THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN

by Shehanne Moore

  “So?” he cocked an eyebrow. “Where do you want to do this?”

  Just look at him edging back onto the desk too, his legs slightly parted and his dressing gown deliberately open, so as to make her aware of everything these trousers outlined and leave her in no doubt she aroused him. Crimson heat scorched to her hairline. And he was meant to be doing this for his betrothed? A pity she was not here to see this.

  Those straight brows, the sensuous mouth, the tousled curls, the ones that had escaped from the tied tail at the back of his neck, not to mention his unwavering gaze, were all a deliberate invitation. The most deliberate sexual invitation she had ever had—that wasn’t saying very much—and all of it designed to see exactly what she would do next.

  “Shall you? Shall I—” Deliberately he left the question unfinished.

  Thank goodness she had at least chosen a veil Aunt Carter wouldn’t recognize her in, one she wouldn’t recognize herself in. Despite that, despite the fact that she was only able to take in the cool, candlelit darkness of the room he sat facing her in, she could still discern his gaze. Rather she could discern what flickered in the tawny depths of it. That was a good deal more interest than previously.

  “I’ll need to tell Philips to come in.”

  Philips? She smothered the tiny start. The butler obviously. Could this get any worse? “Yes. Yes of course.”

  “The bed’s already rumpled.”

  Her throat tightened. She was not, so far as she knew, going to seduce him. She was going to have sex with him. As she stared at him, and more importantly, he stared at her in the lengthening silence, she found herself wondering if it was possible in her state of heightened anxiety that she’d misjudged him? It didn’t seem possible he would call Philips in to witness the whole thing with the sheets already rumpled.

  What if this flaunting behaviour was a deliberate tease? One that left it up to her to decide what to do next? What if he did mean to be faithful to his betrothed? His wife, alas, didn’t enter the equation. He had never been faithful to her.

  Having tightened, her throat now dried so her breath jammed in her chest. All she could see in the guttering candles was his face, his eyes seeming to burn through her, his body tilted slightly towards her, somehow awaiting a response.

  If only she could turn and go. Rumpled sheets might satisfy a court of law, it wouldn’t satisfy him when she presented herself in society in a few months’ time with a swelling stomach though. She must be able to look him in the eye when she said, ‘You were with me’. She must act now, before he called Philips in here. What was wrong with her that she hesitated?

  Swiftly she stepped forward. “So be it. We don’t have to use the bed.”

  “You mean you actually—”

  What she meant was lost as she slammed her mouth against his. Of course Strictly neither advocated nor upheld such a policy but that business of him propped there against the desk edge, clutching it as if terror coursed through his veins, meant Strictly could go to hell. Anyway, wasn’t she boss of Strictly? As such there should be perks. Did she really give a toss about all these, the tenth article of the contract states, and however so forth by the eleventh article, things she herself had invented?

  Not when her tongue was tangled round a lump of gauze. She hadn’t considered the practicality of the veil. While she hadn’t, it didn’t mean she should stop though. Why should she when there had never been a kiss and her lips ached with hungry longing? Hadn’t she longed all these years to know this great secret?

  And not just that. He clasped her thigh. Her breath caught. His actual grip was one of iron but the way his thumb caressed her stocking top, sent lightning bolts sizzling through her flesh, straight to the juncture of her thighs. Her reticule hit the floor as she grabbed hold of the sides of his face to drag him even closer, so that all that separated them was their clothes.

  My God, this was what the fuss was about? No wonder. Shoes were no substitute for this. Give me, give me, her startled mind reeled. She was so drunk on the intoxication of the moment, the first one ever, she didn’t just feel his thumb, the rock hard press of his body, she sank against them, it and him, moaning as the veil slipped sideways and she tasted his mouth properly. And not just that, he gave her his mouth properly, taking her to places that were beyond madness.

