by Sandra Hill
He could imagine it suggesting ways to cure the pleasure-pain that continued to envelop his loins. He could imagine—
"Well?" she interrupted his reverie. "Enough time have I wasted, traipsing across this wretched land. Which of you is the healer I have been searching for?"
He and Rashid exchanged a long look, not sure if either of them wanted to be the subject of her search. Finally, Adam admitted, "I was… am… Adam the Healer."
Rashid piped in, "And I am Ibn Rashid al Mustafa. Your humble servant." He performed a peculiar obsequious bow native to his country, involving the rapid touching of his forehead, nose, mouth, and heart.
"I have been trained as a physician," Adam continued, "but I no longer treat patients. Perchance I could recommend another doctor for you… there are several monk healers in St. Peter's ministerium at Jorvik. What exactly is your problem?"
"It's not my problem that causes me to seek you out," she explained, the whole while motioning with hand gestures to Emma and Bridget that they should provide drink for her men who were sitting down at the long trestle tables. Adam should have been embarrassed at not offering the hospitality himself, but he was too confused by this woman and her mission. " 'Tis my father, King Thorvald of Stoneheim, who needs your help. He is gravely ill of an unknown malady. Dost know of him?"
Adam shook his head slowly.
"He is called Thorvald the Wolf."
"Aaaah. Now I recall. His kingdom is in far northern Norway… Halogaland." Adam's stepuncle Tykir lived in Dragonstead, at the end of beyond in Norway. Men had body parts frozen off there if they were careless enough to venture outdoors overlong during the winter months. Stoneheim was even farther north, in the most primitive, mountainous area… a land nigh uninhabitable.
She nodded. "How long will it take you to pack your medicinal supplies?"
"I beg your pardon, m'lady… I mean…" He paused meaningfully, not knowing her name. If this woman, magnificent as she is, thinks I am going anywhere near the frigid mountains of that godforsaken section of Norway, she is sadly mistaken.
"Tyra. Tyra Sigrundottir. Tyra, Cub of the Wolf. Tyra First Child. Tyra the Blonde. Tyra Brave One." She shrugged as if to say she would answer to any of those appellations.
"Or Tyra Warrior Princess," he offered, half in jest.
To his surprise, she agreed. "That, too." And she didn't even smile as she said it. Of a certainty, the woman was full of herself, and lacking in humor.
But her ego was of no consequence. He, and an important part of his body, thought she was glorious. Especially since she had not scratched herself again… thanks be to God! If she belched or did something else of a distasteful masculine nature, he might just cry with disappointment.
"In any case, Tyra, I regret to inform you that I cannot help your father. I have not practiced the healing arts these past few years. When, or if, I resume treating patients again, it will be here in Britain. My traveling days are over. Under no circumstances would I be willing to go so far."
She made a scoffing noise. "I do not recall asking you to come. You will come, of that there is no question."
He raised himself to his full height, which was more than considerable, and fixed her with a glower. "I will not."
Tyra rolled her eyes as if to say, Here we go again!
Some of her men sniggered and began to talk amongst themselves. He understood the Norse tongue perfectly. These sea pirates were placing bets… against him in this battle of wills.
"Uh-oh," Rashid said and danced quickly away from his side.
Adam's glance wavered briefly. In that instant when he looked to Rashid to see what the problem was, then glanced back, he saw that the demented woman had her broadsword raised high above her head and was lowering it. Toward him, of all things. He had no time to duck aside. The flat side of her sword hit him on the crown, causing him to see stars and his knees to buckle.
The warrior princess bent over him in the rushes, admonishing, "See what you made me do, you dumb dolt!"
He was a dumb dolt, because all he could think about was the magnificent set of breasts jutting out above his face.
Just before the blackness overtook him, the most amazing thing of all happened. She picked him up—she actually picked him up—and tossed him over her shoulder.
It appeared he was going to Norway, after all.
Chapter Two
The man was beautiful.
