“Yes,” she nodded agreement. “I will try to forget we are enemies.”
“Good.” His lips curved in a hint of a smile. “Now there is but one thing left to complete our union.” With those words, he pulled her against him and kissed her.
Being honest with herself, she’d yearned for his kiss from the time he’d lifted her into his arms, or maybe even from the moment he’d led her out to dance. His lips were slow and deliberate as they explored hers, licking and nibbling as if sampling some delectable delight.
She parted her lips when he probed the seam of her mouth. The touch of their tongues made her stomach flutter as if a multitude of butterflies had released inside her. A growing part of her wanted to please him, but she had little notion of how to go about captivating her husband. Since he’d seemed to enjoy the last time she’d returned his kiss, boldness seemed the best approach. Testing the depth of these untried waters, she teased him with tiny flicks and darts of her tongue.
He responded with a throaty groan and deepened the kiss. Pulling her hard against him, he squeezed her buttocks and then broke from her mouth to lick and nibble his way down her neck to her exposed collarbone. One of his large hands cupped her breast through her tunic, stroking her nipple with his thumb until it hardened into a tight tingling peak.
“Take this off,” he commanded in a harsh voice.
She stepped back on weakened legs and reached for the hem of her outer tunic, but had only raised it as far as her knees when he took it from her hands and drew it up over her head. Beneath, she wore a shorter, thinner garment. He removed that as well, almost tearing the delicate fabric in his impatience. She shivered with awareness of her nakedness until the heat of his gaze transferred to her skin.
His lips curved into a feral smile. “You please me well, Adèle, and I hope to please you too.”
He watched her with hungry eyes as he began discarding his own garments. He took off his leather tunic and then the fine linen shirt. Underneath, his body was honed of large, well-developed muscles and sun-bronzed skin. Her eyes tracked eagerly over his broad chest and shoulders, lightly covered with golden hair, and marked with battle scars. His was undoubtedly a warrior’s body.
Stripped of the shirt, she noticed for the first time a torque of silver and bronze around his neck. She reached out to touch the cool metal. “What is this?”
“A family heirloom,” he replied.
“But what is the animal?” she asked.
“Look more closely,” he said.
She traced the ends that were shaped to resemble the head of a beast with eyes of amber stones. “A wolf?” she said. “Is there some significance to that?”
“Aye. ’Tis my surname.”
“Vargr means wolf?” she asked.
“Vargr is a particular kind of wolf,” he explained. “A monster, a destroyer of great size. Fenrir was such a wolf. He was bound by the gods. To escape, he bit off the right hand of the god, Týr.”
“Are you also such a monster, Valdrik?” she asked. “I once would have believed it but you have shown me differently.”
His expression grew suddenly grim. “My foes would tell you I am such a savage beast, were there were any left to speak of it.”
“Have you killed so very many?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Enough that my sword is thought to be magical.”
“The sword you gave to me?”
“Aye.” He grinned lecherously. “And now I shall give you another.” He brought her hand down to the prominent bulge in his leather trousers.
She had sufficient experience with the act of joining to understand what was to come. It had been over two years since she had known a man. Would he be rough with her? She recalled the night Rudalt had brought Gisela into the bed with them. She’d been repulsed by what she’d witnessed between them. Would Valdrik desire the same manner of pleasures Rudalt had sought? She would soon know. Her eyes must have betrayed her thoughts.
Gazing into her face, his ice blue eyes darkened to the color of slate. “Do not fear me,” he said, tracing an index finger over her lips.
He kissed her again, long and deep. And then suddenly his hot mouth and warm wet tongue were everywhere—on her face, neck, breasts. He suckled them like an eager babe, rooting from one to the other. She shut her eyes on a shudder of bliss as he worked down her body with his fiery kisses that set her ablaze. She had never known such pleasure.
He lifted her onto the bed and then stepped away to strip off the leather braies to reveal his large, proud pillar of flesh. Instead of the fear and dread she’d expected, she was seized with an inexplicable urge to touch him. His great weight came over her, sinking the mattress almost to the floor. His body covered her, warming her with his heat.
