THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN

by Shehanne Moore

  “I know, Sinarr, but that may take years. Years and years. And after all she has told me—”

  Well, obviously Malice was to blame for raising Snotra’s silly expectations. As she was to blame for everything. Aunt Carter’s book could not have it more wrong. Where was the wine and the wenching? Certainly not evident in the way he unpeeled Snotra’s arms from his neck.

  Of course, as yesterday had amply demonstrated, he played games with Snotra. If Malice didn’t know any better she’d say this was more than games though. Didn’t he want to marry Snotra. If not, why not?

  He smiled sort of. Sort of faintly. Very faintly. “Then you’ll be all the more eager, won’t you?”

  “But I am eager. I am eager now . . .” Snotra pushed herself up on her tiptoes. “Sinarr, after what she told me, I want your babies. Now,” she breathed. “I want them now.”

  It should mean nothing surely, that Snotra tried pressing her lips against his? She was his betrothed after all. Yet Malice could not contain what knotted the very pit of her ribcage in that second. Her talk had led to this? She pushed the stool back and got to her feet.

  “Troll’s teeth, where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m—” She shrugged suddenly unable to think but if she didn’t, she was going to look very foolish, bring the wrath of Snotra down on her head because he preferred asking after Malice to kissing Snotra.

  “I was just going back outside, Drottin, to finish feeding the chickens.” Malice tugged the sack of grain, still strapped around her shoulder.

  “The chickens?”

  If his release of Snotra stopped Malice in her tracks, his step towards her froze Malice’s feet to the floor. Her shoulders tightened as he slipped his fingers beneath the strap. Not only was the burning sensation enough to force the consideration that her heart pounded like a cart-horse’s, he was close. Far more so than she’d have liked, with his betrothed standing not three feet away. Edging the bag free, he held it up. “And that’s why you’re wearing this?”

  Her? Be seen alive in a thing like this? What a gross effrontery.

  “Sinarr, I—I— The chickens needed feeding. You wish that I should let them starve to death?” Snotra demanded, gulping for breath. “Poor, little chickens that—”

  “Snotra, the chickens are for eating.”

  “When you have your fortune to build and they lay eggs?”

  He huffed out a breath and dumped the bag on the table. “Well, I won’t be making my fortune out of that, that’s certain. I’m not exactly an egg man.”

  “Oh, Egil would never have talked like this.”

  “Egil?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “He was barely out of wet cloths.”

  How awful was this? Malice had only meant to have them eating out her hand. Him and Snotra that was, not the chickens. Now she must just cling to the hope she didn’t get the blame for this argument. Difficult. For some strange reason she was the sort of person who always got the blame, who would have been to blame if the moon crashed into the sun. But it was not impossible to appear blameless if she just stood here quietly waiting for this to blow over. And it was going to blow over, wasn’t it?

  “Sinarr.” Snotra followed him to the table, her gown swishing a little less obviously than when Malice came in here. “You make it sound as if you don’t like me. As if I am a bad person. Only interested in Egil for his money.”

  “No. I don’t make it sound. I just know how badly it must have disappointed you to discover he’d none. You then had no choice but to choose me.”

  How interesting. Egil, even in wet-clothes must have been God’s gift to women.

  “I loved his mind. But there, let’s not argue, my darling. Please.” Snotra wheedled. “Certainly not over a stupid bed-slave.”

  Malice set her jaw. Waiting for this to blow over was going to take a bit of doing when Snotra spoke like that. And not just Snotra.

  No choice but to choose him?

  While she should not feel drawn to a man who wanted a bed slave to make his betrothed jealous, the reason for it tore the sinews of her heart. This was something she could understand. Could even sympathize with. And she could not let herself. Any more than she could feel that it was wrong to have discussed him as she had.

  His being third best had not stopped him treating her as if she would never be best with anyone. She would consider that more deeply the second she got out of here, away from him, from his incredibly male presence. Then she would reconstruct this, determining how best to use all she had gleaned to ensure England loomed on her horizon.

  Her thoughts had tiptoed across the earthen floor. Now all it needed was for her feet do the same. Take issue with Snotra’s remark? Her obvious discarding of her, which Malice ought to have seen coming? That would only inflame things. She would not inflame things. Not when the door was there.

  “Stupid or not, Snotra, I made my position clear. She’s exempt from household duties. Malice, go upstairs. I have something to show you.”

  Show her? Dear God, was he feasting his eyes on her backside? She hoped not. But all the way up to the top of the ladder, she was so certain, it took every ounce of her self-possession to sweep across the floor and stand beneath the sloping beams in the corner, with what she prayed was a neutral expression plastered to her face. The same one she’d somehow fastened on downstairs when he’d said these words. Show her? God in heaven above, there was only one thing her pounding thoughts could fasten on. It wasn’t his fine oil paintings.

  “Fish, Drottin.”

  “What?”

  She nodded. First things first. If he had stared, she must deal with it, instead of standing with her hair roots pulsing. Especially now he scrambled to his feet. “Yes.” England was, after all, where she was bound. “That is what we were talking about down the stairs in case you are wondering.”

