"This is part of what you're afraid of, is it not? Knowing that sooner or later I will touch you here. Now it's already done; now you can stop being afraid of that much." His tone was not exactly soothing, yet was as soothing as she could imagine from him. She took scant comfort in it, however, not with his hand pressed firmly where no hand had ever touched her before. She made no sound, but if a person could keen silently, she keened.
He leaned to take her bottom lip into his mouth, sucked it —how strange the things men wanted to do to women!—and then nipped her upper lip with his teeth. She didn't dare close her eyes again, and evidently their expression didn't please him. He said, "I could be old and deformed."
"With rotten teeth and not given to bathing much," she whispered, remembering that once he'd threatened to sell her to such a man.
He smiled thinly, drawing her even closer. His right hand was still between her clenched legs. Her thighs held his wrist tightly. "Loosen your legs," he said.
Oh, dear God, help me
Her god either didn't hear, or didn't care.
"Loosen your legs."
She obeyed shyly, miserably. Her hands struggled to keep from pushing at him.
"You may as well relax; I've only started. I mean to touch every part of you. The strangeness of it will pass." As he said this, his left arm beneath her shoulders lifted her up a little so that he could gather her mouth to his. This brought her breasts into contact with his hard chest. In a reflex, she wedged her hands up between them.
And yet there was nothing to separate his callused palm from her sex. The pressure was so intimate, so agonizing.
His kiss was thorough. By the time he finally lifted his head, she felt dazed and fiery. He laid her back and removed his hand from between her legs. He took her hands, one at a time, from his chest and this time pushed them beneath her. Now he was free to fondle her breasts and carefully examine them. She looked up at him beseechingly. Again and again she almost pulled her hands out to stop him, but remembering his threat to bind her, she didn't.
He lifted her chin and kissed her again; then cradled a breast in his hand and kissed that. Then, with his left arm still under her shoulders, his right hand delved between her legs again.
She turned her naked body into him with a little cry. Her left hand went to his upper arm before she could stop herself, but then just lay there, limp. With his thumb atop her pubis, he simply held her, cupped her, for a long moment.
Then he went back to her breasts. He pulled his left arm out from beneath her shoulders and half lay over her, holding himself on his elbows so that he could cup both her breasts at once and suckle them gently, first one and then the other. The sensation was curiously soothing. And she was stunned to realize what he was doing: He was easing her into accepting his touch, approaching her and then retreating, so that her fear would be overcome. This was the consideration he'd promised. This Viking, this barbarian, this savage, was keeping his word.
He bit at her nipples and moved her breasts as if to feel their weight, then said suddenly, "Kiss me."
It meant lifting her head a few scant inches, yet seemed the hardest thing she'd ever contemplated.
"I-I can't! I'm so afraid of you!"
"Yet you're finding me less bloodthirsty than you believed, aren't you?"
It was true, she'd expected to be humiliated at the very least. The very least.
"Kiss me"
She did it, timidly. Her obedience seemed to inflame him. He deepened what she'd begun so innocently, and plundered her mouth with his tongue. She was making little whimpering cries in her throat —yet struggling not to make them too loud. Tears welled up and spilled out her eyes. Did he know what a battle she was fighting to keep from kicking at him, from trying to push him away?
When he finished kissing her, she lay still, her mouth tasting of him. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing deeply as her tears continued to flow silently.
"Stop."
She opened her eyes. He was leaning up on his elbow, looking down at her.
He stroked her hair and lowered his head to touch his lips to the tip of her nose. "Stop crying. I haven't dealt you any injury yet. I'll hurt you only when I have to."
He massaged her breasts again lightly, and then stroked her underarms. She sobbed softly, but wrestled with these sobs. She struggled not to writhe away, not even as his hand drifted down to her waist, to her stomach, and again cupped that full-feeling, moist place between her legs. He began to press in firmly with the flats of his fingers, rhythmically, making her recoil at first, and then tremble. He took another kiss from her mouth, a soft kiss, which filled her with a softening distress.
"You see?" he whispered. "You won't find me such a hard master. Only a very thorough one."
