The Pirate Bride

by Sandra Hill

  “Turn over,” she said. “I get too distracted by . . .” She waved a hand at it. “I will have more nerve to touch you if you are not giving me those lascivious looks.”

  “Lascivious!” he hooted, but turned over onto his folded arms after taking care to adjust his cockstand.

  She began by brushing his braid to the side and charting the strong tendons in his neck with her fingertips. Next she gave attention to the wide breadth of his shoulders. She gained inordinate pleasure watching his muscles bunch at those mere touches.

  He had scars all over, as any Viking warrior did, including a wide slash from one shoulder to the opposite waist. She traced it with one fingertip and asked, “Where did you get this?”

  “The Battle of Essex. I joined King Harald Bluetooth for a period in fighting King Edred’s ranks. The Saxon foeman got much worse than a mere scar, believe you me. Attacking a man from behind! But then, that is the Saxon way.”

  “It is our way, too,” Medana confessed. “When we women of Thrudr are forced to fight, we must use any means possible, being weaker than men in physical strength. Cunning is a necessity for female pirates.”

  She thought he would laugh or make some derogatory remark about cunning coming natural to women, but he remained silent.

  So she continued touching him. The ropes of muscles in his arms. The striated planes of his back, which tapered to his waist and narrow hips. His buttocks she saved for later. If she dared! Instead, she walked her fingers down his thighs and legs.

  He shivered and spread his legs slightly.

  “Am I doing it wrong?” she asked.

  “Oh, Medana! You are doing it just right.”

  Encouraged, she examined the backs of his knees and his ankles and his long, narrow feet. He was a well-formed male, there was no doubt about that. Only then did she allow herself to touch his backside. His buttocks were hard, high globes of sheer muscle, unlike hers that seemed to be soft and squishy, something she’d noted when bathing. Through the parting of his thighs she could see his ballocks covered with a light furring of fine blond hairs.

  She said something then that she never thought she’d say to a man, “You have a very nice arse.”

  “I know. ’Tis one of my best features.”

  His face was hidden, but he was probably smiling. “Unlike humility, which has to be far down the list.”

  “How did you know I have a list of my assets?” he teased.

  She leaned forward and kissed the enticing curve at the small of his back. A vulnerable-looking spot.

  He rolled over, and she was kneeling at his side. His best side, truth to tell. Even if she only referred to his face.

  Stark cheekbones highlighted a bronzed face. Then there were those incredible emerald-fire eyes. He had a strong nose and full lips, which were parted now with arousal.

  She loved that she could arouse such a rascal of a man.

  He folded his arms under his head again, as if giving her freedom to do what she willed. That position called attention to his underarms, where straight blond hairs protected the soft skin. She rather liked that part of him, too. In fact, she touched the hair in one hollow to see if it felt as silky as it looked. It did.

  His flat male nipples drew her. Fondling them in the same manner as he had treated hers, she was pleased to hear his indrawn breath. When she leaned forward and put her mouth to one of them, he stiffened. When she suckled, he groaned and muttered an expletive.

  “You do not like that?”

  “I like it too much, and you know it, too.”

  She smiled. “Shall I do it some more?”

  “If you don’t, I might have to kill you.”

  She took that for a yes. When she had played his nipples for a long time, he growled, “Enough! Move on!”

  Glancing downward, she saw that his shaft reared up from a thick thatch of blond curls. He was so engorged that a bud of man seed seeped out on its tip. Blue veins stood out on its long length, and the mushroom head was ruddy in color. “Can I touch?”

  “Please.” He took her hands and showed her how he liked to be caressed with fists that did not meet around his breadth, one above the other. Pumping lightly, then not so lightly. With a roar of pure male satisfaction, he growled, “Take off that bloody chemise afore I tear it in shreds and toss it out to sea.”

  She did as he asked, without question. How had she gotten so aroused just trying to arouse him? Was it the reverse of what Thork had told her earlier, that a man’s pleasure was a woman’s joy?