  “Fish? Elves ears, unless you were down at the river fishing,—”

  Wasn’t the way to deal with this, on an equal footing? Suppose, just suppose he didn’t want to marry Snotra because of her? She must deal with it.

  “I believe I said my name is Malice and I am the owner of Strictly Business.”

  “I don’t care if you’re the owner of King Cnut’s bridge.”

  “I think you will find the name is pronounced, Canute.”

  “And I think if you don’t be quiet, what you’ll find—”

  “Well . . . well, maybe.” Just listen to her back-footing it here. But, in this instance, wasn’t it better to let him pronounce Canute as he saw fit? Especially as he’d loomed rather close, menacingly so. “But, perhaps you wanted me to tell her that all you desired was for me to make a noise?” She asked as sweetly as she could. “And that’s as far as your bedroom skills extend. Hmmmmmm.”

  “My bedroom skills?”

  Actually, the way his brows slammed down was dangerous. Was that why he wanted her to make a noise and was having all this fuss? Because he couldn’t do it? Doubtful, but something it might pay her to believe when he loomed over her like this. When that third best insult to his masculine pride was something she understood.

  Even if there was something wrong, even if he didn’t want to marry Snotra, it didn’t mean he was anything more than confused. It didn’t mean he wanted her, Malice. It especially didn’t mean she could get involved with him. Certainly not right now when all manner of fissures had opened in her heart, that place she had not been able to own since her wedding night. What it meant was that she sorted this to her satisfaction. She put her hand on her hip.

  “Some men have very peculiar tastes that way.”

  “And you would kno— What did she say?”

  Malice cleared her throat. It was stuffy and dusty up here. Particles of dust and straw from the thatched roof floated in the air. She did not want them ruining
her ability to sound business-like, especially when the dust had nothing to do with the heat that spread to her hair roots, followed by a chill and everything to do with his warm essence.

  Unlike yesterday, when she should have guessed he didn’t want her, or he’d have made his move then, she was ready for this. If he now wanted her to play—what he was going to show her, in order to ask what did she say?—it would be at a price. Shoes would not suffice. Clothes would not suffice. She would sooner swallow them with lard on. He would take her home. To the convent anyway. Also with lard on.

  It was as simple as that.

  Unless he’d stared at her backside?

  “I can only tell you what she said if you promise me something.”

  “Malice, I’m not angry about it, I just—”

  He scratched the back of his neck.

  “Look, you must be either inventive, or experienced to tell stories like that.”

  Well, she was. Both. After all, this was her chance. It was his duty to marry Snotra. Malice’s to ensure he did.

  “It’s just your noises aren’t exactly what I’d call quite right.”

  What? How dare he.

  “Well of course, your kind is probably more accustomed to hearing women screaming in terror. If that is what you want, I can certainly oblige.”

  Even as she parted her lips, he clapped his hand over her mouth. Unexpected? Only in that he next dragged her across the floor. The bed cupboard loomed—my God, and not just the bed cupboard. He wasn’t putting her in it, was he? Worse. Getting in with her and yanking the doors shut behind them. She couldn’t. She mustn’t allow it. Choked, desperate gasps came from her chest. But being locked in the pitch, stuffy blackness with him pressed right against her, how could she help it? Pummelling her fists against whatever she could either?

  “My apologies, but I believe we’re being overheard.”

  His voice rumbled close to her ear. Above it in fact. So her head was what? Against his chest? In the tangle of limbs it was hard to tell. What was that hard thing? His dagger hilt? Or . . . No, it was his dagger hilt. He grabbed it and something clattered to the floor, which if it was his hard maleness might explain why he was so uncomfortable with her discussing it with Snotra.

  Crocodiles, alligators, she would sooner swallow them all than be dragged in here. Of course it meant not getting home. Who was to say if she got back to that damned convent she’d get home? Would she ever get home? What if she didn’t and this was her life now? A Snotra pawn?

  “Isn’t that what this is about?” Malice demanded. “Me making a noise? Going, hmmm, hmmm. to your dissatisfaction?”

  “Up to a point it is. But not seen doing nothing.”

  “Oh really?” She tore a breath and tried crawling over his thigh. “My noises aren’t good enough and you think I should be seen doing what? Writhing in your embrace now?”

  “I never said they weren’t good enough. Leave the doors alone—”

  Leave them alone? When she’d finally located the handles beyond his waist there? His quite nice, lithe waist, she somehow had one arm around. “Yes you did. You said—”

  “I said they weren’t quite right. There is a difference which I was going to explain to you.”

  “I don’t need your explanations—”

  She didn’t. She didn’t need his fingers clasping her wrists either. Or his chestnut essence clogging her nostrils. His breath faintly laced with ale, a scent she’d never liked before but on him, close like this, delicious enough to make her want to lean closer. She was already caged between his chest and the doors. She tried pushing against him.

  “I am perfectly experienced in certain things. I am a married woman, I will have you know.”

  “You? Married?”

  Didn’t the pillaging bastard like the idea? The exhalation was pronounced. Or was he just astonished by the fact someone wanted her? Whether he was, or not, she grabbed a breath, pushed even harder against him.

