Elli who shrank away.

  "Well?"

  Elli's lip trembled, but she set her jaw and raised herself to her knees. "He killed my father."

  Ronan's dark brows furrowed until they almost met. "Your father is already dead."

  "And he killed him. I was there. I saw it."

  "That's not possible."

  "Why not?" Arienh asked angrily. "You have been here before. Why not him?"

  "But Bjorn has not. She has confused him with someone else. Or she lies altogether."

  Arienh wedged herself in front of Elli. "Elli does not lie. And I will not let you harm her."

  "Is this another one of your pranks, Arienh? If so, this time you have gone too far."

  "It is no prank. She testifies it was he who murdered her father. Is that not grounds enough for revenge?"

  Ronan hesitated. His eyes shifted toward the blacksmith. "Bjorn? What say you?"

  The blacksmith had lost his florid rage, and he stared in confusion. His fingers probed at the thin red line of blood. "Nay, I know nothing of her father."

  "So you will believe him," Arienh said, "for he is your kind. And you accuse me of hating your race, Viking? I say it is yours that hates mine, for hatred excuses your violence to us."

  "Ronan." Egil carefully placed his hand to his brother's arm. "Shouldn't we think this out?"

  She had been lost in the intensity of the struggle between Ronan and herself, forgetting the others until Egil interrupted. Egil couldn't know about their fight in the forest, so his brother's anger must seem out of proportion to him. But it was no surprise to Arienh, especially that he blamed the entire thing on her. But blame or no, she had to protect Elli.

  And there was only one way.

  "Let her go, Viking, and I will give you what you want."

  "Will you?" he sneered.

  "Aye. I will be your wife. Let her go."

  She'd caught him off guard. Never mind that she had just trapped herself.

  Ronan quickly surveyed the crowd of bystanders and frowned. "Nay, that choice is not mine. I have not been wronged. Bjorn must decide what to do."

  The blacksmith looked pale enough to faint, yet he had lost very little blood. Beneath his wild coppery brows, his pale blue eyes looked deathly ill. He shook his head. "Nay, Ronan, I should have known better. Damn women can't be trusted. But I don't want her hurt."

  "What are you talking about, Bjorn? It's your right."

  "I give it to you. Let her go and take your wife. You wanted wives. This is your chance." Without another word, the blacksmith pivoted around and stalked off toward his forge, shoving his way through the gathering of men.

  Arienh watched the retreating blacksmith with mounting confusion, and Ronan seemed equally puzzled. But she knew his departure would not ease her problem. Ronan was not one to miss an opportunity.

  "So be it, then." Ronan's fierce glare pierced Arienh to the core as she saw the hurt that lay beneath it. Her throat tightened, aching the way her heart did. She hadn't wanted it to be this way, but she couldn't let them hurt Elli. She reached down to Elli, helping the girl to her feet.

  "Come to my cottage," she said, motioning to the others. "We must figure out what to do next."

  "There is nothing to figure!" shrieked Ferris. "She has betrayed us!"

  Startled, the women turned to face the old man.

  "What do you mean?" Arienh demanded.

  "She is no granddaughter of mine," he railed, black eyes flashing. "She has failed."

  So Ferris had done this. Set up his own granddaughter to be murdered. "Hush, Ferris. How can you say such a thing? Do you truly think she is a match for such a huge man?"

  "She did not do it right. She failed because she lacked the courage. Her own father was killed by that fiend, and she will not avenge him."

  "She's lucky she isn't dead," said Mildread. "We're lucky we all aren't dead because of your stupid scheme, Ferris."

  Ferris wheeled on Mildread, unleashing his rage on her. "And you. I've seen you sneaking off into the woods with that thin one. You have betrayed your own people to consort with heathens."

  Mildread raised her chin high and looked down her nose. "They aren't heathens anymore."

  "They will never be anything less. Heathens. Barbarians. Thieving murderers. And you make your bed with them."

  Mildread drew herself up to her full height, looming over the old man. "Well, now, how do you know I didn't mean to follow your advice and do him in? But I would not, for he is a true man. You would not know about that. If you want them dead, go slit their throats yourself instead of sending women to do it."

  "Slut!"