She squeezed her eyes shut and braced for the invasion, only to find herself suddenly flipped on top of him. Placing both of her hands on his chest, he raised her up until she was looking straight down at him. He palmed the back of her head. “Kiss me, Duchess.”
Dipping her head, she began with soft feathery kisses to his face, relishing the slightly abrasive sensation of beard bristle against her lips. She then sought his mouth, flicking his lips with her tongue until he opened to her with a hungry growl. She loved the taste and texture of his hot tongue in her mouth. She broke reluctantly from his kiss to explore his body further, mapping his broad chest and taut abdomen with her hands and mouth. Kissing and laving his slightly salty skin she slowly made her way down to the juncture of his massively muscled thighs whence his manhood jutted upward. Watching his face, she closed her hand over his hardness, testing the length and breadth of him. His shaft was hot and pulsing in her hand.
“’Tis good you do not shy away from me,” he said. His big callused hand came over hers, gripping tightly and moving up and down, showing her what he liked. His other hand came down to cup her nape in a hold that gently encouraged more.
She understood what he wanted, but hesitated, desiring to please him, but not knowing quite what to do. “Do you wish me to kiss it?” she asked.
His pupils flared. “Such a kiss would please any man.”
“How?” she asked, no longer feeling even the slightest aversion. On the contrary, she was fascinated by his wondrous organ.
Once more he guided her, settling her in a position with her breasts pillowed on his thighs, he stroked her face, her mouth, and then tangled his fingers gently in her hair. Taking him in both hands, she began stroking his length as he’d shown her. She bent her head and kissed him, timidly at first. Growing bolder, she plied her tongue to his silky smooth flesh in long and languid licks. He groaned and stirred beneath her.
She gazed up at him, sprawled naked on the bed looking like a god in all of his masculine splendor. Dark desire unfurled its glorious petals deep inside her belly. She lowered her head and parted her lips taking him in by slow inches. His gaze was hooded and lips parted, breaths were coming in soft pants. She felt his tension in the bulging muscles beneath her.
While one hand held him, the other caressed his thighs, and then gently explored higher. Very soon his breaths became heavier and his grip tightened in her hair. She recognized the signs. He was approaching the moment of release.
She finally understood the secret. Gisela had won Rudalt because men liked to be touched and kissed. She was in control of his pleasure, which meant she was not as helpless as she once believed. It took great trust to share in such intimacies, and in such trust lay great power.
Should she continue or stop? What did he want? She had her answer when he suddenly flipped her onto her back. His expression was dark and quizzical as his heavy body loomed over hers. “Your husband shunned your bed when you gave him such pleasure?”
“Nay,” she replied. “I never touched or kissed him thusly.”
His forehead wrinkled. “But you would touch and kiss me?”
“You have been gentle with me and I find I enjoy this pleasure. I think I would learn from you what I have missed.�
��
His mouth curved into a lupine grin. “I will take great satisfaction in teaching you.”
He sat back on his haunches and urged her thighs apart. His gaze stayed locked on hers as his thick fingers probed into her wetness. Grunting with a look satisfaction, he took himself in hand, exposing the large purple head of his phallus as his knees forced her thighs further apart. Her breath hitched as he reared back. She clenched her teeth in anticipation of the deep and penetrating pain.
He plunged into her in a long hard thrust that seated him to the root. Then suddenly his body stilled over hers. Her eyes fluttered open in bewilderment and then sudden awareness. There was no pain…instead, she only felt fullness. Wondrous fullness. Her gaze searched his as he began moving. Slow and steady. Deep and then shallow, in a rhythmic thrust and retreat. Sensation flooded her, stealing her breath and fogging her mind. Was this how it was supposed to be? She bit back the simultaneous urge to laugh and cry, mourning for what she had missed, but also reveling in the joy of this moment—in her awakening. Looking up at the Norseman’s harshly handsome face, her chest felt suddenly tight as if she couldn’t get enough air.
