by Sandra Hill
Tykir was panting for breath in his bedchamber later that night.
Really, sometimes his wife forgot that he was forty-and-seven years old and that he had trouble keeping up with her ten-years-younger body. Well, actually, he had no trouble keeping up, being a lusty Viking and all that, but she did make him pant more these days.
"I have a wonderful idea," Alinor said, snuggling up to him and placing a hand lovingly over his limp manpart.
"Uh-oh!" Anytime Alinor mentioned "a wonderful idea," especially when holding his cock, he knew he was in for trouble.
"I think Toste should marry Esme."
Where that ludicrous idea had come from, he had no clue. Women's minds flitted here and there like hummingbirds. Flit, flit, flit. "No matchmaking, Alinor. Toste asked us not to interfere. Remember?"
"It wouldn't exactly be matchmaking."
"It would be exactly matchmaking if you are involved."
"Toste needs someone to love now that Vagn is gone."
"A man does not need someone to love."
She removed her hand from his nether region and smacked him on the chest.
"Not all men need someone to love," he amended, not being a total lackwit.
She moved her hand back where it belonged, so she apparently forgave his loose tongue. Smart wife! "Toste has a hole in his life."
"Which you intend to fill?"
"Mayhap."
"Alinor, do you not have enough to do helping Eadyth prepare for this grand feast?"
"Everything is arranged. All the plans are made. Eadyth has more than enough servants to carry through once the guests arrive. In the meantime…"
"How about our sons? Dost know what Thork did today?" Their eleven-year-old son was a handful—a rogue in the true spirit of Viking males. Their other three sons, Starri, nine, Guthrom, six, and Selik, two, showed signs of following the same mischievous path.
Alinor sighed. "What did Thork do today?"
"He pinched a chambermaid on the arse."
She giggled. "Did you reprimand him?"
"Of course I did." Actually, I couldn't stop laughing, especially when he told me this particular chambermaid had a huge arse which begged to be pinched.
"Now that you bring up your son's misdeeds…" Alinor began.
Why was it that they were his sons when they did something bad, but her sons when they proved angelic?
"… Starri and Guthrom had a spitting contest over the parapet, some of which hit a milkmaid passing by, which caused her to lose the contents of her stomach."
Tykir didn't want to tell her, but he was the one who had taught them about spitting contests. On the other hand, she probably already knew that.
"Back to Toste…" she said.
Holy Thar! She is like a dog with a bone once she gets started on something. She never lets go.
"Wouldn't it be nice to have a yuletide wedding?" She was moving her hands on him in a most delicious way now.
Tykir placed his hands over his face and said, "I surrender." He meant it in more ways than one.
Rub-a-dub-dub…
"Why are you bringing a tub in here?" Esme practically shrieked her question because she had a pretty good idea why.
Toste just smiled and said, "Greetings, Esme. Did you miss me?"
"Miss you, you goat-breath idiot? I… don't… think… so."
He blew dramatically into a palm placed in front of his mouth and nose, then sniffed. "Smells fresh to me."
Why does he always home in on the most irrelevant part of what I say? "How could I miss you? You're here all the time."
He winked at her. "Bolthor thinks you like me."
"Bolthor is a dunderhead."
"I'll tell him you said so."
"Nay. Don't do that," she said, immediately contrite. It wasn't the kindly skald's fault that Toste was behaving like a beast.
Toste had slept with her in the small bed for two nights now and been gone off and on during the daylight hours. Last night he'd tied her wrist to his again, then laid a hand possessively over one of her breasts. Every time she moved he took it as an excuse to fondle her breast. And of course she remained nude and tied to the bedposts every time he left the hut. He hadn't bothered with the gag, since apparently no one would come to her rescue even if she screamed loudly.
He placed a cauldron over the fire and filled it with a bucket of water from the rain barrel outside. Now he was traipsing in and out, filling the tub. Cold air rushed in from the open doorway, which chilled Esme even though she was covered with the fur pelt.
"I am not getting in that tub," she declared.
"Wouldst like to wager on that?"
"A lady deserves her privacy when bathing."
"One, there is no lady here. Two, you gave up any rights to privacy when you deprived me of mine."
Three, you are a loathsome lout. "What do you hope to gain with this vengeance?"
"Vengeance is its own reward. Besides, I find that I like the idea of having my very own sex slave."
"Se-sex slave?" she sputtered.
"Yea. You did not think I was going to be satisfied with a loaf of unleavened bread in my bed forever, did you? I mean, there is a charm in looking at you bare-arse naked, flat on your back, legs spread in invitation, but at some point you must earn your keep."
He was probably teasing her, but she decided not to test him on the issue. Another thought came to her unbidden. "Did anyone see you bringing that tub here?"
"Hah! Everyone saw me."
She groaned, imagining the jests that must have been made.
The man was an infuriating lout. If he was going to torture her or force himself on her sexually, she wished he'd just do it and get it over with. This procrastination was driving her mad. Which, of course, was his goal.
"What scent do you prefer, Esme? Lavender or rose?"
"Huh?"