  "Stop it!" shouted Elli. Tears stained her reddened cheeks. "Stop it, Grandfather. You are right, I could have killed him if I'd wanted to, but I didn't want to, and I tried. I've always tried to please you, but you cannot be pleased. No matter what I do, you will never be satisfied, not even with this. You will never be satisfied until we are all dead, and we will not die for your warped vengeance."

  The old man bounced about in his frenzy. "He killed my son! Your father! You said so yourself."

  "Aye, it was him," Elli said, "I'm sure enough. But there has been enough killing, and I will do your bidding no more."

  "Then you are no kin of mine. You will never darken my door again."

  The women gasped. Old Ferris flitted his cold stare over the group of women, turning his hardest scowl on Arienh. Then he turned around in the path and stalked away with his awkward gait toward his cottage.

  "I wonder who he thinks will look after him now," asked Selma. "I am not inclined, even if he is my uncle."

  Mildread's mouth formed a grim line. "I will see to him. I cannot let him starve. But he cannot bully me, either."

  "Elli, you will come home with us," Arienh said. "And we will all protect you, do not fear."

  Elli already gathered strength from somewhere inside her, or perhaps she absorbed it from her friends and kin who stood by her. Arienh was proud of her. She had stood up to both the Vikings and her grandfather, and survived both times.

  With an arm about Elli's shoulders, she started toward the stone cottage where Birgit awaited. Liam, still perched on Birgit's hip, spoke into his mother's ear, pointing in various directions, and Arienh guessed that he told his mother what he saw. But Birgit's sharp ears had no doubt heard enough to guess for herself.

  "Arienh," shouted Ronan, angry and fierce.

  Arienh jerked and glanced back.

  He stood wide, like a man ready to do battle. One massive hand wrapped around his sword's hilt. His eyes blazed. "Your place is with me, wife."

  Her jaw gaped. Now? She had thought to stall him at least a little bit longer. "Nay, Viking, it is the middle of the day."

  "Is your word worthless, then, Arienh?"

  "Nay, but there are things that must be done first."

  "Vows at the church door? You have run out of excuses, Arienh. Now there is a church."

  "There is the Beltane-"

  "A time for lovers. You neglected to tell me that as well."

  "And a time for marriages."

  "A marriage may happen when it happens. And you have just given your vow, before your people and mine The time is now."

  Arienh gulped down her fear, and out of the corner spotted the coarse brown robes of Father Hewil. She would get no help there, for Ronan had thoroughly won over the priest. If she tried to stall, Ronan might regret his decision to free Elli. But if she went with him, his triumph would encourage the other men, and soon one of them would discover Birgit's weakness.

  "Don't do it for me, Arienh," Elli pleaded. "You should have let me take my punishment."

  But what was marriage compared to death? Nay, she could not risk Elli. And she had given her word.

  Mildread's hand alit lightly on Arienh's shoulder. "Nay, you must, for you agreed. Don't worry, it will be all right. We will take care of them."

  Arienh wasn't sure exactly what Mildread meant, but her sol
emn brown eyes held a softness in them that could be understood, all the way to the soul. Arienh nodded. She stepped forward and walked down the path as if to her execution.

  Fear was her enemy, far more than the enigmatic Northman who was one moment tender and kind, and the next fierce. They vied for power here, and if she showed her fear, she might just as well hand it all over to him. Give up.

  Never had she given up, and she could not now. And she was well-practiced in disguising her fear.

  Then, she would give him what he asked for, but she would give it like a warrior. Strength she might not have, but she had the wit to win. Boldly, she strode toward him, faced him squarely. Silently, eye to eye.

  Swift as an adder, his hot grip latched onto her arm. She met it, not with resistance, but with challenge in her eyes, her gaze raking from his hand to his eyes. He meant to possess her. He thought control of her body would give him dominion over her soul, but she was a Celt, descendant of Celtic women warriors, and she would teach him what dominion meant.

  Abruptly, he released his hold, as if sensing her compliance. With haughty strides, jutting out her chin, Arienh trod the length of the path to the new timber church.

  The path seemed interminable, but all too short. The beautiful Viking caught up to her in only two strides, and kept pace beside her. Arienh fixed her sight on the freshly limed walls and bright honey-colored thatch. She dared not look at his face, lest her resolve crumble.

