THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN

by Shehanne Moore

  “That’s because we have this down to a fine art. Don’t we, Malice?”

  Exactly. Not the fine art, the explosion. Sin Gudrunsson’s hand slid over her knuckles. At least something did. She could only assume it was his because he sat next to her. She certainly wasn’t about to look and find out. If he wanted to look at her, as he now did, that was another matter.

  “Yes, Malice and I—”

  “Oh, Malice and you. Don’t make me laugh louder than I’m already doing.” Laughter pealed from Snotra’s lips. “And her wearing that collar? Do you see that, Ari? Have you ever known him do that? When he knows what it is to wear one himself?”

  “Potlicker . . . .” Ari squirmed.

  “Yes. It’s as much a flying kite as Ari and I. As my old father there and that piglet. As Gentle and —”

  “Kiss me, Malice.”

  Malice froze, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Kiss him? Here? In front of everyone? Preposterous enough in England in some bawd-house. But this wasn’t England. This was Viking-land where people thought nothing of suckling their pigs. Certainly they didn’t think twice about living with them or that one wouldn’t be squealing about the floor, sticking its snout beneath people’s boots.

  No. What she was going to do when he’d put that collar on her, something he’d never done to anyone before, when the logic of this game was crystal clear, was stare at the large wooden bowl in the centre of the table. Reindeer stew she believed it was. Certainly a dead one had been roasting on the spit earlier. Not that she was going to eat any of it.

  His words were hardly shouted. She’d be forgiven for thinking she never heard them.

  As if he knew her insides had shrunk and she was horribly aware of his stare burning holes in her, he gave her hand another squeeze. Then he moved closer. His breath, faintly laced with honey ale fanned her cheek. “At least sit on my lap.”

  At least? What a turnaround from a man who had grabbed that towel off of her and threatened to make her walk naked across the yard? Would she do this? No. When he had put this collar on her last night? Ignored her all day? When the quiet timbre in his voice melted over her bones, skimming places . . . places she had struggled to keep under control recently? Not if he made her walk naked around this room.

  But she did . . . she did want that collar removed. Tiny beads of sweat formed on her brow. If she sat on his lap might that be her price? Better leverage than saying I told you so. Possibly. Did she have this under control? Absolutely. Think of what they forged in adversity here.

  Yet, as she rose to her feet, she hesitated. The girls at Strictly always said, it was better to be in charge of the encounter. Sit on his lap and he would be. Sit on his lap and she couldn’t bolt if necessary. And she had the horrible prescience with this raucous, leering crowd, swilling ale around the table, she might have to. And not just that. What did he think he was doing sprawling so invitingly, his long legs bent? So his damned thighs, encased in that tight cotton seemed to be throbbing. So she cursed what fizzed in her blood? The other men wore knee length kirtles. But him? No. His was barely decent. And she swore he knew it too. Was it because he was a slave boy turned raider? Was that why he dressed this way?

  She cleared her throat. No. She could not sit on his lap, win this that way anymore than she could pretend the simmering invitation in his eyes was for her. And she must win this. Stop thinking he was at a disadvantage, this man who was third choice and had lost his family here. That behind the bold invitation there was the faintest trace of fear of the fool he’d look if she didn’t obey him.

  But there was another way. A kiss had brought her here. What if a kiss took her away again and then, she was somehow back where she belonged? What if such a thing was really possible? What if that was why her mother kissed the gardener, kissed anyone. It was that which determined her to grip the arms of the chair and lean down.

  The press of his mouth was delicious, a little raw, a little hungry, a little something she instantly wanted to taste more. Could. Should. She wanted to go home, didn’t she? The coolness of his lips drew her. Every nerve ending in her body stretched, contracted in response. He reached up his hands and clasped the sides of her face. His fingers tangled in her hair, heat coursing in that second, rising all the way from her toes, a delicious, melting warmth that flowed into every part of her.