A feeling built in her such as she'd never experienced before. Her legs moved restlessly. Her hips moved slightly up, against him, pressing the heat and dampness of her sex against his fingers.
As if he'd been waiting for this signal, his fingers burrowed and made her shudder with terrible sensation.
His touch left her yet again, left her feeling that odd restlessness as he gathered her in his arms, pulled her onto her side and felt her back and her buttocks, then pushed her back into the mattress so he might see the mounds of her breasts again. Possessiveness and pride of ownership were evident in his gaze. He bent over her and bit at them playfully, not hurting her. He lapped them with his tongue — then, as she suffered and moaned beneath him, he suddenly reached between her thighs again.
He opened her once more, and his fingertips fondled. As he touched one place, she sucked in breath. He paused, then gave that place a soft pinch with his thumb and forefinger, which made her gasp again. He continued, as if curious, touching her nowhere but there, until she was swept by a craze —to have him hold her hard, hard enough to hurt her.
She begged for mercy. "Please . . . stop!" Surprisingly, he did, but only to ease a finger inside her. "Oh, God!" She felt it was an outrage, an invasion that had to be endured because it couldn't be escaped. She rolled her head, wondering how long she could bear it —but then, as his finger eased deeper and moved within her, there came an acute sensation of anticipation. She made a wordless sound and placed her hand on his chest not to push, but to tangle her fingers in the wiry blond curls.
His finger settled into a circular motion. Her hand slid to his shoulder, then clutched. She didn't understand it. It was like a sudden loud chant of voices that wouldn't stop, that grew louder and more purposeful. The chanting had no beat, no rhythm, nothing but movement and sensation and fire.
Suddenly he withdrew his hand and rose up, spreading her thighs wide enough to give him clear access. Down between her pinked nipples lying erect on her heaving breasts, between the fork of her thighs, she saw his weapon. As he leaned forward, she whimpered at the first nudge of that hardness.
Panicked, she tried to roll away. But he had her by her shoulders. "I won't hurt you needlessly." He lay more of his weight atop her to still her writhing—and at the same time pushed into her an inch. She cried out. He said, "The worst will soon be over." She was so afraid. She was using her wrapped feet to try to move up in the bed, away from that threat of invasion.
Finally, reaching down to clasp her bottom in one big hand, he simply thrust into her. She felt a frightful stab and went rigid as it coursed through her. Butterflies, bouquets of light, fluttered behind her eyelids. He thrust again, hard, and something within her gave way. He'd broken through her maiden's gate, through her innocence. The stretching and distension! She felt him withdraw his weapon with vast relief—but he drove into her again.
There was some pain with this second thrust, but there was something else as well. She inhaled violently with unwilling sensation.
Yet another driving thrust. And another. A sensitivity bloomed in her. She arched her back to bring herself against him —her breasts were suffused with a need to be flattened against his chest. Her movement was not missed. His
mouth angled over hers, and she opened her lips for his tongue. Her next cry was muffled in her throat.
He kept his hold on her bottom and pulled her into each of his thrusts —until suddenly his muscled body went rigid over her. He stopped moving, burying his face into her shoulder, and she heard a muffled "Huh!" as his seed exploded into her. She felt him throb, and throb . . . and throb.
His hold on her relaxed; he lay heavily on her, then withdrew himself. He rolled to lie beside her, rested, nuzzled. His gaze touched her face like a gentle caress. She felt . . . spent, and could only look up at him with vacant eyes and a half-opened mouth.
"Still in the battle trance are you, Shieldmaiden?"
Her hair was wound around her breasts, and after a while he got up on his elbow to brush it away from his playthings. Eventually he parted her legs again. She whimpered softly. He entered her cautiously, watching her face as he did. "Good," he praised her, "you do well, Shieldmaiden, better than I expected."
He gathered her in his arms as his hips began to move, slowly and mindfully. She had no words nor the strength to get him off. He was big and determined and well-practiced in the art of taking. Each stroke threw lightning through her —yet it never quite seemed to strike. He took her slowly that second time, with less urgency, thrusting into her until she began to move with him, and to moan.