  As Father Hewil took her hand and laid it atop the Viking's, she focused on the tiny pits in the bronze Celtic cross that hung from a cord over the brown cassock. The priest's words of blessing seemed far away, vague and shapeless. Her awareness of the throng of Celts and Vikings surrounding them was nearly smothered by the intensity of the huge man beside her.

  She shook off her stunned reverie when Ronan's strong hands turned her by her shoulders to face him, then held her face still as he leaned to touch his sensuous lips to hers. Neither hard nor gentle, a kiss of possession, not passion. But a hundred kinds of passion seethed in his eyes.

  Before she could recover, he tossed her over his shoulder and stalked with huge strides down the path by the river to the Viking's cottage.

  At the threshold, he paused and set her down.

  "In," he said.

  She met his demand, shoulders square, head held high, still focusing on the route ahead of her, and the door banged shut behind her. The latch slammed into its slot. It was an alien place now, this cottage, furnished in strange, Northman-like ways. The beds for his family were built along the walls, and covered with furs and plump blankets, which she guessed were filled with the precious down he had collected. The scent of mead mingled with stale smoke from the previous night's hearth fire.

  She could not let him win this battle. She would give her body, yes, but would not let him take it, nor her soul. Arienh whirled suddenly to face the Viking, feeling the flare of fierce aggression rise in her.

  Like a ravaging wolf, he closed in, eyes gleaming with his voracious thoughts as his garments shed away like water; jerkin, smock, breeches. He kicked away his short boots. Corded muscles rippled with tension in the yellow glow from the banked hearth fire. His huge male form loomed like a dark shadow, darker than the gloom, so that only its outline was clear. She hungered to run the pads of her fingers over his skin, to sense with her fingers the rugged male beauty her eyes saw.

  Think. Men did not like aggressive women. They sought to conquer, not be conquered. His weakness was his lust for her. Could she use her own lust to conquer him?

  She became the wolf. In one motion, she grabbed the hem of her kirtle and jerked it over her head, to stand before him bare.

  "Hel's frozen tits," he whispered hoarsely.

  "Do not compare me to your heathen goddess, Viking."

  "'Twould be like comparing plenty to starvation." He shifted closer.

  Swift in her attack, she pounced to him, breast to chest, her hand clenched the prize of his masculinity, hard and solid with silken heat. Once, she had been in awe, wondered if the legends of Viking prowess were true, wondered how it could be possible for a woman to take something so huge into her body without pain. Then she had learned. It had not been pain he had brought her, but pleasure so intense it had left her reeling.

  A groan ripped from deep in his chest as he clutched her to him, trapping her hand between them, until she pulled it free and left his magnificent organ to press against her belly. He forced his lips against hers, and with her sharp gasp, drove his tongue within. She retaliated, like swung swords, stroke for stroke, dueling, meeting, probing, parrying, eagerly seeking to learn every corner of him. Her freed hand rushed to join with his sleek skin, discovering all the hard male curves and ridges that formed his back, while the other hand combed the darkness of hair that flowed to his shoulders.

  Ronan broke away the kiss and swept her into his arms so quickly she almost thought she would fall. Two paces to the bed, and he had her down on her back atop the white bearskin, as he hovered over her, pinning her thighs against his knees. His eyes darkened to wolfish ferocity. "You think to end this quickly, do you?"

  Her heart climbed into her throat. Whatever had made her think she could best him at his own game? She rolled to the side, trying to duck beneath his arm, but he caught her hands and pinned them down to the heavy fur.

  "The idea was yours, remember?"

  She could hardly deny that. It was just that fear had momentarily conquered her. She ceased her struggle. "Then get on with it, Viking."

  Anger darkened the lust in his eyes. "I have a name."

  "I do not care."

  "You will, Arienh, you will." Ronan lowered the full weight of his body onto hers, encompassing her, as if he sought to capture all parts of her at once, his mouth taking hers, hands cupping breasts, thighs surrounding thighs. Callused pads of his thumbs rubbed across the hard tips of her nipples, sending sheets of fire blazing through her.

  "Say my name, Arienh," he demanded hoarsely between the rough bite of kisses.