  Dear God, in the matter of breath, why the blazes hadn’t she taken one first, before embarking on this? He’d said a kiss only now, now his mouth became that tiny bit more questing and his hands . . . what the blazes were his hands doing clutching her thighs? Because she’d knelt up on the chair, that’s what. How could she? And not just that. The play of his hands on her thighs, her waist, made her giddy. Meltingly warm. Hotly desperate for more.

  Oh, she must hope when they did this to fool the company, he didn’t get the wrong idea.

  “What do you think you’re—” She tried to speak against his mouth.

  For fooling Snotra and getting his own back, he was doing really well, better than she ever would have expected. And his mouth was delicious. Not just his mouth. The touch of his fingers sent desire spinning through her blood. Where Cyril had merely kissed, this man possessed. He wouldn’t let her go either. Placing her hands on his shoulders had no effect. In fact, clasping his shoulders to free herself only resulted in him kissing her harder, when really, this wasn’t the object of the exercise.

  What was happening here? Where was the flash? The giddiness? The sensation of earth opening, swallowing her and spitting her back out again in her own time? Or wasn’t that how this worked?

  “Well, of course, if you will do that . . . With your trollop . . .”

  Malice pulled her lips free and snagged a breath. Snotra’s voice was far away. Beneath her body, his thigh muscles tightened. His shoulder muscles did too. As for that hammering ringing in her ears—was that his heart, or hers? His voice rumbled from the very centre of his chest.

  “Come upstairs with me.”

  Now? Preferable. There was no denying it. Anything was preferable. So long as she tamed her hammering heart, cooled what bubbled in her blood, melted her bones, and rid herself of any crushing disappointment that this kissing lark hadn’t worked as she thought it might. As if it would really. So long as she was clear she could not afford to be irritated when things resumed their strictly businesslike footing, ruin her intention to have this collar removed—all that was left her now.

  She raised her head. His eyes, glazed, hypnotic, framed by silky strands of hair, met hers. There would only be more disappointment if she allowed it. She would not allow it, although she had thought to be a trifle more torn on the business of not going home. How stupid was that?

  “Oh really, Sinarr? And then what? A few ‘Hmm, Hmm, Hmmmmmms’ so bad you should all of you hear them. If that is how he makes a woman happy, why does she sound like a pained polar bear?”

  A polar bear? Her? She smothered the not unknown desire to slap someone. Do this—do this well—and she could bargain the removal of the collar. For that she would swallow the polar bear. Be told she sounded like a seal. Make this look good. Dragging a breath, she thrust her fingers down between their bodies. Dear God pretending to be wanton and trying to make this look good came at a price. Imagine if she actually brushed anything. She did. My God. Wasn’t that just a man for you. At least it was what all the girls in Strictly said. And it must be true. My God, maybe she should have kept her hands to herself? Maybe . . .

  “Or worse. Ari, a walrus?” Snotra’s voice broke in on her maybes. The hem of her soft grey gown swished into the periphery of Malice’s vision. “Why don’t you just do it here, so we can all of us see.”

  Horror paralysed Malice as ale sodden breath puffed against her cheek. “Because you think I don’t know you do nothing?”

  “Drottin, let me just turn t
he bed down for you, you know you like it up there best with Malice.”

  Just as Malice’s scalp resounded with shock and her throat dried all the way to her lungs—possibly it dried all the way to her shoes, which not for the first time recently, hardly mattered to her—Gentle scurried forward.

  “You know the fun you have. And how you like things private when you take out your stick. You know . . .”

  Gentle’s voice dried. Frozen by the icy stare he turned on her? Malice’s body sagged, her hand palming her stomach, her forehead resting on his shoulder. Oh God, she must pray he thought she meant his wooden one. The one he’d allegedly taken to her the other day. And not the one she’d just had her fingers around—sort of anyway. The one he’d got so sticky about when she’d discussed it with Snotra, even now shame flooded at her crassness. A gulp hovered at the back of her throat.