Tyra normally did not notice such things, surrounded by men as she was day and night. For the most part, men were smelly, flea-ridden creatures with overblown egos and a ridiculous tendency to think with their male parts. In fact, they had a tendency to scratch intimate body parts… a habit she was trying to mimic, to her own disgust, to fit in better with them. Belching at will was harder… a dubious talent she'd not yet mastered. Truly, men were good for one thing only. Fighting wars. But this man… for the love of Frey… this man was a god in human form.
She'd laid him out on one of the trestle tables where he still "slept" from the tap she'd administered to his head with her trusty sword, "Good Friend." His assistant, the Arab chatterbird Rashid, was off packing leather bags and wooden chests with clothing and medicinal supplies, under careful guard of the leader of her troop, Rafn the Ruthless. The rest of her retinue sat about the great hall, which seemed to have been unused for some time, eating a cold repast of mead, flat bread, and sliced mutton.
The physician's unconscious state gave her an opportunity to study him more closely. He was tall—even taller than she was—and perfectly proportioned. He lacked the bulk of an active soldier, but he was not unmuscled. His shoulders were wide and his waist narrow, if she could judge by the full, belted gown. She wondered idly—or perchance not so idly—what he wore under the garment… if anything. Her face heated at her vivid imaginings.
It was his face that drew her most. Thick, thick black lashes fanned his eyelids and matched the overlong hair, which hung down to his shoulders in a silky swath. She recalled that his eyes, now closed, were clear blue like the waters of the North Sea on a summer day… as she'd been told hers were. His nose was straight. His lips were full. His cheekbones high… almost ascetically so.
Tyra had seen many a handsome man in her day. In truth, Viking men were reputed to be more splendid in appearance than the average man of other countries. But something about this man touched her in a way she had never experienced before… something she did not want. She had seen twenty and five winters. There was no place in her life for a man. Not anymore. Not that he would be willing. Not that he would even look at the likes of her.
But he had looked at her. Tyra had seen that. And a part of her thrilled at the glow of arousal she'd seen in his blue eyes… a glow that would have prompted a sharp punch in the stomach if given by any man in her company. The look of appreciation he'd given her was the kind normally reserved for one of her four sisters… never for her. She was too big, too crude, too unfeminine, too…
Enough.' I have no interest in this man, or any other. Not that way.
And, really, the rogue would not be lifeless for long, she reminded herself. In fact, she would wager that the man, once he awakened, would be madder than a castrated bull at being bested by a woman. She had better restrain him now while she had the opportunity.
She had just finished tying his wrists and ankles when she noticed those sinfully thick eyelashes fluttering open. Although he did not rise immediately from his supine position atop the wide table, she saw awareness in his blue eyes.
"My lady warrior, you are in big, big trouble," he said, low and ominous.
Barely had the words left his mouth than the man—a man she had clearly underestimated—performed a move that would do the bravest Norse hesir proud. The loop of his arms went over her head, drawing her forward to land atop him. At the same time, he flipped them both over so she was the one flat on her back and he was the one leaning over her, belly to belly, thigh to thigh.
Her guardsmen rushed forward to he
r aid, swords and daggers aready, but she warned them off with a sharp command, "Stay!" A good soldier knew when to pick his battle, when to proceed and when to yield. She'd chosen the latter course because the physician's bound wrists were resting at her neck, both thumbs pressed against her windpipe. Before a blade could enter the knave's back, he could choke her, or break her neck. Besides, she needed him alive if her father was to live.
But it was humiliating to have been caught thus by the lout. He was not even an active warrior, as she was.
He leaned forward, so close his lips almost touched hers. "Order your men to go out to the courtyard and await you there. Tell them to sheathe their weapons, carefully. We are just having a little… discussion."
"Stop choking me, you Saxon maggot," she said. But what she thought was, Holy Thor, his breath is sweet and warm and inviting. I wish… I wish… nay, I do not wish… I do not wish…
"I'm not choking you, wench. If I were, you would know it."
"I am not a wench."
"I am not a maggot."
"Hah! So you say!"