  "Nay." It was a gasping cry.

  He shifted lower, and took one urgently erect nipple into his mouth, suckling, flicking with his tongue. She thought she would scream. She bucked against the constraint of his hands holding hers, but when he released them, they wound into his hair, splayed to savor its silkiness, and sent it spilling over his shoulders.

  "Say it." His hand explored that intimate place where he would enter her, and raw, ravenous fire engulfed her at his touch.

  "Nay." And any moment, she would say anything, do anything he asked.

  One large knee nudged its way between hers, then the other, and the immensity of his body spread her legs apart. Expectation loomed as she awaited his entry, wanting again that heated, sleek pressure that had imbedded itself in her memory.

  Shock set in as he shifted again, lower, lifting her legs as he moved, and the tender explorations of his tongue took the place of his fingers. Her body flexed wildly, involuntarily, as she moaned. Passion wound through her like dark red smoke. She thought she would die if he continued. Would die if he stopped.

  "Say it."

  "Nay."

  "Say my name, damn you."

  She moaned, long, hard, plaintive. "Ronan." She moaned. She screamed, as the colored streamers of passion tangled with bursts of light, and her whole being turned inside out. "Ronan!"

  He was above her once again. Passion looked angry, dark, and painful on his face as he lowered the weight of his body onto hers. She welcomed his entry as an aftermath to her spent desire, the last caresses. It would be easy from here on.

  But he was not spent. And she had only thought she was. In her greediness, she had not realized his need continued. She felt his thrust within her still-heated body, still tightly enclosing him as he plunged deeply, and suddenly spent desire regained its loft. His mighty strength gathered, curled, and thrust, again and again to the rhythm of his hips, first slowly, withdrawing almost fully, and planting deeply, then fa
ster, harder, deeper, wilder, wilder. Her mind spun with the frenetic, hungry, demanding sensation.

  She thought again she could take no more. He stiffened with a ragged cry, and thrust deep and hard, his body shuddering. Once again, the world folded in on her and she felt him streaming over her, engulfing her, as if they melded into one.

  A sated sigh escaped him as the tension eased from his body. He lay atop her, heedless of his weight, and she welcomed it, feeling the rightness of it. One gentle, big hand cradled her head and held it against his cheek. She could feel the touch of his lips on her scalp, and turned her face so those sensual lips would catch her forehead instead.

  In the quiet, cool darkness of the cottage, Arienh lay in his arms, wishing the afternoon were night and they might lie together just like this. She didn't want to think about Elli or Birgit and Liam, only about stopping time and staying here with him forever.

  Slowly he slid to her side, turning her with him as he rolled. No longer entrapped beneath him, she could have risen, but she yearned to prolong the quiet perfection of the moment. In the silence, she slid her arm over him, letting her fingers trail across the plains and valleys of his chest, and left it to rest there. She nestled herself into the snug cradle of his arm, and was not exactly sure how he managed to pull a soft, cloudy down blanket over them.

  She closed her eyes. For now, she would not think of the disaster she had made, and let herself ease into a quiet, mindless serenity.

  She was not aware of having slept, yet a stiffness filled her body that could only have come from lying still for a long time. And beside her, Ronan breathed the quiet, easy breaths of sleep.

  She had lost. Well and truly lost. For he had not merely conquered her body, but her soul as well.

  He was so handsome. Beautiful in body, magnificent in soul. She wanted to trace his dark brows and the straight length of his nose, the curve of his strong jaw. But she did not want to wake him. The down blanket had slipped below his chest, but she knew all of what was hidden beneath it. If she could, she would spend forever with him, eagerly touching him, welcoming him into her body.

  She remembered the Viking boy, a thin wraith of a child with filthy, scraggly, sandy hair and wonderfully blue eyes. The boy she had prayed for, and even dreamed might come back to her someday. He had come back, far different from the memory she had cherished for so long. And though he had come back to take possession of her and all that was hers, somehow she had stopped minding about that. Somehow she could not be angry with him anymore. She had held up her anger as a shield to protect herself from him, but he had battered it down, leaving her weak, vulnerable. Frightened. Worst of all, he had reached within her and stolen her heart. Or had she simply handed it to him?