  Under other circumstances Snotra’s taunt would hold no terrors. He had made it very clear he didn’t want Malice. In that respect she didn’t need Gentle’s help. What might he do to save face? His men were whistling and cat calling, their fists falling like rain on the table top. Bang. Bang. Bang. And she didn’t want him deciding he must do something about it, like hauling her on it and doing the same to her.

  “Sweeting.”

  Not for the first time this evening his gaze looked into hers. The smile playing over his lips intensified. It was an act wasn’t it? He was the man who was the essence of wintry cool . . . whose fingers had just tangled in her hair.

  A moan escaped her, her heart almost leaping from its cage. The first time she did this couldn’t be like this. Not for the sake of having any collar removed from any neck. She didn’t care his mouth was melting inches from hers, his breath heated her lips worse than they had a second ago. What tightened in her chest, thundered through her veins, seeping into her core in that instant?

  She wasn’t a plaything. Not for him. Not for anyone here . . . Was she? But she was straddling him after all and these drawers of hers had quite fallen apart.

  He tilted his jaw, his dark lashes almost brushing her cheek. “Well, I could do this here. And I don’t deny it wouldn’t be very nice.”

  As his finger traced her lower lip, she fought to calm her hammering heart. He could? That was as far as this went. What kind of people were they? Her toes curled ready to gain purchase on the hard earthen floor.

  His lips curled. “But what do you think, I am, Snotra? A raider to my core? Do you think I don’t know that what occasions this is simple jealousy? So Malice and I will go upstairs. And you can talk amongst yourself. We’ll come down when we’re done.”

  Thank God for that small mercy. Thank God he fingered her cheek. At least her body had something to cleave to. For a second there she’d thought this was going to be far worse, although that wasn’t to say it wouldn’t be tomorrow when Snotra set about her.

  “But that could be in the morning because of all I have planned.” He shifted her off his lap. “Now come, Malice.”

  It would be worse tomorrow. She couldn’t very well stay here though. Besides this was her chance to have that collar removed and expand the world again. She just had to not collapse as she gathered her skirts and crossed the floor. Who followed who up the creaking wooden spars didn’t matter. Who knows, but she’d been so amenable, so helpful there she mightn’t make two conditions? Things were achieved by inches and degrees. If she could at least persuade him to let her on board the Raven on his next trip, she might then persuade him to take her to the convent. It would be a lot safer than staying here with Snotra, after that kiss.

  My God, now she stood ducking her head beneath the sloping eaves, he wasn’t going to kiss her again? She was about to remark on the length this was going. Snotra was hardly going to creep up any ladders when she’d guests. He walked across the floor before Malice opened her mouth. Imagine? Imagine too that in that second his body didn’t just press against hers. It enveloped it. She wanted to but her brain was mush.

  Her fingers, alas, were not. She couldn’t believe it. Or the speed with which they grasped hold of his belt buckle. Unfastened it too. She was kissing him but this wasn’t just a kiss. It was a savage melding of mouths, a ravishing of tongues. Wild. Consuming. A passion she’d dreamed so deeply of tasting and so little thought she would, she only wanted more.

  Focus? If she was meant to be asserting control and demanding the removal of the collar, that battle was already lost. Even before his belt hit the floor, it was lost. How was that when what he’d done infuriated her?

  Because she had never tasted fire like this before, or because she tasted it with him and it was too long in coming? To say it was only a few days was ridiculous. She slept in his bed. She’d been in that bath house with him. This had been coming since she first saw his face. It was that simple. If he didn’t want it, he’d stop. His tunic was no sooner on the floor, than he swung her around. Her back collided with the cupboard doors. Not content with that, he pushed her hard against them. She really should protest but she was too busy panting for breath. He was too.

  Reassert herself? Not for all the money in Aunt Carter’s tea-caddy. Not if Snotra came up the ladder and had a screaming fit. Not if someone came in and offered to sweep her back to her own time.