  Places she never dreamed she’d inhabit. Was this what had happened between her mother and whoever her father was, if she was to believe the whispers that her mother had disappeared for months and came back pregnant and unhinged? A moment of madness that overrode every thought, every clanging, warning bell? Was it why all Malice’s memories of her were of her yo-yoing back and forth to Aunt Carter’s?

  A flying visit here, a flying visit there? Things that had upset Malice at the time. Having no father, she wanted to be with her mother and she really couldn’t bear it when she vanished for months on end, not even leaving a forwarding address? Just the impassioned insistence that she loved Malice. Things that had made no sense?

  How could Malice have brothers and sisters, her mother needed to go home to, for example, when she’d never met them? Were they in hiding, or something? But things she finally understood, even down to all these distressing times she’d actually witnessed her mother grabbing the gardener, grabbing the handyman and kissing them, prior to leaving abruptly? If someone were to pry her loose now, she’d die, absolutely . . . unequivocally . . .

  Die.

  Dear Lord. Had she?

  That jolt, that blinding flash of lightning, were these things meant to happen when one kissed a man for the first time? Her knees sagging too? As for the ground seeming to open up? Well, she had heard of such things of course. The girls talked about it often. She had just never thought to experience it for herself. Quite so extremely too. But perhaps she was special in some strange way? What was it Aunt Carter had said she was when Malice had rebelled about playing with the local children and still been told she couldn’t. Yes.

  ‘Gifted.’

  Malice was less certain about what pinched her nose and choked her throat. Not so much the experiencing—Agnes, her scullery maid was incapable of boiling a kettle without burning it—but the acrid smell of burning timber was not something any of the girls had mentioned. She really thought they would have because she could hardly stop coughing and it was so distracting, her eyes watered. And why did so much screeching cut into her senses like a knife? Were there other women here? And was Cyril kissing them with his hungry lips? Somewhere, in the distance waves lapped.

  She staggered, unable to see a thing for the tears blinding her vision.

  “Hurry,” a voice said. A female voice. Cyril did have a woman in here with her. And, as if that was not bad enough, she was telling Malice to get on with things? When she was doing her level best? Well she was not having it. If he was not satisfied with Strictly’s services, he should have gone elsewhere. She forced one eye open and straightened, difficult when a flaming ball whizzed over her head

  “Quickly. Hurry . . . hurry! This way.”

  She froze. Not just one woman. Several women. Every one of them ducking, striving to keep their footing in an unholy crimson glow that was as bright, as it was unexpected, except for the woman who had wrapped what felt like bony talons around Malice’s wrist. Every one of them dressed strangely, in baggy robes she marvelled they were able to run in. And not just run. What was that animal thing one held clutched to her enormous bosom? A sheep? What were all these women and a sheep doing in Cyril’s flat? Why, these women were even less his type than she was. He had never gone for nuns. And that was what they were, wasn’t it? Why wear sackcloth, these awful looking veils if they weren’t?

  “The infirmary. Run, Sister! Are you so dazed you cannot hear? They are coming.”

  Sister? Malice coughed, wiping her hand across her mouth. Just because she was also wear
ing a veil it did not make her a sister. She closed her fingers around the woman’s in a bid to remove them from her arm. Run? In these shoes? They would be ruined on this hard ground.

  And if they were coming—whoever they were—weren’t they the lucky ones? She wasn’t anything . . . except . . . just possibly . . . Oh God, wait a minute, she hadn’t just collapsed, hadn’t just died in Cyril’s arms. She’d just possibly gone straight to hell. Hell, where Aunt Carter always said she’d end up given all these lies she told. Malice’s throat dried, her breath retreating into the furthest corners of her lungs. And not just the lies. Look at all these marriages she’d wrecked.

  Not just gone to hell either. Arrived in a puff of smoke, a lightning flash. It couldn’t be. Cyril couldn’t be gone. No. He’d done something. Hit her on the head or drugged her or something, because he knew she ran Strictly and wasn’t going to give him that divorce. Or she’d fainted, swooned with desire. Yes. That was it. Hell was just somewhere Aunt Carter liked to frighten her with. If she waited for a moment, she’d come to herself.