***
Inga Thorsdaughter had a sudden fit of uneasiness, a rush of anxiety that gripped her chest till she could hardly breathe. She rose from her bed and rushed for the door of her chamber. All was still in the hall. With that strange anxiety driving at her, she stole along past the tables, past the high-seat, the fire pit, until she stopped before Thoryn's door. What was that faint noise? What? She drew closer, placed her ear to the wood, then stood arrested, listening.
It was a strange, breathy, not loud noise. Her blood stood still. It had an almost soundless rhythm, yet was rushing and powerful, as if something large in violent, hushed motion. What was it? In Odin's lame, what was it?
She needn't ask. She knew that noise, though she refused to name it to herself, refused to put it into words, not even silent, private words. On and on it went.
Passion! The word came to her unbidden, and at the same instant her mouth filled with a coppery taste.
"Thoryn . . ." she whispered. But then a strange, distant nostalgia took hold of her, and Thoryn's name was replaced: "Beloved Kirkyn, my beloved. . . ." With all her tortured, rejected love flooding within her, she turned away.
***
The steading was awake. Edin heard the cattle lowing, the sheep and goats bleating, the thralls moving about their morning tasks. From the open window she heard the birds' bright squabblings high up in the tree outside the longhouse.
She opened her eyes to see the four monsters guarding her in the big bed —the dragon on each of the four bedposts. The Viking was seated in his chair finishing the lacing of his leggings. She sat up. Her hair was atangle, and she felt rosy from sleep. And a little sore and sensitive everywhere. She held the blankets to her so that they covered all but the uppermost slopes of her breasts.
The Viking was dressed particularly well in a tunic of green silk. He looked up at her— and something strange happened. For an instant they seemed to be caught by one another's eyes. For an instant they were coupled in a mystic bondage as surely as if he were crushing her into the bed yet again.
Without greeting her, he said, "No doubt my mother could use your help today if your feet are healed enough."
Edin thought of Inga, that overbearing, watchful woman, her glower, her eyes that were like blue pebbles. She said, "Of course," but her voice came out as delicate as her body felt after the Viking's handling throughout the night.
"We're hosting a feast. There will be a sacrifice in thanksgiving for our profitable summer, and prayers for a mild winter, and — "
"You pray?"
He gave her a look. "You'd best get up."
"I have nothing to wear."
He frowned, remembering. "I'll tell my mother — no, I'd better see to it myself. I don't want you dragging around in another sack, disgracing me."
Her eyes snapped at that, but she said nothing.
He crossed the floor and stooped over her, catching her face between his hands before she could elude him. The touch electrified her; the air all about her churned.
"You served me well last night, Shieldmaiden," he said gruffly, placing a kiss on her closed lips. "Would that I could while away this morning with you, too, but there is much I must do."
"Don't let me keep you, then," she said in a fruity, impudent voice.
Far from insulting him, she saw the corners of his mouth struggle against a smile. "Let me kiss your breasts at least before I go."
She hugged the bed clothes tighter. "You have so much to do; you'd best not tarry."
Now he did smile. It was as if he didn't want to but couldn't stop himself. Yet he wouldn't let her have the last word. "You seemed to grow to like my kisses last night."
She dropped her gaze.
"Aye, they stiffened to little peaks in my mouth; the tips rolled like little cranberries between my lips."
She turned from him, but not so soon that he missed the tears gathering in her eyes. He frowned, then sat down on the bedside. "Why do you cry now?"
"Because I'm ashamed, Viking!" she lashed out at him. "Do you have any conception of the word 'shame' in your barbarous head?"
That sobered him, and more. "You're ashamed because your master took you?"
"Ashamed because I gave myself to you," she said miserably.
His face hardened. "You gave nothing that wasn't mine already."
His words washed over her. She continued to hang her head in remorse. He couldn't possibly understand.