While her mind had wandered, Toste had filled the tub half full of cold rainwater, warmed up with two cauldrons of boiling water. Another cauldron was on the fire. He held two cloth packets in the air. "Never mind. I think I prefer the rose." With that, he dumped the powder in the tub and stirred it about. The scent of roses soon filled the small room. Next, he walked over to the bed and untied her restraints.
"Get in the tub," he ordered, turning his back to her.
She made a face at his back as she sat up, using the fur pelt to cover her front.
He went outside to gather wood, leaving the door open. When he returned, he gave her a pointed look, acknowledging that she hadn't moved a bit yet and he was losing patience with her.
Esme didn't have a chance to think twice about what she did next. Toste was bent over the fire, his back to her, when she dropped her pelt and flew out the open doorway. She didn't stop to think that she was naked and barefooted and, though the sun was shining brightly, the ground was still covered with a thin layer of snow. Nor did she consider where she was headed. Escape had been her only goal.
She glanced back over her shoulder, fully expecting to see Toste at her heels. Instead, she saw him leaning against the door jamb of the hut, arms folded over his chest. He wasn't even coming after her. And he was smirking. The troll! But then he pushed away from the door frame and began to walk after her. Walk. He was so confident of catching her that he didn't even bother to ran.
Esme glanced right and left, shivering with cold, as she decided which direction to head. Several cotters standing outside their huts noticed her and were pointing. She decided to run in the opposite direction, away from the castle. There should be some outbuildings in the fields where cows grazed, or farther on where Eadyth's conical beehives rose in the distance.
She had almost reached a three-sided cow byre when Toste tackled her from behind and she landed flat on her face in the mud. Because milch cows came into this area for a period of time every day, the ground was not covered with snow, nor was it frozen. Just muddy. Luckily, there were no cow pies under her. Leastways, she thought she would smell them if
there were.
"Esme, Esme, Esme," Toste said against her ear. "What a foolish wench you are! Dost know how much you are adding to your punishment with this latest misdeed? You truly must have a death wish."
"I care not anymore," she proclaimed. "Get off me, you big overblown lout. You must weigh as much as a… cow… nay, a bull… a randy old bull."
He laughed and rolled off her, standing and pulling her to her feet all in one motion. His eyes went wide as he gazed at her… all of her… covered with mud, from her face to her breasts and belly and woman place, even her legs and toes. He, on the other hand, had only a small amount of mud on him… his hands and his braies. But then he seemed to notice something else. Her teeth were chattering and her body was shaking uncontrollably with cold.
"Tsk tsk tsk!" he tutted as he swept her up in his arms and began to carry her swiftly back to the hut. He seemed not to care that the mud on her body rubbed off onto the front of him as he held her close against his chest with her dirty face nestled in the crook of his neck.
As soon as they entered the hut, he placed her in the tub of lukewarm water and carefully poured another cauldron of boiling water in to heat it up more. Washing his hands, he then used palmfuls of water to rinse his neck where her muddy face had been buried. He gave her a quick glance, taking in her still chattering teeth with a frown. Without speaking, he went out to get another bucket of rainwater, which he put into the cauldron to heat up. Next, he poured a cup of mead into a metal tankard and set it among the hot coals. Within moments he handed it to her and ordered, "Drink."
"I'm not thirsty." Now that her body's chill had dissipated, she sank lower into the scented water, wondering what would come next.
"Drink!" he said more forcefully and placed the cup against her lips. She would have to drink or have it running down her chin. Once she'd swallowed half of it, he took pity on her pleading eyes and set the cup aside. The mulled mead had done the job he'd intended, warming her from the inside as the water did from the outside.
Toste knelt down on the floor next to the tub, which made her uncomfortable because the water, though cloudy, was clear enough to give him a view of her naked body. She thought about covering herself with her hands under the surface, but didn't bother. He could see her anytime he wanted… and had.
He wiped a finger across her cheek and it came away covered with mud. He did the same to her hair. Same effect. She must look wretched. Before she had a chance to realize what he was about, Toste pushed her head down under the water. She came up sputtering. She glared at him as she combed her fingers through her still muddy hair. Which prompted him to dunk her again. This time she came up spewing foul words an almost-nun shouldn't even know.
"What? You are going to drown me as part of my punishment?"
"Nay, sweetling, I just like my bedmates to be… well, sweet. Pigs might like to wallow in mud, but I am not a pig."
"I think you're a pig."
"Do you, now?" He chuckled and began to lather her hair with a handful of soft soap which he scooped out of a small pottery container.
"I can do that myself," she said, reaching for the soap.
He held it out of her reach. "I prefer to do it."
"And I prefer not."
He dunked her under to rinse, then lathered her up again. This time, he didn't just lather, he used the fingers of both hands to massage the soap into her scalp for a long time… way beyond the time necessary to clean her hair. His magic fingers kneaded her scalp in little circles, which caused her body to relax and her senses to heighten.
"Who taught you to do that?" she asked, her eyes closed and her chin on her chest.
"A houri."
"A whore-y. What's that?"
He chuckled. "A harem girl."
"Oh," she said. Then, "Oh!"