  “Do not make me leave you here. Mother Bede will kill me, sister. Hurry!”

  Had Aunt Carter lied though, when her companion screeched like this in her throbbing ears? When acrid smoke reached hands down her throat and into her lungs, threatening to strangle the life from them? When she couldn’t see for the heat that stung her eyes like a thousand bees? Had she kissed Cyril and died? He wasn’t here, was he? Not in so far as she could tell. If he’d died he’d be sure to be. And he wasn’t. Was he weeping copious buckets over her corpse? Or, having ripped that veil off that same corpse’s face, dancing with joy that he didn’t need a divorce?

  “Where?” The cough wracking her lungs almost ripped them apart. She tried peering through the thick grey cloud of smoke. “Where do you want me to go?”

  “The infirmary. Quickly. Mother Bede says. She says we must all gather there to do what needs to be done. Our only choice now this day is here.”

  What day? They had Judgement Day in hell? Aunt Carter had never said. Trying to mentally unclasp what fisted her lungs so she could stop coughing, Malice grasped her skirts. Maybe this was hell and maybe there was no choice, she didn’t want her dress drenched in this quagmire. As for the shoes, the lovely silver shoes with their pearl beading that had cost all these guineas, tears stung her eyes.

  “For the love of our Lord now. Hurry . . .”

  What did the woman think she was doing? Standing like a statue for the good of her health? She tossed back her veil, not caring it flew off her head, landing in the mud. Why should she care about that when her shoes were not made for tramping fields and ditches. If she did not remove them they’d be ruined. The devil might be a gentleman. He might like these shoes for one of his . . . well, he was sure to have lady friends, wasn’t he? Maybe even for that matter, a marriage that needed wrecking? A pity her reticule had fallen on Cyril’s floor. She could have offered him a Strictly card.

  “I am hurrying.” She tried hopping on one foot. How on earth had she managed to get her feet in these shoes when they wouldn’t come off? “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

  Obviously not although it was a valid question with fireballs whizzing about her ears, scorching the grass beside her toes. Did the devil attack his own? Play games where they had to hide? Then, when he caught them he roasted them in a fiery pit? Or was this just a nightmare? A ghastly one she would wake up from in a moment to find herself on Cyril’s floor?

  Malice peered down the grassy slope. At the foot a huddle of crude stone buildings nestled like fledglings around their mother, in this case, a squat construction with tufts of grass sprouting from the roof.

  She could keep tugging the shoe but it might be better to forget about removing them and run. Any monster wreaking this kind of hell on his subjects was hardly likely to be interested in a pair of shoes.

  “In here.” The woman waved her towards the open door. “Mother Bede has something to say to us all.”

  “That’s good, because I have something to say to her.”

  She did, didn’t she? And she would once she’d staggered down this slope through these giant, smouldering, grass clumps. Look at her shoes. Even as she grasped her skirt and lurched beneath the wooden lintel, she did. And what she saw brought tears to her eyes. Oh, this was a nightmare, wasn’t it? Her shoe, her beautiful silk shoe had lost its heel. How else could she be walking on the curve of the sole like this? And what was that filthy mess engulfing the toe? She wrinkled her nose. My God. Cow dung. On Madame Faro’s shoes.

  And this place offered no solace. A musty smelling room, lit only by the most deficient fire hissing and spitting in the stone hearth, as if someone had already flung water on it to try and douse it. The tiny windows, not just shuttered but barred by wooden bolts. And crammed into every space around her, women all as badly dressed as the one who had waved her in here.

  These details she gathered in a few seconds while looking round intently for a place to sit down and not just regain her breath, examine her shoes. They had cost her all of ten guineas. Suppose Lady Grace wanted that money back because Malice hadn’t kept her end of the bargain? And she was out of pocket for something that was ruined? The main detail she gathered had nothing to do with that though. The main detail was the scent that snaked beneath the low beamed roof, crept like a spider across the floor rushes. Fear.