Valdrik had always enjoyed pleasuring a woman, but never as much as he did this one. Although she was no virgin, it was a tremendous source of masculine pride knowing that she had come to life under his hands. That he had been the one to awaken her passion.
He pulled her legs up and wrapped them around his flanks. Gripping her hips in both hands, he urged her to meet his thrusts. She reached out to him with a needy sound, grasping his buttocks. He drove into her deeper, harder, faster. Their panting breaths joined the sultry echoes of slapping flesh. Tension began building in his bollocks—a desperate need for release. His lungs burned and body shone with sweat as he pushed them harder toward the brink.
Her release came with almost violent force as her body seized beneath him. She cried out a sobbing sound as her walls squeezed and convulsed in orgasmic waves that sent him catapulting into the abyss with her. Shutting his eyes and parting his lips in a rictus of pleasure, Valdrik released a feral growl and spent a long hot stream of seed deep inside her.
Chapter Eleven
Billing’s daughter I found on her bed, in slumber bright as the sun; Empty appeared an earl’s estate without that form so fair.
—Hávamál
Valdrik opened his eyes to the first rays of light seeping through the shutters. ’Twas already later than he was accustomed to rising, but he was loath to stir a muscle for fear of waking the fairy creature who slumbered with her silvery head pillowed on his chest.
Staring at her face filled him with both warm wonderment and proud possessiveness. She was his now, in every way. He knew at once that he would give his life to keep her safe and kill a thousand men to keep her. And that’s exactly what he now faced. He’d come into this land with a ruthless plan to conquer and keep it as his own. While he’d won his victory against Rudalt fairly, he’d risked nothing but his own life in their hand-to-hand combat. But now he would lead his army of three hundred to oppose an enemy whose numbers were unknown to him.
As long as he left now, he still held the advantage of surprise. Even if riders reached Cornouaille and Poher ahead of him, he was so close on their heels that the counts would not have time to marshal their forces against him. They would probably prepare for a siege which could last weeks unless he burned them out. But he hadn’t entered this land to destroy it, nor did he desire to incur the hatred of the people he wished to govern. He gazed down at the sleeping woman and stroked a finger over her lips. His loins stirred with lust. He had but a taste of her and it had only made him yearn for more. He was suddenly reminded of the wisdom of Havamal—wake early if you want another man’s life or land. There was no lamb for the lazy wolf and no battle would ever be won in bed. No truer words were ever spoken.
With great reluctance, he slid a pillow under her head, then slipped from the bed, jerking to full wakefulness as his bare feet hit the icy floor. He watched her longingly as he dressed, wishing he could have her just one more time. By Norse custom, they should have had a full month to enjoy the fruits of their passion, but it was not to be. Custom also demanded a morning gift for his bride, but he had nothing of value aside from his cloak brooch and the torque. Removing his torque, he laid it on the pillow and quietly left, promising himself a full se’nnight in her bed when he returned—if he returned. On that grim thought, he vowed to make another sacrifice in the hope that his seed would take root inside her.
Valdrik descended the stairs to the great hall and froze. The entire room was littered with bodies. By Odin’s eye! Were they all dead? Had plague suddenly taken them?
He crouched down and rolled one of the bodies. It was one of Rudalt’s men, not his, thanks to Allfather. The man was completely insensible, yet his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. He gave the man a firm shake. His eyes fluttered open with a low moan only to close again.
“What the devil?” Close by were a couple lying in an embrace. Valdrik nudged them with his foot. Not dead, but they barely stirred. He moved to the next. “Bjorn! Ivar!” Striding through the hall he bellowed for his brothers.
A shaggy redhead rose from the table. Ivar groaned. “Are you trying to wake the dead?”
Valdrik stood over him with a glare. “It seems I am. What the hell happened here?”
Ivar sat up and took in his surrounding with a look of utter confusion. “Did you kill everyone?”
“Of course not!” Valdrik said. “I don’t know what has happened, but I don’t like the smell of it.”