  “Now climb on top of me,” he ordered gruffly when she’d lifted the chemise up and off her body.

  “Huh?”

  He leaned over and picked her up by the waist, settling her on his thighs. She could feel the dampness in her nether parts. By the gleam in his eyes as he stared at her there, he was aware of that dampness, too.

  “Take my cock in your hands and guide me to paradise,” he ordered.

  She did not need him to explain what he meant. She lifted her bottom slightly up and forward. Then, taking his staff in hand once more, guided him to her woman’s channel, and little by agonizing little, she sank down onto him.

  For a brief moment, she thought she might faint, so intense was the ecstasy of being filled by this man. Her inner muscles were clenching him in welcome, and he looked as if he might also faint.

  “How does that feel, Medana?” he husked out.

  She did not want to discuss it. She just wanted to feel it. Still she told him, “Like I am being impaled by living, breathing, warm marble.”

  He nodded. Again, humility was not one of his great traits.

  “And you?” she asked. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I am being coated in warm honey. And hugged. Your moist folds are hugging me in welcome.”

  Just as she’d thought.

  “Lift yourself up and then down, slowly. Like riding a horse.”

  “I have not ridden a horse since I was a girling. And that was bareback in a farmstead field.”

  “ ’Tis said a person never forgets. And bareback is appropriate, don’t you think?”

  I do not want to think. I just want to feel. “Stop talking and show me what to do.”

  With a chuckle at her ordering him about, he showed her with his hands on her hips the way to undulate to a certain rhythm. She was a good pupil, apparently, because at one point, he told her to stop and rest, and with him still filling her, he tunneled his fingers in her hair and pulled her face down to his.

  “Kiss me, Medana,” he urged. “Kiss me like I am your man just home from a-Viking and you have missed me sorely.”

  To her amazement, she was able to do so, probably because a lackwitted part of her liked the image of him being her man. And while she settled her lips over his and gave him kisses full of all the nuances she could come up with, he played with her breasts. When she drew on his tongue, he responded by plunging deep into her mouth. And her lower regions did their own counter rhythm. Every time she tried to move on him, he held her still and said, “Not yet. I am not ready yet.”

  If possible, he seemed to have grown even more inside her. And she seemed to unfurl even more to assist his enlargement.

  Finally, she tore her mouth off of his and sat back firmly on her buttocks, which sat firmly on his ballocks. Panting for breath, she said, “If you do not move soon, I am going to throttle you.”

  He grinned. “Now I am ready.” With those words, he flipped her over on her back, managing to keep himself inside her, probably because he was lodged so deep. With a laugh of sheer joy, he lifted her knees up and over his shoulders and began to pummel her with hard, lengthy strokes that caused stars to explode behind her eyelids. All the skin on her oversensitized body sparked with carnal fire. Everything centered on what he was doing to her down below. When he placed a thumb between their bodies over that bud she’d come to know as the source of woman pleasure, she could not contain her excitement anymore. Keening out her ecstasy, she shattered around
him with wildly convulsing spasms.

  And he, with chest heaving, catapulted right after her with a triumphant shout. She wasn’t sure, but she suspected that he’d forgotten, or been unable, to pull out at the last minute. For now, satiety overwhelmed her, and she felt her body relaxing into the most peaceful sleep. Only half awake, she sensed Thork rising off her and pulling her into his arms. He, too, fell asleep.

  It could have been minutes, or even hours, when she heard, “Bloody hell! I canna ken this scene afore us. Is it the Christian Garden of Eden, or Odin’s Garden of Delight?”

  “Must be Eden. There’s Adam the Viking. And Eve,” another voice said.

  “I dinna see any snake,” the first voice remarked.

  “Right there. Betwixt Adam’s thighs.”

  “Ah! The only thing missing is the apple.”

  “I see two apples. With berries on top.”

  Medana’s eyes shot open, and standing there gazing down at them were Jamie and Bolthor.