"Do as I say," he demanded and pressed his thumbs tighter.
There would be bruising on the soft flesh of her neck by nightfall, and the brute well knew it. He was delighting in putting his mark on her.
"Go out to the courtyard, all of you! Put your weapons aside," she yelled out to her hesirs in a voice they would know brooked no argument. "I am safe. The Saxon pig just wants to… talk."
"A pig, hmmm? Do you say I am malodorous? Or my facial stubble prickles you? In any case, your tongue outruns your good sense, wench." He shifted his body atop her, letting her know that the bulge between his legs was there… for her. And that more than talk would be in store for her if he had his way.
Despite his pincer grip on her throat, she tried to wiggle her body upward to escape the press of his masculinity.
He just followed her—a sensuous, body-to-body scraping—and grinned wolfishly. What she'd accomplished, instead of escape, was the raising of her tunic hem. The only thing between them now was the fabric of her braies and his robe, and heat… the most agonizing, delicious heat.
"Are any of these hesirs your husband?" he asked.
The question surprised her. She shook her head hesitantly.
"Good," he said and grinned some more.
Good? What does that mean? Hell and Valhalla, this man is much more clever with words than I am. "Why would you care, one way or another?"
"I have no idea," he admitted. "But I do."
Oooh! Tantalizing words to a woman who had only garnered attention for her skill with sword and lance.
"Tyra!" Rafh, her chief bodyguard, exclaimed.
"Master!" the Arab servant exclaimed at the same time.
The two of them must have just returned to the great hall from the tower stairwell.
Tyra was suddenly alarmed. She did not want Rafh to overreact, putting her life in peril. "I am safe, Rafh. Do not proceed farther. Go about the business of packing. I am just… uh, talking… with the Saxon physician."
"Talking!" Rafn declared with a snort of disbelief. "Methought you were about to couple."
"Couple? Couple?" the Arab inquired with great interest. 'Two years my master has remained chaste. 'Tis past time for a bit of coupling, if you ask me. By the by, Master Rafn, do you have harems in the Norselands?"
A dozen or more voices shouted from the courtyard steps through the open doorway, "Two years!" All eyes turned on the healer, who still lay atop her.
Adam groaned and pressed his forehead against the witch's.
Damn, damn, damn! Rashid of the Running Tongue just had to expose all my secrets. I am going to cut off his tongue the instant I get off this woman. He raised his head and gazed down upon the woman, who gazed right back at him, chin raised high with pride, not the least bit frightened. He realized then that the last thing he wanted was to get off this woman.
"Two years?" she asked. "Are you a monk healer?" The questions were simple, but the tone was taunting.
"Yea, two years. And, nay, I am no monk," he grumbled. "How long has it been for you?"
Despite all her efforts to appear masculine, she ducked her head, but not before he saw the less-than-masculine blush that bloomed there. "A virgin!" he guessed. "A thirty-year-old virgin!"
"I am not thirty years old. I am only twenty-five," she asserted too quickly, before she realized what she had revealed. It wasn't her virginity she had denied, just her age.
He smiled.
She snarled.
"What are those stains upon your tunic?" he inquired, suddenly noticing the blotches that marred the fine wool fabric.
"Blood."
"Yech!" He started to raise his chest off her chest, but then changed his mind, deciding he'd rather feel her breasts pressed up against him, despite the blood. Still, he asked, "Whose?"
"Some bloody Saxon who had the temerity to be in my way when I stepped off my longship in Jorvik."
This woman was certainly unlike any he had ever met. "You killed a man because he was in your way?"
"And because he laughed at me."
"Remind me never to laugh at you," he said, and did just that… laughed at her.
She stiffened, which caused her body to rub slightly against his. He felt the whisper of a caress from her metal-webbed breasts to the soft mound of her sex. "I can scarce wait till we make love," he whispered against her ear.
"You go too far, Saxon," she hissed back in his ear. Little did she know how erotic her breath felt there. He wished she would dip the tip of her tongue in, as well.
She made a snorting sound, as if she sensed his thoughts.