  “Not that it’s any of your—”

  “Married? It couldn’t have been very good if those noises are the best you can come up with.”

  “Maybe that’s because I’d sooner swallow a crocodile than moan in ecstasy for a pillaging Viking toad like you.”

  Actually, maybe she had been playing this wrong? Maybe if he knew how deeply she loved Cyril he’d take her back to the convent? Maybe vanished like a spark as her back hit the mattress. Her breath vanished too and not just because of the sudden impact. My God. This was how it felt to be trapped beneath a man. A lithe, powerful man who not only had her by the wrists and whose breath was like fire against her lips.

  “That’s as maybe, sweeting, but I can tell you, some Saxon women like us.”

  “For the life of me I can’t think why.”

  “Because we don’t smell like your dogs do.”

  True. He smelt delicious, although now was not the time to think so. Such proximity. Such irritation. Such sexual menace were more important. She tore another breath. Tried squirming free.

  “Well, maybe that’s so but your own woman liked you so little she chose someone else. Twice. And if you do not open these doors and let me out of here now, I’ll scream at the very heightened top of my lungs.”

  “And I’ll put a thrall’s collar on you.”

  “A what?”

  Had he said he’d kiss her, that might not have been more appropriate—no—but now her eyes were more accustomed to the dark, the silver glitter in his came into focus, it would not be unexpected. Hadn’t she read in Aunt Carter’s book what a thrall was? And didn’t it say ‘slave’? She took a deep breath, hoping the original bargain was still in effect. No collar in exchange for noises made to his satisfaction. What might be next if she did not stop protesting? Chains to go with the collar? Herself sold to some other Viking?

  He propped himself up on his knees, so his hair tickled her forehead. “Look, you’ve done well with Snotra. And I don’t say it displeases me. Or that I don’t want you to continue.”

  How very good of him. So he could look even better? Well, she wouldn’t do it. Not for all the tea in Aunt Carter’s silver tea-pot, the tea caddy either. She would sooner swallow his longship, the Raven. Damn these stupid tears of rage pricking her eyes at the insulting things he’d said about her, about her marriage.

  “You don’t displease me, Malice. That’s why I do have something for you.”

  As if she cared less. Cared anything. For what he said. For what he had. Shoes? In the past there had been shoes, shoes and more of them. What sort of shoes could he possibly produce that would be of any kind of solace to her? That would ward off this horrible blackness sitting there in her heart like a darkly roosting chicken. How could shoes help when her intention to have control of this had resulted in him threatening her with a collar if she displeased him? What was this but a cheap attempt to talk her around?

  He pushed the doors open. “Wait here.”

  Where did he think she was going? Back to England? Soon it would be night, another day would dawn and she would still be stuck here in a God awful bed, in a God awful loft, in a God awful house, in a God awful land where she didn’t belong. Would never belong. She dragged herself into a sitting position. She may have hacked her hair, but it still felt like a large bird’s nest on her head. An albatross’s. Was there any point pushing it back from her face?

  His body was inviting. God Almighty, it had left her gasping. But desire, lust, love were things no-one had ever felt for her, as if she was a bad person.

  A bad person? When it came to being nice, Snotra was in a universe of her own, one that left Malice feeling she inhabited the being nice constellation. And he still wanted Snotra.

  There was nothing Malice could do about that. If only she had not believed he’d feasted his eyes on her backsi
de, then perhaps the ladder would not be creaking as he made his way back down.

  Let her examine the bright speck of this cloud’s tarnished lining and drag herself off this bed before he came back up the rungs. How much worse might this be if he had wanted her, had slept with her? What if she’d been stupid enough to believe whatever happened meant something? Then discovered it didn’t?

  She stretched out her foot looking for her shoes. She remembered the awful damn sacks were already on her feet. The ladder creaked ominously. He hadn’t taken long, had he? But then he’d things to do. Like decking her neck out in a thrall’s collar if she didn’t do what he said.

  “Here.”

  He held out a bundle of material. Nicer than any cloth Snotra wore, which wasn’t saying much. But green? The color of spite. A color Malice never wore. Very well, it was pale, a warm apple green but even so, she wasn’t wearing that.

  “I want you looking nice.”

  If she didn’t wear it, would the next thing he held out be that collar?

  My God. If he married Snotra, what would happen then? He would hardly keep the two of them when he only wanted one and that one wasn’t Malice. What a choice. Wear it, or wear the collar. Don’t wear it and be sold to someone else. Unless she could make him want her? Exactly what was she doing here?

  Chapter 8

  “Did that to you? What do you mean did that to you? Do you mean—”

  As Snotra’s jaw fell open, Malice drew her wrists back beneath the table. “He liked it rough. Bondage.”

  No. She did not feel guilty about this. Why should she? While she knew nothing else, she knew about divorce. Certainly she knew how to cause one. Deep down, in some encrusted, some subterranean part of himself, Sin had grave reservations. Because he had been cast off before? Was the third choice? The reason was neither here nor there to her. This was not a kindred spirit thing, a sharing of piteous backgrounds, this was business, pure and simple.