Ivar grabbed at a half-full cup of wine and took a drink. Valdrik’s gaze narrowed with suspicion. He snatched it from Ivar’s hands. “Did you drink this?”
“Does it look like I drank it?” Ivar growled.
“I mean last night? Did you drink the wine?” Valdrik asked.
He gave it an experimental sniff. It was the sickly sweet chouchen that the Bretons preferred—a perfect drink to adulterate.
“Aye. But only after we ran out of mead.”
Valdrik cast his gaze about the room with a frown. “I wondered at first if they’d all been struck down with plague…”
“The plague would be more merciful,” Ivar groaned. “My skull feels like it’s going to burst.”
“It must have been something in the wine,” Valdrik spoke his suspicions. “I am certain this was intended for us.”
“Poison?’ Ivar sputtered and spat.
“Nay,” Valdrik replied. “Tainted for certain, but they are not dead.”
“Who?” Ivar asked.
“I don’t know,” Valdrik replied and then suddenly recalled how Adèle had taken his cup when the servant had filled it with wine. She had to have known. “But I’m damned well going to find out. Where’s Bjorn?”
“Try Gisela’s chamber,” Ivar replied with a black look.
“Get up,” Valdrik commanded. “Go stick your head in a cattle trough if you have to, but you will have the men ready to march as soon as I return.”
Adèle awakened to find herself alone. She shivered, now bereft of the big, warm body that had insulated her from the cold. Where had he gone? Why hadn’t she awakened? She knew the answer. She’d never slept so soundly in her life. Their acts of love had brought on a languorous lethargy that she’d never experienced and pleasure she never could have imagined. Thoughts of the night before incited shivers of quite another kind—remembered pleasure reverberated deep in her womb—accompanied by echoes of confused and contradictory emotions.
Valdrik was her sworn enemy, yet he’d shown her more kindness and consideration than she’d ever received from those who had raised and cared for her. She’d never been touched in such a tender way or treated as an equal. But that’s how it had been in the bedchamber last night. He had worshipped her body, making it seem as if she were the only woman in the world. He had transported her to another realm where nothing else existed beyond their joined bodies. She’d nev
er wanted the night to end. But now morning had come and the spell was broken. As she sat up in the bed, her gaze caught an object resting on the pillow that had borne his head. It was the torque he had worn. She picked it up wondering why he would have left it behind.
A soft knock sounded, and Mathilda entered, gaze downcast as Adèle pulled the sheet over her breasts to hide her nakedness. “Milord ordered a bath for when you awakened, my lady,” Mathilda said.
Adèle was once more struck by his consideration. “Where is milord?” Adèle asked, uncertain how else to refer to the Norseman. He had no right to claim nobility, but she didn’t presume to refer to him by his Christian name either. As her new husband, ‘milord’ would have to suffice.
“I know not, milady, but when I saw him, he looked ready to ride out.”
“Then he doesn’t know what we did?” She breathed a sigh of relief.
Before Mathilda could answer, Valdrik burst into the bedchamber looking like the devil himself. Knowing she’d indeed been discovered, Adèle clutched her stomach feeling instantly sick.
“Half of my men and nearly all the population of Vannes are sleeping like the dead,” he reported, his movements stiff and his tone glacial. “What the hell did you put in the wine?”
“P-poppy extract,” she blurted, knowing lies would ill serve her. He already looked ready to throttle her. “I did it before we made our agreement.”
He came stalking toward her very much like a rabid wolf and then grabbed her by both shoulders. She gasped as the sheet slipped away, baring her breasts. He paid no heed as he shook her, jarring every bone in her body. “Do you know what you have done?” He stopped abruptly, gaze narrowed. “Of course you do. It was your intent all along to seduce and then cripple me.”
“That wasn’t it at all!” she insisted. “I only wanted to escape you, to go to my brother in Carhaix.”
The Wolves of Brittany Collection: A Romance Bundle Books 1-3 Page 9