That felt good, too.
"Enough of this nonsense!" he said finally.
"I agree. Let me go."
He nodded. He wanted her free so that her hands could roam his body, just as he intended his to do to her. "First, let us come to an understanding. I will not be leaving my keep, but you are welcome to stay as long as you want. No repercussions." That was rather magnanimous of him, he concluded. But then, he wanted her in his bed furs that night. "Well?" His tied hands still gripped her neck. He would not let go till she gave her word.
She seemed to be gritting her teeth. He thought she murmured, "Toad."
"What did you say?"
"Load… I said you are a heavy load on me."
He smiled, sensing that his "load" was not all that burdensome to her.
"You make me breathless," he informed her. Women liked to know that their charms heated the male blood.
"You suffocate me," she said.
The woman really was lacking in charm, he decided, though she had other assets to make up for that deficit. And, really, he could teach her how to be charming. It was an art form he'd developed at an early age. And no doubt she was acting foul-tempered to hide the fact that she was as aroused as he, even if she was a virgin, which he could hardly credit at her advanced age.
"Give your word and you are free," he told her.
Her only response was to arch her hips and rock from side to side.
His toes curled and blood rushed to all the important parts of his body. His pleasure at the brush of her sex against his was so intense that he felt like roaring and whimpering at the same time. "Your word, m'lady," he nigh begged.
She indicated with a jerk of her head that he should come closer. Then, into his ear she whispered, "There is a game you Saxons play in your high courts. 'Tis called chess, I believe. Are you familiar with it?"
He nodded, even as he frowned with puzzlement. His mind felt dull with arousal. "Yea, I know the game, but what has chess to do with us?"
"If you know the game, then you will understand this," she announced with a hoot of glee. "Check and mate!"
Too late he realized that a sharp blade in her hand was pressed into his neck and was already drawing blood from the point imbedded in his skin just above the pumping vein, "Do not make a wrong move, Saxon, or you are dead "
It appeared he was going to Norway, after all.
Two days later, somewhere on the North Seas
On second thought, Adam decided, the wench wasn't all that attractive.
In fact, after two and a half days of being tied to the mast pole of a rolling longship… up one wave, down one wave, up one wave, down one wave… well, to say that his stomach turned at the thought of Tyra was a vast understatement. To make matters worse, each evening just before dusk the warrior-woman hoisted him over her shoulder and carried him ashore for overnight camping. With his head going ka-thump, ka-thump against her backside, he was definitely un-enthralled with the outrageous wench… even if she did have a decidedly delicious backside.
Despite his best intentions—and his being un-enthralled—he had to admire her expertise and that of her warriors, who appeared equally at ease at sea or on land. He was on one longship and Rashid was on another, each ship manned by sixty-five vikings. There were no rowing benches. Instead, thirty-two men sat on their sea chests working the thirty-two long oars. The other thirty-two spelled them when their arms grew tired, while a helmsman guided the rudder. The Vikings hung their decorated shields along the sides of the dragonships, both for display and to stop arrows in case of a sea battle. Square sails of red and white stripes fluttered high atop both ships from single masts and yardarms. A group of horses were corralled with ropes in the center of each boat, including Adam's and Rashid's.
In all, this Viking warrior-princess led her soldiers, even on the seas, with remarkable skill. As Rashid was fond of saying, "An army of sheep led by a lion would defeat an army of lions led by a sheep." It was clear that Tyra was a lion… but then, her hard-muscled warriors hardly counted as sheep.
That fact had been demonstrated to Adam only this morn when a Viking pirate ship attacked them. Out of the mist, the grotesque dragon prow of the marauding ship had appeared, like a giant sea monster. Reinforcing that image had been the battle shrieks of the pirates, like howling creatures from Niflheim, the Norse afterworld. Tyra's other ship had been too far ahead to be of assistance. Tossing grappling hooks attached to strong ropes onto Tyra's ship, the pirates—three dozen in all—had managed to pull the two ships close enough to each other to jump aboard.