  Bolthor stared through his one good eye at her body, still in Thork’s embrace, and said, “This would make a good saga. ‘When Adam Was a Viking.’ Or ‘The Pirate and the Viking.’ ”

  She shoved a laughing Thork off the blanket and used it to cover her nakedness as she scrambled to her feet. Thork, on the other hand, suffered no such modesty. He stood with an arrogance that was maddening.

  “What are you two doing here?” Thork asked, hands on naked hips.

  “We thought we should come get you if we are going to get the longship through the tunnel tonight,” Jamie explained. “I mean . . .” Jamie realized his mistake immediately and glanced to Thork for help.

  Thork just shook his head and scowled at the witless scamp.

  At first, Medana had trouble weighing the significance of the Scotsman’s words. Was he saying . . . ?

  “I keep telling the dumb Highlander that a storm is coming tonight, but he would not listen. So I came along to check out the view.” Instead of looking out toward the sea, Bolthor was gazing at her with the oddest tilt to his head, as if trying to figure out something. Probably how a seemingly sane woman would be demented enough to let a rascal like Thork swive her silly.

  Medana had other thoughts on her mind, though, as understanding began to seep into her befuddled brain. She turned to Thork, “You plan on taking my longship through the tunnel? Tonight? All day you have been seducing me with lies and deceits whilst planning to put the knife of betrayal in my back.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?” He smiled at her.

  She did not smile back.

  “It is not what you think, dearling,” he said, and stepped toward her.

  She put up a halting hand while the other held the blanket closed. Fighting to control the hurt that caused her heart to ache, she spat out, “Do not ‘dearling’ me, you troll.” On those words, she turned and began to stomp away and down the path to the hunters’ longhut. Tears filled her eyes and she let them run freely.

  When would she ever learn? Men were loathsome louts.

  “Did you call me a loathsome lout?” he called after her.

  She made a universally known, coarse gesture of disdain over her shoulder, the one particularly favored by seamen and Vikings.

  Of course, she heard Thork’s laughter behind her. The loathsome lout!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tiger by the tail . . .

  Medana took off down the path like a scalded cat. But after tripping on the edge of the blanket she’d wrapped around herself like a shroud and stubbing her bare toe, yelping, “Ow, ow, ow,” she stormed back, dropped the blanket in front of him and Bolthor and Jamie, nose pointed north, and slipped on her gunna and half boots.

  It was only a brief glimpse she’d given them of her naked body, but they were all bug-eyed with appreciation. Even Thork, who’d seen plenty of that naked body for the past five hours or more.

  Turning to Bolthor, she glowered. “If you voice a poem about this, I will cut off your tongue when you sleep and roast it for the pigs to eat.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “You looked at me.”

  Bolthor blinked his one eye. “I am a man. Men look. I may have only one eye, but I am not blind.” Now it was Bolthor whose nose pointed north.

  “What are you laughing about?” She turned on Jamie.

  “Dinna turn your rage on me, lass.”

  “Lass my ass!” Thork muttered.

  Medana graced Thork with a killing glance for daring to speak.

  “I am laughing at Thork,” Jamie explained.

  Huh?

  “He tried to trap a tiger with honey, he did.”

  Thork had no idea what that meant, and neither did Medana, apparently, because she gawked at the lackbrain laird as if he spoke some strange gibberish. In truth, the Scottish manner of speaking betimes resembled a foreign language. A burr, they called it. More like a slur, if you asked him, which no one did.

  Thork began to approach her. “Medana, give me a chance—”

  She didn’t even glance his way. Instead, she began to exit the clearing again, swanning off like the bloody queen of all the world.

  Clothing himself quickly, Thork told Bolthor and Jamie to gather up the blanket and remaining foodstuff. Then he rushed after Medana. He had some explaining to do. Not that he had to justify himself. All rules of courtesy were nullified when he became a captive. He tried to ignore the voice in his head that said, But the rules changed when you made love.

  Just then a clap of thunder broke overhead, and he saw dark clouds moving in from the east. Bolthor had been right. There would be storms soon. Which meant there would be no longship through the tunnel tonight.