  The years running Strictly had taught her something after all. What it was, was something she couldn’t put into words. But the need that filled her, consuming from the tips of her toes upwards and settling between her legs, was savage. Who she was she didn’t know. Anyone would think she had done this all her life the way she tried dragging his trousers down over his hips. The cupboard door sprung open and there were several frenzied moments where they both dragged and fumbled with her gown. Time lost all meaning as he kissed her.

  Cool air blasted her legs saying he tried to work her skirt up around her waist. She tore at the hem, hauling it upwards. His fingers clasped the opening at her breasts. To think he had paid all that money for the cloth and one tug was all it took to pull the bodice apart. Everything about him, everything she touched, brushed, pressed, was pure male. The feel was so intoxicating moisture flooded between her legs. Did he want to press his mouth to her breasts so much, he’d done that to her dress?

  He delved between their bodies and she moaned loudly enough to waken the dead. All the silly things she’d imagined were going to happen with Cyril on their wedding night, candlelight, the most sensuous removal of her nightgown, a slow, intimate arousal, longing looks, soft hand touches, she’d never once seen herself grinding down like a hussy on the fingers of a man she hadn’t known some weeks ago. Certainly she hadn’t imagined a cupboard door, one she tried grasping for support, clattering on its hinges behind her. Herself flumping onto the mattress. Him following.

  “Malice, you do know how to do this, don’t you?”

  His voice, impassioned in a way she’d never heard it, vibrated against her mouth as he wrenched his trousers open. Whether she did or not, such need crashed through her, at what sprung loose she didn’t damn well care that she didn’t. All this stuff about anatomy and hurting and things the Strictly girls spoke of—with contempt— so hurt me. I’m not caring, she almost screamed.

  “Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She seized hold of the sides of his face, pulling his mouth to hers, moving her legs on either side of his hips. If he didn’t ease this torment by thrusting with more than his fingers, she was going to die. Her mind filled with carnal cravings. Her senses swam. She seized his shoulders and another moan escaped her as he positioned himself and then he thrust. Was it like being split in half?

  As he pushed, hard as rock, he stole every breath. The Strictly girls were right. As long as she was aroused, it was fine. Fine? Now the first shock passed, it was wicked. A fire started in her centre too. She wanted more. More of him. At the moan that burst from her lips, he gave her it too,
gripping her waist, thrust harder. Lust was a wonderful thing.

  What rippled through her in that second, the shock-wave of sensation, was so powerful, her body contracted. Coherent thought fled. Pleasure, golden and molten washed through her. He pushed harder and the throb returned full blast. His hungry lips were on her own. His tongue probed hers. To think she could satisfy a man. Something no man had ever made her feel. She closed her eyes. The moment was so divine, if she died now, she knew it would be happy.

  Chapter 10

  Die happy? The moment was so divine it should be accompanied by halleluiahs.

  Twenty minutes past three. Was that what the clock said? And that bright light blasting through the window blinding her? Twenty past three? No. Wait. Twenty two minutes past.

  Orgasms were fabulous, wonderful things. That she could be lying here still at this time of the day, still bathed in this milky warmth. Amazing when last night she’d been bathed in hot sweat and sex.

  She peered at the window. Although she was quite certain that she did—obviously she did, there was that cracked damned pane that needed mending, almost as much as she did right now, that painful throb between her legs-–how could she be peering at that crack in her window, or anyone else’s?

  A mistake. Obviously.

  She shut her eyes and flopped back down. Twenty past three? Her fingers meandered to the place beside her. Last night Sin Gudrunsson had been nothing short of amazing. She smiled. He had been nothing short. She sighed. So here she was now . . .

  In her bedroom.

  She jerked her eyes open. My God. It was, wasn’t it? Her bedroom as she didn’t know it. Inch thick dust carpeting the bedside table. The air stale with that faintly acrid smell of fusty perfume and disuse. The window dressed, not in gauzy white drapes but a coat of grime. Her bedroom. But not with him in it.