"Show me your breasts," he said again suddenly. Both the command and the tone startled her. She gathered the blankets tightly under her arms. He sat straight, not touching her, and put an even more dangerous undertone in his voice: "Show me your breasts, Saxon. Now"
The Viking moved not a muscle, only glared at her and waited. She'd seen fighting men reduced by that particular voice and that particular glare. And she was but a woman. Slowly she loosened her hold on the blankets and lowered them to her waist, leaving nothing but her hair to shield her nakedness. But not even that was going to be allowed.
"Put your hair back."
She did it and felt her breasts lift with the motion of her arms.
He reached for her casually, with both hands, covered her with his palms —and abruptly pushed her back into the mattress. Leaning close over her, he said, "You possess too much pride for a woman. You make the mistake of thinking that because you didn't fight me —a thing that proves laughable whenever you try it —you gave yourself. But are you giving me your breasts this minute —or am I taking them?"
"Oh!"
"Aye, you see now. If you want to weep out of frustration, which women are known to do, or out of anger, or even out of sadness for all you've lost to me, then go ahead, wear your tears like jewels —but you infringe on my pride when you claim you gave yourself to me. All you did was yield, which is another matter altogether, and even that was tedious for me to enforce."
He allowed just a little relenting back into his voice. "Not that I'll ever refuse anything you do care to yield. Mayhap you'll yield me another kiss now? No?" His mesmerizing, thoughtful eyes dwelt on her. "But you are aware that I could take one? Then I've made my point."
He seemed extremely reluctant to leave her lying there, his for the taking. But he did rise. She was too bullied to cover herself again.
He took up his sword and drew it out of its scabbard to check its edge. Its gold inlays glinted. He returned it to its sheathe and belted it to his waist. He clasped a fine cloak trimmed with squirrelskin to his shoulders with two large golden brooches. Then, looking magnificent, he said, "I'm going to see about finding you clothing. While I'm gone, rise and bathe your face and comb your hair."
<
br /> Her eyes flashed again, which she knew suited him. The whole incident, she saw now, had been enacted to erase her tears and replace them with anger.
And he was right; anger was better than tears. Better for her —and certainly better for him! How she hated him. He was nothing but a hunk of chaos that had taken on shape, sulky and so evil!
Chapter Thirteen
Fair weather had returned, and while streaks of sunlight were still dancing off the morning dews, guests started to arrive from every nearby steading and hof. Some walked, some rowed from the far ends of the fjord, and still others rode horses or came by cart. They weren't all strangers with strange faces; Edin recognized many from her capture and terror aboard the Blood Wing.
It was a shock to see those fierce and frightening warriors now dressed in finery, wearing jewels and ornate weapons. They'd abandoned their sensible and comfortable work clothes for tunics encrusted with embroidery. Fafnir Longbeard made his appearance in a bronze helmet bearing a griffin's head. Vain Hauk Haakonsson, he with the nose like an eagle's, had on a pair of high boots sewn with colored threads and ornamented with gold. Many others wore gold bracelets and gold straps around their foreheads.
Every man, even the old and bent-kneed, came well armed and carrying a round shield. Of particular interest was the arrival of Kol Thurik, the man who had lost his front tooth during the storm at sea. He and his sons walked into the hall, each with a hawk on his shoulder, an extraordinary sight: four proud, golden-headed warriors with four imperious falcons staring unwinking from their mail-clad shoulders.
There was an abundance of sturdy young men like these, all intent on carving out a position in life for themselves. To England's sorrow, this race was clearly in no danger of dwindling, not with so many powerful and ambitious youths ready for any chance to increase their wealth by means fair or foul.
The Viking women were stately in their sleeveless dresses. They were like ice and snow, Edin thought, laughing and yet somewhat distant. They seemed very proud of their white arms and shoulders, and it seemed they loved richness and splendor as much as their men. Their gorgeous wrap-around gowns were made of luxurious Chinese silk, heavy gold brocade, satin, and soft velvet. Matrons wore their hair piled and fastened with twinkling combs or diadems; the unmarried wore it down like yellow floss on their shoulders. Edin was dazed by their loveliness — and overcome by her own position of dishonor and vulnerability.
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