  He smiled. That would give him plenty of time to make amends with Medana.

  He couldn’t wait.

  Jamie had mentioned a tiger. He had other ideas. “Here, kitty, kitty. Someone wants to lick the milk off your mustache,” he sang under his breath as he strutted at a leisurely pace after one tempting feline.

  Life was good.

  Spill that, you lout! . . .

  Medana’s life was becoming a disaster.

  Thork intended to take Thrudr’s longship, and life on this island would never be the same. In truth, it would never be the same even if they left Pirate Lady behind. The men were making too much of an impression on the women, and one man in particular would leave his mark on her. The beast!

  While she was hurt and angry over Thork’s perfidy, the bigger issue was how to prevent that catastrophe from happening. There was little she could do while trapped up here at the hunters’ longhouse. And apparently her dubious charms weren’t enough to sway him. Oh, she could walk right off this mountain and down to the village, where her women would do their best to protect her, but she knew without a doubt that Thork would come right after her, and she did not want to risk even one of her women being hurt.

  To make matters worse, a fierce storm was rising, foretold by fiercesome claps of thunder and lightning bolts from an almost black sky, and it not yet time for nightfall. Winds were starting to rise, and it was so humid you could nigh cut the moisture in the air with a knife. She prayed that Sigrun and Salvana would be able to make it through the tunnel to Thrudr before all Muspell broke loose. Summer storms on the North Sea were naught to dismiss casually. If only the rains would hold off for another five hours or so.

  “Medana! You are to stop haranguing my men,” Thork said, coming up to her where she was stirring a huge cauldron of rabbit stew thick with vegetables someone had managed to pilfer from the gardens below—carrots, onions, turnips, and such. “You are not permitted to go down to the village. So stop making excuses for why they should allow what I precisely disallowed.”

  She crossed her eyes and mumbled something about tiresome tyrants. Thus far, she’d managed to avoid talking to the scoundrel directly, and she ignored his commands to do this or that, or to not do this or that. Like bothersome gnats they were, not worth reacting to.
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br />   “Do you hear me, you stubborn wench?”

  “All of Thrudr hears you. I need to go down and assist my women in preparing for the storm.”

  “They are doing fine without you. Henry and Alrek are helping them to batten down any loose planks on the buildings and to bring the animals under cover.”

  “Pfff! Henry is probably off tupping Lilli somewhere, and Alrek might very well hurt himself if a loose plank flies his way.”

  Thork barely suppressed a smile. “My men know their duty. Your only responsibility is here, with . . . us.” She could tell he meant to say “with me.” She might have smacked him with the long-handled ladle she was using if he had.

  “What are you so afraid of that you will not let me out of your sight?”

  “The sleeping draught,” he answered without hesitation.

  She couldn’t deny that she had considered using it again. Her silence was an affirmation to him.

  “Once the stew is done, we’ll bring the cauldron inside. The stew, along with a supply of bread Brokk is bringing up and a tun of ale, should hold us through the worst of the storm. You will first taste anything we bring up from the village.”

  “Oh gods! I am going to be trapped in a confined space with eight men. Will I be expected to serve all of you?”

  He didn’t bother to suppress the smile this time at her ill-chosen words. “Only me,” he said, and reached out to brush some loose strands of damp hair off her forehead.

  She swatted his hand away.

  “I know you are angry with me, Medana, but try to understand my side of things. We need the longship and some of your women to get us back to Hedeby. You never gave me a chance to say that the longship will be yours to return to Thrudr.”

  “Are you really so dimwitted that you do not understand the problem? You men now know the location of Thrudr. If we take you back to the market town, others are bound to see us and ask questions. It takes only one person to mention our secret hiding place. How soon do you think it will be afore my brothers come storming our sanctuary? Or the king’s men?”

  Thork recalled the scars on Medana’s back and vowed to find time to confront her brothers about their wicked ways. But she needed reassurance now. “We will take a vow of secrecy,” Thork said. “We will take care not to let others see you.”