  Her throat constricted. This really wasn’t a dream, was it? And Cyril wouldn’t go to all this trouble to get rid of her either, would he? Unless he had forked out a veritable fortune. No. really. This was hell. It had to be. And any minute now the devil was going to burst through the door there, the one the sisters were going to such a trouble to bolt and bar.

  “Sisters, sisters, listen. We must all be brave. No, no, Sister Aegathe, crying like that won’t help. Wailing neither, Sister Hildelith. There is only one thing we can do.”

  Malice’s heart sunk lower. Aegathe? Hildelith? The names confirmed it. This was hell. Still, her own name should do very well here. At least she wouldn’t need to change it. Maybe it would even take a trick. Maybe the devil would make her a demoness.

  “But Mother Bede, how will the good Lord recognize us on Judgement Day if we do this?” The cry, like the fear, wound a serpent’s path around the dank, dark walls.

  “By our deeds and our chastity, good sister. Be assured. He will know each and every one.”

  Malice fidgeted uncomfortably, feeling heat prickle along the nape of her neck. Deeds? And chastity? What a contradiction in terms. After all, Cyril had found out. Well? If this was hell, why would Mother Bede be talking in this way. No. Cyril knew all about the dirty operation she had run for years. And probably, because she wouldn’t cut him in on it, he wanted his revenge. Wanted his divorce too, that thing she had sworn not to give him. Ever. Well, she wouldn’t give him that divorce. As for chastity no-one was more chaste.

  “But Mother Bede. Please—” Other voices cut in. A babble of them all squawking like parrots so Malice could barely determine a single word.

  “Hush! The Vikings are upon us. Would you bring them here before we can do this? Ruin our only chance of salvation?”

  The what?

  “As it is they will fall upon us. Rape us good sisters, forever destroying our chastity. Making us unfit in the eyes of our Lord, so when Judgement Day is upon us, we will be cast down forever into the fiery pits of hell.”

  Malice fought not to edge her gaze sideways but it went anyway. Cyril would not go to all this trouble. How would he even know she had no intentions of giving him that divorce? The very moment Mother Bede spoke she recognized her mistake, although it didn’t mean that anything about this added up. Vikings? She had heard of Vikings. Who hadn’t heard of Vikings? Just not in nineteenth century London. What were they doing here? Unless this wasn’t nineteenth century London
?

  A muffled sound escaped her, a disbelieving huff designed purely to reassure herself. That wasn’t possible. For a start if this was something like 897 AD, whatever AD, how on earth would she understand these women as well as she had? Wouldn’t they be speaking some kind of gibberish?

  She would have to possess special powers for that. To be in another era at all, come to that. And if Cyril wasn’t here, well, that would mean she’d disappeared . . . a little like her mother had. She gulped, not the best idea when her blue diamante dress didn’t remotely resemble her companions and now those on either side fastened their gazes on her. The pores of her skin tightened. Feeling various pulses flicker in her throat, she dutifully fixed her eyes on Mother Bede in the hope of avoiding their sharp eyes. Tried to anyway.

  Vikings? Didn’t they do things like raping and pillaging? She was not about to be pillaged, was she? Again her throat made a muffled sound. How interesting.

  “So, we will do this.” Fortunately the determination that laced Mother Bede’s voice, meant everyone stared transfixed at her and allowed Malice to smooth her skirt and hair. “Take the knife as once we took the cloth. I will go first good sisters. One cut for my nose. One cut for my lips. I do it now. Willingly. Knowing I will be preserved in my purity for our dear Lord on Judgement Day.”

  What? One cut for a nose? One cut for a mouth? Malice smothered another gulp. Was the woman mad? No, because the air wasn’t just brittle enough to snap, it squelched sufficiently to send her gorge spinning up her rib cage. The noise was like an oyster being sliced clean from its shell. The noise was like nothing she had ever heard. Bile rose up her gullet. Only with the greatest of difficulties did she hold onto the contents of her stomach.