When her hair was clean, he moved behind her and combed her hair till it lay over her ears and down her back in a wet swath. Then he moved around to the side again, still kneeling, and told her, "Kneel in the tub and face me."
She didn't want to. The water wouldn't even reach her woman-place. "Why?" A feeble question, but she asked it just the same.
"Because you are dirty, and I would wash you."
She stifled a groan. She was no longer dirty, of course.
While she hesitated, he took off his belt and drew his tunic over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him. He was not muddy, except for his braies. Why was he removing… oh.
He made a peremptory motion of his hands that she should kneel. She did so, but she scrunched her eyes closed tight.
"Open your eyes."
"Why?"
"Stop asking why all the time. Just accept that I know what I'm doing."
She opened her eyes and gave him a look that said it was questionable, but before she could voice that thought, her tongue froze in her mouth. He was soaping his hands. Both of them. A lot. And she knew just where he planned to place those hands, because that's where he was staring.
When his hands were slick with soap he spread them over her breasts, first in wide circles which got smaller and smaller till he worked her nipples into hard peaks. She wanted to beg him to stop. She wanted to beg him to never stop.
"You have beautiful breasts, Esme."
Am I supposed to react to that? I do not care that he admires my breasts. I do not care that he makes them ache deliciously. I do not care that his fingers weave magic.
"Would you like me to suckle them?"
"Whaaat?" Where did that question come from? "Nay, I don't want you to… to… do that."
He had already moved his hands to her arms, which he soaped, even the armpits, and her shoulders. Then he ladled clean, warm water over her and said, "Now stand."
She was about to ask why, but bit her bottom lip to stop herself. She knew why. "If I asked you to take pity and spare me this indignity, would you?"
"Nay."
Well, that answer was short and to the point. She stood and lifted her chin defiantly. She was Esme, Lady of Evergreen. Let him do what he would with her. He could not take away her pride. Still, she whistled softly.
Actually… she soon changed her tune.
With a new dollop of soft soap, he lathered her abdomen and belly, then spent a great amount of time on her woman's fleece and the private folds between her legs. Even the crease of her buttocks got his attention. The rogue knew what he was about, too, because he touched her in places and in ways that only an expert libertine would know of. If she had not realized it before, she did now… she was way beyond her depth with this man.
She licked her suddenly dry lips and glanced at him.
To her satisfaction, she saw him lick his own lips. The Viking was equally affected by this little game of his. She was surprised that he did not grab for her, but she should not have been. He was an experienced man. His moves would be smoother than that.
Handing her a linen cloth, he said, "Dry yourself, Esme. We have a contract to discuss."
"What kind of contract?" she asked as she put the cloth to good use, then stepped out of the tub and used it to shield herself.
He grinned at her sad attempt at modesty after what he'd just seen and done. "Your punishment contract," he said as he pulled the tub toward the door, then dumped the water outside. After that, he brought more wood inside and built up the fire.
Finally he answered her as he began to disrobe himself.
"You kept me captive here for ten days. I figure that turnabout is fair play. Ten for ten. Except that you bit my lip that one time, which brings you up to eleven days, and your attempt at escape certainly counts for at least two more days. So your debt is thirteen days minus the two already spent here for a total of eleven days."
"You should wipe my debt out totally for having forced me to take such drastic measures in the first place."
"What kind of feminine illogic is that?"
"Men just don't recognize that women have brains."
"It's not your brain I'm interested in."
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"Have I ever mentioned that you are a loathsome lout?"
"About a hundred times. I consider it a compliment, coming from you."
She reminded herself not to give him that "compliment" again.
He stood then, totally nude, and she couldn't keep herself from staring. The man was magnificent, from his blond hair which lay about his shoulders to his perfectly proportioned body. Actually, one body part seemed a little out of proportion with the rest. How could the Viking speak so calmly to her when he had that sticking out from him, like a flag waving its interest?
"Here is the deal I am offering you, Esme. For every time you initiate and make love to me, I will take off one day."
"Define making love."
He laughed. "My cock in one of your hot, wet orifices."
She wasn't exactly sure what he meant by that, but the smirk on his face told her that asking might not be a good idea. "What do you mean by my initiating loveplay?"
"You start it. You do the work. Unless I agree to take over betimes, which I probably would on occasion, unless you beg me to do something particularly wicked. Mostly, it is in your hands."
"My hands? Hah! I wouldn't have a clue how to make love to a man."
"Learn. Do what comes naturally. Bloody hell, just touch me and I will probably explode. I have not been with a woman for a year, Esme. Believe me, I will not be picky."
There was probably a half-insult in there. "If any woman would suffice, why me?"
He shook his head at her. "I did not say any woman would suffice. I want you."
It took all her willpower not to ask "Why?" What she did say was, "You are suggesting that I sell my body."
"I prefer the word barter."
"You would take everything from me, including my pride."
"I would give back as good as I got."
Whatever that meant!
"Besides, you had no care for my pride." He stared at her for several long moments, waiting for her decision. When she remained silent, he said, "So be it." With those words, he walked over to the bed and lay down.
"Now what?"
"Now I am going to sleep, and you are going to be in this hut for eleven more days. I hope Eirik's noble guests don't ask to come have a peek at you."